Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  Elizabeth had not been prepared for such an arsenal of topics and was relieved to espy the gatehouse from the window, for it signalled an imminent end to the startling interview. “I did.”

  Her ladyship grunted disdainfully. “I give you credit for that, though I cannot account for why you did it. You cannot have any regard for her, or you would not have poached her husband.”

  Elizabeth schooled herself to restraint. Truly, from Darcy’s first proposal to this thorny olive branch, her new family had the most extraordinary gift for delivering insulting compliments. “Perhaps your daughter and I are not the best of friends, but I should not like it if rumours that sprung up as a result of our union were to injure anybody in this family and neither would Darcy. Besides, I happen to think it a very fine thing that Mrs. Montgomery will be mother to Master Jonathan.”

  Again Lady Catherine peered overlong at her before replying. At length she lifted her chin and sniffed. “You are correct. It is your fault such rumours exist. It is only fitting that you exert yourself to quash them.”

  That comment brought Elizabeth to the very brink of her forbearance. “And what of the many rumours about me? Will you exert yourself to quash those?”

  “When I remarked upon your willingness to challenge me, I did not mean it to be taken as an invitation to do it more often! Do not imagine you can dress up your insolence as courage and expect me to tolerate it.”

  “It is neither courage nor insolence that motivates me to speak thus, but my affection for Darcy. Can you not see how your willingness to heed every rumour about me is wounding him? And to what end? Your fears that I might make him a poor wife are irrelevant now. We are already wed!”

  “They are not irrelevant. Your marriage does not mean the rest of his family should give up caring about him!”

  “That is not wha—”

  “I promised my sister I would take care of her children. If Darcy had married Anne, they would both have been set up forever, as would Miss Darcy. But he would marry you. I have salvaged my daughter’s future, but his and his sister’s could not be more uncertain. It is unlikely I shall live out another year, and what guarantee have I that they will not end up ridiculed and despised the whole world over once I am gone? My fears could not be more relevant!”

  Elizabeth rubbed her temple. “Madam, I comprehend your attachment to him—indeed, it is very touching—but I am his wife. I cannot see how turning the world against me will help him.”

  “Do not be absurd! I am not turning the world against you. I may hear things, but I do not repeat them.”

  “You repeat them to him, and that pains him more than you can know.”

  “He needs to hear them. He needs to know what people are saying.”

  “People might cease saying those things if somebody who knew better contradicted them!”

  “This is not to be borne! I shall not be made to account for myself to you!” Her pique abruptly gave way to a convulsive, barking cough that still had not passed when the carriage stopped before the house. Elizabeth pressed her own, fresh handkerchief into Lady Catherine’s hand, and when a footman opened the door, instructed him to close it again.

  “Forgive me,” she said softly once her ladyship had finally quieted. A burgeoning suspicion that she had ruined her only remaining chance to win her over had dispelled much of her anger. “I meant no disrespect. Only…Lady Catherine, you may very well never approve of me, but I beg you would accept that Darcy does and cease vilifying him for it. Trust him that the rumours about me are untrue. Visit us at Pemberley and see for yourself how well we do. Let us convince you we shall not give the world cause to despise us. His happiness would be complete if you would only allow this rift to be mended before it is too late.”

  Her ladyship took several shallow breaths and spoke slowly as though to prevent a relapse. “If nothing else, your tenacity has convinced me your regard for him is sincere. There can be no other possible advantage to opposing me on every subject.”

  “My regard for him is—” She broke off, unsure how to adequately express the depth of her feelings. “I believe you will tire of hearing me say how dearly I love him long before I tire of saying it.”

  Lady Catherine regarded her strangely. “I accept your invitation.” She shuffled forward in her seat and rapped on the window. “I shall visit Pemberley at Christmas.” The door was opened and she climbed out.

  Elizabeth followed her with mixed feelings. She knew not which was worse: an unresolved schism between nephew and aunt or another prolonged stay under the same roof together.

  “And in the meantime,” Lady Catherine said as soon as Elizabeth’s feet touched the ground, “try eating ginger.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It will aid with the biliousness.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh! I—how did you know?”

  Lady Catherine sighed impatiently. “I may have but one living daughter, but I have been with child more times than I care to recount. I am aware of the signs.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “You must take care, Mrs. Darcy. That is my great-niece or nephew. Your responsibilities to this family increase by the moment!” In accordance with Elizabeth’s expectations, Lady Catherine’s word was the last. She walked away into the house.

  “Elizabeth, are you well?”

  She spun around at Darcy’s anxious voice in time to see him march onto the drive from the lane. “Oh, my word! Did you run the entire way?”

  “It felt like it!” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, emerging from the same point a moment later.

  “Are you well?” Darcy repeated. “She has not distressed you?”

  “I am well. Somewhat surprised but perfectly well, I thank you.”

  This appeased him but little, and he continued to scrutinise her countenance with the utmost concern. “What was said?”

  “Let us go inside, and I shall relay it all.”

  “That will not do,” Fitzwilliam said, laughing. “He passed the walk dreaming up every rum motive conceivable for my aunt to wish to talk to you alone. You must put him out of his misery and assure him nothing dreadful occurred.”

  Elizabeth grimaced. “That is debatable.”

  “Why?” Darcy demanded. “What has occurred?”

  She looked up at him with playful contrition. “I seem to have invited her to Pemberley for Christmas.”

  Rosings Park, Kent

  October 12

  To Lady Ashby

  You have been industrious in your endeavours to unearth and report Mrs. Darcy’s failings to me. A week in her company has disproved the vast majority of your information, calling into question your purpose, which, it can only be presumed, was to recommend yourself to me by undervaluing her. You are sorely mistaken if you believe such despicable schemes could ever win you my good opinion.

  Your information, in substantiating my greatest fears, has afforded me three months of the most painful and, I now discover, wholly unwarranted anguish, which has unquestionably contributed to my decline in health. You have shown yourself to be petty and vindictive without any of the probity exhibited by she whom you have so assiduously maligned.

  You have sunk beyond redemption in my estimation. Do not presume to write to me again. If I discover you have dared to engage in any further idle talk pertaining to any member of this family, I shall be extremely angry and shall act accordingly. When next our paths cross, I expect to discover your loyalty and discretion vastly improved. Should you require guidance in the endeavour, you may look to Mrs. Darcy for illustration.

  Tell my nephew I am seriously displeased.

  Lady C. de Bourgh

  ***

  Tuesday, 13 October 1812: London

  “There you are!” Elizabeth said when Darcy entered the parlour. She set her
book aside and reached a hand towards him. “Where have you been?”

  He bent to kiss her hand. She was curled up on the sofa, and he sat down next to her feet, placing his hand on her stockinged ankle. “I called on Bingley.”

  “Oh, he is in Town?”

  He nodded, caressing her calf. Bingley’s calling card had been awaiting him when they returned the previous day, but he had wished to discover the purpose of his friend’s visit before troubling Elizabeth with it, lest it signified further antagonism from her sister.

  “What brings him here?”

  “He accompanied Miss Bingley to Farley House to attend her sister as she nears her confinement, though I suspect he simply does not wish to be at Netherfield. Relations are strained, I understand.”

  Elizabeth’s brow contracted. “Because of my quarrel with Jane?”

  He nodded again.

  “I am sorry to hear that. Unpleasant though it was, it ought not to come between them.”

  “How could it not? Any man’s esteem would be damaged by such a display of meanness.”

  Elizabeth puffed out her cheeks. “He will have to forgive her eventually. They cannot become estranged over an argument that is not even their own.”

  “You know how he dislikes disputes. I do not believe he knows how to resolve it—and before you enquire, no, I did not advise him on the matter.”

  She grinned at him. “In this instance, you might have been forgiven.”

  “Oh, no! It is for him to take his wife in hand, not me, and so I told him.”

  Some part of that amused her, for she raised a satirical eyebrow. “And what said he to that?”

  “He got absurdly affronted and asked if that is how I treat you.”

  “And how did you answer?”

  “I laughed. I could no more control you than I could control the weather.”

  She gasped in mock outrage and lunged forward to poke him in the ribs. He grabbed her wrist and tugged her with him to recline into the cushions at his end of the sofa. “I am sorry for Bingley,” he continued as he laced his fingers with hers. “It is not in his nature to expostulate, yet he will have to address her conduct, for it will injure his respectability if she continues thus.”

  “And hers,” Elizabeth replied quietly. “What a muddle.” Her melancholy did not last, though, and with a deep breath, she pushed herself upright and twisted to look down at him. “I hope you invited Mr. Bingley to join us at the theatre tomorrow.”

  “I did not.” He reached to toy with a few curls of her hair that had come loose. “I wished to have you to myself.”

  “Well, you cannot have me to yourself,” she said, playfully knocking his hand out of the way and standing up. “I have asked my aunt and uncle to join us now, so you may as well invite him.”

  Darcy fixed her with a look, resisting the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth, lest it stretch so wide it made him appear ridiculous. “You see? Utterly uncontrollable.”

  “Veritably wild,” she replied, smiling wickedly over her shoulder as she left the room.

  No more than two heartbeats passed before Darcy was out of the door after her.

  Pevensey Hall, Ashby, Derbyshire

  October 13

  Jane

  I am gravely vexed. Everything you have ever told me about your sister’s arts has been proved true. She has somehow managed to inveigle her way into the affections of my husband’s aunt and poison her against me! A believes D has likely done everything in his power to keep E’s failures concealed from his aunt. That must be so, for how else could she, of whom that lady never approved, have achieved such an improbable coup?

  I am threatened with action if I speak out. So be it! Let them all suffer in ignorance and be disgraced in the end. You and I shall know better! I never wondered at your disliking her. Now I applaud you for it.

  In respect to the other matter of which you wrote in your last letter, my counsel is to spare it not another moment’s thought. You are far from alone in suffering such a—let me call it a disappointment. It is a universally accepted fact of married life. But attend, Jane! It is also a universally guarded fact, never spoken about in polite circles. Keep your counsel in this matter, allow B to do likewise, and in the fullness of time, when your house is filled with your children (an eventuality I personally would advise delaying as long as possible), such disappointments will no longer be of any significance to anybody.

  Be sure to write again with news of your sister’s next calamity that we may laugh together at our being entirely removed from her ruin and disgrace.

  Yours etc.

  Lady Ashby

  ***

  Wednesday, 14 October 1812: London

  Elizabeth had not comprehended quite how tiresome her time in Kent had been until she left. Eight-and-forty hours later her spirits had risen to more than their usual liveliness, and she was vastly anticipating her evening at the theatre. Indeed, such was her good will towards Darcy that she rather rued overruling his wish to come alone, but on that she thought it better to remain silent.

  There was a small stir as their party entered the theatre lobby—Darcy’s prominence and her novelty still sufficient to generate some attention—but she paid it little mind. It was uncommonly busy for the time of year, and she was assured something or someone more interesting would soon steal everyone’s attention.

  They made their way in the direction of the stairs, but before they reached them, someone quite literally threw themselves into their path, tripping over an unknown obstacle and almost barrelling directly into Elizabeth. Darcy pulled her to one side, though the fellow still caught her arm with his shoulder, spinning her backwards slightly. After several more tottering steps, he rediscovered his footing and turned with an apology on his lips, whereupon all three froze and a painfully awkward moment ensued.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She closed her eyes. Of all the ways in which he might have withdrawn from the unfortunate encounter without exciting Darcy’s ire, addressing her so familiarly was by far the least likely to succeed.

  “Mr. Greyson.” She inclined her head very slightly.

  “Greyson,” Darcy all but growled.

  “My apologies, Mr. Darcy,” he sputtered. “Had I known you were here, I should never have attempted to speak to Eliz…to your…to her. That is, it was not my intention to speak to her at all—and certainly not to impose myself upon—”

  “It is well, sir,” Elizabeth interrupted to save him from his own runaway tongue. “There is no harm done. Pray, do not let us detain you from your own party.”

  He clamped his mouth shut, nodded, bowed, and backed away into the crowds.

  “Are you hurt?” Darcy enquired, turning to her all apprehension, his eyes darting pointedly to her stomach.

  “Not at all.”

  “Was that Greyson?” Bingley enquired, appearing next to them to puff up Darcy’s affront with his own. “The deuced cheek of the man!”

  “Where have my aunt and uncle got to?” Elizabeth said hastily, peering about in search of her relatives, in no humour to permit either gentleman’s indignation any latitude.

  Mr. Gardiner obligingly appeared, apologised for having been waylaid by a friend, and without delay, they all joined the hordes going up the stairs. About mid-way up, a whisper—half overheard, half inferred from the accompanying look of contempt—alerted Elizabeth to the possibility that her encounter with Mr. Greyson would not escape elaboration by society’s rabid imagination. A second remark soon sprang up from somewhere closer, this time with unmistakable references to the mistress of Pemberley and some manner of illicit affair. She could just imagine her father’s delight were he here to witness such a plethora of folly.

  “Miss Bennet!” somebody called in a vaguely familiar voice.

  She
looked about.

  “Miss Bennet!” the gentleman called again, coming down the stairs towards her.

  “Mr. Craythorne!” She felt herself blush fiercely, for all she could think of in that instant was the last time she had seen him and his very evident admiration for her on that occasion. Being now a married woman, her understanding completed the explanation her aunt had given at the time of what his breeches had ill-concealed, and she could scarcely bring herself to meet his eye for embarrassment.

  “What a delightful surprise!” he said, resisting being shoved forwards by the people behind him. “You look exceedingly well. Pray, what brings you to London?”

  “I live here. I am married now. May I introduce you to my husband, Mr. Darcy?”

  Mr. Craythorne’s face fell upon hearing her news, fell farther still when he heard the name Darcy, and almost dropped off his chin when he looked up—and up—to meet her husband’s piercing stare.

  To Darcy, Elizabeth said, “This is Mr. Craythorne. He used to lease Purvis Lodge near Meryton.”

  Both men bowed, if perfunctorily, for they had gone past each other by then and Mr. Craythorne was soon engaged in greeting Mrs. Gardiner on the steps below, though he did throw a forlorn farewell over his shoulder as he eventually relented to the momentum of the crowd and disappeared down the stairs.

  “He seemed excessively pleased to see you,” Darcy remarked as they reached the top.

  Elizabeth shrugged, not wishing to expound upon the gentleman’s particular interest in her.

  Presently, her aunt, uncle, and Mr. Bingley arrived on the landing, and they all moved to the saloon serving their box. It was not as crowded as downstairs, nor as noisy; thus, she clearly heard the remark that Mr. Greyson’s bumping into her had been contrived to facilitate a daring exchange of letters beneath her husband’s nose. She pressed her lips together in amusement. My, bad news travels quickly!

  “Darcy! It is you!” boomed a large gentleman coming towards them using his glass of wine like a scythe to clear a path through the crowd. “I thought it was. What brings you to London at this time of year?”