Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  Oh, how she adored his unexpected teasing! “Do you recall,” she said, turning them back to the path, “when I said at Netherfield there is something new to be observed in people forever?”

  “I do.”

  “That is what falling in love with you has been like. With every mention of you, every memory or thought, I have found more to love.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as learning it was you who saw to Mr. Wickham’s arrest.”

  He instantly stiffened. “Had I but known it was you he hurt, I should have come directly, but I discovered it only yesterday and then…you…it was—”

  “Put it from your mind,” she said softly. “I am yours now.”

  He exhaled heavily. “Thank God for that.”

  ***

  At Elizabeth’s request, Darcy stumbled through an explanation of the events that had led him to believe she had died. It was evident she found the entire situation diverting, but she checked her laugh.

  “Would that I had known your opinion of me was so soon improved,” he said. “I would have returned in an instant.”

  “I daresay you saved yourself considerable effort by staying away. I was not consciously in love with you when I spoke to Mr. Wrenshaw or when I asked Mr. Bingley to send my apologies. But I have since courted myself quite effectively on your behalf with memories and hopes and dreams.”

  Darcy smiled but begged that she allow him to take up the office of lover henceforth. Her mumbled, breathless acquiescence pleased him very well indeed. God, but she was beautiful! Again and again, he looked at her, each time falling further under her spell. Watching her thus, he soon noticed when her pace slowed and her head rested more heavily against his arm. “Are you well?”

  “My head is beginning to ache a little. Perhaps I have walked too far today.”

  “Forgive me, I did not think.” Ignoring her protests, Darcy led her to the low stone wall bordering the lane, spread his coat atop it, and insisted she sit down to rest. For all her bravado, she sank heavily onto the improvised seat and closed her eyes.

  He lowered himself to sit next to her and tenderly nudged her bonnet and curls aside that he might examine her injury more closely. It was an ugly wound, still somewhat swollen and yellowing at the edges. His chest tightened painfully at the sight. He cupped her face and placed a feather-light kiss upon her cheek.

  She let out a shuddering breath. “How I wished you were there to hold me.”

  His arms were about her instantly, pulling her in one deft move onto his lap and making her squeal with surprise. “I shall never forgive myself for not being there, but I am here now and shall never allow anybody to hurt you again.”

  She left him in no doubt of her gratitude but, after that, refused to dwell on the matter. Instead, they far better employed their time discussing every detail of each other’s lives since Easter. She remained in his lap while they talked, he tracing patterns on her lower back with his right hand, she toying with the fingers of his left. In that attitude, they remained until she enquired about the scar on his cheek. He gave explanation, she kissed it, he kissed her, and shortly thereafter, the arrangement was abandoned before too much adoration could be expressed.

  “Are you recovered enough to return? I have a great inclination to speak with your father.”

  She assured him she was, and they set off in the direction of Longbourn.

  “Does it give you much pain?”

  “Not very often now. Aside from the odd headache and a little giddiness and this ghastly bruise, I am perfectly well.”

  “I never saw a bruise worn more handsomely.”

  She laughed. “That is not what your aunt said.”

  “My aunt? Lady Catherine?”

  She pulled a wry face and nodded.

  “And when did she have occasion to comment on it?” he enquired warily.

  “When she called on me to forbid me from ever marrying you.”

  “When she what?”

  ***

  Mr. Darcy was the kind of man to whom Mr. Bennet should never dare refuse anything he condescended to ask, and he gave his consent at once. That he should ask this was somewhat bewildering, but since Elizabeth had come to him first, assuring him of her wishes, he felt not unduly concerned. He cared for only three things: Elizabeth would be well looked after, she would be able to respect her partner in life, and he need lose no more sleep over his other soon-to-be son.

  He remained entirely unconvinced that Bingley had secured his preferred choice of sister, and he had not been able to dispel the concern that he might yet abandon Jane. He had infinitely more faith in Mr. Darcy’s ability to direct his friend’s romantic interests, and his appearance was vastly reassuring.

  “Would that you had asked her sooner,” Mr. Bennet said, reaching to shake hands. “You might have saved your friend weeks of indecision.” He regretted the jest when he saw Mr. Darcy’s frown and hastily suggested they collect Elizabeth and announce the news to the family.

  He led the couple into the parlour, but before he could draw breath to speak, Bingley was on his feet.

  “Lizzy! Thank heavens—I say, Darcy! What the deuce are you doing here?”

  Having already been denied the privilege of announcing Jane’s engagement, Mr. Bennet was unwilling to forfeit his due a second time and answered before Mr. Darcy. “He is a single man in possession of a good fortune. For what other purpose could he have possibly come but to secure himself a wife? It is my very great pleasure to inform you all that Lizzy and Mr. Darcy are engaged.”

  It was much to his consternation that the announcement he ultimately made should be met with stony silence. Mrs. Bennet sat perfectly still, seemingly unable to breathe, let alone speak. The irony of his lamenting her want of theatricals on the sole occasion upon which she had been shocked into quiescence was not lost on him. His younger daughters all stared aimlessly between him, their mother, and Elizabeth. Jane looked by turns amazed, relieved, and then vexed—for none of which he could account. Bingley stood unmoving before him, open-mouthed and ashen.

  “Well,” he said into the deafening silence, “if you are all quite done with your celebrations, I think I shall return to the quiet of my library. I can scarcely bear all the commotion.”

  Turning to leave, he laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm, intending to counsel her not to be dismayed by their surprise. Upon observing her, however, he decided she needed no such assurance. Had his wife suffered a fit of apoplexy and died right there on the carpet, he thought it unlikely the pair should have noticed. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy had eyes only for each other. He smiled to himself as he left the room, satisfied she truly would be happy.

  ***

  To hell with waiting for Darcy to speak with his friend! Fitzwilliam resolved to ride to Longbourn directly unless the wayward pair appeared within the next ten minutes. He stalked to the sideboard to refill his glass then back to the window to look for any sign of their return. There was none.

  He was excessively concerned for his cousin, certain Miss Bennet’s death would affect him deeply, and he could not account for every other bugger’s apparent indifference to the tragedy. Colonel Forster had seemed flabbergasted that a man of his rank should show any interest in, as he put it, “the transgressions of a mere parish lieutenant.”

  “Transgressions, my arse!” he grunted and sipped his drink.

  Indeed, Wickham had seemed no less surprised by his interest in the affair, but if the dullard thought a flogging was all the punishment he would receive, he was due a harsh shock. Nor could he fathom why Bingley had failed to inform his own sister of Elizabeth’s passing or why none of the staff had mentioned it…

  Slamming his drink on a table, he strode across the room and yanked open the door, looking for a servant.

  “Ho, man!” he call
ed to a footman by the front door, marching there as he spoke. “Do you know the Bennets of Longbourn?”

  “Yes, sir,” the rather startled man replied.

  “Have any of them died recently?”

  “Er…not to the best of my knowledge, sir.”

  “Thank God’s celestial ballocks for that!”

  At which moment, Darcy stepped through the front door. “Fitzwilliam! What on earth are you doing here?”

  All possible answers to his question were rendered absurd by the revelation that Miss Bennet was alive and well. “I paid Wickham a little visit,” he admitted with a grin.

  Darcy pulled an odd face—half frown, half smirk. “And how did that go off?”

  “Well, nothing actually came off, so I daresay it could have gone worse for him.”

  Darcy’s lips twitched, threatening a laugh, and Fitzwilliam knew all would be well. “She is not dead, is she?”

  “No,” his cousin replied, his eyes burning with startling vehemence. “She is very much alive—and very much mine.”

  They were interrupted by a low groan from Bingley, who came trudging over the threshold behind his friend. “You are very welcome, Fitzwilliam, but I hope you will forgive me if I postpone a proper greeting until tomorrow. I have the devil of a headache. I think I shall retire directly. Feel free to use my study, Darcy. I am sure you two have much to discuss.”

  “There is no need to make yourself scarce in your own home, Bingley,” Darcy assured him.

  “You give me false credit. I had no such noble intentions. I only wish to be spared your raptures.”

  Fitzwilliam scoffed. In eight and twenty years, he had never heard Darcy rhapsodise.

  “Help yourselves to brandy,” Bingley offered. Then, eyeing Fitzwilliam, he added, “If there is any left.”

  “We shall make do! Snap to it, old boy!” he said as he passed Darcy. “I cannot bear to be kept in suspense any longer!”

  Thus the cousins retreated to Bingley’s study to enjoy a second evening of drink-fuelled discourse on the subject of Elizabeth Bennet—this one far pleasanter than the last.

  ***

  Bingley hauled his tired body up the stairs, alarmingly close to vomiting. Darcy and he had passed the journey home explaining to each other how their relative betrothals came about. He had been largely unmoved by his friend’s allusions to various disappointments and struggles, for Darcy had Elizabeth and, therefore, no cause to repine.

  His own story had been necessarily abridged, for he could hardly own that he had meant to offer for Darcy’s future wife.

  Darcy’s last declaration, “She is very much mine,” was simply outside of enough. Ravaged by the thought of Elizabeth in any other man’s arms, Bingley had not the fortitude to listen to Darcy rave about it or hear his cousin congratulate him for it. Instead, he gathered his regrets and took himself off to bed.

  ***

  Thursday, 11 June 1812: Hertfordshire

  It had been arranged the previous evening, after a dinner taken up predominantly with Mrs. Bennet’s vociferous musings on the perquisites of her daughters’ advantageous alliances, that the newly affianced couples would breakfast at Netherfield.

  Elizabeth sighed as the carriage juddered into motion. “I thought we might never find the opportunity to speak privately again.”

  Jane regarded her sister’s radiant smile sullenly. They might have spoken last night had she not pretended to be asleep. Wounded that Elizabeth had concealed all hint of her dealings with Mr. Darcy from her and devastated by Bingley’s apparent dismay, her envy had left her disinclined to celebrate. “I was not aware you wished to speak to me. You seem to have kept much unsaid of late.”

  Elizabeth’s smile died instantly. “Are you angry with me?”

  Jane turned to peer out of the window. “I am more hurt than angry.” She felt her hands taken up and reluctantly looked back.

  “I did not set out to exclude you,” Elizabeth began, “but in London you were still so very low, and at the time, I was convinced everything that happened in Kent would soon be forgotten anyway. I saw no advantage to burdening you with any of it. And then…” She looked down at their clasped hands, and her voice became unexpectedly tremulous. “Once I ceased being a fool and acknowledged to myself that I loved Mr. Darcy, I was too embarrassed to mention it, for I was sure he would never return for me. It was easiest to say nothing.”

  Jane understood better than most how much easier it was to deny heartache than suffer everyone’s remarks. Hearing it explained thus disposed her to be more understanding. “You must love him very much.”

  “I do, Jane! So very dearly.” Her eyes sparkled as they had always used to whenever she disclosed some great mischief as a child.

  Jane felt a flush of shame. This was Elizabeth—ever her dearest friend and closest ally. From whence had such unjust bitterness sprung? “Well then,” she said gently, “we have most of our journey remaining. Will you not tell me more about my new brother?”

  By the time they arrived at Netherfield, Elizabeth’s brief wretchedness had passed, and she once again bubbled over with jubilation. Jane’s own equanimity was less assured. Though delighted to have regained her sister’s confidence, she was, by the same token, returned mercilessly to her earlier envy as every part of Elizabeth’s quixotic tale gave stark contrast to her own less than zealous courtship.

  ***

  Caroline Bingley awoke in a much-improved humour on Thursday morning. Louisa had said in her letter that Charles was immovably decided for Eliza Bennet, whom Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her was dead. She had sought and received confirmation of that from Peabody, who had shaken his head gravely and agreed that no party could have wished for matters to end as they had. Though she would not rejoice in any person’s death, one played the cards one was dealt. Miss Eliza was deceased, Charles was unshackled, and her own future in society was secured.

  With a decided spring to her step, she made her way to the breakfast room. To her satisfaction, it was Darcy, discomposingly handsome in all his sartorial splendour, whom she first espied upon entering. He halted in his path from the sideboard to bow. She smiled warmly and expressed her sincere pleasure to see him. That was as long as her satisfaction lasted. Darcy continued on his way, revealing a wider view of the room—in the midst of which sat Miss Eliza Bennet. All visions of dancing at Lady du Grallier’s next ball evaporated in the blink of an eye.

  “Oh, you are not dead.”

  Several objections went up about the table, though the lady herself looked only amused.

  “You see, Miss Bingley? I am not without accomplishments, after all.”

  Caroline had forgotten, in the months she had been away, how very much she detested this woman. “Forgive me, madam. I was informed yesterday you had passed away.” She threw Colonel Fitzwilliam a withering glance, but he only shrugged. “I am vastly relieved to discover that is not the case. I trust you are well?”

  “Very well, I thank you.” She smiled at Darcy, and he, to Caroline’s disgust, returned it. With a burgeoning sense of foreboding, she turned to her brother for explanation—and was startled a second time to see Miss Eliza’s sister.

  “Miss Bennet! What a surprise! Are you well also?”

  The terminally insipid bore replied that she was, her smile revealing no hint of discomfort to be breakfasting with her erstwhile suitor and his new paramour, her sister. Beginning to suspect she was overlooking some salient information, Caroline edged into her seat and turned an enquiring look upon her brother.

  “Louisa wrote to me of your decision, Charles.” He blanched, deepening her suspicion. “I came as soon as I was able. I naturally assumed matters had been forestalled when I heard of Miss Eliza’s passing, but…well, thankfully, I was misinformed about that. May I assume congratulations are in order after all?
”

  Charles had progressed from looking pale to looking positively unwell. “Yes,” he replied then swallowed. “I am engaged to Miss Bennet.”

  Caroline held her smile fixed in place, her eyes locked with her brother’s beseeching ones. “Miss Jane Bennet,” she replied, attempting to keep the enquiry from her tone but raising an eyebrow slightly in question.

  “Yes,” he repeated, this time reaching for Jane’s hand and patting it as though to prove a point.

  While Caroline could not deny her preference for the meek and tractable Jane Bennet as a sister over the insufferable younger alternative, an alliance with either of them would inevitably mean the sinking of the Bingley name in the eyes of the world. She offered perfunctory congratulations and turned her attention to Darcy in the hope he might yet be able prevent the union. “What think you of Charles’s news, Mr. Darcy?”

  “I am very happy for him.”

  He seemed in earnest, which vexed her further still. “Perhaps, when Charles next visits Pemberley, he will bring his new relations with him. His mother, mayhap, or his aunt and uncle from Cheapside.”

  “They would be very welcome. It would not do, I am sure you agree, for me to begin excluding Bingley’s relations from Pemberley.”

  “Certainly not.” She selected a muffin and concentrated on buttering it.

  “Oh!” Miss Eliza exclaimed. “I shall no longer be able to travel with my aunt and uncle!”

  “You were due to travel?” Darcy enquired.

  “Yes, in a few weeks. To Derbyshire, as it happens.”

  “Think you they would accept an invitation to suspend their travels for a few days to visit with us?”

  Caroline’s muffin abruptly wedged itself in her craw, and she suffered several exceedingly uncomfortable moments attempting to repress the consequent sputtering cough.

  “I think they would be delighted if all our plans allow. I should dearly love to receive them.”

  Caroline placed her trembling hands in her lap, out of sight. “Miss Eliza, are you planning to travel to Pemberley with my brother and Miss Bennet?”