Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  “That she most certainly has, my friend.”

  Darcy discarded his glass carelessly on the table and put his head in his hands. “I am so in love with her. What am I to do?”

  There was nothing to be done and nothing more to be said. All Fitzwilliam could offer was a strong arm to haul Darcy to his bedchamber and a word to his valet to have a tincture ready for the morning that would ease his sore head, if not his bruised heart.

  Knightsbridge

  May 20

  Georgiana,

  Distress yourself no longer. Have duly admonished your brother for conceding injury to anyone other than yours truly and threatened matching slash on opposing cheek should he attempt it again.

  Be assured—naught ails him that time will not mend.

  Fitzwilliam

  ***

  Wednesday, 20 May 1812: Hertfordshire

  Jane started when the parlour door was flung open and her mother swept in.

  “Ah, good, you are both here,” said Mrs. Bennet, dropping into her favourite armchair. “Come closer, girls. I would speak with you.”

  Jane looked enquiringly at Elizabeth, who looked back at her with equal bemusement. Both set their work aside and moved to sit on the sofa.

  “It is clear after yesterday,” began Mrs. Bennet, “that you are both in dire need of some direction. Jane, I shall begin with you. Mr. Bingley arranged that picnic in your honour, yet you spent most of the afternoon sitting out of games and refusing to speak to him. He will think you are not interested if you continue to be so unforthcoming.”

  Her mother could not have made a more distressing observation, for Jane was all too conscious that the easy and treasured friendship she and Mr. Bingley once enjoyed had been eclipsed by awkwardness and reserve.

  “You like him, do you not?”

  “I love him!”

  “Then you must show it, or he will never offer for you.”

  Jane gasped.

  “I think what Mama is trying to say,” Elizabeth interjected, reaching for Jane’s hand, “is that perhaps Mr. Bingley needs a little encouragement. If you only spoke to him a little more—”

  “Oh, as you do?” Jane had not meant to say the words aloud, and she was sorry when Elizabeth recoiled. Yet, now it was said, she found she could not regret it. All day at the picnic, whilst she had struggled to think of a thing to say, her sister had delighted the guests—and, more particularly, the host—with her easy conversation and clever wit. Watching Mr. Bingley watch her at archery had been deeply troubling, akin to watching the entire neighbourhood watch them dance together at the assembly. Both incidents had kindled a wholly unfamiliar yet potent sentiment in her mind: envy.

  “She is quite right, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet said. “You must desist from flirting with Mr. Bingley.”

  Elizabeth’s expression of pained disbelief was nothing to Jane’s dismay. Surely, her dearest sister would never usurp Mr. Bingley’s attentions by design. Yet, if her mother believed it…

  “I assure you, ma’am,” Elizabeth said tightly, “I flirted with nobody yesterday, and certainly not Mr. Bingley. Indeed, it grieves me that you consider me capable of it.”

  Mrs. Bennet clicked her tongue impatiently. “Do not get on at me, girl. I did not say your manner was at fault—only your focus. Leave Mr. Bingley alone and—”

  “You speak as though I am Lydia, pestering the poor man for attention! If Mr. Bingley and I have become better acquainted, it is only through my attempts to help you, Jane, when you have been too shy to speak to him.”

  “You have no business being friends with Mr. Bingley!” her mother objected, negating the necessity of Jane saying the same thing. “No, you must direct your efforts towards Mr. Greyson.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Mr. Greyson?”

  “Why, yes! He likes you very well. You could secure him in an instant if you would only use the same charm on him you have done with Mr. Bingley.”

  “Madam, I have used no charm! And I do not wish to persuade Mr. Greyson of anything.”

  Mrs. Bennet’s expression grew pinched. “You will do as you are told. If you had done your duty and married Mr. Collins, none of this would matter. Then, you could have flirted with whomever you chose!”

  Elizabeth surged from her chair with an angry growl and stormed to the door. Mrs. Bennet followed her, screeching at her even after she quitted the room about wilful ways and ingratitude. Elizabeth’s only reply was to close the front door with excessive force. Mrs. Bennet turned back into the parlour, her lips pursed and her face and neck suffused with a deep flush. “Obstinate, headstrong girl!”

  Jane was unused, but not entirely averse, to the sense of vindication that overcame her. “Not quite so charming now, Lizzy,” she muttered. Her complacency was not to last. In the next moment, her mother rounded on her.

  “You could learn a good deal from your sister. She has gentlemen eating from the palm of her hand. You would do well to take a leaf from her book before Mr. Bingley changes his mind again and disappears off to this Nova Scotia place he keeps wittering on about forevermore!” She stomped from the room shouting for Hill, and Jane was left to all the satisfaction of having forced her to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

  ***

  Thursday, 21 May 1812: London

  The air was damp and the sky overcast, yet the day was not cold, and birdsong filled the park. Had Darcy not been burdened with the prospect of a most disagreeable conversation, he would have taken a good deal more pleasure in the early morning ride.

  As soon as he was certain no passers-by were near enough to overhear, he turned to his sister riding beside him. “I am sorry if my appearance on Monday gave you cause for alarm. It was naught serious, but I ought to have told you that sooner.”

  “There is no need to apologise.”

  “Yes, there is. It was selfish of me not to consider how seeing me thus might distress you. I have been careless with your feelings too often of late, and I apologise. I shall endeavour to be more attentive in future and to cancel no more engagements.”

  “I do not need you to be more attentive,” Georgiana replied, her voice quiet but her tone uncommonly severe. “I can live very well without ices at Gunter’s or Romeo and Juliet. You must truly think me a child yet if you believe my only concern is for my own entertainment.”

  Darcy returned his gaze to the distant trees, frowning in consternation. “It was not my intention to cause further offence.”

  “You misunderstand me. I am not offended or feeling neglected. I am concerned—for you.”

  He tugged his horse’s reins, needlessly adjusting its heading. Was there a woman alive he did not misunderstand? “I see. Thank you.”

  She had bowed her head, he noticed, and her cheeks were pinked where they had not been before. There was every possibility he was wrong, but she seemed distressed. Again. “I comprehend,” she said with a quiet sigh.

  “Would you care to enlighten me? Because I do not.”

  That earned him a sad smile. “It grieves me to see you unhappy, Fitzwilliam. I wish it were in my power to relieve your pain, yet I am too young to be of any use as a sister, too old to be your daughter, and too much a woman to be your friend. I fear the years that separate us will forever be an obstacle.”

  It was a poignant summation of their relationship. Compared to Elizabeth’s intimacy with Miss Bennet, Darcy’s attachment to his sister was markedly patriarchal. What can a young man do with a baby sister, after all, but dote on her? Yet, he was no longer so very young, and she was assuredly no longer an infant. Perchance they had at last reached an age where they might enjoy a more equal friendship. After all, a full eight years separated him from Elizabeth, and he craved her companionship like nothing else.

  “Not as much as they have been, I think,” he
offered with a gentle smile.

  A mix of hope and delight overspread her countenance as she enquired whether that meant he would now tell her what troubled him. He baulked at the prospect. Then, just as quickly, he imagined Elizabeth laughing at him for it. She would no doubt accuse him of being unsocial and draw from him more than he intended to reveal, as she had done on so many occasions. There was no doubt she would have better understood—better respected him—had he been less reserved.

  “I have,” he began, his eyes fixed on the trees ahead, “through my mistaken pride, lost the chance to wed a lady whom I greatly admire. It has been difficult to accept both my mistakes and my loss.”

  Georgiana gasped softly. “I had no idea you liked her so very well.”

  “Of whom do you speak?” he demanded, looking at her sharply.

  “Why, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  He looked back at the trees, hoping his mortification was not obvious. “How did you know?”

  “You spoke well of her in your letters, and Mr. Bingley said you enjoyed her company.”

  He pressed his lips together in vexation. Bingley—indiscretion personified.

  “What did you mean,” Georgiana went on, “when you said your mistaken pride had lost you the chance to wed?”

  “I would not dwell on this, Georgiana. Suffice to say that her opinion of me is not as great as my own has been, and my arrogance gave her reason to believe other, less favourable reports of my character.”

  “What reports? Who does she know that would speak ill of you?”

  His instinct was to shield Georgiana from the painful truth, yet his pledge to treat her more equally forbade it. It was nonetheless with great caution that he informed her of Wickham’s part in his present misery. Her response surprised him, being more furious than distraught.

  “Has he not done us enough harm? He is entirely unrepentant!” Her horse skittered sideways, startled by her outburst. Darcy grabbed for its reins, easing the beast closer to his own.

  “Unfortunately, yes, he is. I doubt he will ever improve.”

  “Then I pity the next person he importunes, for it is too much to hope he will not impose upon anybody else.”

  A horrible foreboding blossomed in the pit of Darcy’s stomach. Elizabeth had never sought Fitzwilliam’s corroboration of the account of Wickham’s character he gave in his letter. He knew not whether she had even read it. Part of him hoped she had not, for it was full of bitterness and resentment. Yet, if she had not and she was still enamoured of the fiend… Repugnant visions of Wickham’s filthy hands on her and her reputation in tatters filled his head.

  “Good day, Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy!”

  He started and looked up. Two gentlemen from the fringes of his set were walking by. “Mr. Temple, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, slowing his horse and tipping his hat.

  “’Tis true then?” Mr. Temple said, staring brazenly at Darcy’s cheek. “You did get a beating at Jackson’s?”

  Darcy glared balefully at the man and said not a word. He had taken countless punches at Jackson’s, none of them having the desired effect of beating off his heartache, but to mention it in the presence of his sister was unpardonable. Mr. Temple paled. Mr. Vaughan babbled an apology for his friend’s impertinence and both men scurried hastily away. Darcy shook his head and nudged his horse into motion.

  “One day you will meet somebody who fails to be intimidated by that stare of yours,” his sister reprimanded him gently.

  “Believe me, I have met her already, and she is far more than a match for me.”

  Georgiana only smiled sympathetically, and they left the park in companionable silence.

  Darcy House, London

  May 21

  Colonel Forster,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I write in regard to one of your officers, Lt. Wickham, in whose character I fear you have been most unhappily deceived.

  It has recently come to my attention that he has given the people of Meryton an account of his prior acquaintance with me that bears so little resemblance to the truth as to place any who believe it in substantial danger. Allow me to give you a more truthful report. (Supporting documentation and addresses of referees are enclosed.)

  Mr. Wickham is the son of my late father’s steward and godson to my father. He was bequeathed an amount of money upon my father’s death, which he was granted as well as the promise of a living, which he rejected in favour of mutually agreed remuneration. This he squandered in its entirety within months and soon returned with a request for more, which was denied. Nonetheless, I have been obliged on more than one occasion to clear considerable debts in his name.

  He is also a known philanderer and has not scrupled to prey upon young ladies—particularly those in possession of any significant fortune. I would ask that you be particularly vigilant of his activities in this quarter.

  In acknowledgement of the harm the delay in divulging this information may have caused, I shall settle any debts Lt. Wickham has accrued that he is unable to pay himself up to the date of receipt of this letter. Thereafter, I relinquish all responsibility for the man to you, his commanding officer.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy

  ***

  Saturday, 23 May 1812: Hertfordshire

  Elizabeth strained for composure as she walked, angrily divesting the twig in her hands of its leaves, one forceful tug at a time. The Bennets, along with many of their neighbours, had dined at Lucas Lodge the night before. This morning, as all five sisters strolled into Meryton, Jane had once again begun bemoaning Elizabeth’s familiarity with Mr. Bingley.

  “I comprehend you feel conscious in Mr. Bingley’s presence,” she said to her, “but surely you would not have me slight him simply to make your diffidence less obvious.”

  “Of course not, Lizzy, but it is possible to constrain yourself to mere civilities. You need not monopolize every conversation.”

  “I was not aware that I had.”

  “So you have said, but your manners—well, there must be something in your manners, Lizzy, for you are forever the centre of the gentlemen’s attention.”

  “Is that not proof you ought to make more effort to converse if that is what gentlemen admire?”

  “I have no doubt, but not everybody has wit and self-assurance in infinite measure. Besides, Mr. Bingley was perfectly satisfied with my manner last autumn whilst you were busy sparring with his friend. All I ask is that you be mindful not to out-vie me simply because you no longer have Mr. Darcy to occupy you.”

  The remark took Elizabeth aback. She had thought herself terribly clever last autumn, never speaking to Mr. Darcy unless it was to demonstrate how much wiser and more perceptive she was than he. Yet something in her manner had misled him into believing she liked him— even loved him. Her twig snapped in two. She threw it aside.

  Had she flirted with him? Certainly not consciously, yet her sister and mother’s charges of wanton coquetry and her aunt’s tease not to make men love her were all suggestive that her manner was not beyond reproof. The possibility that Mr. Darcy’s attachment to her (and therefore, too, his disappointment and humiliation) was of her doing was inexpressibly painful.

  She dared not voice her regrets lest it excite her sister’s misgivings, but she could, and did, promise to stay out of sight whenever Mr. Bingley called so as not to obtrude upon their time together.

  “Lizzy,” Lydia called from behind them, where she walked with her other sisters. “Kitty says you refused to tell Aunt Gardiner in your letter that I am to go to Brighton with the Forsters!”

  “Kitty is right,” she replied.

  “But I asked you to put my news in your letter! I would have written to her myself had I known you would not! You are only jealous that you have not been invited to spend the summer with Wickham!�
�

  “I did not tell her, Lydia, because it is not true. Mrs. Forster merely said it would be pleasant if you were to go.”

  “Aye,” said Kitty, “and even she admitted Colonel Forster was unlikely to agree to it.”

  “And Papa would forbid you from going even if she did invite you,” Mary added.

  “Mama would never allow him to do that,” Lydia scoffed petulantly. Her gaze flicked past them all briefly, then back, and in a challenging tone she said to Elizabeth, “Let us see who is right about my being invited.” So saying, she stepped out into the thoroughfare, waving and calling, “Denny! Sanderson! Wickham!”

  Elizabeth turned to see a disorderly group of militiamen spilling from the Red Lion on the far corner, all evidently in their cups. She and Jane called for their sister to come back, but to no avail. With a defiant look, Lydia hitched up her skirts and ran across the road. There was little else the rest of them could do but follow her to the throng of officers.

  ***

  Wickham squinted at the approaching figure. When it materialised into Miss Lydia Bennet, he attempted to hide behind Denny. Denny promptly fell over, and Wickham tripped over him and stumbled to the left, shoving Brichard into Sanderson. When he righted himself, he found he was no longer facing one Bennet woman, but five—Miss Elizabeth, with her potentially damning information, amongst them. He groaned.

  “Wickham!” the youngest screeched, and he winced as the sound lanced through his head. “You will never guess what! Mrs. Forster wishes me to come to Brighton for the summer!”

  This news left Wickham utterly unmoved but for the hope she might learn to temper her voice somewhat before she arrived.

  “Only, she does not think Colonel Forster will agree. But you could persuade him, Wickham, I know you could.”

  Miss Elizabeth appeared by her sister’s side. “Mr. Wickham is the last person you should expect to help you, Lydia. You lack the only inducement that might persuade him you are worth the trouble.”

  “Are you calling me plain?” she objected, resisting her sister’s attempts to drag her away.