Elizabeth Bennet's Excellent Adventure: A Pride and Prejudice Vagary

by Regina Jeffers

  Elizabeth Bennet’s Excellent Adventure

  A Pride and Prejudice Vagary

  by Regina Jeffers

  Regency Solutions

  Copyright 2015 by Regina Jeffers

  Interior Text Design by Sarah Callaham

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  I knew you but a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.

  Darcy closed the door behind him; Elizabeth Bennet’s rebuke rang in his mind as he walked the quarter mile to Rosing Park and entered the manor through the servants’ quarters. On this evening, he would not return to his Aunt Catherine’s drawing room. Darcy was not fit for company.

  Closing his eyes to the reality of Miss Elizabeth’s rejection, Darcy leaned his head against the wood panel. It took all his well-honed discipline not to slam the demme thing upon his entrance. It would do his temper well to rattle every edifice in this wing of Rosings, but Darcy wanted no one to know of his return to the manor until he could bring his emotions under control.

  “As if that will ever occur,” he groaned in frustration as he pushed off from the door.

  He ripped his cravat free and tossed the cloth across the back of the nearest chair.

  “How can the chit be so ill advised?” Darcy fumed. “She is more concerned with Mr. Wickham’s supposed ‘misfortunes’ than the brilliance of a connection to my esteemed family.”

  Darcy spit the word “misfortunes,” the taste of the word not suiting his tongue.

  “I credited the lady with more insight than what she displayed.”

  Collapsing across the bed, Darcy covered his face with one of the bed’s pillows, attempting to block out the image of Elizabeth Bennet’s perfect countenance, but a pair of fine eyes and a crooked smile of anticipation claimed his mind. Images of kissing Elizabeth’s soft lips easily invaded.

  Tossing the pillow away, Darcy sat up abruptly.

  “How am I to be rid of her? How does a man rip out his heart and toss it aside?”

  He stood to pour himself a stiff drink, tossed if off, and filled the glass a second time.

  “I permitted the lady her say,” Darcy reasoned aloud, “and her unpredicted response stole my reason. I did not counter well.”

  Darcy made a circuit of his room while he sipped the brandy, praying the activity and the drink would calm his heart and numb his mind.

  “What would Miss Elizabeth do if I told her that in the short time I held her acquaintance proved to me we were meant for each other? Or that I will relive forever every interaction we held and the joy I experienced at bringing an elusive smile to her lips?”

  Darcy paused in mid stride: The image of Elizabeth Bennet filled him with deep regret for opportunities lost.

  “Why did I not say as such to the lady?” he wondered aloud. “Did Miss Elizabeth not deserve to be wooed?” Darcy groaned in self-chastisement. “What did I say to bring forth the lady’s censure?”

  Darcy sat heavily in the nearest chair. Leaning his head against the back’s cushion, he closed his eyes to relive those few minutes that changed his life for the worse.

  Miss Elizabeth did not discourage him after Darcy confessed his regard for her, and he took her silence as permission to continue. He thought he spoke well of his feelings.

  “Did I err in expressing my initial disdain for the lady’s family obstacles?”

  He shook off the idea as quickly as it arrived.

  “Certainly Miss Elizabeth must understand the need to speak the truth of our joining. Most assuredly many would offer Miss Elizabeth their disdain, labeling her with most unkind words. I meant only to warn her of the obstacles we would encounter.”

  He set the drink glass down hard upon the table.

  “What is there to do but depart Rosings and place the woman behind you?” he told the empty room.

  Darcy stood in dejection to wrestle his jacket from his shoulders and to remove his waistcoat, but he could not shake the idea that he had something yet to say to Elizabeth Bennet.

  “A farewell letter,” he whispered the possibility. “One that addresses the lady’s assertions of Mr. Wickham and one that has Miss Elizabeth cursing her inability to recognize how she wasted the opportunity to save her family from the entailment hanging over them like the sword of Damocles.

  “Writing such will permit me the release I require to start again,” Darcy reasoned. “To place at Miss Elizabeth’s feet the blame of her rashness.”

  Recognizing the exercise for what it truly was–an opportunity to assuage his anger and his pride, Darcy sat at the desk to put pen to paper. He would hold nothing in check, not his anger at Elizabeth Bennet’s misguided defense of George Wickham, or Darcy’s deep passion for the woman.

  “Be rid of my demons,” he murmured as he wrote the salutation “Miss Bennet.”

  Over the next hour Darcy filled several sheets of foolscap. He permitted himself the pleasure of describing George Wickham in the crudest terms available in Darcy’s vocabulary for almost as quickly as he decided to write to Elizabeth, Darcy knew he would never present the letter to her. Darcy had no intention of ever seeing the woman again; therefore, he claimed the freedom of saying what he never could have of his former friend.

  Afterwards, Darcy tossed those pages to the side and began his “love” letter anew.

  My dear Miss Bennet,

  It grieves me to know I brought despair to your lovely countenance. It grieves me that all I said and did was for naught, for I wished nothing more than to claim your heart. It grieves me that the shadow of a man, not truly your equal, claims the regard I desire. I parted from you with a heavy heart–with the knowledge that you think I am proud and stern and highhanded when, in truth, I wish only to protect and cherish you. Even after our words of disparagement, there is one thing I can never give you: I cannot promise never to love you.

  Some time later, his reason returned, Darcy downed another drink before stretching out his long frame upon the bed. Thinking he might sleep a few hours before it was necessary to explain his early departure from Rosings to Lady Catherine, he closed his eyes. Yet, no relief was to be had. His exercise in exorcism proved fruitless.

  “What am I to do?”

  True his heartbeat had slowed to no
rmal, but Darcy’s chest still ached from disappointed hopes.

  “I cannot permit Miss Elizabeth to execute a connection to Mr. Wickham. It would kill me to think of her heavy with Mr. Wickham’s child. I could accept her happiness with another, but not with my father’s godson. Moreover, I owe the lady a proper explanation for my interference in Bingley’s life. I must sever the ties properly; I cannot permit our connection to end in such bitterness.”

  Resolved to act with honor, Darcy rose to return to the desk. He caught the pages where he spoke of Wickham’s baser actions, and tossed them upon the dying embers before tossing another log upon the fire.

  Before beginning anew, he folded the pages where he spoke of his devotion to Elizabeth and sealed them with a wax wafer. With a sigh of inevitability, Darcy took up the pen a second time. He never thought one of his duties would be to release the woman he loved to another, but Fate possessed a bizarre sense of humor. With a freshly sharpened point to the quill, he scratched out the necessary apology.

  Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, but the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining your, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten: and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must therefore pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

  Darcy read back over this first paragraph and frowned.

  “Not what I wish to say to the lady,” he grumbled, “but it is more aligned to Miss Elizabeth’s sensibilities.”

  He returned the pen to the cradle.

  “It would be bloody more pleasurable simply to kiss the chit into submission.”

  With a sad chuckle of resignation, Darcy resumed his cautionary tale to the woman who owned his heart.

  * * *

  Elizabeth wished she could rise from the bed and pace the floor, but as she shared the room at Hunsford Cottage with Maria Lucas, all Elizabeth could do was to stare at the draperies and relive her confrontation with Mr. Darcy.

  The gentleman’s proposal left Elizabeth beyond expression. Dumbfounded, she did not initially react. In silence, she cursed her inaction. Mr. Darcy’s words incensed her. There was no affection in his recitation upon his heart and his pride or in his sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, or of the family obstacles, which judgment opposed in inclination.

  In spite of Elizabeth’s deeply rooted dislike of the gentleman, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s attentions, and she was at first sorry for the pain Mr. Darcy received; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, Elizabeth lost all compassion in her anger.

  Despite her frustration with the Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth attempted to compose herself to answer him with patience. Yet, her reason deserted her when the gentleman concluded his speech by representing to her the strength of that attachment, which, in spite of all his endeavors, he found impossible to conquer, and with expressing his hope that it would be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand.

  The gentleman held no doubt of a favorable response, she thought. Did Mr. Darcy truly know so little of my nature? Mr. Darcy spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security.

  The realization exasperated Elizabeth’s fragile control. A rush of heat climbed up her neck, claiming her cheeks. She was well and truly caught in a maelstrom of emotions. She recalled how, in instinct, Elizabeth squared her jaw and set her resolve to deliver her sally.

  Mr. Darcy leaned against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face. He seemed to catch her remarks about how his regard would know an easy death with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion paled with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. The gentleman struggle for the appearance of control, and he refused to open his lips until he believed himself to have attained it. Elizabeth found the pause deuced frustrating.

  When Mr. Darcy spoke again it was with forced calmness, a control Elizabeth both admired and despised.

  She made her accusations regarding Bingley and Jane, confirming her suspicions from her earlier conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth thought Mr. Darcy wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. The dratted man even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. How did one argue with someone who displayed no emotions beyond a lift of his eyebrow?

  “Can you deny that you have done it?” she demanded.

  With assumed tranquility Mr. Darcy replied: “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Toward him I have been kinder than toward myself.”

  Elizabeth disdained the appearance of this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape her, nor did it offer her any conciliation. In retribution, she assaulted Mr. Darcy with Mr. Wickham’s repeated tales of neglect.

  Elizabeth held no idea why she chose Mr. Wickham to defend. The officer quickly abandoned her when those in the neighborhood learned of Miss King’s fortune. Perhaps it was because Mr. Wickham’s desertion still stung her pride, and indirectly Mr. Darcy’s negligent behavior toward the gentleman’s esteemed father’s godson kept Mr. Wickham from considering Elizabeth more than a mild flirtation. Perhaps it was because Mr. Darcy’s initial snub hurt more than Elizabeth would ever admit, and she meant to even the field. Perhaps it was because Mr. Darcy’s observations regarding her family found the target.

  Whatever her reasons, Elizabeth knew from the manner in which Mr. Darcy kept secrets regarding Mr. Wickham that her defense of the man would ruffle Mr. Darcy’s feathers as the gentleman did hers.

  “But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,” Mr. Darcy declared.

  Despite her best efforts, Elizabeth had to concede that point: Mr. Darcy was cruelly honest.

  An errant thought demanded her attention: If Mr. Darcy is as honest as you believe, was it necessary to question the depth of the man’s affections?

  Such was a prospect upon which Elizabeth refused to spend time in contemplation for the idea frightened her more than she could express.

  Even so, when Elizabeth permitted it, the thought she might accept Mr. Darcy if she knew nothing of his involvement with Jane’s separation from Bingley took root.

  And as to Wickham, she was not foolish enough not to recognize Mr. Wickham spoke too freely of his claims of abuse at Mr. Darcy’s hands. Although Elizabeth appreciated Mr. Wickham’s singling her out, she knew something of the way of the world, and as incensed as she was at Mr. Wickham’s misfortunes, Jane’s caution regarding the esteem with which Society held Mr. Darcy did not slip Elizabeth’s notice.

  The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind remained painfully great. With Mr. Darcy’s exit, she knew not how to support herself, and, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what passed, increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy, that he should be in love with her for so many months; so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case was almost incredible!

  It was gratifying to inspire unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, Mr. Darcy’s abominable pride, his shameless avowal of what he did with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty toward whom he did not attempt to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.

  And still the memories invaded her sleep. She relived the events again and again, praying each time would be
the last. How was she to face Mr. Darcy? Did his cousin know of the gentleman’s intentions? Would the colonel shun hr? How was Elizabeth to explain the change in the tenor of her relationship with Mr. Darcy? Was there a means to sweep the incident from Mr. Collins’ threshold? And what would Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins do if they gleaned a hint of Elizabeth’s daring to entice Mr. Darcy?

  * * *

  Darcy had less than three hours sleep, but he meant to encounter Miss Elizabeth in the parkland before he set a course for London. He would deliver his explanation into her hands and then disappear from the lady’s life.

  “I wish to depart for London after breaking my fast,” Darcy instructed his valet as Sheffield tied a perfect cravat on the first attempt.

  “Everything will be as you wish, Sir,” Sheffield responded crisply.

  “Do you know whether Colonel Fitzwilliam summoned his man of yet?” he inquired.

  “He has not, Sir.”

  Darcy brushed Sheffield’s hands away.

  “You may attend the dust upon my person after my morning walk in the park,” Darcy ordered. “I mean to speak to my cousin regarding my departure and then claim a bit of exercise in the plantation.”

  Darcy dabbed at a nick on his chin with a clean cloth. Distracted by the image of Elizabeth Bennet, he cut the tip of his chin when he insisted upon shaving himself over Sheffield’s objections. He strained to see the small opening that seeped blood.

  “What of your letters, Sir?” Sheffield asked.

  Darcy leaned closer to the small mirror.

  “Place the thicker one inside my coat pocket and the other in my trunk,” he murmured.

  Assured the cut would not stain his cravat, Darcy permitted Sheffield to assist him into his greatcoat.

  “I shan’t be long,” he assured before disappearing into the bowels of Rosings Park.

  * * *