This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  “Oh, yes!” said Kitty. “Mr. Cantor, Mr. Williams—”

  “Mr. Denny,” interrupted Lydia.

  “Mr. Wickham,” said Kitty, drawing out his name until the girls lapsed into giggles.

  “I see you are not trying to tempt me to the ball, Lizzy,” her father said, smiling. “I wonder why that is?”

  Elizabeth barely repressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Perhaps it is because I think your plan of staying at home to read is a sound one. Indeed, I think I would like do the same.”

  “That suits me,” Lydia said. “As it was, you monopolized Mr. Wickham at Aunt Philip’s.”

  Her father raised an eyebrow, and as Elizabeth had no wish for him to ask about Mr. Wickham, she quickly changed the subject. “I daresay, Sir, that you will not miss much at the ball. In fact, I could tell you here and now exactly how the evening will unfold. Better yet, we will act it out for you.”

  “Really? This should be amusing.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Mary, you will be the musicians.”

  “What?”

  “Lydia and Kitty, you will represent the other dancers.”

  They laughed and began to twirl around Mary. “Come, Mary, play us a jig!”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “Jane, you will be yourself, as no one else could do you justice,” Elizabeth said. “And I will be Mr. Bingley.”

  Jane flushed, and everyone—even Mary—laughed.

  Still, Mary protested, “We are far too old to play theater!”

  “You are only sore that you have to be the musicians. Come on, Mary, play a jig!” Kitty prodded.

  “Oh, very well.”

  Then, looking more like the child she had once been instead of the serious young woman she had become, Mary cleared her throat, stuck out an arm, waved an invisible baton and began to hum one of their favorite tunes in an off key voice. Kitty and Lydia clapped and began to dance.

  Elizabeth held out a hand to Jane, who laughed and offered a curtsy.

  “Such an honor, Sir!”

  “My dear, precious, lovely angel, the honor is all mine!” Elizabeth replied in a deep voice, causing her father to shake with laugher.

  It was, as Mary had claimed, a ridiculous scene: five girls, the wind whipping their hair and dresses as they twirled and giggled like children, and their father, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes as he watched them. They none of them minded the gathering storm clouds in the sky above.

  *

  “I do not think I have witnessed a lovelier scene,” Bingley murmured from atop his horse.

  Transfixed, Darcy could say nothing. He thought of a painting he had seen once in Florence. His father, who had been with him, had called it immoral with its lush depiction of Venus surrounded by the frolicking, nearly-naked Graces.

  But Darcy had been captivated—almost as captivated as he was now.

  When he found his voice, he made certain to infuse it with a level of disdain that would have made his father proud. “They look ridiculous.”

  Bingley glanced at his friend. “You would say that.”

  “Well,” Darcy said, shifting in his saddle, “are we going to approach them or not? I believe that was your plan, or did you hope only to spy on them?”

  “You are in an unusually sour mood. I know how much you dislike attending balls. If you would prefer to sit this one out…”

  “Of course I will be in attendance. I only think it is unseemly, calling on the Bennets when we will see them this evening.”

  “We are not calling on them. We are offering the use of our carriage. Look at the sky. It is bound to rain yet again this afternoon. The roads will be a mess. If they have only the one carriage and such a large party…”

  “Yes, yes, you explained this all when you convinced me—against my better judgment—to come with you.”

  Bingley shook his head. “Is something the matter, Darcy? I mean, aside from your disapproval of this venture? You have been angry for much of the week. If I have done something—I know Caroline is sometimes too forward, and I will try to do a better job of restraining her. Or is it what I said when were hunting the other day? It was only a jest, really, I do not think you were truly flirting with Miss Elizabeth when she was at Netherfield, unless you consider arguing a form of flirtation—”

  Darcy held up a hand. “Could we please get on with it?”

  Bingley’s shoulders sank, and Darcy regretted his curt words. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Bingley was already urging his horse up the hill to meet the Bennets.

  Spurring his own horse, Darcy chided himself for hurting the one man he could consider a true friend. There were those in London and Cambridge who wondered why Darcy bothered with Bingley, a son of a tradesman who smiled too much and spoke too honestly. But Darcy had always known that he was the one who benefited most from the friendship, for rarely had anyone seemed to like him for anything other than his family connections or fortune.

  “Mr. Bennet! Miss Bennet!” Bingley called cheerfully, dismounting and offering a sweeping bow. “Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, Miss Catherine, and Miss Lydia! When I saw you dancing, I thought I had perhaps misread my own invitation. Is the ball to be here, today, now?”

  The two youngest girls laughed and the middle sister frowned; only Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth seemed disconcerted.

  Certainly, Mr. Bennet did not look embarrassed. Nor did he appear ill, at least at first glance. Darcy, still atop his horse, could make out the telltale signs—the hunched shoulders, the slight pallor, the gaunt lines of his face—only because he knew the truth.

  “It is certainly a less expensive way to throw a ball,” Mr. Bennet said. “Perhaps you should have considered it?”

  “It is a grand idea! But not in November,” Bingley replied, looking up. “Indeed, the impending rain is why I—why we are here.” Bingley looked back at Darcy. “Have you met my friend?”

  The gentlemen dismounted, but before Bingley could introduce Darcy properly, one of the younger girls—Catherine? Lydia?—rushed forward. “You cannot be thinking of calling off the ball because of a little rain! Surely it will clear up by this evening!”

  “Erm, no, not at all,” Bingley responded with more patience than Darcy could have mustered. “I have only come to offer the use of my carriage this evening.“

  “That is very kind!” Miss Bennet said, smiling brightly. “You are very kind, Mr. Bingley! Exceedingly kind!”

  Darcy frowned at this inane display of enthusiasm from Miss Bennet; he had thought her more sensible.

  But Bingley was too flattered to make much of her unusual behavior. “I was only concerned for your—for your family’s comfort, Miss Bennet.”

  Darcy did not think Miss Bennet could smile any more broadly, but apparently he had underestimated her.

  “I believe my youngest interrupted our introductions, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance after hearing so much about you.”

  At this, the youngest gave an unladylike snort.

  “Lydia!” Miss Elizabeth chided before offering him an apologetic half smile.

  He forced himself to look away from her. “The pleasure is mine, Sir.”

  “I would say that you two could become more acquainted this evening,” Mr. Bingley said, “but I hear, Sir, that you are not to attend tonight’s festivities.”

  “No, but do not take offense, Mr. Bingley. I avoid all festivities, not just those at Netherfield. I will send my cousin in my place. I daresay you will find him amusing.”

  “I believe we had the good fortune to see your cousin last week in Meryton, did we not, Darcy?”

  “I do not recall.” Wickham’s appearance had pushed all other memories of that afternoon out of Darcy’s head.

  “We did not have an opportunity to meet him, as we were only passing through the town, but he appeared a very amiable sort of man.”

  “Oh yes, he is very amiable,” Mr. Bennet said, his lips twitching. “In fact, you
should come to the house and meet him now. I am certain he would be happy to speak with you, and Mrs. Bennet will provide refreshments.”

  “Surely Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy need to return to Netherfield and prepare for the ball, Papa,” Miss Elizabeth said, taking her father’s arm. “Indeed, we should probably—”

  “Nonsense!” her father replied. “Unlike ladies, it takes gentlemen very little time to prepare for balls, is that not so?”

  “We would not wish to inconvenience—” Bingley began.

  “Oh, it is no inconvenience!” Miss Bennet interjected. “None at all! Please, do come to the house.”

  “Then we should be delighted!”

  Darcy glared at Bingley, but he was too busy smiling rapturously at Miss Bennet to notice.

  The younger Bennet girls had already started towards the house, and Mr. Bingley quickly offered Miss Bennet his arm. That left Darcy standing with Miss Elizabeth and her father.

  “Could I assist you down the hill, Sir?”

  Mr. Bennet met his gaze. “Thank you.”

  “It is no trouble. Here, take my arm…”

  “You misunderstand me. Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for keeping my secret. My daughter told me of your conversation at the assembly.”

  “Ah.”

  “Tell me,” Mr. Bennet said as he put one hand on Darcy’s arm and the other on his daughter’s. “Do you pity me?”

  He glanced over Bennet’s head and met Miss Elizabeth’s gaze. “Yes, Sir, I do.”

  Looking away, she said quietly, “We should hurry. It is beginning to rain.”

  *

  Elizabeth was not sure who most deserved her ire: her father for suggesting the idea, Jane for so blatantly encouraging Mr. Bingley, Mr. Collins for being himself, or Mr. Darcy for spending half an hour in their parlor, glowering.

  It was this sort of behavior that made Mr. Wickham’s story wholly believable.

  “Your aunt,” Mr. Collins was saying to Mr. Darcy, “is the most merciful patroness one could wish for. When I told her I might need to be away from her for a fortnight, she said, ‘You may, Mr. Collins, spend fifteen days if necessary.’ Was that not excessively kind? Or, rather, not excessive, for Lady Catherine could not be called excessive. Her temperament is a perfect blend of sense and feeling.”

  Mr. Darcy only sighed.

  Elizabeth looked to someone in the room to stop Mr. Collins’ excessive—for he, unlike his patroness, embodied the word—chatter, but her mother was fussing over Jane and Bingley, Mary was reading, Lydia and Kitty were whispering to each other, and her father had taken the opportunity to return to his study.

  “Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, “would you be so kind as to fetch my shawl from my father’s study? I feel a draft.”

  Her cousin jumped to his feet, and she felt a twinge of guilt; Mr. Collins, for all of his flaws, was certainly eager to please.

  “Immediately, my dear cousin! I hope you are not catching cold! I should be…Oh, how could I have been so careless?”

  “What is it?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes widening. “Are you unwell?”

  Ignoring her, Mr. Collins turned to Mr. Darcy and bowed deeply. “You must forgive me, Sir.”

  “Whatever for?” Mr. Darcy asked, his eyes as wide as Elizabeth’s.

  “I should have told you immediately that, when I saw her last, Miss de Bourgh was in the best of health!”

  “Miss de Bourgh.”

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy! I know that, were I away from my dear cousin—” He looked longingly at Elizabeth. “— I would be anxious for any news of her.”

  “Your dear cousin,” Mr. Darcy repeated, staring at Elizabeth.

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy!” Collins lowered his voice. “While it has not been publicly announced, Lady Catherine saw fit to inform me—as the likely officiate of the ceremony, of course—of your upcoming nuptials.”

  Mr. Darcy’s face reddened, and Elizabeth said quickly, “My shawl, Mr. Collins?”

  “Oh, of course!”

  When he had hurried from the room, Mr. Darcy leaned forward. “Dear cousin?”

  “Miss de Bourgh?” Elizabeth retorted before she could help herself.

  “It is too complicated to explain at present.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. Not at all. But it is not my concern. I must say, though, that I hear such different accounts of you as to puzzle me exceedingly.”

  “I can readily believe,” he answered gravely, “that report may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either of us.”

  “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may not have another opportunity.”

  “Will you not be at Netherfield tonight?”

  “I will, but balls present little opportunity for discerning one’s true character.”

  To her surprise, his lips twitched. “Not without a balcony.”

  She could not help but smile in return. “I should hope you did not sketch my character based solely on that moment. That would not be a flattering portrait.”

  “On the contrary,” he replied quietly. “I learned a great deal that night.”

  “Cousin Elizabeth!” Mr. Collins reappeared, shawl in hand. “Allow me to help you with this…”

  “Actually, Sir, and I am sorry to require yet another service, but…”

  “Anything, dear cousin!”

  “You are very kind. I should have asked you earlier, but my father—he does not like to ask this for himself—but he enjoys a fresh cup of tea around this time of the day. I would bring it to him in his study myself, but I know how much he would enjoy your company.”

  Elizabeth felt more than a twinge of guilt this time, more for what she was doing to her father than to Mr. Collins.

  “Of course! I would be only too glad.” Mr. Collins turned and smiled at Mr. Darcy. “My family’s felicity is very important to me. As your dear aunt has said many a time, ‘Our first duty is always to our family.’ Such wisdom!”

  “Yes. My aunt is most attentive to her family.”

  “Indeed! It is why I am so honored by the concern she has shown me, far below her in station and stature though I am. ‘Though you will only be a gentleman in possession of a small estate’ said she, ‘I should visit you at Longbourn when I may.’ Is that not all kindness?”

  “Longbourn?” Mr. Darcy asked. “Do you mean to say—”

  “That, Sir, will be a very long time from now!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  Mr. Collins flushed. “Forgive me, Cousin, I did not mean to suggest otherwise!”

  “What is it that you are discussing so heatedly?” Mrs. Bennet asked, coming toward them. “Mr. Collins, I hope my Lizzy has not caused offense. Lizzy, dear, apologize to the gentleman! She can sometimes give her opinion a little too freely, but I assure you, Mr. Collins, she can also be a most obedient young woman, is that not so, Lizzy?”

  Elizabeth stood so quickly that she nearly knocked her chair to the ground. “Excuse me, I have a headache.”

  As she hurried from the room, she heard Mr. Collins say, “That is her second headache this morning! Are you certain, Ma’am, that she is not somewhat sickly?”

  When she had reached the hall, quiet except for the sound of the rain splattering against the windows, Elizabeth did not know whether to laugh or cry. When she realized that she could not run from Mr. Collins her entire life, she settled on crying.

  *

  “Bingley, I should check on the horses. We left them tied to the trees at the top of the hill, but with the rain—”

  It was a feeble excuse, but Bingley did not care, and no one else dared to question him. Even Mrs. Bennet, who should have offered to send a servant in his stead, said nothing. Darcy was, for once, grateful for the woman’s dislike of him.

  He did not know what he would have done if she had gone up to her room or to some
other part of the house, but she stood in the hall, her back to him as she gazed out of the tall window next to the door.

  “Your father’s estate is entailed away,” he said quietly.

  Her posture stiffened. “That is none of your concern.”

  He felt somehow that it was his concern, but he could find no proper words to explain himself. Frustrated, he said the first thing that came to his mind: “I am asking out of concern for my friend.”

  “Mr. Bingley?” she asked, glancing back at him.

  “What are your hopes for your sister?”

  She turned. “What do you mean?”

  The sight of her—eyes red, nose and cheeks blotchy from crying—only made him angrier.

  “Does she know about your father?” he asked, following this line of question with the sort of self-righteousness that only a man so completely in the wrong could feel. “She has made her intentions very clear this morning, and I can only suppose that she will continue her pursuit—”

  “Pursuit?”

  “—of Mr. Bingley this evening. This is such altered behavior from before when she seemed wholly indifferent to him—”

  “Indifferent! You are—”

  “—that I can only suppose she must have learned of your father’s condition and is hastening to secure her family’s happiness. As admirable as that my seem from your perspective, I cannot allow my friend to fall into such a trap.”

  “How dare you! Jane has never once behaved improperly! And if she speaks with more affection today—” She shook her head.—“it is only because I put the notion into her head that Mr. Bingley believes her indifferent. My sister is not a fortune hunter, if that is what you imply. She at least will marry for love!”

  He felt his chest tighten. “You cannot be thinking of marrying your fool of a cousin.”

  “That is no more your concern than Miss de Bourgh is mine. Excuse me.”

  As he watched her hurry up the stairs, he did not know whether to laugh or scream at the absurdity of it all. Being too miserable to laugh and too proud to scream, he decided on an uncomfortable middle ground: pulling open the door of Longbourn, he strode up the hill, settled himself under a large oak—he would have to change for the blasted ball later anyway—and waited in the sodding rain for Bingley.