Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

“Will you help him, despite your aunt’s behaviour?”

  “I shall.” This pleased her, he could tell. What he would not have given then to show her he was not devoid of all proper feeling!

  “You are not happy,” she said gently, startling him from his reverie. “I am sorry the visit has not started well.”

  “It is not that which troubles me presently,” he admitted, smiling ruefully at his own foolishness.

  She stopped walking and turned to him, all anxiety. “Then what does?”

  “It is this place. My memories of it are inexpressibly painful to me.”

  She lifted a hand to his cheek, and though her next words were teasing, her voice was as soft as her touch. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, you dear, silly man! I thought all that was forgotten?”

  “Forgetting is not my forte, as well you know. I left this place believing I had lost you forever.”

  “Yes, you do have a penchant for losing me, I have noticed.”

  He choked out a surprised burst of laughter. “Would that I had known then how I should come to be the constant object of your wit, teasing devil of a woman!” He pulled her closer, then one arm at a time, took hold of the front edges of his greatcoat and wrapped them around her, cocooning her against his chest. “What would you have said had someone told you after that night you would be back here half a year on, wife to me, and increasing with my child?”

  She looked up at him dubiously. “If that is all I had been told, I think I would have been justified in being excessively alarmed.”

  His smile faltered. She was perfectly right, of course, yet it made hearing it no less painful, for it served as further proof of how she had despised him at the time. She saw it, God love her. She saw it and immediately redressed the injury.

  “Though, had I been told how blissfully happy you would have made me in that half a year, how wonderful it would be to be held the way you hold me and kissed the way you kiss me, how honoured I should feel to be carrying the child of the best man I have ever known, had I been told how very dearly I should have come to love you, I believe I might have been more sanguine about it.”

  It frightened him how fiercely he loved her. It had then and it did still. He made no attempt to find the words to express it, however; he doubted any existed sufficiently profound. Instead, he took her by the hand and drew her to the nearest tree, from which he plucked one of the last remaining leaves. Silently, he pressed a tender kiss to her brow and the leaf into her hand, closing her fingers around it.

  “Fitzwilliam?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kiss me. The way you do.”

  ***

  Darcy’s spirits seemed to improve drastically thereafter, and Elizabeth’s certainly did. They enjoyed a far pleasanter stroll through the grove than any they had shared the previous spring and returned to the house in excellent humour.

  A happy sight greeted them upon reaching the lawn. Mr. Montgomery and a small boy, whom Elizabeth presumed must be his son, were playing a game of cat and mouse. Too busy watching his father over his shoulder to pay heed to where he ran, the boy promptly careened headlong into Darcy’s legs, which had rather the same effect as a blancmange being hurled at a boulder—one moved not at all, and the other crumpled in a messy heap on the ground. Elizabeth crouched to help the boy to his feet, brushing his breeches clean.

  “Jonathan, do be careful!” Mr. Montgomery called as he made his way towards them.

  “It is very nice to meet you, Master Jonathan,” Elizabeth said. “I am Mrs. Darcy. And this is my husband, Mr. Darcy.”

  “You have introduced yourselves, I see,” Mr. Montgomery puffed, arriving at the scene rather short of breath. To his son he said, “Mr. Darcy is Miss de Bourgh’s cousin.”

  Much to Elizabeth’s delight, the boy gave them a dear little bow and then craned his neck to look up at Darcy.

  “You are too big to be a mouse,” he declared. “I shall be the mouse. You be the cat.” Then he turned and toddled away across the lawn, leaving the three adults regarding each other—one apologetically, one sceptically, and the other vastly diverted.

  Elizabeth raised an expectant eyebrow at her husband. With a sigh and a perfectly solemn countenance, he removed his hat and greatcoat and handed them to her, then exploded into a run across the lawn. Jonathan squealed and tripped over his own feet attempting to escape. Mr. Montgomery soon joined them, and Elizabeth watched with melting heart as two of the most serious and dignified men of her acquaintance darted about the lawn, drawing shrieks of happy laughter from the little boy. She could not help but suppose Darcy’s anticipation of fatherhood contributed to his rare eschewal of decorum, and her stomach did another of its little pirouettes as she fell a little further in love with him.

  Only as she looked about for a seat did she notice the solitary figure occupying a bench on the far side of the lawn. She presented a lonely picture, and Elizabeth set out at once to speak to her. “Good morning, Miss de Bourgh. May I join you?”

  “Mrs. Darcy,” she replied, nodding at the space next to her by way of permission but not moving to make it any larger.

  Not overly surprised and certainly not deterred, Elizabeth lowered herself onto the bench, balancing Darcy’s hat and coat on her lap. Having imposed this far, she felt obliged to begin the conversation, but not knowing the least bit about her, was unsure which subjects were safe. She settled on enquiring after her health.

  “I am as well as I ever am. Which is not very,” answered Miss de Bourgh.

  “I beg your pardon, I was not aware you were unwell.”

  “I am not unwell. I am simply not well.”

  “I see.” Such a contrary creature! “You must be greatly anticipating your wedding tomorrow.”

  “Must I?”

  “I hope for your sake that you are. Mr. Montgomery is a very kind, unassuming gentleman. I hope you will be very happy together. From what I hear, it sounds as though he has grown very fond of you.”

  This remark brought Miss de Bourgh’s head whipping around and the first splash of colour to her cheeks Elizabeth had ever observed. “He has?”

  “Why, yes. Darcy tells me he speaks very highly of you indeed. I understand he values your calmness of temper in particular.” This evidently flustered her, leading Elizabeth to wonder whether she had ever received a compliment on aught, other than the things her mother believed she might have accomplished had her health allowed it. “Master Jonathan seems a lovely, lively little boy.”

  “He is certainly the latter.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Most three-year-olds are, I think.”

  “Are you much in the company of young children?”

  “I have been, at various times. I have three younger sisters and four very young cousins.”

  Miss de Bourgh picked at a fleck of dust on her pelisse then looked into the distance with a sniff. “I never thought I would have children. I know not what one is expected to do with them.”

  A small laugh escaped Elizabeth’s lips before she could prevent it. Such a curious mix of uncertainty and arrogance she had never seen. “Does Master Jonathan have a nanny or a governess?”

  “Both.”

  “Then all there is for you to do is love him.”

  Her companion’s only response was to look moderately terrified.

  “Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said cautiously, “our husbands are good friends. It is probable you and I shall be thrown together quite often as a result. I cannot but think it would be tedious to be always in each other’s company and never at liberty to enjoy it. Do you not agree?”

  “Come to the point, Mrs. Darcy. I do not care for clever tongues.”

  There really was no further proof required that she would never have truly appreciated Darcy had she married him. “Very well. I should like it if you and I could
be friends.”

  Elizabeth had rather expected her to be offended by this proposal, and she was surprised when spots of colour once more pinked her cheeks, for she looked more abashed. It occurred to her that perhaps Miss de Bourgh did not have many acquaintances she could call ‘friend.’ “Mayhap, in time,” she pressed gently, “we might learn to be mothers together.” She received no answer but counted it as a great victory that neither did she receive a rebuff. “Shall we begin now?” she enquired, gesturing with a nod towards Jonathan.

  Miss de Bourgh gave the smallest of nods. As they walked onto the lawn, a slight movement behind her caught Elizabeth’s eye. She looked up at the house and observed Lady Catherine peering from an upstairs window. She smiled up at her and inclined her head. Her ladyship’s eyes narrowed furiously, the curtain dropped back down, and she disappeared from view. Elizabeth sighed, then just as quickly smiled and turned to forge ahead with Miss de Bourgh, counselling herself that the walls of Badajoz were not brought down in a day.

  ***

  Tuesday, 6 October 1812: Hertfordshire

  “Oh, Sister, I cannot recall ever seeing her so withdrawn, not even when Mr. Bingley went away last autumn.”

  “Is she very distressed? What did she say?”

  “Very little—only that it is certain she is not with child. Her courses arrived on Sunday.”

  Mrs. Philips shook her head sadly. “Well, she is not the first woman to be mistaken about such a thing.”

  “It breaks my heart to think how her hopes have been dashed.”

  “And yours, my dear.”

  “Yes, mine too! For I was certain she must be increasing. She showed all the signs! She even asked me on Saturday last how long a woman must usually wait to feel the quickening.”

  “I see why you were so convinced. She obviously believed it to be true.”

  “And now all our hopes are dashed.”

  “Only temporarily, Sister. With any luck, you will not have to wait long for better news—from Lizzy if not Jane.”

  “What use is it to me if Lizzy has a child, for I shall scarcely ever see it! I am getting too old to be forever traipsing hither and thither about the country.”

  “I am sure her husband will be vastly pleased to hear that,” said Mr. Bennet, walking into the room and taking up a position before the fire. “Perhaps that is why Mr. Bingley delays. He may wish to find a house farther away before he begets another excuse for you to visit him.”

  Nothing Mrs. Philips could do would settle Mrs. Bennet’s nerves after that remark. There was nothing for it but to help her sister to bed and request a tonic from Hill that would allow her to sleep off her disappointment.

  ***

  Thursday, 8 October 1812: Kent

  Fitzwilliam stifled a yawn. He wished he had not fought so prodigiously hard to remain awake throughout the wedding ceremony, for a brief nap then might have afforded the stamina required to endure this—the dullest celebration in the history of matrimony.

  Lady Catherine and all her cronies, whom she had been adamant must attend to sufficiently mark the vastly prestigious occasion, had collared him and Elizabeth on the sofas. Elizabeth, however, was too busy fluttering her eyelashes at Darcy across the room to pay any heed to the conversation, leaving him the sole casualty of the ladies’ inane chatter, and he was rapidly losing the will to live.

  “Of course,” Lady Catherine croaked, “had Anne’s health allowed her to be in London more, she would have attended the opera very frequently and enjoyed it better than most, for she has a discerning ear.”

  “That is not to be doubted,” Lady Metcalfe replied. “And had I had a daughter, I am certain she would have been blessed with superior taste and enjoyed everything that is fine.”

  “Will you visit the opera while you are in London?” Fitzwilliam enquired of Elizabeth, attempting to regain her attention and not being wholly successful.

  “I hope not,” she replied absently. “I cannot abide the opera.”

  “Cannot abide it!” Lady Rutherford repeated, aghast.

  “Everybody in our sphere enjoys the opera,” Lady Hartham said. “No woman can consider herself accomplished who does not appreciate the finer arts.”

  Lady Catherine said nothing, but then her lips were so contorted with disdain, Fitzwilliam thought she probably was not able.

  “What of your husband?” Lady Metcalfe pressed indignantly. “Would you deny him the pleasure of it?”

  “By no means, ma’am. If he wishes to go, I am sure we shall.”

  “Well, I hope you do, for only by taking the trouble to attend will you begin to appreciate it as you ought.”

  Elizabeth inclined her head.

  “You must see Idomeneo, in that case. It begins towards the end of the month and is certain to be superior to anything else being performed.”

  “I thank you for the recommendation, though my husband generally prefers Handel’s operas.”

  “Miss Ben—Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Catherine interjected. “It is vexing enough that you must give your own opinions so freely. Do not presume to begin giving my nephew’s as well. He is perfectly capable of speaking for himself.”

  “Lady Hartham,” Fitzwilliam said hastily, feeling guilty for having embroiled Elizabeth in the discussion, “have you heard from your son recently? How fares he in Lisbon?” As hoped, this set the ladies off on a different tangent. He turned slightly and whispered his apologies to Elizabeth. “I quite fed you to the wolves. You must allow me to make amends. Shall I cause a distraction that you might escape?”

  “Too risky,” she replied with a grin. “But if you feel you must atone, you may fetch me a drink.”

  “Certainly. Wine?”

  “Do not trouble yourself, Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said, arriving from nowhere to hand Elizabeth a glass.

  “Oh, where is mine?”

  “I was not aware you were thirsty.”

  Fitzwilliam looked between them, amused by a fleeting notion that they must communicate via blinks—one for “thirsty,” two for “hungry,” and three for “your aunt has slighted me again, immediate rescue required.”

  “There you are, Darcy,” Lady Catherine said loudly. “What have you been discussing with Lord Rutherford all this time?”

  “The new theatre on Drury Lane, madam.”

  “Oh, yes, my husband is an avid patron of the arts,” Lady Rutherford said, adding with a sly glance at her friends, “and he especially enjoys the opera. Indeed, he considers it as one of the first refinements of polished societies. Would you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Of course he would,” Lady Catherine answered for him. “My nephew is a great lover of the opera and attends regularly.”

  Fitzwilliam caught Elizabeth’s eye, rather enjoying the twinkle her amusement afforded them.

  “I expect you will go to see Idomeneo when it begins,” Lady Metcalfe said to Darcy.

  “I have no plans to, madam.”

  “Oh, that is correct,” she replied in a tone of condolence. “Your wife has just been telling us she does not much care for the opera. We must not blame her. People of certain spheres do not generally have the opportunity to attend. Though I must say it is very good of you not to complain about the deprivation. I am sure I should not be so gracious about it.”

  Fitzwilliam held his breath, awaiting the cataclysm Darcy’s scowl portended, yet in the end, a steady glance from Elizabeth was all it took to stay his reprisal.

  “I merely prefer Handel’s operas,” was his only reply.

  Fitzwilliam was still smirking over that inadvertent victory for Elizabeth when Montgomery and Mrs. Sinclair hailed them from across the room, prevailing upon Elizabeth to play the pianoforte. Darcy wasted no time in leading his wife to the relative safety of the instrument. The other ladies fanne
d out to find seats from which to criticise her performance, leaving him alone with his aunt.

  Her ladyship spent the next several minutes unable to speak as she succumbed to a fit of coughing that Fitzwilliam suspected she had been withholding for some time. He fetched her a drink and stayed with her until she recovered.

  “Anne seems very content,” he said when she was composed.

  “No thanks to the contemptible strumpet at my pianoforte.”

  He breathed a silent sigh and persevered. “Content nonetheless.”

  Lady Catherine sniffed disdainfully. “Would that Darcy could be.”

  “He is, madam.”

  “Do not attempt to mollify me, Fitzwilliam. It is my lungs that fail me, not my eyes. A fool could see he is not happy.”

  “If you will pardon me for speaking frankly, your incivility towards his wife is hardly likely to cheer him. Nor your ill health.”

  The latter seemed to surprise her though she quickly covered it with affected hauteur. “I am glad to discover he is not lost to all proper feeling. He ought to be distressed that I am ill.”

  “We all are.”

  “She is not,” she said, waving her hand towards the instrument. Fitzwilliam was unsure whether she was referring to Elizabeth or Mrs. Sinclair, and since at least one of them was not the slightest bit troubled, he opted not to answer at all.

  He caught sight of Darcy watching his wife play. Contrary to Lady Catherine’s claim, he looked positively serene, which diverted him, for Darcy was not a man naturally given to serenity. To his mind, Elizabeth’s influence was there for all to see. Would that he could dispel some of his aunt’s prepossession that she might observe it herself.

  “You know, I was there when Greyson importuned Elizabeth,” he said, surprising his aunt for a second time. “I rather think the incident has been elaborated by the fool who relayed it to you.” Lady Catherine made no response, but her expression invited him to explain. “The man was in no way encouraged, and there was naught prurient about the incident on either side. He had the temerity to offer for Elizabeth under Darcy’s nose, despite their already being engaged. She refused and walked away, Greyson took hold of her arm to prevent her from leaving, and Darcy intervened to demand that he go. That is all there was to it. ”