Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  “Thought I would take you up on that offer of a drink,” Bingley mumbled, rubbing his forehead.

  “You might have waited for me in that case,” he replied after watching his friend sway across the room and slump onto the foot of the bed.

  “Eh? Oh, yes. I might have had one or two already.”

  Darcy pulled the bell for his man. “Have you forgotten you are to be wed at nine in the morning?”

  “Not quite. Another couple of measures ought to do it, though.”

  Wetherby arrived, and Darcy gave a quiet instruction for him to bring some coffee then turned back to his friend. “Is this merely nerves, Bingley, or is there something you wish to tell me?”

  “What? No! I meant not to give the impression that I—I meant not to say anything at all. Blast! I cannot speak of this with you!”

  That stung, though Darcy knew it was deserved. “My previous interference in your relationship was indefensible, I know. But if you have need of me now, I beg you would not be discouraged from asking.”

  “No, you mistake my meaning.” Bingley gave him a rather pained look. “Dash it, Darcy, what if…what if a person does not feel what they ought to when they marry?”

  “You doubt Jane’s affections still?”

  “No, I doubt my own.”

  “Your own?”

  Bingley appeared to immediately regret admitting as much and began shaking his head violently in denial, but Wetherby’s arrival with the coffee interrupted his frantic attempts to explain himself.

  “Do not be concerned that I shall judge you,” Darcy assured him when his man had gone. “I comprehend why you might expect me to, but I have been taught better. Speak frankly, my friend.”

  Bingley’s shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand dejectedly through his hair. “I meant only that…well, so much has transpired. Jane is not the same as she was, and I certainly am not.”

  Darcy filled a cup and settled himself in the armchair by the fire. “I think it is safe to say none of us are. People change, Bingley. As a wise woman once said, ‘There is something different to be seen in them forever.’ Naturally, your affections will change accordingly, but it does not follow that the change must make them insufficient.” His friend looked pensive, an expression Darcy saw on him but rarely, and it struck a chord. “I believe I comprehend your problem.”

  Bingley flinched. “You do?”

  “You have been given entirely too much time to think. Had I not interfered, you would have wed Jane after three weeks and been happily married for above eight months by now. I daresay this will all seem a good deal better after tomorrow.”

  This and the coffee lightened Bingley’s mood sufficiently that, by the time he retired to his own room, Darcy was assured he would neither arrive at the church still addled nor forgo attending at all. He smiled to himself as he climbed into his own bed, thinking his friend would probably enjoy a far better night’s sleep than he. The morrow was still too many hours away, and coffee had robbed him of all hope of sleep just as anticipation had robbed him of his last vestiges of patience.

  ***

  Tuesday, 14 July 1812: Hertfordshire

  “And after they leave London, they will go to Derbyshire. I suggested they go to Brighton for the summer, but they preferred not to, though I suspect he would have gone willingly had Lizzy wished it, for I begin to think there is nothing he would not do for her. Just look at the way he gazes at her.”

  Jane did as she was bid, as did everyone else to whom her mother had been extolling the Darcys’ virtues for the last ten minutes. Mr. Darcy was, indeed, watching his new bride intently as she spoke to their little group. It was very romantic.

  “It is obvious how greatly he admires her, for he does not object at all to her running on at everybody in that way,” Mrs. Bennet continued. “Ah, what a fine thing to see my girls so well loved.”

  The others all agreed. Jane smiled and said not a word, feeling distinctly less well loved than her sister at that moment. Whereas Elizabeth’s husband pinned her possessively to his side and hung on her every word, her own tarried on the other side of the room, speaking to anyone and everyone but her. She endeavoured to think nothing of it. Bingley was naturally sociable, certainly not the sort to remain in one spot at a gathering. And there had been nothing else in his behaviour today that could be construed as cause for doubt. He had greeted her at the church in excellent humour, enthusiastically praised her appearance, kissed her affectionately after the ceremony, and proudly paraded her through the village to Longbourn as his wife. He was, in any case, a vastly different creature to his friend, and Jane supposed she ought not expect him to behave similarly.

  It was not long before she began to feel altogether less sanguine. The small group of people to whom Elizabeth had been speaking had swollen to include most of the guests. Hers had diminished to just one, Mr. Collins, whose determination to be heard had overcome all her best attempts to escape his company. Perhaps this was what Louisa and Caroline had been speaking of when they advised her that ladies who were too meek did not do well in society. If she could but harness a whit of her sister’s assurance, she might become a woman worthy of the world’s notice—and perchance her husband’s also.

  She looked for Bingley, her one consolation being that he was not part of the group surrounding her sister. He was by the window, nodding at whatever Mr. Philips was saying and staring so brazenly at Elizabeth, it was a wonder the whole room had not noticed. She turned back to Mr. Collins and pretended to listen, a headache burgeoning between her temples.

  At length, Mr. Darcy announced he and Elizabeth would depart, which prompted something of an exodus as the Gardiners, Collinses, Lucases and all Mr. Darcy’s relations called for their carriages as well. Jane watched unhappily as everyone filed out of the parlour. Of course, they would all go now. Why would anybody wish to stay once Elizabeth left?

  Longbourn’s drive was soon overtaken with milling guests. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy bade them all goodbye, coming to Jane and Bingley last.

  “Thank goodness we need not say our goodbyes yet. I believe I shall survive the three days until I see you at Lord Ashby’s ball,” Elizabeth said, taking Jane’s hands. “Something tells me our farewell in London will not be so easy.”

  “I do not think you will ever be forgiven for stealing Lizzy away, Darcy,” Bingley interrupted.

  Jane would forgive her new brother a great deal if he would only hasten and do precisely that.

  “You are welcome to visit Pemberley as often as you please,” Mr. Darcy said, looking at her.

  “Then I daresay you will be seeing much of us,” Bingley answered in her stead.

  The effort of keeping her smile fixed in place began to tax Jane such that it was a relief when the leave-taking was done and Darcy handed Elizabeth into their carriage.

  “Are you well?” enquired Mrs. Gardiner, stepping to her side to wave them off. “You look a little piqued.”

  “It is difficult to see Lizzy go, is it not?” Mary said, appearing beside her aunt. “If it were not that I shall see her at Pemberley in a few weeks, I should be miserable too. I know you will miss her terribly.”

  Jane’s uncharitable thoughts to the contrary were interrupted when Mrs. Sinclair bustled past to her carriage.

  “Fear not, Mrs. Bingley, your husband has employed your sister’s twin as a maid, so you will have her to remind you in Lizzy’s absence.”

  ***

  Tuesday, 14 July 1812: London

  Baker, the young girl appointed as Elizabeth’s lady’s maid, moved about in the dressing room, emptying the bath. Elizabeth came to perch on the dressing table stool in her bedroom, rubbing her hair dry with a towel, not quite believing she was here at last. Her wedding day had been perfect but with a good deal too many people to speak to before she and Darcy were able to l
eave and a good deal too many miles to travel before they were able to arrive here, everyone and everything seemingly indifferent to her impatience to begin her life as Mrs. Darcy.

  In recent weeks, she had derived the distinct impression she was expected to be nervous for her wedding night, but she was not. She could never be nervous of a man who took such prodigious care of her, who looked at her as though she were a work of art, who held her as though she were made of glass, and who responded to her as though she were a seductress. On the contrary, she had great hopes of his recreating the same wonderful sensations he had on their walk the previous week.

  “Should you like me to brush your hair, Mrs. Darcy?” enquired the maid, coming into the room.

  Elizabeth declined and waited only long enough for Baker to lay out a nightgown on the bed before dismissing her for the evening. She reached for her brush but froze when she caught sight of the most enormous house spider on which she had ever laid eyes, not a yard from her bare feet. She did next what any well-bred young lady of good sense would upon discovering such a beast in her presence: she screamed and clambered up on the stool. The spider scurried for the nearest cover, which happened to be said stool. She jumped off it, screaming again and laughing all at once. The stool clattered back against the dresser and fell to the floor. She stumbled over her bathrobe and lunged towards the bed, laughing at her own ineptitude as she leapt onto the mattress and clutched at a post to steady herself.

  The door from the sitting room adjoining the master and mistress’s bedchambers flew open and banged against the wall with enough force to rattle the pictures and make every candle gutter.

  “Elizabeth! What is the matter?”

  Darcy wore only a bathrobe tied loosely at the waist, which accentuated the broadness of his shoulders most agreeably. His hair was dripping wet. Rivulets of bath water ran down his face and dropped onto his exposed chest, as though Neptune himself had risen from the sea to defend his bride. Under any other circumstances, the sight might have weakened Elizabeth’s knees. As it was, she was somewhat distracted by the gargantuan creature darting towards his feet.

  She pointed at it. “Spider!” It was all she could manage. His incredulity rendered her incoherent with hilarity thereafter.

  “For God’s sake, woman, I feared something serious had befallen you! Again!” He looked in the direction she pointed with obvious disdain, though upon espying the long-legged colossus, ceded some ground, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

  Elizabeth’s sides hurt. “’Tis a monster! Kill it!”

  “With what?” he cried, now laughing also.

  “Stamp on it!”

  “Not likely! I have bare feet!”

  Elizabeth scrambled across the bed, grabbed an empty candlestick from her nightstand and threw it at the spider. It hit Darcy soundly on the leg, and she was reduced to making such gasping, snorting noises as only a person in the grip of hysterical laughter can make, somewhat ruining the credibility of her sputtered apology. Her mirth turned to a surprised shriek as Darcy abruptly launched himself over the monstrous beast and onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her as he landed, bringing them both crashing onto the mattress.

  His laughter stilled first, though once Elizabeth observed his expression, hers ebbed also. Flickering candlelight threw every angle of his face into striking contrast with magnificent effect. It made her slightly breathless. “Bonsoir,” she whispered.

  His mouth twitched. “Bonsoir, mon amour.” He brought his hand to caress her face, running his fingertips in a feather-light touch over her lips, her eyebrows, her cheeks. Then he gently pushed her hair behind her ear.

  “I have not brushed it,” she said softly, wrinkling her nose in chagrin. “I expect I look wild.”

  He nodded and held her gaze as his fingers blazed a trail down her neck to the edge of her robe. Nudging it open, he leant over her and kissed the bare skin of her shoulder. His touch, his warmth, his weight pressing her into the bed, ignited a now-familiar ache for which she had no name but for which she had long since surmised the remedy. She moaned, though it came out more like a purr.

  “What great deed have I ever done to deserve you?” Darcy whispered, his voice rumbling deep and low in her ear.

  “I know not.” She slid her arms around his shoulders. “Perhaps you ought to do another? Then we might both be certain that you do.”

  He drew back and looked down at her. The intensity of his desire afforded him a severe mien. Her pulse quickened to be the object of it. He let go of her shoulder and took hold of her waist, his large, hot hand pulling her tightly against him. “Oh, I intend to make very, very certain.”

  ***

  Tuesday, 14 July 1812: Hertfordshire

  Truly, Providence was set on persecuting Jane this day. By the time the Bingley party left Longbourn, hours after the Darcys thanks to her mother’s flutterings over the loss of two daughters in one day, she had begun to feel a very insistent discomfort in her abdomen. To her utter dismay upon arriving at Netherfield, she was forced to retire immediately to her new bedchamber to deal with the onset of her monthly courses.

  She sat at the little writing desk between the windows to pen a note of apology to Bingley—scarcely the letter she had envisioned first composing there.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Bingley,” her new lady’s maid enquired from the doorway. “The water is ready. Should you like your bath now?”

  “Yes, thank you, Lacey.”

  At the young woman’s direction, two housemaids trudged into the room, lugging pails of steaming water to the bathtub. One was a young red-haired girl with freckles, the other the very ghost of Elizabeth. Jane’s mortification was complete. Refusing to succumb to tears in front of the staff, she folded her note and handed it to Lacey. “Pray, see this is given to Mr. Bingley.” Then, simply to get her out of sight, she pointed at the second housemaid and added, “Send her. I would rather you stayed.”

  After that, she submitted to Lacey’s ministrations in silence though her thoughts were far from quiet as they railed against the injustice of her predicament. Here she was, mistress of Netherfield and wife to Mr. Bingley yet unable to enjoy being either. One moment she cringed to consider what her new husband must be thinking of her, the next she recalled him staring at Elizabeth and decided she did not care. If she shed a few tears, it was only as her hair was rinsed and her face was awash with water anyway.

  When she was dressed and her hair brushed, she sent Lacey to fetch her some supper. The maid returned with a tray of food and an answering note from Bingley. Jane thanked her for both and dismissed her then stared at the missive for a good ten minutes before summoning the courage to read it.

  Dearest Jane,

  I would not have you distress yourself any further about such a trifling matter. I have grown up with sisters, and I am not insensible to the inconveniences they often suffer.

  I am sorry—truly sorry—that you have been aggrieved on this of all days, but rest assured I shall endeavour to put all to rights, to cheer you by every possible method as soon as you feel well enough to leave your room. In the meantime, anything you require for your comfort shall be yours. Pray do not hesitate to request whatever you wish of the staff.

  You looked beautiful today, Jane. I deeply regret we have been apart for most of it. What say you we forget this day and have our beginning on the morrow?

  Charles

  She did weep in earnest then. It was not the message she had been expecting, but she ought to have expected it, for Bingley was nothing if not kind-hearted. It brought everything into question. Had he truly avoided her all day or merely been waylaid by the excessive number of guests? Had he really be staring at Elizabeth, merely looking at his friend, or indeed, merely looking? When had she become so captious?

  She could not easily forget her doubts, profuse as they were, yet here was proo
f he did at least care for her. Surely, with Elizabeth gone, she had every reason to be hopeful for a new beginning? Of course, Elizabeth would need to actually be gone. She stood up and pulled the bell for Lacey, who was sent directly away again to inform the housekeeper the new mistress wished to speak to her.

  Half an hour later, Jane was alone again and indeed feeling eminently more hopeful. By nightfall, Netherfield would be short of a maid, but she would be free to commence her new beginning without the impediment of suspicion.

  ***

  Friday, 17 July 1812: London

  To his new sister’s credit, Fitzwilliam could not deny she put on a lavish ball. Derwent House had been transformed into a sort of enchanted forest, every cornice, mantel, and mirror festooned with greenery.

  His grandmother harrumphed, stepping away from a trailing spray of ivy that brushed her shoulder. “If you had such a burning desire to be out of doors, I wonder you did not host a picnic rather than a ball, Lady Ashby.”

  Fitzwilliam stifled a snort.

  “Philippa has done admirably,” objected Lady Catherine, the stupendous feather in her headdress bobbing indignantly. “At least one of the additions to this family is sure to make a favourable impression.”

  “Sister!” Matlock groaned.

  “Do not ‘sister’ me, Reginald. And do not say I did not warn you when Darcy’s scandalous alliance brings shame upon us all.”

  “The scandal of which you speak seems to me largely of your own making, Lady Catherine,” Mrs. Sinclair opined. “Perhaps if you refrained from advertising Mrs. Darcy’s purported insufficiencies to the world, you might better survive the ignominy of being her aunt.”

  “I sincerely hope she does not exhibit any of her insufficiencies this evening,” Lady Ashby clipped. “This is my inaugural ball as Lady Ashby. I will have no scandals!”

  “I am inclined to agree with Grandmother,” Ashby said apathetically. “Nothing is drawing more attention to Darcy’s marriage than all of us standing about discussing it. Besides, she cannot be wholly deficient, else Darcy would not have married her. He is not in the habit of brooking mediocrity.”