“I do not know what passed between you, but could it not be rectified? Surely if it was a misunderstanding, not everything can be settled,” Elizabeth urged. Mr. Wickham shook his head.
“Too much has happened. I am afraid I still hold some anger at the man, for he wronged me greatly. It does me no credit to say it, but I do not entirely wish for things to be rectified. If a peace is to be achieved, Mr. Darcy must initiate it, for his is the guilty conscience; though I doubt it hangs heavily on him at all.”
“What could be so bad that you would wish to sever all ties?” Elizabeth gasped. “The man is rude, yes, but I have seen a kindness and consideration in him. He seems a deeply intelligent man, and though he has an over-inflated sense of self, he is not ignorant; I cannot believe he would willingly refuse settlement knowing he is in the wrong.”
Mr. Wickham’s expression hardened as he stared intently at her.
“Everything you say is true, Miss Elizabeth. He is an extraordinarily intelligent man, who can be kind and considerate when he thinks someone worthy of it. But his pride goes before all other things, and he has a resentful temper, one that does not allow him to forgive any slight — real or perceived — easily. Once you have angered or displeased Mr. Darcy, you are cast out forever, I am afraid.”
“If he is truly so fickle and resentful toward his friends, then it could not be a true blow to have lost his friendship,” Elizabeth said. Mr. Wickham was silent a long moment, and looked as though he was lost in consideration.
“I would agree, if it were only his friendship I had lost. But upon his passing, the late Mr. Darcy had left a provision for me to have the living at the nearby parsonage. It had long been my dream to take orders and become a parson, and lead my own congregation — much like your cousin, Mr. Collins. But upon his father’s death, Mr. Darcy refused me the living. Not only did I lose one of my closest friends in our severance, but my very livelihood and dreams as well.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth as she attempted to stifle her gasp. Glancing toward her family, she assessed that her and Mr. Wickham’s shocking conversation was not being overheard, and she leaned toward him eagerly so that he may continue.
“That is terrible! Whyever would he go against his father’s express wishes?” Elizabeth asked, not even caring that she was prying outrageously into the matter.
“It is a very long story for another day, Miss Elizabeth. But come; I have answered your questions, yet you have not answered my single one. Why did you use magic to intercept Mr. Darcy’s feelings?” Elizabeth eyed the gentleman carefully. Did she dare reveal her secret? He had been so open and trusting with her, and she dearly wished to confide in someone. But years of caution were difficult to override.
“Sir, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I did not use magic during that meeting. What you saw was simply a strange occurance of ill health. I thank you for sharing your secret with me, and I can only assume that you trusted me with such information under the assumption you had found someone with a similar interest, but I am afraid no such connection exists. But even if I cannot provide you with the answers you desire, I promise to keep your secret as I would my own,” Elizabeth whispered. Mr. Wickham frowned and looked quite disappointed, but did not press the matter further.
Shortly after Mr. Wickham and the other officers left, Mrs. Hill entered the still full parlour to announce the arrival of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.
“Are we to have a constant stream of gentleman callers today?” Mr. Bennet grumbled as he passed through the room, picking up his pace in an attempt to take refuge in his study before the gentlemen were shown in.
Upon entering, Mr. Bingley moved immediately to Jane and attempted to engage her in conversation, but Elizabeth looked on in frustration as her elder sister demurred and avoided his attentions.
“Are you feeling better, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth almost jumped at the deep voice of Mr. Darcy, who had appeared unnoticed at her side.
“I am indeed, sir. Thank you for your kind concern,” she responded stiffly. Who was this man in front of her? She had, in the past several weeks, experienced so many different iterations of his character that she could not clearly make him out. Was he the kind, sometimes concerned man she had met with on her walks, or the proud, disdainful man who had apparently mistreated Mr. Wickham so terribly?
She wished for the chance to observe him undetected, but resisted the urge to look at him directly as he took up a seat near her. But this was a courtesy he appeared to not extend to her, for no sooner had she looked up from her tea than she discovered that the gentleman’s eyes were closely fixed on her.
In a burst of annoyance, she met his stare with a look of defiance and allowed herself to gaze openly and brashly back at him. His face was hard, his eyes hooded, but he wore his mask well. He looked truly displeased; but was that an indication of his true feelings, or merely an unfortunate effect created in an attempt to school his features? No, she decided, no mask could produce such a decided air of haughtiness merely by accident.
Elizabeth had thought that once she met his eyes and took up the challenge, Mr. Darcy would break his intense gaze and look away as a gentleman should. But he did not, and instead continued to stare; indeed, aside from the slight surprise that registered on his face when she first met his gaze, nothing in his composure shifted at all.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, her voicing cutting through the air between them far more harshly than she had intended it to. “Before you arrived we had just had the pleasure of furthering our acquaintance with an old friend of yours. You came upon us the other day when we had first met him — Mr. Wickham?”
Elizabeth bit back a wolfish grin of victory as Mr. Darcy’s composure broke for the first time. The look of annoyance and disdain that etched across his face in that moment was certainly no accident.
“I would not call Mr. Wickham a friend,” he responded curtly. Elizabeth arched an eyebrow.
“Truly? That is odd, considering Mr. Wickham said you two were once the best of friends. I find him a most pleasing and congenial man, especially all the more so for the troubles he appears to have suffered,” she said coyly. She hoped that Mr. Darcy would take her bait and fill in the missing parts of Mr. Wickham’s story for her. She had an overwhelming desire to fully understand this connection, and as she could not shake the feeling that she was meant to be involved — especially given her strange experience during the men’s meeting — she did not feel particularly bad about prying in an attempt to further her knowledge.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Wickham’s troubles have been great indeed. He is a very affable man, capable of making a great many friends, but it is maintaining those friendships where he often fails,” Mr. Darcy practically spat back at her. Elizabeth regarded him silently for a moment, noting how quickly and easily the gentleman’s manner adopted to anger. He seemed, to her, to be the complete opposite of the gentleman she had walked with just days ago. After a matter of seconds, Mr. Darcy’s temper seemed to clear some, and he continued.
“I have told you that disguise of any kind is my abhorrence, and on this occasion I will not hide the truth; Mr. Wickham and I may have once been friends, but such a connection has long since been terminated.”
“Is there no means for reconciliation?” Elizabeth found herself asking for the second time that day.
“No,” he answered immediately. “I will admit that I have, at times, a resentful temper, and though I pride myself on my slowness to anger and my ability to keep an open mind, my good opinion once lost is lost forever. The breech between Mr. Wickham and myself is irreparable, and one I do not wish to attempt to fix.”
Elizabeth stared at the man anew. What stubbornness was this? Where Mr. Wickham had acknowledged some wrongdoing on his part, he had lamented with remorse the poor relations between he and Mr. Darcy. And she had defended him! Not even an hour earlier, Elizabeth had sat in that same spot, assuring Mr. Wickham that Mr. Darcy was an intelligent and r
easonable person, and yet here was that same gentleman, obstinately insisting that he would hold his grudge forever — a character trait he was apparently fond of! Any doubt Elizabeth had felt at Mr. Wickham’s story instantly melted away in the face of such arrogance.
“Miss Elizabeth, I beg you to not be taken in by Mr. Wickham’s kind manners and riveting stories. You, of all people, should understand that things are not often as they appear,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice calmer.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at the gentleman, inwardly hoping she looked as utterly unamused as she felt.
“And what is that supposed to mean, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, her voice icy. Mr. Darcy shifted awkwardly in his seat before answering.
“There is no subterfuge in my statement. You are an intelligent woman, who knows there are two sides to each story. I trust you do not attempt to sketch my or Mr. Wickham’s characters at the present, Miss Bennet, for I do not think it would shine favorably on anyone.”
With a small nod of his head, Mr. Darcy stood up and strode across the room quickly before taking a seat in between Mr. Bingley and Mary, leaving Elizabeth very alone with her miserable thoughts.
X
In a short matter of time, the date for the Netherfield Ball was fixed and Mr. Bingley’s visits to Longbourn became an almost daily occasion. Mr. Darcy would come with him on some days, but it was not a habit of his, and on each occasion Elizabeth endeavored to distract Mr. Collins during the entirety of the visit.
Jane, exhibiting a stubbornness Elizabeth had not known she possessed, continued tirelessly in her efforts to sway Mr. Collins’ attention away from Elizabeth. During Mr. Bingley’s visits, Elizabeth would regularly employ her younger sisters in distracting their cousin, often concocting useless and sometimes ridiculous situations in order to get him out of the room. One afternoon saw Mr. Collins and Mary hunting through the upper floors for a bit of sheet music; another day found Mr. Collins and Elizabeth hanging festive greenery in the morning parlour.
For his part, their cousin did not seem to notice nor mind these hijinx, and as along as one sister could bring up the topic of Lady Catherine, his living, or his thoughts on morality, he was happy to chat the day away, regardless of who was in his company.
But though Mr. Collins was easily satisfied by these distractions, Elizabeth wasn’t, as Jane would often implement her own defensive maneuvers in order to restrict her sisters’ meddling. Elizabeth was almost completely at a loss as to what to do.
“She is the matriarch of the coven,” Mary had lectured, for the fifth time, as she and Elizabeth were out gathering herbs for their upcoming full moon ritual. “She feels it is her job to safeguard and preserve the Bennet magic, and as oldest it is technically her right to be the future mistress of Longbourn.”
“But it is not her responsibility! She has created this imagined burden for herself, for truly, any one of us could fulfill this role. Why must she suffer for no reason? Especially when she sees what it is doing to poor Mr. Bingley!” Elizabeth had cried, kicking a stone out of her path in frustration.
“I do agree with you there, I feel she is being rather harsh to the gentleman,” Mary said quietly.
“Harsh does not properly describe the situation, Mary. Jane has a chance at happiness — true happiness, in a marriage built from a love match, no less. I should be surprised if any of the rest of us are lucky enough to have such a future, and yet she is throwing it away on this misplaced sense of honor! I wish I could do something,” Elizabeth muttered.
“Lizzy, do not meddle,” Mary said, her voice heavy with warning.
“I’m not meddling. I just don’t want her to close her heart off. Oh, Mary, you know her — she is pushing Mr. Bingley away so she can pretend she never felt anything truly serious for him, and is shutting off her emotions so she will not go through life with longing for a man she thinks she cannot have. It cannot be supported!”
“Lizzy, you know as well as I do that we cannot magik love,” Mary said. “You cannot sway a human heart or change a person’s nature. It is impossible, and even to try can be dreadfully dangerous.”
“I do not wish to cast a love spell. There is no need to manufacture something which clearly already exists,” Elizabeth grumbled shortly as she bent down to collect several herbs to add to her basket. “I just wish I could enhance it, nudge it, help it along a bit,” she finished with a sigh.
“We do not belong in this matter Lizzy, and interfering will do no one good. The natural world demands balance and reason; to interfere would cost you something, and I fear it would be a price you would be unwilling to pay.”
“Do you have outstanding dues, Miss Elizabeth?” came a deep voice from behind the two sisters. Mary and Elizabeth whirled as one to see the tall form of Mr. Wickham walking along the lane toward them, his red coat vibrant among the muted hues of the winter trees around them. The two sisters glanced at each other in slight panic before curtseying in sync to the gentleman.
“Alas, I do, but I am fortunate that my outstanding fees are only to my sister; for we sisters are so constantly engaged in the art of trading ribbons and begging allowances to the point where we are all so equally in each other’s debt that the ledger can never possibly be cleared,” Elizabeth babbled at Mr. Wickham, attempting to cover for whatever parts of their conversation he had heard. “I am afraid you have happened upon us just as my debts are being called in, sir.” Mary nodded awkwardly beside her.
“Are you collecting herbs for your table, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, gesturing toward her basket. She smiled awkwardly and shifted her stance so that the basket was partially obscured from sight.
“They are for me,” Mary said, stepping in front of Elizabeth and the basket, which was full of herbs that were clearly intended for a magical ritual. “I like to collect plants to press into books, and I believe this might be my last chance before winter.” Whether it was her presence or her no-nonsense manner that ceased the line of questioning was unclear, but Mr. Wickham appeared unwilling to continue his curiosity.
Glancing uneasily at Mary, he smiled widely at Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth, I was hoping to speak with you about something,” Mr. Wickham said, peering at Mary with clear meaning, but Mary did not seem to observe this, and stayed where she was.
“I, er, well, I wished to apologize for the other day. I feel I left you with an unfavorable impression of me,” Mr. Wickham continued. Mary furrowed her brow in confusion. “I would wish to rectify your impression of me.”
Elizabeth glanced at Mary now too, sensing that this could be her only chance to learn more about the strange relationship between him and Mr. Darcy. She longed to speak with him in private, but knew that Mary would never consent to leaving her alone with a virtually unknown gentleman on the road.
“My sister and I were just heading back to the house. Would you care to walk with us?” she asked finally. Mr. Wickham nodded, a look of relief stretching across his face.
“I would be delighted. I have been wanting to speak with you, as I said. I believe I was too forward in telling you of my unfortunate history with Mr. Darcy. I know you are friends with the gentleman, and it was inappropriate, I believe, to abuse him so in your company,” Mr. Wickham said.
“Sir, I must protest, you did not abuse him at all! And I am hardly a friend of Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth snorted. “But I too must apologize — I have found myself excessively curious about the situation, even to the degree that I mentioned your name to Mr. Darcy, to gauge his reaction.”
“And?” Mr. Wickham said eagerly, ignoring the withering stare that Mary was giving him.
“I must confess it disturbed me. The gentleman alluded to the disagreement you told me about, and I was shocked by his level of resentment. I had known he was angry, hurt, even, but he was openly scornful,” Elizabeth said. Mary’s eyes were wide as she stared at her sister, apparently worried that Elizabeth was going to reveal the extent of the magical connection she had felt with Mr. Darcy the ot
her day, but Elizabeth shook her head imperceptibly in an attempt to quell her sister’s fears.
“He has robbed me of my happiness, my home, and my living, and yet he still finds it in him to scorn me,” Mr. Wickham muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “It does me no credit, but I cannot find it in me to see good in the man who has brought me so low out of spite.”
“Mr. Wickham, what do you mean he robbed you of your living?” Mary said, speaking for the first time, with more than a hint of suspicion in her voice.
“I was very close with the Darcy family growing up, Miss Mary, and it was the late Mr. Darcy’s wish that I be provided the living at a parsonage on the Darcy estate. It was my dream to be a parson, but upon his father’s death, Mr. Darcy refused me the living that was to be rightfully mine,” Mr. Wickham recounted, pain once again evident in his voice.
“But, if your dream was to be a parson, why did you not pursue it? The loss of such a living is grave indeed, but there are other parsonages and positions throughout the country. If you were to receive the living from Mr. Darcy, surely you had undergone the study to become a curate. Why not seek a living elsewhere?” Mary asked. Elizabeth glanced at her sister in surprise. It was a reasonable question, and she was slightly embarrassed she had not thought of it herself.
An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 9
