An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Virginia Brand

  “Miss, you have a visitor. I did not know if you were receiving or—” the young girl began to say, but the visitor had already entered the room. Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she took in the sight of a very hesitant looking Mr. Darcy standing in the doorway, clutching his hat anxiously in his hands. She nodded to the maid, who scurried out of the room quickly, and gestured for Mr. Darcy to sit down. He did not.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she said after some moments of silence. “I confess I did not expect to see you here.”

  He smiled briefly and nodded.

  “I seem to hear you say that quite a lot, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Would you care for some tea?” she asked after a moment.

  She realized that she was still standing awkwardly, and sat down in the chair closest to her, hoping he would do the same. He did not. Why was he there? Why was he not at dinner?

  “No, thank you. I simply…” he paused. “I was passing by. I heard that you were not feeling well, I thought that I would…” he trailed off.

  “I am well, thank you. Just a megrim, but it will pass.”

  There was more silence, and Elizabeth stared around the room in wonderment at his presence.

  “I am sorry that I was not able to go to Rosings tonight. I understand your cousin, Miss de Bourgh, has arrived home?” she said, cursing herself as she said it. Mr. Darcy’s eyes narrowed.

  “She is,” he said curtly.

  Elizabeth flushed, and looked down at her hands.

  “I…” she stuttered, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “I understand from Colonel Fitzwilliam that I am to wish you joy? I did not know you were engaged.” She realized she was almost whispering as she stared at her clenched hands, and forced herself to look up at him. “I dearly hope to meet your cousin soon.”

  Mr. Darcy froze in his place, unmoving and nearly unblinking as he stared at her.

  “You are mistaken.”

  Elizabeth’s face felt on fire, and her cheeks flared red.

  “I beg your pardon?” she choked out.

  “I am not engaged, and particularly not to my cousin,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice sharp and quick. “I am unsure what you have been told, but it is wrong. My aunt desires such a match. I do not.”

  Elizabeth felt dizzy as she took a deep breath and willed herself to meet his gaze.

  “Oh,” she said. Then, before she could help it, she let out a weak laugh. “I suppose that is very good, then.”

  Mr. Darcy took a step closer to her, his eyes still on hers as he tilted his head.

  “Why is that?” he asked softly, and Elizabeth felt her throat constrict.

  “Well, you told me of how your family names children, and truly, De Bourgh Darcy would be a terrible name,” she said with a desperate smile. “Far worse than Worsnop.” Mr. Darcy stared at her with wide eyes, before letting out a surprised laugh.

  “Nothing is worse than Worsnop,” he said in amazement. “But that is a horrible name.”

  She smiled back at him, and invited him to sit down once more, but he stalled.

  “I…” he said, looking around uncomfortably, fidgeting with his hat. Elizabeth tilted her head to the side, her spirits buoyed, and smiled archly. Was Mr. Darcy nervous? “I just wished to see how you were doing. I should be returning.”

  “Oh,” she said, without realizing she had blurted out her thoughts. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your kind concern.” Her voice faltered a little bit, and her stomach felt as though it was in her throat. Why had he come?

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he nodded quickly, and turned to exit the house. She waited a moment before going to the window, hoping to catch sight of him as he retreated from the lane.

  Settling herself on the window seat, she watched in wonder as he stalked out of the garden, then stopped at the gate, his hat still in his hands. He turned several times, as if caught in indecision, then threw his head back in apparent annoyance and raked his hand through his already wind-swept hair. A wide smile crept onto her face as he put his hand on his hip, and appeared to blow out a great breath of frustration as he turned and fixed a hard stare on the house.

  “What are you doing, you nonsensical, wonderful man?” she asked with delight. But no sooner had the words left her lips than she watched with surprise as he forcefully opened the gate and determinedly made his way up the garden lane, his long legs carrying him swiftly.

  She hadn’t time to remove herself from the window before he had entered the parlour once more, unannounced by the maid, his hat still in his hand.

  “Why have you stopped meeting me in the morning for walks?” he blurted out, shocking her.

  “I did not think it wise,” she responded timidly, unsure of how to respond. But it did not seem that the gentleman before her truly wanted a response.

  “I do not understand. I cannot fathom how you could do this to me, bewitch me as you have, fill my head and my heart with these thoughts and feelings, then play with me so. Is it to increase my ardor? You have succeeded, but I never thought you such a woman. I never would have believed such things of you, yet here I am, daily prepared to claw at my breast, as proof of your machinations,” he burst out.

  She stared at him, her eyes wide and her mouth open, entirely unsure of what he was trying to say. “What?” she finally asked.

  “I love you,” he said simply, staring at her and breathing hard. “I have fought against this, and tried in vain to resist it, but I cannot anymore. I love you.”

  Elizabeth felt as though she had been lifted off her feet, her equilibrium gone, her vision swimming, and she held her breath, almost terrified to breathe and break the spell, to cause this moment to shatter, or to find out it was simply a dream.

  But Mr. Darcy had run his hand through his hair again in agitation, and was already opening his mouth to continue speaking.

  “I know what the root of this affliction is, you need not hide it. I know that you spelled me to love you. I have seen your magic, and I knew that this was an enchantment, and I struggled, was so certain that I would prevail against this, that I would not give into the spell you cast on me, but I simply don’t care anymore,” he said. Elizabeth almost choked, and the blood rushed to her face. The lightness of the moment before vanished as she plummeted back to the Earth. He strode forward and bent down next to her seat on the window and took her hand in his, and she was too shocked to protest.

  “I simply wish to be with you, to speak with you, to love you. Even knowing this is created by magic, I cannot bear the pain of a life without you. I wish it were not so, and I have struggled not to hate you. I have carried such anger, Elizabeth. Your family, your financial situation, the questions of your morality I could look past, but I could not forgive someone who would manipulate a man’s heart as I know you have. But since seeing you here, I have realized I have been wrong,” he said, squeezing her hand.

  Her eyes were so wide she felt as though she looked like a frightened deer, but still he persisted.

  “You are a good woman. I know this, and I have come to hope that you cast this spell not out of mercenary means, but out of love. I have come to hope that you love me as I love you. This is an unnatural thing, but I cannot fight it any longer. You have bewitched me, body and soul. Please, cease my agony and consent to be my wife.”

  The silence that hung between them in that moment was deafening, punctuated only by the small clatter of rain on the window as the storm began to slowly move in over them.

  “Elizabeth?” he asked finally, their hands still clasped. Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands, and at once came out of her shock. Pulling her hand from his, she stood and moved to the other side of the room.

  “Mr. Darcy, I require clarification. You love me?” The man nodded. “And you believe me to be a witch, who has spelled you to love me, and as such have come to surrender and ask for my hand in marriage?” He nodded again, and she stared at him in disbelief.

  “I am sorry for any pain you have felt sir. I assure you, it was
through no intentional cause of my own. Thank you for your offer, but no, I will not marry you.”

  As the words left her mouth, she felt rendered in two, and reached her hand out to the nearby wall to support her before turning to Mr. Darcy. He had risen to his feet, but still stood in front of the window. Behind him she could see trees bending in the wind.

  “You are rejecting me?” he asked her, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “May I know why? Why did you spell me, only to reject me? Do you wish to see me suffer?”

  “Perhaps I might wish to know why, with so little effort at civility, you choose to inform me that the idea of loving me was so detestable and inconceivable to you that you assumed me a villain? Do you truly see me as some enchantress, playing with good men’s hearts?”

  “I have seen evidence of your magic, I know it to be true,” he said hotly, taking a step toward her. “At length, I have labored to hope you did this not out of treachery but love, or desperation. I could come to forgive that, I feel.”

  “Never once did you consider that perhaps you felt a natural and true love for me? Why are you so certain it is witchcraft?” she demanded, her eyes wide and demanding as she felt the anger bubbling inside of her.

  “Truly, why would I? I admit to some fascination when we were first in company, but the distinction between our social standing is so drastic that I felt myself truly safe from you. I am not a young girl, Elizabeth, I know my own heart, and these feelings came too fast, too sudden, to be natural. It could only be your spellwork.”

  “Mr. Darcy, such witchcraft does not exist,” she said quietly, her anger coming to a boil. He squinted at her in confusion.

  “I have read extensively, and I know that—” but she held up her hand, cutting him off.

  “Such magic is not possible!” she cried, her voice rising now. “You cannot bend a man’s heart to your will, you cannot twist his mind! I did not enchant you to love me, nor would I ever. And I will not marry a man who thinks me capable and willing of such treachery.”

  “And that is to be your answer?” he barked back.

  “How could it not be? You have come to me and insulted me, accused me of acting in a most vile way, and informed me that you could never possibly love me without some magical interference. Indeed, the thought is detestable to you!” she yelled, her voice reaching a fevered pitch. “I could see past your arrogance, your rudeness to my family, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, and even your unfathomable interference with Mr. Collins — which will result in my family losing our home. These, I could look past, because I felt I knew you as a man. I was a fool. I thought us equals, that you would respect me, and I was wrong. I could never marry a man such as you, who thinks me capable of such acts without once attempting to defending me in your mind.”

  Mr. Darcy took several steps back from her, his expression stunned, but remained still. His silence, coming on the heels of their angry outbursts, was too much to handle. Elizabeth felt as though she would explode.

  “Please forgive me, I cannot stand this a moment longer,” she cried, rushing past him and toward the front garden. As she threw open the door of the parsonage, a strong wind caught her, picking up her hair and almost making her stagger backwards. But she steadied herself quickly and was out the door, fleeing down the lane.

  “Elizabeth!” yelled a voice from behind her, and she turned to see Mr. Darcy striding quickly toward her. “This is madness! You should not be out here!”

  She stopped at the end of the back lane, panting slightly as she turned on him, her anger now fully unchecked.

  “Do not address me so, sir! You have no right to command me, I am not your creature!” she yelled at him over the wind.

  He either did not hear or ignored her comments, and continued to close the distance, until they were no further than an arm’s length away from each other, each breathing heavily as small drops of rain fell on them.

  “So you claim you are not a witch?” he asked softly.

  Elizabeth let out a bitter laugh of frustration and anger.

  “Have you not listened? You cannot create love with magic! You cannot create it in the breast of another, and God as my witness you cannot cut it out of your own once it has taken root, though not for lack of trying!” she spit back at him. “With all your books and education, how do you not know this? I did not and I would not spell you, but most importantly I could not if I tried!”

  “You cannot cut it out?” he asked softly, the anger leaving him suddenly as he turned to face the wind, his eyes closed.

  Elizabeth watched with fascination as he angrily clutched at his brown hair, now wet against his skin, and turned back to her.

  “I have been such a fool. You must hate me,” he whispered.

  Elizabeth wished to deflate her anger, but it had built too quickly and was now uncontrollable. Her hands were shaking, and she felt it burning within her. Her hair felt on edge, and she was sure her entire body was vibrating.

  “I do not hate you,” she spit back at him.

  “Then why won’t you consent? If you do not hate me, marry me,” he said, stepping closer and causing her to look up at his eyes.

  “This is not a proposal made of love and warmth, of mutual affection and respect. I do not hate you, but by your very confession, you resent me. How can I consign myself to such a life of misery? To be so close to happiness, yet unable to truly grasp it, because I entered a union with warmth only to be met by suspicion and distrust,” she said, her eyes closed and tears now leaking out. “How could you be satisfied in a union you felt cursed into?”

  “You could never be a curse,” he said. She could feel him close to her, his warm breath on her cheek, and she hesitantly opened her eyes, the tears coming freely as she let out a bitter laugh.

  “If only your words and actions did not contradict themselves,” she said sharply. She flicked her gaze up from his broad chest to his eyes, and they locked on to each other for a long moment, each still breathing heavily. Elizabeth’s eyes were burning with anger, and the air around them was filled with static, just as it had that morning at Netherfield.

  “Do you not love me?” he asked, and she laughed again, throwing her hands in the air in frustration.

  “Would it matter?” she demanded.

  All at once Mr. Darcy’s arms had slid around her back, his head lowered as he caught her lips in his. As they connected, a shock traveled between them, and Elizabeth went stiff with surprise, but he did not cease.

  She knew this was madness; no, worse than madness, a horrible form of self-torture. But she could not help herself. This was the first and last time she would ever be in his arms, and she could not find the strength within her to resist. She would reject his marriage offer, but in this last chance for connection she could not deny herself, and she willingly gave in to his kiss.

  They broke away slowly, and for a moment stared at each other in silence, Elizabeth’s face flushed as she fought back the horrified fear that was starting to creep over her. Neither seemed willing to speak or leave first. The wind whipped at them, driving biting rain into Elizabeth’s face, but she stood still.

  “I should not have come,” he said at last and stepped away from her, his arms pulling away from their embrace around her back. “Please, forgive me.”

  Almost as quickly as he had arrived, he left, stalking down the lane as she watched his tall figure retreat back toward Rosings, and away from her.

  XXIII

  "Blast it all, Darcy, you didn’t!” Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted as his brandy dribbled down his chin. “You accused her of being a witch?" Darcy nodded tersely and continued pacing the floor of the sitting room the two cousins currently occupied. His hair was still wet from earlier and was sticking out at strange angles, giving him a slightly crazed look that only added to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s shock.

  "She didn't entirely deny it," he muttered. The colonel stared at his cousin in abject horror.

  "Darcy, have
you ever seen a witch? I've seen them on the battlefields, working their craft. They are fearsome, terrifying things. Your genteel Miss Bennet is as far from a witch as I've ever seen."

  "Not all witches go to battle, Richard," Darcy snapped back. "They exist in the form of old men and pretty women and people just like you and me."

  "She is a wild creature, I grant you, but there is a charm to it. She is not a witch," Fitzwilliam pressed, but Darcy shook his head.

  “You should have seen her, she was practically on fire as she yelled at me. There were sparks coming from her fingertips, and when I touched her I was physically shocked. How is that not magic?”