An Unnatural Inheritance: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Virginia Brand

  Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted and attempted to dab at the liquor that was staining his collar.

  “Shocked when you touched her, eh? Sounds like something very different from magic,” he muttered.

  “I just cannot understand it. Why would she cast this spell on me, make me love her, then reject me when I go to give her exactly what she seeks? I had deluded myself that she loved me as well, which she clearly does not, but I cannot imagine her being the kind of woman who would do such a thing simply to cause pain,” Darcy groaned, collapsing into the chair across from his cousin. “Can you explain it?”

  “Yes,” Fitzwilliam said calmly. “You are a dunce.”

  “Richard, be serious for once in your blasted life!” Darcy barked out, earning another smile from his cousin, who was greatly enjoying the sight of Darcy so unsettled. The man had arrived back at Rosings soaking wet and in a terror, and cloistered himself in his rooms all through dinner. It had been almost torture having to wait for the evening niceties to end before he could go up to see him, and the colonel had expected a difficult time prying the details out of him. But instead he had found him in much the same as his current state, pacing and cursing, and in short order was apprised of the full account of the afternoon.

  “I am being serious, Fitz. You clearly love the woman. It’s no spell, no magic, whatever you may think of her preternatural abilities. You’ve simply fallen for the girl, and instead of courting her and going about it in the right way, you’ve ignored her, stared at her, and insulted her,” the colonel said. “You have accused her of a moral sin, and told her that simply loving her on her own merits is impossible. Imagine how she must feel — and if she does indeed love you in return, like you have thought, she must be destroyed.”

  Darcy’s head whipped up, and he stared at his cousin in alarm.

  “God, I am a fool,” he groaned as he leaned back in the chair, covering his eyes with a heavy hand. “She told me I was arrogant and selfish, you know.”

  “Well, you are,” his cousin responded matter of factly, before leaning forward and slapping Darcy on the knees. “Truly Darcy, give her the night to collect herself, then go speak to her. Make this right. Apologize, and court the woman as she deserves.”

  “I only considered marrying her because I was sure that I was spelled to. I have never considered loving her in her own right, without the artifice of magic. It is not a desirable match,” Darcy responded tightly. Colonel Fitzwilliam shot up out of his seat, nearly pushing his armchair backwards with the force.

  “Are you out of your mind? I have half a desire to beat you around your damn ears like we were boys again. Now that you’ve realized the woman is not the evil enchantress you’ve believed, now you are hesitating marrying her?” Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed bitterly. “The woman is a delight, and the only unnatural creature here is you, Darcy.”

  “I don’t think speaking with her would be a wise idea,” Darcy said, ignoring his cousin’s comments. “I did not act very gentlemanly, and did not leave on the best of terms.”

  “Then write her a bloody letter!” Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted. “Gods man, have you gone completely senseless?”

  “And what do you propose I write? Dear Miss Elizabeth, my apologies for accusing you of using black magic and acting like a scoundrel, as it turns out I do love you, but I still don’t think we are suited. Apologies for the misunderstanding, F. Darcy.”

  “Tell her the truth. Explain when you came to feel for her, why you assumed it was false, tell her how you feel. Apologize for calling her a witch. But if you don’t mean to marry the girl, don’t write a letter,” the colonel said, his voice serious. “If you don’t mean to do right by her, leave her alone. Do her one kindness and allow her to simply hate you.”

  “I would be a fool to marry her, surely you understand that? You have not seen her family, Richard. Her mother is vulgar and the daughter of an attorney, and her younger sisters are wild and uneducated. Her father seems a man of sense, but he has little care or shame, and as such does not take the girls into hand,” Darcy said. “Spell or no, rumours of witchcraft abound regarding the family, and I have witnessed more than one situation in which I’m sure some craft was used. I was positive that Bingley had been spelled by the oldest, but I am perhaps reconsidering that.”

  “And your point?” his cousin asked.

  “My point is that it is a fully unsuitable match. I could not bring such a family into Georgiana’s acquaintance, not while she is still recovering and so impressionable. I would not risk it. And she would never be accepted by our relations — especially not your mother, and you know this,” Darcy continued. “It would not only be a poor match for me, it would be bad one for her as well.”

  “Fine, then if you’re determined to make you both miserable, let her hate you. Flee the country, never darken her door again, and pray she isn’t a witch who has now decided to curse you and your descendents,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, finishing his drink in one final forceful gulp, before slamming the glass on the table. “I pray you know what you are about, Darcy.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam stalked out the door and Darcy let out another groan as he leaned back in his chair once more.

  What had possessed him? He was an intelligent, even-tempered man who had prided himself on his ability to understand people and situations. How had he gotten this so terribly wrong? The feelings had come on him so suddenly that the only natural assumption was witchcraft, he had thought. But was that how it was supposed to feel? He had never been in love. He did not know.

  His mind wandered to Bingley and his infatuation with the eldest Miss Bennet. He had been so convinced that his friend was ensnared as well, for the man acted a puppy around the girl, fell into moods, and seemed as though he was beset by some illness, rather than tenderness of heart. But if his own feelings had not been manufactured, then surely Bingley’s hadn’t been either. He closed his eyes and shook his head as the sickening revelations hit him, like wave after wave.

  If Bingley was not spelled, then he had endeavored to separate the man from a woman he clearly loved. The list of individuals he had wronged with his foolishness was growing by the moment.

  It occurred to him that he had never, not once, considered his love of Elizabeth without linking it to magic. He had never entertained the notion that his feelings were natural, and even worse, he had never stopped to consider that the woman did not love him as well.

  He closed his eyes to picture her in his mind, attempting to sketch a new vision of her, one untainted by his anger and accusations. He smiled slightly as he pictured her running down the slope of Oakham Mount in the early morning, delicately wading into the field of lavender, her brown hair coming undone as she quickly disappeared into the mist of the morning.

  Darcy’s mind raced to the feel of her hair in his hands, much silkier and not as thick as he had always imagined. He had run his fingers through her hair as they embraced, when she was wrapped around him, their mouths joined in a kiss that was more blissful and exhilarating than he could have ever imagined. His hands came to his mouth unbidden as he felt the shadow of that charged, static shock that shot through him when they had met.

  The woman was a witch; he was sure of it. But her anger and hurt over his accusation had been real, and he had to admit that he believed her, which meant that the feelings he had spent so long fighting against were real.

  With a loud sigh he rubbed his eyes and stood, crossing the room to his desk and readying his writing materials. It took him several attempts to address it, and several more to begin it, and at length chose to be as straightforward and blunt as possible. She would appreciate the honesty, he was sure.

  When finished, he eyeballed his hastily scrawled missive and prepared for bed, feeling entirely certain that he would not sleep for a moment.

  XXIV

  The next morning found Elizabeth awakening with red eyes and a pounding headache. She sat up in bed for a moment and peered out her window into the hazy grey
morning sky. The wind, though less fearsome, was still shaking the leaves, and a light rain was steadily falling. Throwing back her covers, she washed and dressed quickly, and resolved to go for a walk, convinced that the cold air and wind would revitalize her spirits and cool her mind, and sure she would not find a certain gentleman milling about.

  Mr. Darcy would never brave such weather, for he would very likely ruin his boots and fine jacket, she thought dryly, conveniently forgetting the gentleman’s disregard for his clothes during the previous evening’s weather.

  The full moon was approaching, and, despite being isolated from her coven, she had every intention of practicing the ancient rite on her own. Perhaps during the ritual she should ask the earth to swallow Mr. Dary whole, or curse him and his wretched descendants. That thought brought a small smile to her face, as she realized how very much like Lydia she sounded. Resolved to her walk, she borrowed a basket from the kitchen with the plan to collect the necessary herbs and offerings while out. She stopped at the door for a moment and looked up at the sky. Her father had said that rain was always sent for a reason, whether it was to cleanse, to destroy, or to warn. A witch was at her strongest when nature was in full fury — and she needed all the strength she could find.

  She was out of the house before her cousin or friend had woken, and her feet carried her down the lane quickly. She was so lost in her thoughts that she was soon repeating her path without realizing it. Elizabeth’s head was still pounding from her earlier headache, and the tears she had expended the previous evening had done her no favors.

  Mr. Darcy, in love with her! She returned to this thought repeatedly, still unable to fully believe it. She had spent so much time hating the man and being angry at herself for her weakness that she had never truly considered whether he loved her back. And by the time her opinion had changed, and she had come to realize he was not all she had thought, she had been resigned to the idea that he would never reciprocate her feelings. She had long ago deemed such a union impossible in her mind.

  She felt no regret at her refusal, however. She shook her head and grunted in anger as she bent to pick wild mint to add to her basket. No, she did not regret it. He had been cruel and accusatory, and she had been honest: She could not marry a man who felt forced into such an arrangement. How could he think such a thing of her?

  Yet, hadn’t she thought him capable of equally vile things? True, she could not say she had thought him so bad as to bewitch someone’s heart, but hadn’t the thought of loving him been so detestable to her that she had attempted to cut out those feelings? In her own way, she had thought just as badly of him as he had of her.

  Her anger had settled into a resigned forgiveness and was turning the corner back into sadness when she looked up in time to see Mr. Darcy himself coming down the lane and striding toward her. At some point in her walk the rain had picked up and she was almost drenched. She tried not to blush as she looked down at herself and realized her dress was plastered against her legs. She would have turned and left, but he was walking too quickly for her to pretend she hadn’t seen.

  She shifted her basket toward her side and attempted to adjust her shawl to cover the contents, which now included a long feather, a cracked egg shell, and a various assortment of herbs. For a moment, her obstinence flared and she considered the foolishness of her attempt to hide her belongings.

  If he thinks I am a witch, perhaps I should give him just cause and send him flying into the mud, she thought to herself bitterly.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he said tersely as he came even with her.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she responded tightly. She looked steadily at a branch behind him, refusing to make eye contact.

  “I have been walking this lane for some time in the hopes of meeting you. Please pay me the honor of accepting this letter?” He pulled a letter from his breast pocket and held it out stiffly, avoiding her eyes as well.

  She stared down at the outstretched hand and letter before her, and considered refusing it for a moment, or taking it and tearing it up, or even bidding it to catch fire in his hand. Small raindrops landed on top of the parchment, slowly sinking in and revealing the black ink on the underside of the letter. Realizing that if she delayed any longer it would soon be illegible, Elizabeth reached out and took the letter from him, carefully touching only the edge of the parchment to avoid any chance of contact.

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding to her. “I bid you good day.” He nodded again and then turned, his long legs carrying him down the lane. She looked down at his letter and saw her name printed carefully on the front in strong, looping print. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She tucked the letter into her pocket to keep it from the rain, and turned back. Gathering the rest of the herbs quickly, she set on her way home before pausing for a moment. She was drenched through, again, and though she felt no lighter than she had when she left the house that morning, Elizabeth allowed that she did not feel as weary of spirit.

  Taking the egg shell from the basket, she held it up, allowing rainwater to well in the bottom of it, and she settled it gently back in the basket, willing it to not leak. She did not know what she would need the rain water for, but she had been taught to collect the natural elements as it occurred to her, and she had spent so long ignoring her gut instincts.

  Once she was back to the house, Elizabeth hurried up to her room, calling a passing greeting to Charlotte while a bundle of nerves clawed away at her stomach. Stripping out of her soaking clothes, she carefully dabbed at the letter and set it on the window across the room from her, and stared at it as she changed into dry clothing. As she wrung out her hair, she eyed it nervously, as if daring herself to not read it.

  Don’t be daft, she scolded herself, it’s not like he will know if you rush to read it. What are you proving?

  She heard a door closing downstairs, and glancing out the window, she saw Charlotte and Maria set off down the lane, baskets in hand, no doubt to go to town while the rain had let up. Snatching the letter from the windowsill, Elizabeth made her way downstairs to the parlour. Mr. Collins was always at the rectory until early afternoon, and the rain had left her chilled. Settling by the fire, she took a deep breath and looked up at the door. With a pang, she recalled Mr. Darcy’s tall form standing in front of the window just the night before.

  Shaking her head, Elizabeth took another deep breath and gently unfolded the letter. His script was strong and masculine, and she smiled at how neat and orderly it was. How very like him. Though her own script was neat, it was not particularly orderly, and she had a tendency of writing rather too quickly — much like Mr. Bingley.

  She imagined the disapproving frown that would come over Mr. Darcy’s face when he saw her own script. Would he think it matched her as well as his matched him?

  With a frown, she shook her head, dispelling the thought. Why should Mr. Darcy ever see her script? She had no intention or reason to break with propriety and write him. Closing her eyes for a moment, she steeled herself and then began the letter, pushing all nonsense thoughts out of her mind.

  Miss Elizabeth,

  Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by 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 you, but rather of humbling myself. I have but two goals: to apologize for my accusations and behavior toward you, and to attempt to explain my actions in the only way I can. To you, it must seem I jumped to my conclusions and accusations hastily and without proper consideration. Though I realize I am now in the wrong, my character demands that I explain how I came to this idea.

  As you are aware, during my time in Hertfordshire I became privy to rumors regarding your family and their connections to witchcraft. It was often spoken of in company, and my party had not been there a fortnight before we had heard of it from several sources. Though not one to give credence to gossip, I did notice a certain wildness in your younger sisters that, in my mind,
would align with the actions of a young woman practicing the old craft.

  However, my suspicions did not truly formulate until I discovered a peculiar attachment between my friend Mr. Bingley and your elder sister. I watched with no little confusion as my friend’s attachment grew stronger and stronger, despite no signs of preference or even encouragement from your sister. In truth, I believed her to be actively set against him, and as such my friend’s affection seemed strange and misplaced, until I learned of a situation which, to me, seemed to only be witchcraft. I now tell you this in confidence; for though it does my friend no credit, I can assure you it was not malevolently intended. And as it concerns the reputation of your own dear sister, I can be assured you will hold it dear, just as I have pledged to keep it. If, after discovering this event, you feel you must use this knowledge, I will trust in your judgement.

  During your sister’s convalescence at Netherfield, during the night before Miss Bennet’s fever broke, Mr. Bingley awoke and claimed to hear her calling out for him. He, despite better judgement and all sense of propriety, felt what he described as a “pull” to your sister’s bedchamber, where he remained with her for the duration of the night, until her fever broke. This was on the morning that I discovered you walking the grounds.