This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  THIS DISCONCERTING HAPPINESS:

  A PRIDE AND PREJUDICE VARIATION

  by Christina Morland

  This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Copyright 2016 by Christina Morland

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration, Amalie Auguste von Bayern by Joseph Karl Stieler [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

  To Debra Anne, for her invaluable support and friendship,

  and to all the readers who began this journey so long ago

  Prologue

  Only one room in Longbourn could have been called quiet on the afternoon of the Meryton Assembly.

  The quarters of the youngest Misses Bennet did not qualify: servants bustled in and out, carrying ribbon and lace back and forth between a giggling Miss Lydia (the recipient of the finery) and a pouting Miss Catherine (the unwilling donor).

  No one who knew Mrs. Bennet would ever have described her quarters as peaceful, certainly not Hill, the housekeeper, who found her mistress near swooning (but how could anyone expect a mother to remain calm at the thought of a new neighbor with five thousand pounds a year?).

  Even the rooms of Miss Bennet and Miss Mary were scenes of subdued confusion, which was astonishing considering their occupants: one was too serene and the other too dull to make much of a fuss on most evenings. They were, however, women of a marriageable age, and so they, too, were busy calling the maid to help them with their curls and corsets.

  Miss Elizabeth’s room, empty as it was, might have won the title, had she not left her window open, allowing the breeze to play havoc with a half-written letter she had left on her writing table.

  The kitchen was Cook’s domain, and she never stopped talking, even when alone; the scullery maid sat cursing in the attic corridor, having been exiled there for doing such a poor job polishing the silver; the Bennets’ man, Jack, was attempting to hang Miss Bennet’s latest sketch of Oakham Mount in the drawing room; and Sam Johnson, the family hound, was snoring in the master’s bedroom.

  That left Mr. Bennet’s study, a room generally as animated as the rest of the house, at least if occupied by its owner and his favorite daughter. They had spent many an evening in that room, laughing and conversing.

  But on the afternoon of the Meryton Assembly, Mr. Bennet and his daughter were in no mood to be sociable.

  “It is unfair of me to burden you in this way,” Mr. Bennet said, breaking the prolonged silence.

  Elizabeth reached for her father’s hand. “Burden? No. No! It is only…Are you absolutely certain? Could he have been wrong? He must have been mistaken! I…”

  “Now, now Lizzy, please do not cry.”

  “But you, I…it cannot be!”

  “But it is. In fact, it is quite natural.”

  “Do not jest with me, not now! You must seek another opinion.”

  “Why do you think I traveled to London last month?”

  “No, I refuse to believe it!”

  “Oh, Lizzy, we none of us live forever.”

  After a quick squeeze of her father’s palm—it felt too warm to be the hand of a dying man—Elizabeth put her hands to her face and wept.

  Her anguish was more motion than noise; she rocked frantically, almost as if she were trying to shake away her grief. Her father could do nothing except watch and think that no cancer could be as painful as the sight of Elizabeth mourning his imminent death.

  *

  Only one room in Netherfield could have been called quiet on the afternoon of the Meryton Assembly.

  The quarters of the Bingley sisters did not qualify: servants bustled in and out, carrying lace and ribbon back and forth between a giggling Mrs. Hurst (a secret admirer of country dances) and a pouting Miss Bingley (an unwilling participant in this plan to attend the assembly).

  No one who knew Charles Bingley would ever have described his quarters as peaceful, certainly not Vance, his valet, who found his master near giddy (for he loved nothing better than a country dance!).

  Even the room of Mr. Hurst was a scene of subdued confusion, which was astonishing considering the occupant: he was usually too dull with drink to make much of a fuss on most evenings. But he knew what was expected of him (not to mention what to expect: chits wearing gowns with low necklines and an unlimited source of wine); so he ordered his man to shave and dress him, hoping to make himself appear the gentleman all said (and few believed) he was.

  Mr. Darcy’s room, empty as it was, might have won the title, had he not left his window open, allowing the breeze to play havoc with a half-written letter he had left on his writing table.

  All of the rooms below stairs were bustling: Cook was screaming at the scullery maid; the butler was attempting to teach the footmen how to bow correctly; the other servants were busy dusting and mopping and fetching and scraping; they were, after all, the staff of a new master (and his unmarried, social-climbing sister); there could not be quiet for the likes of them.

  That left quite a few rooms; Netherfield was a large house, after all. But those unused rooms, ghostly with their sheet-draped furniture, at least echoed with the sound of the servants’ footsteps or the pitter patter of mice that had somehow escaped the traps placed throughout the house.

  It was the library, a secluded, out-of-the-way chamber, that took the prize. Netherfield’s original owners had included such a room only because it was expected that a great house contain books—even if they were unread. The small windows and heavy drapes created a suffocating sensation that discouraged almost everyone, even the servants, from entering it.

  On the afternoon of the Meryton Assembly, Fitzwilliam Darcy could think of no better place to be. He could be assured that none of the family would come looking for him. Miss Bingley claimed that something in the room—the books, perhaps?—gave her a headache. Mrs. Hurst did not even know the room existed. Her husband would find no drink behind these doors. Even Bingley said the room made him gloomy.

  Above even solitude, what attracted Darcy to the library was the sense of stillness, the feeling that nothing had ever—or would ever—happen in this room. It was a pause, a respite from the events that kept happening to him.

  And that was the root of the problem: how could he, a wealthy and learned gentleman, a man with power and pride, have so little control over his own affairs?

  Darcy leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the thick spine of a book on horse breeding. He tried to concentrate on the musty smell of pages never ope
ned, on the slightly grimy feeling of dust and leather against his clammy skin, on the ridiculous image he must have made. Not even his strong sense of dignity—what if a servant should come across him looking like a fool?—could keep him from dwelling on the one thought he needed to avoid: he had failed.

  Closing his eyes, Darcy could still see Richard’s tidy handwriting: “I am sorry to report that my father, after removing Georgiana to Rosings, has threatened to pursue custody in the courts, if you should make a fuss. I beg you, for your sake, for my sake—but especially for Georgiana’s—please, do not fight this.”

  Darcy opened his eyes, grabbed the book he had been leaning against, and threw it at the wall.

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth had always prided herself on being fully aware of the world around her. She knew the names of all of the flowers and trees growing in the vicinity of Meryton (her favorite was honeysuckle); she recognized the sound of her friends’ footsteps (a useful parlor trick when visiting Lucas Lodge or her Aunt Philips on a rainy day); and, most of all, she was a superb judge of character.

  Or so she had thought.

  Standing at the back of the assembly room, Elizabeth glared at the lines of dancers. What were they doing here? How could her mother have brought them here tonight? How could Jane smile so pleasantly at her new and ardent suitor? How could Lydia and Kitty act so wildly, how could Mary behave so pompously, how could any of these people dare be so happy?

  The real question, of course, was how could she, her father’s favorite—the only who knew—be at an assembly on a night such as this? How could she stand there with that pretense of a smile on her face, nodding as Charlotte talked of she knew not what, hushing her mother when she spoke too loudly of Mr. Bingley’s wealth, and dancing—yes, she even managed to dance—when Mr. Jones’ brother asked for a set?

  Had she any heart or soul, her lips would have refused to smile, her voice would have disappeared, her feet would have stumbled, and her body would have collapsed into a heap on the floor. Instead, she appeared so calm that no one suspected a thing.

  “You must not let them know,” he had pleaded. “You hear them, running around upstairs, causing chaos. And that, just for an assembly! Imagine if they knew. No, I would like to die in peace, my dear.”

  Die in peace?

  There would be no peace for her, and he knew it. He had apologized repeatedly for laying this burden on her, and she had shushed him like a child.

  “You are the one carrying the burden, Papa,” she had said, embracing him.

  Now, standing in this room full of laughing, ignorant people, Elizabeth understood that he had burdened her. Her father could have died this very moment, and they would not know. They would continue to be merry until suddenly, one morning, afternoon, evening or night, they would hear that Thomas Bennet had passed away.

  “How shocking!” they would exclaim, half horrified, half delighted by the news. “Who would have thought? He was not so very old. And his poor daughters and wife! Whatever will they do?”

  Whatever would they do?

  Another burden, Elizabeth realized, watching Mr. Bingley bow over her sister’s gloved hand as the next set began. Tonight, Jane Bennet was a beautiful young lady from a respectable family. Tomorrow, she could be the penniless daughter of a dead man. Would Mr. Bingley be smiling at her then?

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. This bitterness was uncharacteristic of her. Or was it? Was this who she really was? Had she only been cheerful when life had made it easy for her to be so?

  “You look as if you are about to fall asleep!”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. “Oh! Charlotte, I…”

  Her friend frowned. “You are quiet tonight. You have said nothing about Mr. Bingley or his friends. Are you feeling unwell?”

  How good it would feel to unburden herself, to say the words: my father is dying. But as much as she resented him for telling her and only her, she could not bring herself to break his confidence.

  “The room is rather stuffy,” Elizabeth said. “I need fresh air.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “You should stay. I believe Mr. Goulding is coming to ask you to dance.”

  They both looked out at the dancers, who were just ending the set.

  Charlotte patted her hair and smoothed the fabric of her dress. “Do you think I look well? As well as I can, I mean?”

  And for a moment, Elizabeth forgot her own troubles and remembered that Charlotte had turned seven and twenty just a few days earlier. Feeling a strange sense of solidarity with her—for had not Charlotte once confided that she feared for her family, should Sir William die?—Elizabeth reached out to squeeze her hand. But Charlotte had already turned toward Mr. Goulding with a bright smile.

  *

  Darcy wanted to blame Bingley: it had been his idea to attend the assembly, his suggestion that had prompted him to notice her, his prodding to dance that had caused him to pronounce her “tolerable, but not handsome enough.”

  Really, to call her “tolerable” was a kindness. Miss Jane Bennet’s sister, whom Bingley had called pretty, was nothing but a dull-eyed dimwit. When others spoke to her, she showed no indication of intelligence; when another man asked her to dance, she went through the motions clumsily; and when she returned to her place at the back of the room, she stared at the dancers like the country bumpkin he expected she was.

  This left him wondering why he was spending most of the evening watching her. Besides it being Bingley’s fault—a rationale that only explained why he had begun, not why he had continued—Darcy supposed it was because he was bored.

  But as he watched Miss Elizabeth close her eyes, he felt a wave of guilt. It was not Bingley’s fault; he was not bored; she was not a dull-eyed dimwit. The plain fact of the matter was that Miss Elizabeth reminded him of Georgiana.

  True, they were about the same height, but what really struck him was the shadow that crossed her face when she closed her eyes. That was not insipidity; it was misery—the same expression had haunted Georgiana’s face when he had told Wickham to leave and never return.

  Darcy cursed himself. Would he ever change? Only a moment earlier, he had been so sure of himself, so certain he could judge a stranger with a glance. Before Ramsgate, he had also been certain: Mrs. Younge was a trustworthy companion; Richard was his steadfast supporter; Georgiana was a sensible young woman; and, above all, Darcy was master of his own world.

  He knew that it was not fair to blame Georgiana or Richard; she had only been fifteen, and he was a dependent son. As for Mrs. Younge, she had been a despicable opportunist, but even opportunists required an opportunity. In the end, the blame fell squarely on his own shoulders, and it was a burden he was no longer certain he could bear.

  “I know you may never forgive me for telling my father,” Richard had written, “but surely you understand. The event shook me; we came very near to losing Georgiana. Had you not been in the right place at the right time, she would have thrown her life away.”

  And how could Darcy argue with that? How could he argue with his father’s will, which stated, in no uncertain terms, that should Darcy and Richard prove themselves incapable of serving as Georgiana’s guardians, Lord Matlock and Lady Catherine would take their place?

  Yet, how could he explain this to Georgiana, who wrote him regularly to beg him, plead with him to take her back, as if he had chosen to leave her with an overbearing aunt and a society-obsessed uncle?

  “You appear as bored as I feel.”

  Darcy looked up sharply, having forgotten the more mundane—yet immediate—predicament of Caroline Bingley. He had come to Hertfordshire to escape one set of problems, only to find himself living with another.

  “What do you think of the much-discussed Bennet family?” she asked, stepping so close to him that he smelled the wine on her breath.

  “Jane Bennet appears to be a very sweet girl,” she continued, expecting no answer to her previous questi
on. “But the mother!”

  “Yes, indeed. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  After a curt bow, Darcy headed for the nearest door. What he needed was a breath of fresh air.

  Chapter Two

  Meryton’s Assembly House possessed one balcony—one too many, as far as most of the town’s residents were concerned. Such a grand Georgian structure did not deserve something so awkward ruining its fine, clean lines of brick and window. The architect had nearly quit his position when he learned that the local landowner funding the project had decided to request such an appendage. “It will never do! The building will look ridiculous!”

  And it did.

  But Mrs. Hanover, a widow who had resided in Netherfield until her death had made room for Mr. Bingley, had been partial to balconies since her youth. Long ago, a young Mrs. Hanover had traveled to Verona with her family; there, standing on one of the city’s famous contributions to architecture and literature, she had been serenaded by a handsome peddler. Though he did not compare her to the sun, or in any other way remind her of Romeo, he had looked up at her and quoted poetry she did not understand; this had been enough to make her feel as romantic as Juliet.

  The very bad placement of Mrs. Hanover’s balcony (it had been built on a side street where no one but the servants would ever see it) rather undermined the original purpose of the structure: the carriage drivers’ guffaws echoed from the street below, and the air smelled of manure—hardly the stuff of romance.

  Darcy, who knew nothing of Mrs. Hanover or the balcony’s storied past, had been unsurprised to find himself confronted with raucous sounds and objectionable smells. Though he had hoped for fresh air, he had hardly expected to find it. Based on what he had seen of Meryton thus far, a badly-placed balcony was the very least of the town’s social sins. No, what bothered him was that he had sought solitude only to find Miss Elizabeth Bennet.