by Nora Kipling
“It is a pleasure, Miss Elizabeth,” he managed to get out. She lifted her chin, and he saw a spark of defiance in her eyes. Her beautiful, soulful eyes. Curse his impetuous words. Curse them to the darkest of fates.
“I should hope it is more than a merely tolerable pleasure, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, curtsying to him and then she turned away to greet a friend, taking his heart with her.
Chapter 9
Elizabeth Bennet
Meryton, Hertfordshire
“Oh, Lizzy, you mustn’t think so poorly on him.” Charlotte was at her side, imploring her to see reason and to join the man who had so injured her pride for more conversation. He was standing alone, waiting for something, looking for all the world as out of place at the assembly than a donkey in a lady’s bedchambers.
“I shall think poorly on him, for insulting my vanity, and for being a stuffed shirt of a peacock,” Elizabeth replied, “let’s not discuss it. Instead, what do you think of Mr. Bingley and Jane?” She turned her gaze to her sister, who was dancing again with Mr. Bingley. They made a handsome couple, and she was pleased to see Jane so happy, although a stranger would have thought Jane merely content. Jane, being the eldest and the frequent buffer between the family and their mother’s penchant for vapors, had become quite adept at hiding her true feelings although Elizabeth could tell that her sister was having simply the best time. From the way Bingley talked, and Jane smiled in return, it was clear that he was a good enough conversationalist to have captured Jane’s attention and kept it, throughout the dance. Usually such men bored her to tears, with their talk of their accomplishments, or with the pretty, empty little compliments they laid upon her.
“Oh will you hold a grudge all night? There are few enough men to be dancing with, and I should think that he would be at least guilted into one set,” Charlotte offered.
“I will not dance with a man who is guilted into doing so with me,” Elizabeth said, drawing herself up proudly. If he thought her merely tolerable, then she might not be in his presence at all. She did not desire to impinge on his company, when he found her lacking. “I am proud enough, as girls go, and I know that it is my flaw, but I am not so wanting for a dance that I will do so with someone who has made it clear I am not handsome in his eyes.”
“He is blind to not see your beauty,” Charlotte said, and there was a hint of wistfulness in her tone that made Elizabeth think that Charlotte longed to have some small piece of Elizabeth’s beauty for herself. Perhaps society did not find Charlotte handsome, and she might have been on the shelf already at five and twenty, but Elizabeth thought that anyone who did not see Charlotte’s perfectly fine personality, nor her economy of person, was a fool. Any man would be lucky to have Charlotte as a wife, especially as age would rob any handsome woman of her beauty, and leave her only with personality and wit as her charms.
Perhaps that was what so greatly stung with regards to Mr. Darcy’s dismissal. She was not handsome enough for him, and he had judged her personality entirely without knowing her for more than the life of a matchstick.
“There will be more assemblies, and I heard a rumor that your mother might intend on throwing a ball to celebrate the end of summer,” Elizabeth said, leaning back against the wall behind her with a sigh. Charlotte smoothed her fingers over the skirts of her dress and gave a demurring smile.
“Perhaps. Perhaps soon enough to invite the esteemed company, and we might see a further matching between your sister and Mr. Bingley,” Charlotte said in a coy manner, and she looked truly pleased at the idea. Well, Charlotte was always generous with her kindness, and was always happy for a local girl when the Banns were read. Elizabeth snuck in close to her best friend and grasped her hand gently in her own, squeezing it.
“Perhaps you as well, who knows, they have brought this small company from London, but Mr. Bingley apparently is quite fond of Netherfield Park and may just send invitations to more of his young, eligible gentlemen friends?” Elizabeth asked. Charlotte’s cheeks flushed and she glanced up across the room, her eyes narrowing down on one figure. Elizabeth followed her gaze.
“Oh, the Colonel, is it?” Elizabeth murmured, and Charlotte elbowed her gently.
“Hush,” was all Charlotte would say, but she stood a bit straighter as the gentleman in question, noticing their looks, approached them. With a bow, he offered his hand to Charlotte, in deference to her being the older of the two, and asked with the most polite and exacting manners, if Charlotte would take the next set of dances with him.
Elizabeth would not even allow Charlotte to glance at her for permission to abandon her, and she curtsied to them both.
“My mother calls for me,” she said, excusing herself and making her way across the room to Mrs. Bennet’s side, where she was talking off the ear of Mrs. Hurst, who feigned an interested expression.
“Oh my dearest girl,” Mrs. Bennet cried, grabbing Elizabeth’s hand and holding it fast. “Mrs. Hurst, you must be anxious to see your younger sister, Miss Bingley, as well settled as your own self. You, more than most, would understand my feelings with so many daughters and a dearth of the kind of men one might feel are appropriate matches for them.” Mrs. Bennet turned to Mrs. Hurst with a broad smile on her face. Mrs. Hurst returned it, although in her heart Elizabeth found it to be somewhat forced. Well, her Mama was a different kind of woman altogether, being from trade, and despite her years as Mr. Bennet’s wife she had never truly lost the habits of her family. A woman of Mrs. Hurst’s birth would not tolerate such behavior for long, even if Elizabeth had heard the woman’s family was from trade they were so far elevated as to be out of the realm of Mrs. Bennet’s birth family.
Elizabeth only hoped that she was able to quiet her mother well enough so that the other woman would not take too great offense, and embarrassment would not be heaped upon their family.
Especially, she thought as she spied her sister accepting another dance from Mr. Bingley, if things were going the way they seemed to be with the gentleman letting Netherfield. Skirting around the difficulties of the differences in their families status would be even harder if Mrs. Bennet unwittingly made an enemy out of Mrs. Hurst.
“Your dress, Mrs. Hurst, it is the height of fashion,” Elizabeth said, with a nod of her head to the other woman’s skirts. Mrs. Hurst demurred but there was a pleased smile on her face.
“Yes, I am sure it is a sight for you, given that the trickle of change in dress comes to the countryside so far after it has fallen out of favor in London,” Mrs. Hurst said with a snide, unkind smile quirked on her mouth. Elizabeth tried hard not to dislike her, for Jane’s sake, and only agreed before taking notice of an invisible hand waving at her.
“Oh Mama, we must say hello to-“ Elizabeth let her voice trail off as she forcibly maneuvered her mother away from Mrs. Hurst, who was quite clearly as poisonous as the rest of the Netherfield company. They were best avoided, one and all, perhaps excepting Mr. Bingley, and only him due to his kind regard for her sister.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth Bennet
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
Lizzy’s dreams were filled with the sound of the instruments playing, and even if her feelings had been bruised by the reprehensible Mr. Darcy, she still felt the pull of the dances as she woke next to her sister.
Jane, for her part, was still fast asleep, curled against her pillow, tendrils of her blonde hair coming loose from their braids. Lizzy shifted, lifting the sheets quietly and resettling the counterpane around her sister so that Jane could sleep a little longer. The Assembly had gone late into the night, and as Lizzy paused and listened for the noises of the household she surmised that almost every member of her family were still asleep.
She dressed in a simple morning shift, and wriggled her toes into a pair of older boots that would see her out into the fields.
With a book tucked under one arm she took herself out into the grasses of Longbourn without another thought. The sun was low on the horizon, and the tops of the gra
sses were heavy with dew as she walked. She wanted to lose herself in the fresh air, and leave behind all the tumultuous feelings of the night before. There was a slow ache in her feet and her calves from dancing that began to fade as she walked, her muscles warming up to the exercise.
The night before they had retired to their bedrooms, returning long after Lydia had gone to sleep so she had not been up to pester them for details. Their dresses taken away to be refreshed for the next event, Jane and Lizzy had been left to themselves to giggle over the evening. She had mostly forgotten the bad parts of it and had in fact, if she must be honest, enjoyed the whole event quite thoroughly. She did so love to dance, and there had been a great many young men who had taken her hand to the floor.
One of them, she recalled, had been a tall figure, handsome in his uniform, a colonel away from his regiment. He’d been eloquent and better spoken then most men of the military that she’d met, and he’d been an elegant dancer as well. She could still remember the tingle of warmth that had passed through her gloves when he’d held her hand.
She lifted her fingers to her cheeks and fanned away the flush that had blossomed there. Truly, she was a fool for love, almost as bad as her sisters who were prone to fall in and out of affections as quickly as a gentleman passed by on his horse.
Elizabeth found she had wandered her way onto the path to Meryton, the road high in the middle for horses to ride along while still low enough for wagons to pass over it while their wheels rolled through the ruts. She kept to the side, in case a carriage snuck up on her while she was drifting along with her thoughts. Mr. Collins was due to arrive any day, and she found herself growing nervous over the contemplation of his coming.
Especially given the favor that Mr. Bingley had shown Jane last night, Elizabeth found her nerves ever more unsettled. Before the Assembly, their mother had been quite adamant that Mr. Collins’ attention would focus on Jane, and the rest of the girls should distance themselves in that respect so that the oldest might have the best chance at securing an offer.
Now though, Elizabeth knew her mother all too well, and the prospect of Mr. Bingley’s interest in Jane would far outstrip the meagre Mr. Collins regardless of his familial relationship to them and the fate of Longbourn resting in his hands. Her mother, liking for all things in life to have some semblance of ‘natural order’, would feel that it was now Lizzy’s duty to attract Mr. Collins’ eye, despite two of her younger sisters being out. She did not think so serious a man as to take up orders and be of the cloth would want Kitty, who was naturally silly due to age and closeness with the ever impertinent Lydia. While Mary was studious, and very focused on religious discussion for most of the day (and night it seemed), Mrs. Bennet would be putting in all of her efforts to marry off the second eldest since it looked like Jane would quite shortly relinquish her title as a Miss.
While she had engaged in long discussions with Charlotte regarding marriage and the duties of a woman to put sensibility first with pride second in the search for love and a husband, Elizabeth did not believe in marriage without love, without kinship.
She had no desire to marry Mr. Collins purely for the sake of Longbourn’s safety and keeping it within the familial lines of the Bennet family. She would become a Collins only if the man suited her, and her mother’s plans be damned.
She ended that thought with a decided stomp of her foot as she walked down the path, coming upon a pretty little meadow with a likely outcropping of rocks, perfect for sitting and reading as the sun rose.
There she found herself relaxing as the sunlight poured over her, and her heart felt lighter. She would not let herself be forced into any marriage, for any reason. She would marry for love, or not at all.
Chapter 11
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Meryton, Hertfordshire
It was upon an excursion to Meryton that they were informed that one Mr. Wickham had recently travelled to the town at the behest of his own father, the late Mr. Wickham who had wished his son to be well versed in all of England’s areas before he settled down into a living that the elder Mr. Darcy had arranged for his steward’s son.
“Mr. Wickham!” Bingley exclaimed. “Wasn’t he the fellow that you used to run around with before you went to Oxford. We shall have to say hello, and you must introduce him to me.”
Mr. Darcy couldn’t keep the smile back from his face. Mr. Wickham had been a close friend for many years, and and they had played as boys quite frequently up until the time had called for Mr. Darcy to be sent away to school, and later Oxford. He remembered his friend with fondness, and a certain amount of eagerness beset him.
They left a message for Mr. Wickham at the carriage in where the man was said to be staying, and made their way about Meryton.
“Quiet little place, but a delight for the eyes and other senses,” Bingley remarked as they settled in for a luncheon and hearty ale at the local pour house.
“Indeed,” Darcy replied as he dug into the potted pie with no small amount of hunger. The fresh air was stimulating his appetite, and the walking had cleared his head from the evening of the Assembly. He was still having some trouble concentrating; the remembrance of the beautiful Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s face falling when she overheard his unkind remarks. The memory of his behavior, and worse, that she had caught him at it, was like a thorn in his side.
They had barely finished their meal when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see George Wickham striding across the inn’s common room, a bright smile upon his face.
“If it isn’t Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, as I live and breathe,” Mr. Wickham said, and Mr. Darcy rose from his bench seat to be embraced with a hearty back slap. Mr. Wickham had always been larger than life, and Mr. Darcy could recall the many boyish scrapes they had gotten into as young children.
“Wickham, it is good to see you,” Mr. Darcy said before turning to Mr. Bingley, who had also stood. “Allow me to introduce you to my companion, Mr. Bingley. He has let Netherfield Park.”
“I was about to ask what you had done to find yourself so far from Pemberley’s halls,” Wickham commented before giving a short bow to Bingley which was returned. “I myself find traveling to not be entirely to my taste, except, for in the cases where there are many fine new women to introduce myself to.” There was an odd tone in Wickham’s voice when he said that, but Darcy was so pleased to see his old friend that instead he brushed off the feeling of discomfort and sat down.
“Join us, won’t you,” Bingley offered.
“But you’ve already just finished.”
“Ah, we can order another round of ale. It was good, hearty, the excellent stuff you don’t find easily outside of these small places.”
More jackets of drink were brought, and a potted pie for Wickham at Bingley’s insistence. They spoke at length of Pemberley, and of Wickham’s travels. Darcy’s old friend was almost as he had remembered him- still full of life, laughter, and charming tales of the people he had met.
There was a thread of… something though, that Darcy could not quite put his finger on. As the inn’s common room emptied out when the lunching hour ended, that thread pulled sharply, revealing a side to Wickham he had never yet experienced.
“Ah, so London. I had heard there’s a great deal of wenches to be had there,” Wickham said out of the blue, startling both Bingley and Darcy. Darcy stared at his old friend, who leered. “Well, tell me, Darcy, any wicked tales from London’s dirty streets? Tupped anyone you’d recommend to another fellow? I’m always up for a lady who’s no better than she ought to be.”
“Wickham,” Darcy said, the one word an admonishment for his vulgar speech. Bingley had sat back straight, and was looking at Wickham with an entirely new set of expressions on his face.
“Oh don’t tell me that a fancy britches such as yourself is above that. I know they’ve got the salons for those of my station, and then the very different ones for men of yours-“ Wickham’s voice had turned snide, almost mocking, and Darcy could o
nly think that the copious amounts of ale that the man had drunk were behind the difference in his mien.
“Perhaps later-“ Darcy started.
“Ha! I knew it, didn’t tup a single one? I had heard the rumor, but I did not think it to be true,” Wickham cackled, and lurched backwards, almost falling off of his seat. Darcy felt a splash of cold water dousing his nerves. Heard the rumor? He stared at Wickham with narrowed eyes.
“A civil tongue in your head, man, for there are others about,” he hissed. Wickham just smirked, slapping down his jacket of ale. The drink sloshed over the side.
“Oh, you’d be happy with that, would you not? That I be silent while you carouse unnaturally. Well, your father spoke to mine, and he made it quite clear that if you didn’t clean up your acting, that he’d have you out.” Wickham then leaned forward, slapping his hand on the table. “Wouldn’t that be a sight. Precious Fitzwilliam Darcy, with no family to turn to at long last, brought down from his high horse.”
“You’re drunk,” Darcy said flatly, so astonished in the change in his friend he could do nothing else but say those two words. Bingley cleared his throat.
“I think we must be off,” he said diplomatically as one could in that situation. Darcy shifted in his seat and then gave Wickham a brief nod before getting up. “I will settle with the innkeeper,” Bingley continued, before shooting both men an awkward look and departing as he reached for his purse.
Wickham looked up at Darcy, a lazy, smug, expression on his face.
“Wicked words travel quickly, do they not, Mr. Darcy?” he asked. Darcy’s heart gave a hard squeeze.
“You are much changed, Mr. Wickham.”
“And you are so very, very much the same.”
