Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  “What is this frightful commotion?” enquired his mother-in-law, coming into the room.

  “My sister waits upon us.”

  “Is that all? I thought the French had arrived.”

  “Oh,” Catherine said with undisguised loathing. “Mrs. Sinclair is here.”

  “Pray, continue,” the older lady said, settling herself on the sofa and propping both hands atop her cane as though awaiting a performance. “I shall be in nobody’s way here.”

  “My brother and I are discussing a family matter.”

  “How fortunate then that I am here.”

  Regardless of his desperate wish otherwise, Matlock could not deny that Mrs. Sinclair was family. Eager to have the vexatious ménage à trois done, he waved away his sister’s protests and instructed her to speak, which—after several rancorous glares and some unpleasantly noisy clearing of her throat—she eventually did.

  “Mr. Darcy has reneged on his engagement to my daughter.”

  “Gracious me!” Mrs. Sinclair interrupted immediately. “When I saw Mr. Darcy a little over a fortnight ago, he was quite unshackled. If he has indeed offered for and forsaken your daughter since then, I think your displeasure perfectly reasonable.”

  “The engagement has obviously not come about in the last fortnight.”

  “How then has he reneged?”

  Catherine hesitated for a moment before replying. “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned the union.”

  “Yes, and that is certainly the best time to forge an alliance—when the man and woman are insensible of each other. But now this! Has he recently come to know her better and changed his mind?”

  “Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh have been well acquainted all their lives. My sister and I made sure of it!”

  “So he has had ample time to find reasons to object to her?”

  “Upon my word, I have not been accustomed to such language as this!”

  Mrs. Sinclair shrugged. “I was only trying to help.”

  Matlock wondered whether, if he were to sneak from the room and lock it behind him, one or both of the feuding harridans might soon end up dead. He looked longingly at the door but concluded his chances of escaping without notice were regrettably slim.

  “You must have other suitors in line,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “What makes it imperative that she marry her cousin over and above some other poor rich soul?”

  “Anne is of a delicate constitution! She will not suffer being auctioned off to the rest of society.”

  “For God’s sake, perhaps it is best that she not marry at all!” Matlock growled. “Her health has ever been fragile. If it continues so, she may not even survive the childbed.”

  “I think it likely she would not survive the begetting,” mumbled Mrs. Sinclair.

  “I beg your pardon?” Catherine squawked.

  “Well, let us be truthful. You could squash Miss de Bourgh in a money clip. I shudder to think what a man like Mr. Darcy would do to the girl.”

  “Yes, thank you!” cried Matlock, anticipating his sister’s paroxysms. “My niece and nephew’s carnal compatibility notwithstanding, Darcy would never have wed her in any case. Sister, you must be aware what the detriment to Pemberley would be if the estate were forced to subsidise Rosings’ losses.”

  “I did not come here to discuss Rosings. I came to compel you to make Darcy marry my daughter.”

  Matlock snorted. “I could no more make Darcy laugh than I could make him do aught he is decided against. I should only end up looking a fool.”

  “He must listen to you! He cannot be so far beyond family honour that—”

  “I do not suggest his family honour is wanting.”

  “Is that so? Then how do you account for his decision to forsake us all in favour of the impudent and penniless niece of a tradesman?”

  “There is no accounting for taste,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “I should not attempt it.”

  “I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Catherine,” Matlock said.

  “I have received a report that he is expected to make his addresses to a ghastly little upstart from Hertfordshire.”

  “And what does Darcy have to say of this report?”

  “That it was without foundation.”

  “Then why the devil are we even discussing it?”

  “Because his violent defence of her was more than adequate proof of his attachment. Never before have I heard such language from him.”

  “You do seem to struggle with other people’s dialogue, do you not?” said Mrs. Sinclair.

  “Darcy defends all his acquaintances loyally,” Matlock replied. “If you were fool enough to storm in there as you stormed in here, hurling insults about one of his circle, you cannot be surprised you received short shrift!”

  “She is not one of his circle! She is a nobody with no connections save being cousin to my parson, no consequence save that with which she credits herself, no respect for her betters, and a wickedly impertinent tongue in her head.”

  “She sounds wonderful!” opined Mrs. Sinclair.

  “I am sorry, Sister, I have no interest in spurious rumours and even less in interfering in Darcy’s affairs. He is a sensible man. He will act as he sees fit.”

  “He is utterly lost to reason! He will bring derision and contempt upon us all.”

  “People may think him a fool, aye, but few would be fool enough to admit they think it. And it would not be the first time I have been labelled as possessing foolish relatives.”

  “This is your real opinion? Very well! Somebody must prevent him from making a mistake he will regret all his life, and since you will not, it must fall to me to act!”

  “You will not make him choose Anne.”

  Catherine coughed, as though he had literally knocked the wind from her sails, but strode from the room without further word—her demonstration of pique somewhat diluted by her return moments later, to request that a room be made available to her for the evening.

  After she quitted the room a second time, Mrs. Sinclair tutted and shook her head. “People with more money than sense must be very careful that, when their fortune diminishes, their reason does not dwindle with it.”

  With slow deliberation, Matlock picked up his cigar and lit it. Then he picked up his port and drank it. Then he picked up his book and began to read it. He was assured that Mrs. Sinclair, with her overabundance of sense, could not mistake his meaning. Indeed, he was much gratified when at length he heard the swish of skirts, the tap of her cane, the click of the closing door, and the blessed sound of silence.

  ***

  Tuesday, 9 June 1812: London

  His aunt’s philippic had done nothing to diminish Darcy’s regard for Elizabeth. He knew she was not faultless. She had neither fortune nor connections, but that was long since any concern of his. Her looks may not be considered classic, but her beautiful dark eyes and comely figure afforded her a staggering allure. Her courage rendered her impetuous and her loyalty gullible, but her compassion and sanguinity only made those qualities more endearing. She cared less than she ought for social conventions but flouted them with such éclat that no one much cared. Elizabeth made her own rules, only for the pleasure of breaking them. She was not perfect, but to Darcy, she was perfection. Being without her felt like drowning.

  Days, weeks, months had not lessened her grip on his heart. He knew now that what he felt for her was not in the common way. Elizabeth had all but broken him—shattered his misplaced reserve, unravelled his mistaken principles, and revealed a man in desperate need of redemption. Then she had entwined herself about his heart, reformed him by her design, and made a true ge
ntleman of him. She was not merely the woman he loved; she was the architect of his soul. He could no more stop loving her now than he could stop breathing.

  Yet, time cared for no man’s pain; thus, he persevered without her, reasoning that perhaps, if he kept moving, his heart would have no choice but to keep beating. In that vein, he expended a good deal of energy on the hunt for Wickham. He coordinated every aspect of the search and paid every bribe until he was found. The temptation to deliver the news of his capture in person was compelling, yet Elizabeth would not wish it; thus, he stayed away.

  Indeed, now that Wickham was in custody, and for as long as Bingley tarried over securing himself a wife, Darcy could claim no further connection to Meryton or Elizabeth whatsoever. His life marched inexorably farther away from that juncture when she had almost been his, and there was naught he could do but march with it, hoping the pain would eventually ease. Hence, this afternoon, with no expectation that his anguish would be in any way alleviated by the endeavour, he was off to his club to do whatever it was gentlemen were supposed to do in such places.

  ***

  “I say, Darcy! What a pleasant surprise!”

  Darcy looked up from his paper. “Montgomery! I had not realised you were back in England.”

  He called for more drinks, and his friend joined him at his table, regaling him with tales of his recent travels, the small fortune he had amassed while he was at it, the sad business of his wife’s passing, and the vexing business of hiring a decent nanny for his young son.

  “Are you enjoying being returned?” Darcy enquired.

  “Tolerably so, I suppose, though London still brims with immoderation and staggers under the weight of its own pretension. I cannot say I have missed it overmuch.”

  Darcy smiled, having found little pleasure in Town himself of late.

  “That reminds me,” Montgomery added. “Did you ever hear of the debacle with that turd Wrenshaw at Covent Garden?”

  “I have heard nothing of Wrenshaw in weeks.”

  “No, no—this happened in April, but a day or two after I arrived home.”

  “I was away for much of April.”

  “Ah! Then you must allow me to tell you the story.”

  Darcy listened indignantly to Montgomery’s account of Wrenshaw’s calumny, tired of worthless men maligning his good name. “Was he overheard?”

  “There were a fair few eager ears, I shall not lie. But that night, my friend,” he jabbed Darcy affably on the arm, “you had a champion. She reduced all Wrenshaw’s claims to a bag of moonshine. Damned fun to watch, too.”

  “She? It was not Miss Bingley, was it?”

  “Ha! God forbid! No, this was an altogether different sort of creature. I did not catch the introductions, but she was quite magnificent.”

  Darcy’s thoughts were drawn immediately to the only magnificent woman of his acquaintance, and despite knowing it to be absurd, his insides jumped at the thought of Elizabeth having said anything in his favour. Frustrated by the foolishness of such a notion, he informed Montgomery more curtly than was necessary that he knew not of whom he spoke.

  “That is a shame, for I intended to ask for an introduction. She was quite something. I know not how, for it was subtly done, but with just a few remarks, she had Wrenshaw tied in knots and unable to speak unless it was to accede to his own depravity. It was extraordinary. I do not think I have ever seen a woman so deftly turn a conversation to her advantage.”

  Darcy had. His heart pounded so loudly he wondered that Montgomery could not hear it.

  “Well, whoever she was,” his friend concluded, “I believe you are very much in her debt.”

  Darcy sat perfectly still, fighting prodigiously against a swell of false hope. Elizabeth was as likely to defend him as to marry him—and yet…“You say you did not hear her name?”

  “I said I did not hear the introductions,” Montgomery replied, looking as though he was enjoying the suspense far too much. “But I was close enough to hear her tell her friend she was ‘very wrong about you’ and that you are ‘not a bad man.’” He paused to sip his drink, his eyes twinkling at Darcy over the rim. “And to hear her companion call her Lizzy.”

  It was all Darcy could do to keep his tone even. “What did she look like?”

  “Ah, yes! For who has use of an ill-favoured heroine?” Montgomery replied with great amusement. “You are in luck, though. Yours was really rather handsome—about yay high with dark hair and the most exquisite eyes. Do you think you know her, after all?”

  Darcy felt winded. “I believe so.” God, he hoped so.

  “Then you shall have to introduce me. I should dearly like to make her acquaintance.”

  “If the opportunity arises, I should be delighted.”

  ***

  Darcy was almost run down as he hastened across the busy thoroughfare, but he scarcely noticed the driver’s angry shouts above the clamour of his own thoughts. If it had been Elizabeth, if she truly now thought him a good man, then there was a chance—a small one, it was true, but a chance nonetheless—that he might yet make her love him.

  His mouth twitched, attempting to smile, but he fought it, for he could not be sure. When last he saw her, she had thought unspeakably ill of him. Well, not unspeakably—she had articulated her dislike rather eloquently in fact. He laughed aloud then clamped his lips together in consternation. Was he to break into song next? His conjectures were tenuous at best, his giddiness unwarranted.

  The thought of Elizabeth now defending his honour was outside of sublime, yet he could not imagine what might have affected such a change of heart. Surely not his letter, as bitter and remorseless as he knew it had been. Reason compelled him to doubt, yet “... the most exquisite eyes.” Who else could it be? Longing increased his pace to one just shy of a run as he raced home to retrieve the letter that had lain ignored in his desk drawer for weeks. Fool that he was, he had eschewed reading Bingley’s mentions of Elizabeth, yet presently he was desperate for any news that might substantiate his hopes.

  Godfrey attempted to address him as he burst through the front door and strode across the hall, but he barked an impatient “Later!” and dived inside his study, slamming the door shut behind him. He rifled through three drawers before he found it. With great trepidation, he lowered himself into his chair and began, meticulously, to re-read it.

  Bingley extended another invitation to Netherfield, said something of a fishing party, touched briefly on his sister’s increase and his venture in Nova Scotia. Darcy sat up straighter. Bingley wrote that Elizabeth encouraged his suit, Elizabeth was as engaging as ever, Elizabeth still enjoyed walking. Then there was something of a picnic, a mention of Bingley’s boots…and in a scrawled postscript at the foot of the page, his salvation.

  P.S. Almost forgot. I have a message for you from Miss Elizabeth. Your quarrel in Kent troubles her. She asked that I tell you she is sorry. Tried to assure her it was unnecessary, but she insisted.

  ***

  Early evening found Darcy bathed in the last mellow rays of sunlight at the library window, looking out across the gardens. All arrangements for travel had been set in motion. He could not avoid a meeting with Myers on Thursday, but he would wait no longer than that. Friday would see him in Hertfordshire.

  Anticipation thrummed in his chest. He had no idea what reception he might expect from Elizabeth, but her message of apology had taught him to hope as he had scarcely ever allowed himself to hope before. He was not fool enough to think she meant to apologise for refusing him, but she had forgiven him, and that was enough to have liberated every passionate feeling he had been battling these long weeks to repress. He felt nigh on delirious with happiness and restless with impatience to see her.

  Long evening shadows crept across the gardens, and the library ebbed into darkness. His lips curled into a slow
smile as he basked in the warmth of her long-coveted and fierce loyalty, for he was now certain it had been Elizabeth at the theatre. He could just imagine the arch of her eyebrow as she engaged Wrenshaw, the small, dangerous smile as she set her trap, the flash of her eyes as she cut him down, and the dazzling smile that obliterated all affront and left her opponent dumbfounded. It made him wild to hold her, to tell her how he adored the liveliness of her mind. How he had survived this long without her was suddenly impossible to comprehend.

  It galled him to think of the weeks he had wasted wallowing in despair. He longed to know all he had missed and tortured himself envisaging every smile and witticism he had not seen. As the sun dipped below the horizon and he was plunged into gloom, that longing materialised into a recollection. Bingley had sent two letters. Without a moment’s hesitation, he went to his study, anxious for any and all news of Elizabeth he could find.

  This letter took longer to locate, but he eventually found it at the back of a drawer beneath the household ledger. He moved closer to the only lit candle in the room, broke the seal and began to read. And as he read, all the blood drained from his face, all breath left him. His world cracked, began to crumble, and then shattered into dust. His heart, he was quite sure, stopped dead in his chest.

  She was gone.

  Netherfield, Hertfordshire

  May 25

  Darcy

  Pray, come—

  There has been an atta a dreadful incident. Something has happened that has caused me such—caused me much anguish

  I beg you to come. Your acquaintance, Wickham has attacked Miss Elizabeth.

  He had been harass pestering her for some time. She disliked his fawni attentions. It was even necessary for me to intervene on one occasion. Would that I had done more! I shall never forgive myself for not preventing this. I saw him grab her and I swear I ran but I could not reach her in time and he hit her so damned hard. Dear God, she just crumpled! I cannot bear to think on it, yet I see it over and again. He was ape-drunk. I held her in my arms all the way to Longbourn, but she never awoke. Her family’s distress is difficult to behold for had I but done more to—