Which that Season Brings

by P. O. Dixon

Espying no hint of disdain or even disappointment in his eyes, Elizabeth said, “Pardon, sir. Do you mean to say you were looking for me?”

  “Indeed, I was, on behalf of your elder sister. She has been asking about you, and I assured her I would find you. She is in the parlor.”

  After curtseying for the benefit of both gentlemen, Elizabeth was gone directly.

  * * *

  His arms crossed, Darcy demanded, “What are you doing, Wickham?”

  Wickham tugged at his red coat. Poking his chest in defiance, he declared, “I assure you that I would be doing much more had you not interrupted me when you did.”

  “You are a bigger fool than I supposed if you think I would stand by idly and watch you ruin Miss Elizabeth’s reputation.”

  “So, you do not deny that you followed me for the express intention of thwarting my purposes.”

  “I have no wish to deny it.”

  “What does any of this have to do with you?”

  “It has everything in the world to do with me. You cannot be a stranger to the fact that an alliance between Charles Bingley and Miss Bennet is practically a foregone conclusion. Do you think I would allow you to sully his future sister’s reputation?”

  Wickham scoffed. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Come now, Darcy. You may be able to fool these country nothings, but you do not fool me. I have seen the way you look at Elizabeth Bennet when you suppose no one notices. You want her. It is most unfortunate that your high opinion of yourself places her so far beneath you for any serious consideration. Not that it matters, for the lady barely knows you are alive. How could she when she is blinded by her infatuation with me?”

  “I will not deny that you have insinuated yourself into the lady’s good graces with your happy manners. Were she to learn the truth about you, I doubt you would retain her good opinion for even a second.”

  “Ah, the truth. And what exactly is the truth, Darcy? That I came within a few hours of marrying your precious sister? That she was perfectly willing to spurn society by agreeing to elope with me? Is that the truth to which you refer?”

  “I warned you to never mention my sister’s name again,” said Darcy, assuming an attitude far more menacing than it had been moments before.

  There they stood. Just the two of them. The standoff of standoffs ensued.

  One man: an officer. Trained to defend, to attack, to kill.

  The other: a gentleman. Someone of sense and education. Of noble lineage and extensive patronage. Someone whose power to affect the livelihood of others was immeasurable.

  Both, honorable and respectable in the eyes of society and the world in general. That was not, however, how they looked upon each other. In Mr. Darcy’s eyes, George Wickham was a scoundrel, a reprobate, a scourge on society. In Wickham’s estimation, Fitzwilliam Darcy was the spoiled, sanctimonious offspring of a rich and powerful man and one who would be nothing at all if not for the circumstances of an advantageous birth. Equal importantly—one with little regard for those whom he considered beneath him in consequence.

  Which would be the victor in a battle of fisticuffs? There had been many a scrimmage between the two of them over the years. Reared together, despite the vast disparity of their stations in life what with one being the son of the steward of the other’s father, there once was a time when the two regarded themselves as friends.

  That was a long time ago; before their time away from Pemberley at university when Darcy grew to recognize Wickham’s character precisely for what it was. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, all those loathsome qualities he had carefully guarded from Darcy’s late father.

  Both men maintained their defensive stances: arms raised just so, fists clenched.

  “Go ahead, Darcy, take the first punch,” Wickham said tauntingly. “I dare you. Only, have a care, for you shall not find your odds of success nearly so high as when you accosted me in Ramsgate when I wasn’t prepared.”

  Darcy felt his anger increasing with each passing second. Never had he hated anyone more than he hated the vile creature standing before him. The thought that Miss Elizabeth could be fooled even a second by the man’s charms angered him even more. The very thought of what Wickham had intended for Darcy’s fifteen-year-old sister sickened him still despite the transgression having occurred some months ago.

  As if he read Darcy’s mind, Wickham asked, “How is your lovely sister?” His countenance was marred by his self-satisfied smirk. “Does she still cry herself to sleep longing—nay aching—for me?”

  In an instance, Wickham’s backside landed painfully against the ground. Grasping for breath, he clutched his chest with both hands.

  The sound of another gentleman’s voice halted Darcy’s next move.

  “There you are, Mr. Darcy!”

  Keeping a cautious eye on his nemesis sprawled on the ground, his bright red coat a striking contrast to the glistening snow, Darcy saw Miss Elizabeth’s uncle from Cheapside quickly approaching them from afar. If he had any indication of what was transpiring, he gave no clue. When he was close enough, the gentleman paid Wickham no notice at all.

  “Mr. Darcy,” he began, “may I prevail on you to join me inside for a drink. I am sure it is exactly what is called for after standing about so long in the cold. I implore you to come with me. You will not regret it, for you see, I know where my brother Bennet keeps his finest brandy.”

  A quick glance over at Wickham who was still struggling to recover his composure told Darcy he was wasting his time. Silently accepting the other man’s invitation, Darcy joined him by his side, and the two men turned and walked away. With any luck, Wickham would slither off like the snake that he was and would not be seen or heard from for the rest of the evening, at least.

  Good riddance!

  Chapter 12

  Upon inspecting his hand and silently offering thanks that there was no evidence of his lapse in reserve, Darcy said, “Allow me to thank you again for your discretion as regards the incident you witnessed between Wickham and me, sir. I do not often allow the man to provoke me so easily as he managed this evening.”

  “No doubt, the lieutenant is not one of your favorite people,” said Mr. Gardiner.

  Darcy said, “There is a fair amount of animosity between the two of us, but as much as I respect you, sir, I am wont to keep the particulars to myself. Suffice it to say that I have a long history with the gentleman owing to a familial connection.”

  “Yes, I understand that he was your late father’s godson.”

  “My excellent father, may he rest in peace, had a peculiar fondness for his ‘godson’—one that I might never understand even if I might live to be two centuries old.”

  Fully aware that the proud gentleman standing before him was a serious man who never countenanced frivolity at his own expense, as a consequence of an earlier discussion the two men had shared, Mr. Gardiner laughed a little inside at this view of a centuries-old Mr. Darcy.

  A servant walked into the parlor and handed a note to Mr. Gardiner. Pardoning himself, he stepped away from Mr. Darcy and began reading the note. Moments later, he chuckled. “My children beckon.”

  He shook his head. “It appears a father’s work is never done.” Looking at Mr. Darcy, he said, “Pray you will remain here and partake in my brother’s finest brandy. I shall not be away for very long.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Gardiner and her niece escaped the parlor and walked side by side through the hallway. “I suppose you are wondering why I have taken it upon myself to steer you away from all the evening’s festivities, my dear.”

  “I assure you it is no inconvenience. Indeed, I welcome a reprieve.” Elizabeth spoke nothing but the truth. She had neither seen nor heard a whiff of Lt. Wickham since their chance encounter outside the manor house. She could honestly say she did not wish to, especially if he was about to do what she thought he was on the verge of doing.

  Ev
en if his intentions were honorable, and I have no reason to suspect they were not, I am not sure I am of a mind to entertain another marriage proposal so soon after Mr. Collins’s.

  Her ridiculous cousin’s patronizing words came to mind: “You should take it into further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.”

  Any remembrances of that day were unpleasant memories—ones Elizabeth preferred not to entertain.

  On the other hand, I do know that a proposal from a man whom I have come to admire and respect as I do Mr. Wickham would not be the worst thing, despite my aunt’s tacit discouragement. I suppose there will be time enough to find out what Mr. Wickham is about tomorrow.

  Immersed in her own thoughts, Elizabeth hardly noticed the servant who approached them with a missive in hand for her aunt. Accepting it, the older woman hastily perused its contents. She sighed. “It would appear a mother’s work is never done.”

  “Is something the matter?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, it is nothing that will not require more than a few minutes of my time. The children beckon, you see. Pray, run along ahead, dearest Lizzy. I will not be long and whatever you do, promise to wait for me in the east parlor because I have something I wish to tell you that is of vital importance.”

  Chapter 13

  Pushing the door open, Elizabeth walked into the room and was surprised to find it occupied.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she cried, startled to see him, his arm leaning against the mantelpiece, a glass of brandy in his hand. Her heart fluttered a bit at this vision, surprising her more than she would have supposed possible.

  He spun around and faced her. “Miss Elizabeth.”

  The soft roar from the fire in a room awash in bright candlelight, combined with the smell of dried lavender and rose petals prepared earlier during the year and inserted in small porcelain vases artfully placed in various nooks, afforded all the makings of a romantic interlude for those of a romantic bent. As it was, there were just the two of them—their chances for romance effectively nil so far as Elizabeth was concerned.

  “Sir, what are you doing in here?”

  “I am waiting for your uncle—Mr. Gardiner. He and I were enjoying a drink,” here he held up his glass as proof, “when he was called away. He said something or another about a father’s work—”

  “—is never done?” Elizabeth interrupted, her expression as well as her tone questioning.

  “Yes,” Darcy replied. “Yes—”

  Elizabeth felt the color rush all over her body. She realized now that her aunt and uncle must have conspired to bring the two of them together.

  But why?

  “I suspect my uncle had an ulterior motive in asking you to await his return.”

  “Why do you suppose?”

  “My aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, gave me specific instructions to come to the east parlor and wait here until she arrives. That was just after she received a note and made some mention that a mother’s work—”

  “—is never done,” said Darcy knowingly.

  Elizabeth nodded, her expression apologetic.

  Darcy frowned a little.

  “I am sorry,” Elizabeth cried. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  “No—what I mean to say is please, stay with me awhile—that is until your aunt arrives. No doubt, she wants the two of us to talk. In privacy. If that is indeed the case, I am in her debt.”

  “I saw the two of you talking at length, earlier this evening.”

  “Indeed. It appears we share mutual acquaintances with a number of families in and about Lambton—a small village just five miles from Pemberley - my home.”

  Seconds later, a servant entered the room. She approached Elizabeth and handed her a note. “It is from my mistress, Miss Elizabeth.”

  Accepting it, Elizabeth said, “My aunt, Mrs. Gardiner?”

  The young lady nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I am to remain here while you read it and await your instructions.”

  Quickly perusing the missive, which was indeed in her aunt’s handwriting, Elizabeth said, “I suppose you ought to make yourself comfortable.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I shall sit by the window and attend my sewing. You won’t even know I’m here.” And with that, the young girl curtsied and headed to the opposite side of the room.

  “It appears our initial suspicions are correct. My aunt and uncle have conspired to have the two of us spend time in each other’s company. I … I fear you must really hate me now.”

  “Hate you, Miss Elizabeth? I think not.”

  “Do you not suppose this entire scheme rather untoward?”

  “On the contrary. Having spoken at length with your aunt earlier this evening, I am quite persuaded that her intentions are good.”

  “I must confess to being quite surprised you and my aunt spoke with such enthusiasm, but I have heard it said that you are lively enough among those whom you consider your equal in consequence. You are aware, are you not, that my uncle and aunt live in Cheapside within view of my uncle’s factories?”

  “I am indeed. If you will allow me to guess the source of your information - no doubt your source is George Wickham. Were I you, I would not give credence to a word that gentleman has to say.”

  “I am not surprised to hear you speak that way, especially given all he has had to say about you.”

  “I would like to think you know me well enough to be suspect. Has the time we spent together done nothing to help you form a favorable impression of my character?”

  “Why do you suppose that is, sir? Do you attribute it to your being master of one of the finest estates in all of Derbyshire with all the much-needed wisdom and potential for benevolence such a lot in life entails?”

  “I suppose that is part of it. I do tend to rely on my own counsel for the most part—arranging matters to suit my own convenience is a natural extension of that. I do like to suppose that I take the wishes of others into consideration when it is clear to me how much he or she values it.”

  “Are you speaking specifically of your being here in Hertfordshire for Christmas at your friend Bingley’s estate when you have the means to surround yourself with people of nobility, of untold wealth and privilege?”

  “It is true that Bingley would not rest until I agreed to accompany him back to Netherfield, but on the other hand, I confess that my motives in returning were not wholly altruistic.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. In leaving Netherfield when I did, I feel I left a part of me behind—a part of me that I never fully embraced.”

  Not certain of where their conversation was headed and not sure she wanted to know, Elizabeth surmised a change in conversation was due. Something safe. Something threadbare. Some talk of the weather would certainly do.

  She threw a lingering glance outside the nearby window.

  On such a beautiful wintry night as this, we would be remiss not to speak of it, would we not?

  Elizabeth was on the verge of speaking when she heard the gentleman say, “It has been a very long time since I have borne witness to such an amazing view of the stars.”

  “As amazing as this view is, I am quite certain it pales in comparison to the view from Pemberley. I have to wonder at your not being there with your family.”

  “Were I at Pemberley at this moment, as spectacular as the view may very well be, I fear I would be admiring it all alone.”

  “But, your sister, Miss Darcy?”

  “Is visiting a dear friend in Bath.”

  “And what of your aunt, the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh—”

  “She is in Matlock, visiting her brother, Lord Matlock.”

  “You might have visited your Matlock relations as well, especially considering—”

  “Considering what, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Well—surely both her ladyship and her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, are both in Matlock for the season.”

  Darcy nodded
. “They are indeed.”

  “Are you not obliged to attend your cousin during such an auspicious occasion as Christmas affords?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Sir, are you and your cousin not engaged to be married?”

  “Married? No doubt, I have George Wickham to thank for planting such an idea in your mind.” Darcy ran his long fingers through his hair before drawing in a deep breath. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a deliberate measure of calmness, “one of my biggest regrets, when the two of us stood opposite each other during the dance at Netherfield, is the fact that we spoke of George Wickham. I know how much you like him, and if I am to be honest, for the first time in my life I actually envied the man.

  “I can only imagine to what lengths he might have gone to poison your mind against me. I have only myself to blame for your believing him. What did I do, after all, during my stay in Hertfordshire than go out of my way to prove my indifference toward you and everyone you hold dear?

  “I promised myself that given a chance I would be more open with you. If you will allow, I should like to begin by sharing my own account of my past with George Wickham, for there are things I believe you are beginning to suspect about him, if I am to judge by the speed in which you escaped his side earlier this evening.”

  Elizabeth said nothing, which Mr. Darcy interpreted as sufficient encouragement to continue his speech.

  “My father loved Wickham. He treated him as though he were his own son. He was Wickham’s godfather.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes—yes, I know.”

  “Of course, boasting of his connection to my family is Wickham’s fondest stratagem. It gives greater credence to his complaints of being ill-used. No doubt, he told you of the living in Kymptom which was meant to be his.”

  “Then, you do not deny the truth of his claims.”

  “I have no reason to deny it. When my excellent father died about five years ago, his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds.”