by Iris Lim
She woke with a start – a keen jump from a reclining position to her current upright state. The sweat on her back caused the fabric of her nightgown to cling uncomfortably against her skin. The vivid memories of her dream swirled in her mind, unwilling to be dispelled.
If she had any say about the matter, Elizabeth knew, she would gladly trade reality for her dream in Darcy's arms as well.
The rooster's cries resonated through the open window and into her sparsely-decorated room. The pale light of an early dawn permeated the darkness. It had been a blessing beyond words to have had her own quarters for her six weeks in Brigham Park. God only knew what she would have done without her sanctuary.
Tonight, however, would be the night her fate became sealed forever.
Angry, Elizabeth slid off the bed – a bed she had disdained for an entire fortnight before succumbing to – and marched towards her dresser. Her hands gripped the edges of the well-crafted surface, and she nearly shook her adjoining mirror and its unseemly reflection until they tumbled to the floor.
This room, this house, this title – every last bit of her surroundings reminded her of the position she loathed yet occupied. The fresh handkerchiefs she'd brought from Longbourn, left blank as they should have been for every bride, now bore the initials of 'EB' – with the latter letter unfortunately not a representation of her maiden name. Oh how she longed to have her tokens bear the letters 'E' and 'D' instead!
Shouting servants sent their morning echoes through the hall, and Elizabeth wondered briefly if Caroline would ever forgive their country habits. A lady so built for town – surely she suffered in Derbyshire as well? A stray sniffle escaped Elizabeth's nose at the slight envy she felt for Caroline – for any woman, in fact, who was not estranged from her own sibling due to unrequited feelings.
When had her life – so simple in Hertfordshire, so blissful in Pemberley – become the terror that it was today?
“Mrs. Bingley,” the maid called behind her bedroom door. The help, at least, understood her country hours.
It was merely unfortunate that they had no choice but to address her by the name she detested.
“Come in,” Elizabeth called faintly before placing herself upon the dresser's stool. She felt no excitement for the day's events – yet could at least allow herself to look presentable as she mourned.
Mourning – the word struck her deeply, and her resulting scoff nearly sent the poor girl away. As a child, Elizabeth had often listened to Aunt Gardiner's tales. The stories of swelling hearts and starry eyes – impassioned vows and tender kisses – every account of second meetings had evoked dreamy sighs from the Bennet sisters. The first meeting, while necessary, was merely an opportunity to declare one's decision – to express the mutual desire to revoke or maintain their pairing.
The second meeting, set two long months away from the initial exchange, had always meant to be the romantic one.
Elizabeth closed her eyes as her hair parted and pulled away from her face. With weeks of marriage behind them, second meeting couples were expected to express their love and hopes and dreams in public confirmation. Every pair of successful lovers cherished the chance for their neighbors to witness their love – and often regaled their audience with bold, passionate displays of affection as well.
Elizabeth sighed, heart and mind in twisted pain.
Sometimes, she wished Aunt Gardiner had never told her so much. Perhaps then – she would not have had so much to lament.
“Which dress shall you wear, Mrs. Bingley?”
The present inevitably interrupted her fantasies – her unspoken imaginations of confirming her vows to Fitzwilliam rather than Charles. It was not as if, after all, she had anything dear to say about the latter.
Could she close her eyes and recite her vows tonight, all while picturing her groom's friend instead?
“Mrs. Bingley?” The voice insisted.
Elizabeth opened her eyes with a sigh.
“That one.” She pointed to Darcy's favorite dress – suddenly glad that day dresses had not been allowed for their dinner engagement three fateful days ago.
She may not be permitted to express any preferences for any other man tonight – but there was no one to restrain her from impressing the one her heart actually preferred.
• • •
When Jane attempted to support herself into a seated position that morning, only her head agreed.
Quickly and thoroughly, she collapsed into a helpless heap upon her own bed. Her head spun, even as her fingers quivered. The covers, meant to provide warmth against the morning chill, served instead to trap the heat emanating from her body – until her eyesight blurred.
“Carrie! Diana! Mrs. Reynolds!” She cried for someone, anyone, to come to her aid.
Her handmaid appeared with remarkable speed, though her own feeble senses barely recognized the poor girl.
“Mrs. Darcy, shall I fetch you breakfast?”
The mere mention of the name she feared and despised had Jane nearly retching. Her hand gripped the fabric over her chest, knuckles shaky and pale.
“Mrs. Darcy? Shall I –”
“No,” Jane formulated each word painstakingly, “I shall not eat this morning.”
“You look weak, madam, shall we perhaps provide some broth? Mr. Darcy might worry. He dictated distinct orders that –”
“No!” Jane nearly coughed the word. Every breath felt laden, every source of light lashed as would an angry whip against her aching head. She shut her eyes tightly. Memories of Brigham Park flooded her mind immediately, as if merely awaiting her summon. The cheerful mornings and leisurely evenings – her violently beating heart at their latest dinner – the sweet, stolen moments in the garden – every recollection filled her with both comfort and fear.
What would she ever do without such happiness?
Despite the many comforts Pemberley boasted, from humble servants to beautiful instruments, the estate mocked her daily with its imposing presence. Its master stayed safely tucked away – but still, she worried that his patience would wear thin one day.
Was Mr. Darcy a violent man? Was he a temperamental one? He was a negligent husband, for certain – and Jane could hardly even bear any comparison between his angry countenance and Bingley's happy smiles.
One thought of Charles compelled Jane to quickly dismiss her servants, relenting only to promise that she would drink one bowl of broth. Alone in Mrs. Darcy's chambers, surrounded by all things hers yet foreign, she at least could feign that she was merely a guest.
One day, she pretended in her feverish delirium, she would leave this cursed place and run to Brigham Park. One day, Charles himself would come to claim her – raising his knightly banner high. One day, she would visit Brigham Park in the morning and tarry all day until she entered the mistress's chambers and would –
Her own gasp woke Jane's mind and pulled her from her drowning thoughts. She blinked rapidly, painfully.
The Mistress of Brigham Park – was Elizabeth.
And Jane would never begrudge her sister the joy she deserved.
• • •
The dew-stained grass fell prey repeatedly under his heavy feet as he trudged to his sacred spot. The sun scoffed at his despair, the birds cursed him in song. The hallowed ground upon which Elizabeth had first met his lips with hers lingered unoccupied – empty and forlorn.
Groaning, Darcy lowered himself to the ground, near staggering in his grief.
He'd never doubted the wisdom of the system before. It was wise to allow a fortnight of mutual observation for every couple freshly paired; it was wise to offer the choice of maintaining or revoking one's pairing as desired; it was wise to proffer couples yet another six weeks to develop their affections – that their confirmation at the second meeting may prove heartfelt and jubilant.
It took the deep aching in his heart today to prove that the system, when abused by a negligent matchmaker, was torturous indeed.
Angry, Darcy threw a pebble into the lake, it
s weak ripples all but disappearing after the initial splash. He threw another right after, only to have its effects dissipate once more. Agitated and frustrated, he stood with multiple stones in his hand – before hurling one after another into the quiet waters.
The lake, once beautiful, glared at him today as it swallowed angry stone after stone.
“Elizabeth,” her name escaped his tired lips.
“Elizabeth,” he mumbled again as he dropped back onto the uneven ground.
Tears threatened to overflow, and he blinked most furiously to keep them away, as he lowered himself until he lay flat upon the grass. Every touch, every glance, every kiss he had shared with his first and beloved bride – every moment of their interactions had brightened his life despite any accompanying guilt. He had wondered, often, if kissing her before that first meeting would have altered their respective life courses. If he had taken her as his wife – it would have been enough. Mrs. Gardiner would then have no possible way of pretending her mistake had never occurred.
But would Elizabeth herself have wished it?
Eyes closed, Darcy relived every stolen caress they had shared in Brigham Park's neglected library. Her response to his touch and his kisses, at the very least, informed him of her willingness to share their bodies had society allowed them to. The larger query was – would she be just as willing to share their hearts?
Darcy clenched his fists as Elizabeth's name tumbled forth from his lips once more. Unwilling to be found tongue-tied at the confirmation, he had tried to compose his vows for the past two days. Yet, time and again, his empty page would reflect his sorrow back at him. If he had been tasked to admire Elizabeth, he realized, his words would flow unimpeded. With the role of his bride now replaced by the sister, however, he had nearly nothing to say.
Was he to thank her for having an aunt who shackled him to an unwanted marriage? Was he to use words such as “quiet” and “still” to praise his wordless bride?
The loud cry of a distant, angry bird roused Darcy from his painful depths of thought. His eyes opened unwillingly, his mind clearly opposing the very existence of today. His lungs panted as his head spun.
If it was so clear that he wanted no part of this marriage – and when it seemed equally clear that Elizabeth scorned hers as well – would it be entirely wrong to request another switch? If all parties involved disliked their current pairing – would it be truly that horrible for Mrs. Gardiner to grant them the unique chance to revoke?
A revocation at a second meeting was unheard of – scandalous, even. The occasion itself teemed of romance and love, not sorrow and separation.
Heart, eyes, and hands clenching, Darcy struggled to find his feet. It was nearly impossible to request a chance to flee this union – but would asking be his only chance at happiness?
Quite honestly, he did not know.
• • •
The cobblestones did not echo today. The villagers did not gossip or even direct any spare looks his direction. It was not extraordinary for a man to be walking alone in town. It was commonplace, even.
Their previous stares and glances – of jealousy, admiration, or condemnation – had only been for Jane.
He did not fault them one bit.
Straggling under the nearly noonday sun, Bingley felt bereft, hollow. The company and joy that he had enjoyed for the first dozen nights after the initial exchange – he had rediscovered upon these streets. Society dictated that they not touch, despite her former place as his bride, and they had behaved themselves most blamelessly. Nothing but the most polite of contact had been exchanged between them in public, and they had offered each other comfort only in the most prim and proper of ways. They had behaved with utter innocence – at least, upon these lanes.
Bingley scoffed as he leaned upon the fateful post – the one place where dear, quiet Jane had drawn his attention – and kept it forever. Any wavering doubt that he might still consider the younger Bennet sister to be his lifelong companion had dissipated permanently that Lambton morn. Jane was the elusive star of beauty and grace that he had always dreamed to meet. He would settle for no other.
Her shadows haunted him even now. Glimpses of gowns and bonnets akin to her favorite shades teased him with the impossibility of stumbling upon her today. His aching heart longed for relief – but relief fled further and further away with every passing hour.
Stolen kisses in Brigham Park's acres had proven at least fleeting affection on her part, perhaps a moment of fancy. But, even then, he had known it to be simply that – a fancy – and her presence in his arms a promise that would never find its way to fruition.
He loved her, to the depths of his soul.
She loved him, perhaps, as shown by the gladness in her eyes.
It was simply and tragically unfortunate that love held little weight in the eyes of the system. Perceived affection was good – for individuals blessed enough to share a successful pairing. The lack of affection was blameless – for a couple who might decide to part ways upon the first opportunity.
Ardent affection for another man's bride, handled poorly – was punishable by death.
Bingley sighed, lips quivering. He himself he could risk. He cared little for his life if he had no Jane Bingley within it. He would gladly meet the gallows in exchange for one night of heavenly bliss.
Yet he could not risk Jane.
He could not seal her fate with his own blasphemous desires.
He could not risk destroying the woman he loved.
• • •
The carriage groaned at the inevitable rattling caused by the road to town. Lambton, delicate and picturesque, had always looked upon its landed neighbors with pride. Caroline Bingley had reiterated the fact often enough.
Elizabeth could not help but wonder if such esteem could survive tonight.
She lowered her eyes, then closed them, when the village lights began to emerge. She did not plan, did not want, to cause scandal. She had no intent whatsoever to draw undue attention.
It was unfortunate that attention had always seemed to follow her.
“I'm sorry.” Mr. Bingley said.
She looked up at his still form across the gloomy carriage, wondering if she had imagined his having spoken at all. Did everyone wish to apologize to her today? The strange, delirious letter from Jane this morning remained tucked in her coat even now.
If, indeed, she had heard Mr. Bingley speak as she thought she did, was he apologizing for a previous misdeed – or seeking pardon for a premeditated act to come? Was he speaking, or perhaps dreaming with his eyes wide open?
“Mr. Bingley?” The formal address persistently remained. “Did you speak?”
His eyes left the window and met hers for one small instant – looking stricken and afraid. She wondered how she looked to him.
His gaze dropped to the empty seat beside him. She withdrew hers to her lap. The rumbling motion jolted her repeatedly awake, despite every desire to die in her sleep this very moment. It seemed cruel to wish that the carriage would stumble, given that innocent Mr. Bingley would suffer as well.
With every moment closer to Lambton, however, her intent to steer clear of foolish, evil thoughts wavered and withered and shriveled.
Attention found its way to her again as her frowning bridegroom assisted her in her descent from his carriage. The villagers' smiles and starry eyes struck irony into her very heart and stripped her of her humor. The perceived romance in the air, so clearly exhibited by the young maidens' blushes as they lined the way to the meeting house's entrance, only served to make her own sorrow more severe.
What was she to do? What was she to say?
Mr. Bingley did not speak again as he led them inside, her arm limp against his. The two hesitant smiles she sported were firstly for the nervous crowd – and then for a clearly excited Aunt Gardiner.
“Mrs. Gardiner,” greeted the master of Brigham Park, formal bow in tow.
“Aunt Gardiner,” Elizabeth offered, nearly shakin
g in her shame.
The initial skepticism she had bestowed upon her aunt's designs had been unfounded, she now realized. The kindly woman would never have agreed to any pairing for her nieces, except to the finest of men. She found little to fault with Charles Bingley – and only sheer admiration for Fitzwilliam Darcy.
It was a pity her aunt's mistake had to be rectified.
“Elizabeth.” Aunt Gardiner's voice ran mellow and golden. Her matronly hand upon Elizabeth's shoulder overwhelmed the niece's heart. Was she to hide her current turmoil from her dearest aunt as well?
“Elizabeth,” the matchmaker repeated. “Are you well?”
Elizabeth lifted her eyes, hands quivering betwixt her skirts. Aunt Gardiner regarded her with nothing short of warm and genuine concern.
But could she risk her aunt's reputation by speaking any less of her current, so-called marriage?
“Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy,” the footman announced behind them.
Elizabeth directed her last effort to creating a small smile. “Yes, Aunt. I am well.”
Chapter 10
He never used to scowl much. Raised in Pemberley's fields with Fitzwilliam and George, he had grown up with active limbs and happy faces. The sun had been his friend, the moon his accomplice. Never one to enjoy indoor seclusion, he had often roamed every part of their heirloom estate to his heart's content.
Life changed when Mother died – and it broke beyond repair when Father followed soon after into the grave. Georgiana had been but a child when he had first taken the reigns over her rearing.
The results had proven disastrous last year.
Today, his scowl was nearly etched upon his face. Fleeting moments of joy, stolen kisses and cheerful words, offered little by way of genuine relief. Even his great disdain for public attention could not keep him from openly avoiding his pale and willowy bride. No sooner had the footman assisted a quiet Jane Bennet into the Darcy carriage had Darcy declared his intent to travel on horseback today.
The villagers may stare, sigh, and swoon. He himself knew better.
