An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Virginia Brand

  Halfway through the meal he glanced down at Elizabeth’s lap to see her small hands folded around her napkin, clenching it tightly in what he only imagined could be severe annoyance with his aunt. He thought of the feeling of her small hand in his, and pushed down the desire to reach across and clasp it again. Looking up, he tensed as he realized she had been observing him out of the corner of her eye. A small smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  “What is that, Miss Bennet? What is the joke that makes you smile such? You smile an uncommon amount for a lady your age,” his aunt barked from down the table. Darcy watched Elizabeth’s hand clasp tighter around the napkin, and he felt a small tug at the corner of his own mouth as well.

  After the meal the women retired to the parlour while Darcy, Fitzwilliam and Mr. Collins stayed behind, but he was relieved when Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed as eager to return to the women as he was. As a result, they rejoined the women just as Lady Catherine was giving dictates for tea.

  “Miss Bennet, you may serve the tea and coffee,” she commanded, startling Elizabeth, who had been across the room looking at a painting.

  “I would be delighted, your ladyship,” she answered in surprise, crossing the room toward the tea cart that was placed at the lady’s left hand, and passing Mr. Darcy in the process. Without thinking, he had sat down and extended one of his legs, a position he often adopted when uncomfortable, and for a brief, maddening moment it looked like she would step over it to pass. But she did not, and instead gave him a wide breadth of room as she finished her journey, and began to serve the tea under the beady eye of his aunt.

  He was about to remove from his seat to the window when Lady Catherine practically yelled out.

  “Miss Bennet, I say, what is that unattractive mark on your hand?” she asked, gasping. Elizabeth had been pouring the tea carefully into a cup, and physically recoiled as every eye in the room turned to stare at her hand.

  “It is nothing, ma’am, I assure you. Simply a small scar,” she said, smoothing her skirt.

  “It is very unappealing, I must say. Hold out your hand, let me see,” Lady Catherine instructed. Darcy watched a shadow pass over Elizabeth’s face, and for a long moment he thought she would refuse. But after a pause she held out her hand carefully to his aunt, placing it at such an angle that it was obscured from the rest of the room. Lady Catherine observed it with squinted eyes, then shook her head.

  “That will not do, Miss Bennet. You should keep it covered at all times, so that no one may see it. How did you injure yourself? It looks like a cut!” Lady Catherine barked. Elizabeth flushed a deep red, and Darcy, torn between curiosity about her scar and concern, was transfixed.

  “It happened some months ago, your Ladyship. I’m afraid I was terribly foolish, and did not think through my actions. It is an ever-present reminder of my mistake,” Elizabeth answered quietly.

  “Well, you should be more careful in the future, Miss Bennet. You should wash it with lemon each night, to reduce the appearance. I have always told Mrs. Jenkinson, my dear Anne’s companion, to follow such a regime for a scar she received as a child. She has followed my instructions most carefully, and it has improved considerably,” Lady Catherine said, releasing Elizabeth from the grip of her eyes. “It will help, but I’m afraid it will not remove the blight. You must be very careful, for such accidents give the appearance of inelegance, Miss Bennet.”

  Elizabeth nodded, handed Lady Catherine her tea, and then returned to the cart to prepare the rest of the party’s drinks. Darcy watched as she mixed a drink together and approached him, fascinated.

  “Coffee, Mr. Darcy? You take it with one milk, correct?” she asked quietly as she offered the cup to him. He stared at her in surprise, fighting back a foolish smile that was desperately trying to reach his face at the thought that she had remembered how he took his coffee.

  Instead he simply nodded and reached for her offering. As the cup passed between them, he caught sight of the scar on her right hand that had troubled his aunt so badly. Indeed, he could understand why; for though thin, it was a long, deep-looking cut that slashed from the top right of her hand down to the left side of her palm, and had healed into a ropey, white line. It looked disturbingly like a knife cut.

  She withdrew her hand quickly and returned to her service, taking tea inquiries for the rest of the party as he watched her. As she picked up the tea service and portioned out sugar, he noticed for the first time that she was left handed. He pictured the scar again in his mind, running across the shape of her hand, and came to the sickening realization that her scar was no accident: it was self-inflicted.

  He knew enough about witchcraft to understand that such a self-induced wound was a matter of sacrifice, required for the most powerful and dangerous of spells. Spells like those to create love, he would imagine.

  In the dark of his room, he thought back over her words.

  “I’m afraid I was terribly foolish, and did not think through my actions. It is an ever-present reminder of my mistake.”

  Did that mean she regretted her spell? Had she truly acted in a fit of spirits, rather than a calculated plan? Though it did not lessen the crime, it eased his conscious somewhat to know that her motives had not been strictly mercenary. Perhaps she did love him — love him so badly that she could not live without him.

  The thought itself was troubling, but as he blew out his candle and prepared for bed he felt both deeply unsettled and unaccountably hopeful.

  XXI

  Elizabeth paced her room with worry as she glanced out her window at the dawning morning light. She was dressed, a book in hand, and prepared to leave for her morning walk, but a thought had seized her so tightly that it would not let go. Should she go, knowing what may happen, or should she stay home?

  The last two mornings she had, while on the course of her morning walk, encountered Mr. Darcy. Since being in Kent, she had taken her walks at a more reasonable time, but the morning after that disastrous dinner at Rosings she had sprung from her bed before the dawn, full of anxious energy to walk off. As she had turned a bend in the road, she had been shocked to come upon none other than the gentleman she had been ruminating on, though in retrospect it should not be so surprising, for she knew he also enjoyed early morning rambles.

  They had stopped in the road, staring at each other for a moment before she had broken the silence.

  “Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she said with a bow. He returned her greeting with a curt gesture and a quiet hello of his own. After some time he enquired if she was walking to the stream, and when she indicated she was, he asked if they may walk together. They passed more than half an hour in awkwardly polite silence until their path took them back toward the parsonage, and they parted ways.

  The next morning she had to admit that she had gone out unaccountably early again in the hopes of seeing him. Though they had not spoken, she could not deny that simply being with him was delightful. She expected nothing to come of it; indeed, she knew that in the long run, her actions would likely only serve to cause her more pain. But even a half hour of silence with him had rejuvenated her spirits, eased some of the worry that had been eating at her for so many weeks, and restored her to feeling very much like herself.

  He was there once again on the second morning, as she had suspected, and again they walked in silence, punctuated by occasional questions as to the book she was reading.

  “Indeed, it is one of the books you recommended while you were in Hertfordshire, sir,” she had answered with a slight blush, forgetting until that moment that it was he who had recommended it to her while she had been staying at Netherfield.

  “Which book is that? I only recall recommending Bronson’s History of Magic,” he said sharply. Though she was unsure if the gentleman could ever seem at ease, she realized he had to have been rather relaxed, as his demeanor suddenly changed drastically and he seemed truly uncomfortable.

  “No!” she cried, more forcefully than she meant to. “It is one of
the poetry books of William Blake.” She looked up to see him staring at her with a strange expression, and she realized with deep mortification that he did not remember.

  “You had recommended it when I was staying at Netherfield. We had discussed Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake, and you had recommended one of Mr. Blake’s poems to me,” she said with a blush. “Most of my literature recommendations come from my father, you see, and at a point we have read many of the same texts, so I am always eager to explore new suggestions when I receive them.”

  Mr. Darcy continued to stare at her with that hard, disapproving look she had seen so often in Hertfordshire and her flush deepened. I should not have elaborated, she shamed herself, you have only served to humiliate yourself by appearing overly attentive to his words!

  “And are you liking Mr. Blake so far?” he asked at last. She nodded, relief flooding through her that he had finally broken his silence.

  “Indeed, though I find his scenes to be rather terrifying. He is rather unorthodox, do you not think?” she asked, peering up under her eyelashes. “I confess to being shocked at his approach to religion.”

  She thought that she had seen the faintest glimmer of a blush in Mr. Darcy’s cheeks as he cleared his throat, and she smiled widely. Perhaps the gentleman was embarrassed to realize he had recommended such a scandalous book! As though he could read her thoughts, he nodded and gave her his own uneasy smile.

  “Unorthodox is one word, I suppose. I am glad you are enjoying him. I find that he gives me much to think on,” he said, pausing. “Though, perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, when your father finds out you have become a heretic, it is best to not inform him it was I who suggested the reading that set you on your path.”

  Elizabeth unleashed a bright laugh as she realized that Mr. Darcy was attempting to tease her. Though it was awkwardly done, she delighted in this uncharacteristic show of ease from the gentleman.

  “I assure you, I have read far more heretical books than this, and on the suggestion of my father. I do not think there is any wild thought or opinion I could champion that would shock him.”

  He flashed her another small smile, and for a moment she felt that she would do or say anything to see such a sight again.

  “And are you the radical in your family, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked quietly. She considered the question seriously for a moment, then shook her head.

  “I am not sure I would apply myself the label. As you once said, I am known to repeat thoughts and opinions I do not truly hold for the enjoyment of seeing other’s reactions. In that regard, I admit I like to seek out the radical. But I believe my younger sister Mary might have a more expanded and accepting mind than even my own,” she said, her voice growing quiet. “She reads so very much, and while we have all thought this made her dry, her understanding and knowledge of the world continually surprises me.”

  “She must be very well read indeed, if you are to apply such a label,” he responded from beside her, and she nodded vigorously.

  “Truly, any question I have, she has an answer to. She is not as pretty as Jane or Kitty, or as confident and fun as Lydia, and so I think we often overlook her, to her detriment,” Elizabeth said sadly.

  “You have given all the intelligence, beauty, and delight to your sisters, Miss Elizabeth. What role does that leave you in your family?” he murmured as he reached out to hold back a large branch that had grown over the path. She ducked underneath it gently and smiled.

  “You said so yourself, sir, I am the radical! My role, it would appear, is to do and say the most shocking things.”

  Mr. Darcy seemed to have no immediate response to this, and so they walked on in silence once more until the bend in the lane once again took them back to Hunsford, and they parted ways.

  As she paced her room on that third morning, she could not decide whether to go. If she went to meet the gentleman again, would it appear as though she was intruding on his daily walk? Her change in routine had led to them meeting, not his, and so she felt hesitant to appear overly eager to see him. And if she did encounter him again, what good would it do? She enjoyed being with him, but all it accomplished was a temporary respite, and when they parted she often felt tremendously sad.

  Finally resolved, she decided to go on her walk — as she desperately needed the fresh air and exercise — but decided to go a different direction than they had usually met. The sun was almost completely risen by now, and so she set out from the parsonage later than usual, waving a hello to the passing shepherd who was urging his flock down the lane and nodding at the Collins’ housekeeper who was hanging the washing.

  She went left at the lane instead of right, knowing it would take her down toward the stream, and opened her book. She had walked for some time and was fully immersed when she looked up to see none other than Mr. Darcy standing by the stream. She mentally cursed herself for her idiocy. The path curves! Of course I would pass him on his usual walk! She considered hurrying along, but he turned before she had made up her mind.

  “Miss Elizabeth! It appears you are very late to our appointment,” he called to her from down the embankment. She flushed as her stomach leapt from surprise and delight.

  “What appointment sir? I do not recall seeing one in my diary,” she responded with a smile as she carefully walked down the embankment toward him.

  “That was clumsy timekeeping of you, Miss Elizabeth, for I thought we were quite agreed to take our walks in the early mornings, before your delightful cousin and my delightful aunt are awake,” he called back.

  She laughed in surprise at his candidness, and increased her pace down the embankment.

  “Pray tell, sir, how you come to know the sleeping habits of Mr. Coll — oh!” she exclaimed as her boot slipped in the mud. Immediately his hand was there, grabbing her elbow and helping her right herself. She looked up, his face impossibly close, and promptly forgot what she had been saying.

  “I should have warned you, the bank here is steeper than you expect. I fell down it constantly as a boy,” he said, releasing her elbow and backing away. Elizabeth took a deep breath to steady herself and smoothed her skirts anxiously before looking back up at him.

  “I must confess, it’s hard to imagine you as a boy,” she said quietly. She flushed the moment she said it, realizing how offensive it sounded, but instead the gentleman next to her let out a loud bark of laughter.

  “Why is that?” he asked. Elizabeth smiled in relief.

  “You are so very serious, sir. It is hard to imagine you as a fastidious boy, slipping down embankments then glowering disapprovingly at them,” she said, laughing at her own joke. He joined in for a brief moment, then shook his head.

  “I was not always so serious and solitary. You may not believe it, Miss Elizabeth, but in my youth I was almost as carefree as my cousin Fitzwilliam. But responsibility is a heavy burden,” he said, his voice trailing off. Elizabeth looked up at him with a pang of sympathy, realizing that she had never considered what had transformed him into the taciturn man she had come to know — and unwittingly love.

  She resisted the urge to reach out to him, and instead turned away, determined to change the tone. For whatever reason, he appeared to be in high spirits that morning, and she wished to keep his mood light.

  “May I ask a probing question, Mr. Darcy?” she asked archly. He turned to her, and, apparently picking up on her tone, nodded with a small smile.

  “You mention your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, and… well, I am curious about something,” she said, noticing that Mr. Darcy appeared to have hitched his breath. “The other night I heard him call you ‘Fitz’ several times, and I confess to being very confused by it. Is that not his name?”

  Mr. Darcy expelled the breath he was holding and laughed.

  “No, regrettably that is my name. Richard delights in calling me Fitz, because he knows I detest it,” he answered. Elizabeth cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, embarrasse
d to admit to him that she had no true idea what his name was.

  “My first name is Fitzwilliam,” he answered slowly, his tone soft. Elizabeth stared at him for a moment, then laughed in delight.

  “Fitzwilliam. I would never have guessed it, but now that I hear it, I admit it seems fitting,” she said quietly. His eyebrows pinched together and she blushed deeply at her comment, and attempted to quickly alleviate the awkwardness. “So you are Fitzwilliam Darcy and he is Richard Fitzwilliam? Forgive me, I do not mean to tease, but it is delightfully strange, you must admit!”

  “I had never thought about it. I suppose it would seem so. The Darcys have a tradition that the firstborn son is named after his mother’s family. My mother was sister to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s father, and so her maiden name was Fitzwilliam,” he said, before letting out a small laugh. “It is a strange tradition, but one I enjoy. It causes for some interesting names, at least.”