Together in Perfect Felicity

by P. O. Dixon

  Elizabeth silently scoffed at her cousin’s conjecture. Given my preference, none of us would be burdened by a proposal of marriage from Mr. Collins. Neither my sisters, nor my dearest Charlotte, and most especially not me.

  Having been compelled to be in his company since she and Jane returned to Longbourn from Netherfield, Elizabeth could rightfully say the man was ridiculous—self-important and sycophantic. Her father had taken her aside on the heels of their first evening with the gentleman to explain his purpose in visiting Longbourn.

  “Prepare yourself for something dreadful,” Mr. Bennet had advised.

  “What could be more dreadful than the prospect of spending time in Mr. Collins’s company for the foreseeable future?”

  “I received a letter from him not too long ago which goes into some detail about his motives for coming here, or should I say, expectations. Indeed, being fully aware of the hardship to his fair cousins owing to the entail and being cautious of appearing forward and presumptuous, he wanted to assure me that he has come prepared to admire you and your sisters.”

  A rather odd mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humor, reserve, and caprice, Mr. Bennet had concluded, “I can only imagine which of my daughters will be the happy bride.”

  “I dare say everyone would be happy with the arrangement,” Phoebe continued, recalling Elizabeth to the present. “Our Charlotte wants nothing more than a home of her own, and that, Mr. Collins can surely provide. For Heaven’s sake, she might one day be mistress of Longbourn.”

  Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as it often did whenever anyone spoke of the entail on her father’s estate—even when spoken in jest. Nothing was more natural than death, but the thought of what her father’s passing meant was no laughing matter. Added to her grief would be the loss of everything she held dear. My mother, my sisters, and I may very well be thrown into the hedgerows. The irony of her family’s situation and her cousin’s marital scheme aroused in Elizabeth no little degree of dissonance.

  It is imperative that at least one of us marry and marry well, at that.

  “And you, dear Lizzy, by your own accord seek a handsome man as the ideal husband, and save Mr. Darcy, of course, Mr. Wickham is by far the most handsome man we know.”

  “Phoebe, pray do not ascribe such a superficial attribute to me.”

  “Why, I am only repeating your own words.”

  “Words mentioned in jest, if I recall correctly.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “Nevertheless—”

  So much as she did not wish to be an active party to her cousin’s scheme of marital felicity for the twelve months, later, when Elizabeth was alone and at liberty to reflect on the events of the day, she could not help but think about her new acquaintance, Mr. Wickham.

  The disdainful manner in which Mr. Darcy had regarded Mr. Wickham had been impossible not to discern.

  No doubt, the two of them are acquaintances from the past. Even someone as haughty as Mr. Darcy would not show such a degree of disdain toward a complete stranger.

  Elizabeth at once felt a bit ill at ease having thought of Mr. Darcy in such unflattering terms. The morning he came to her aid after her muddy mishap while on her way to Netherfield Park, he had been the perfect gentleman—offering her kindness when he might easily have derided her.

  Of course, he had quickly reverted to the gentleman she recalled meeting at the assembly when he was once again in the company of his friends—the pernicious Bingley sisters. Such varying emotions suffered on account of one particular man puzzled Elizabeth exceedingly.

  Mr. Bingley, she felt she understood perfectly well. In essentials, the difference between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley were akin to the differences between autumn and spring.

  If there is indeed a history between the two gentlemen as I strongly suspect, perhaps in getting better acquainted with Mr. Wickham, I might be in a more advantageous position to sketch Mr. Darcy’s character.

  Chapter 11

  Their Mutual Acquaintance

  London, England - Mayfair

  Upon entering the sitting room with a book in hand, Mrs. Annesley espied Georgiana sitting in the window seat, reading a missive. She cleared her throat in order to get the young lady’s attention.

  “Is that a letter from your brother?” the elderly woman asked.

  Georgiana nodded. “Indeed. It is the second letter from him in as many weeks.”

  An elegant, mild-mannered woman who had known her share of beauty, Mrs. Annesley said, “Mr. Darcy is the most attentive—the best of brothers. What a kind and careful guardian he is.” Her countenance beamed with gratitude. “Such brotherly affection is a blessing.”

  Georgiana could not agree more. To her way of thinking, her brother was the best man in the world, followed by her cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, her co-guardian who shared the responsibility with her brother per her late father’s direction.

  Second to the colonel was her brother’s friend Mr. Charles Bingley. Although Georgiana was given to consider that her esteem for Mr. Bingley would increase tremendously should she one day call herself his wife.

  Though she was not at liberty to write to Mr. Bingley directly, she could, and she did take the opportunity to ask about the amiable young man whenever she wrote to her brother.

  Her brother always responded in a manner that had taught Georgiana to hope that he was much in favor of an alliance between his friend and herself as evidenced by his inclusion that Mr. Bingley sends his fondest wishes in each correspondence.

  What a striking contrast there was between her brother’s response to a possible alliance between Mr. Bingley and her and his vitriolic response to a possible alliance between another gentleman of their mutual acquaintance and her: a Mr. George Wickham.

  Each passing month taught her to appreciate her brother’s stance. The other gentleman was not only too old for her what with him being so close to the wrong side of thirty, but he was also an opportunist. She discovered painfully that he was only interested in her for her fortune of thirty thousand pounds. The opportunity to spite her brother was a strong inducement as well.

  Her brother had arrived in Ramsgate just in time to save her from what would have proved to be the biggest mistake of her life, an intractable decision that would have subjected her to misery of the acutest kind, to say nothing of the shame such a scandalous scheme would have heaped upon her noble family. However, despite the pain of the aborted event, there was a silver lining that came to light in the wake of it all, for it was shortly thereafter that her brother, in attempting to comfort her and convince her that her future for marital felicity was bright, gave the strongest hint of his hopes for an alliance between his close friend Charles Bingley and herself.

  Charles Bingley was indeed everything a gentleman ought to be. He was young and handsome and amiable, and he recommended himself very favorably to everyone whom he met. If he had any flaws at all, it had to do with his manner of becoming a part of her society. He was a very wealthy man to be sure, which really meant something to her, for in having his own fortune, her fortune could mean little to him; however, his fortune had been acquired in trade. He did not even have his own estate which meant he was not a landed gentleman, and as a result, he was beneath her in consequence.

  Georgiana was convinced that was the reason her brother had so willingly gone with Mr. Bingley to Hertfordshire to help with the management of the latter’s newly let estate, Netherfield Park. Under her brother’s tutelage, Mr. Bingley would surely one day be the type of man her aristocratic family could be proud of.

  By being in Hertfordshire with Mr. Bingley, my brother is really acting on behalf of my own best interest. Smiling, she held the letter to her chest. To think I might one day be mistress of Mr. Bingley’s home. I can hardly wait. He and I will be perfect for each other.

  Smiling, Georgiana folded her missive with the utmost care. She strode across the room to her writing desk, for as delighted as she was to have received a letter from her brother, Georgiana was j
ust as happy to write to him in return. Even though Fitzwilliam was more than ten years her senior and often as much of a father to her since their father’s untimely passing, he was her only sibling.

  Upon retrieving her pen and inspecting it, she realized she could not go another day without mending it. She set about doing just that.

  Steady to her purpose of performing a task she almost felt she could complete in her sleep; Georgiana’s mind was more agreeably engaged in contemplation of what she would write to Fitzwilliam.

  I suppose I ought to inquire about Netherfield’s newest guests: the two sisters from the neighboring estate, especially the younger of the two, Miss Elizabeth.

  Unable to recall the young lady’s full name, Georgiana bit her lower lip. The next moment, her eyes widened. Bennet! Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  My brother made a concerted effort to include her in his missive. Why, he wrote two paragraphs, at least. He has never done anything like that before. It would be uncharitable not to acknowledge her.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet must really be an extraordinary young woman to have garnered my brother’s notice. Extraordinary, indeed.

  When at last the task of mending her pen was concluded, Georgiana retrieved several sheets of paper from her desk with the intention of beginning a rather lengthy letter-writing campaign.

  Surely if this young woman has managed to form such a favorable impression on my brother as his letters suggest, she is someone whom I should like to have the pleasure of meeting. I think I shall tell Fitzwilliam as much.

  Chapter 12

  his own preference

  During the ensuing days and weeks, Elizabeth meant to avail herself of every possible chance to learn all there was to know about not only Mr. Darcy but Mr. Wickham himself. Though she would never admit it to her cousin Phoebe, Elizabeth was beginning to admire the latter of the two gentlemen from Derbyshire very much.

  In so many ways, Mr. Wickham was precisely what Mr. Darcy was not. Mr. Wickham was charming and amiable, and his own preference for Elizabeth was plain enough for everyone to see.

  Despite subtle hints from Mr. Darcy that he was not entirely opposed to her, his changeable moods were sufficient to discourage any real affection on Elizabeth’s part, which suited her just fine.

  On that particular day, Elizabeth and Mr. Wickham trailed along behind the younger Bennet daughters on the path from Meryton to Longbourn.

  She dared not even mention what she chiefly wished to discuss out of concern she was perhaps taking too much interest in the affairs of Mr. Darcy, as well as in the gentleman himself. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved when Mr. Wickham broached the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

  “About a month,” said Elizabeth. Unwilling to let the subject drop, she added, “His own estate is said to be among the finest in Derbyshire, I understand.”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham, “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.”

  Elizabeth could not help but look surprised upon hearing this new information, for despite knowing both gentlemen hailed from Derbyshire, she had no reason to suspect a familial connection.

  “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might have, the very cold manner of our meeting the other day. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

  “A little,” cried Elizabeth. “I have spent several days in the same house with him.” After a pause, she said, “I am afraid there are more than a few people who have met him who think him very disagreeable.”

  Wickham nodded knowingly. “And what of your own opinion?”

  “Let me just say that I have yet to understand his character well enough to form a true opinion.”

  Again, her companion nodded. “I have no right to give my opinion as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial.”

  It was now Elizabeth’s turn to nod. “Well, as I said, he is not at all liked by many in Hertfordshire. So many are disgusted with his pride.”

  “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him, I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

  “I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be a man of a rather uneven temperament.”

  Wickham only shook his head. “I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”

  “I do not at all know,” Elizabeth replied. “I heard nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans will not be affected by his being in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, no!” Wickham asserted. “It is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage and most painful regrets at his being what he is.

  “His father, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had. I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behavior to myself has been scandalous, but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than disgracing the memory of his father.”

  Elizabeth found her interest in the subject increase and listened with all her heart, but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.

  Mr. Wickham, as it turned out, needed no such inducement, for in continuing his speech about the circumstances which brought him to Hertfordshire in general and his joining the militia, specifically, Mr. Darcy’s hand in the travesty could not help but be revealed.

  “I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my profession. I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply and thought he had done it, but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

  “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth. “How could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”

  “There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honor could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it that I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is we are very different sort of men and that he hates me.”

  “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced,” cried Elizabeth.

  “Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me
. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.”

  Elizabeth honored him for such feelings and thought him more handsome than ever as he expressed them.

  “But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

  “A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.”

  “I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this,” cried Elizabeth. “I had supposed him to be despising those whom he perceives as beneath him in consequence, but I did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.”

  “Toward those whom he perceives as his inferiors, indeed,” said Wickham as though reading Elizabeth’s mind. “However, Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be an amiable companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honorable, and perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”

  Hearing this, Elizabeth immediately thought of the Bingleys. First, Mr. Bingley. He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy really is.

  Next, she thought of Miss Caroline Bingley. She is just the sort of female whom Mr. Darcy deserves.

  Chapter 13