This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  Chapter Seven

  Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield and looked in vain for Mr. Darcy, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her.

  No one in her party recognized his absence, and Elizabeth could find no plausible cause to inquire after him. Indeed, she could find no plausible cause for wishing him present. Without him, she could enjoy all that the ball had to offer: Jane and Bingley’s unabashed regard for each other was not met with his disapproval; Mr. Wickham’s handsome smile was not checked by his presence; and Mr. Collins had one less reason to discuss the “beautiful and accomplished” Miss de Bourgh.

  Yet Mr. Collins still spoke of Lady Catherine, if not her daughter; Wickham’s smile interested her less than it once might have; and Jane and Bingley’s happiness, while pleasing to her, could not ease the inexplicable twinge she felt when she glanced around for Mr. Darcy and could not find him. She supposed the feeling came from anger, or at the very least, frustration. The only rational reason she had for desiring his presence was that she wanted to impress upon him the sincerity of her sister’s feelings for Mr. Bingley.

  “Your cousin,” Charlotte said, coming to stand next to Elizabeth after having finished a set with Mr. Collins, “is not so bad as you made him out to be.”

  “Charlotte, I watched him turn the wrong way when you were dancing. And he stepped on my foot during our set!” Elizabeth watched Mr. Collins bow awkwardly to Maria Lucas. “Oh, I pity your sister.”

  Her friend shrugged. “We do not all of us have your high standards.”

  “If Mr. Collins’ clumsiness were my only complaint, you would be justified in your censure of me. But you must own that he speaks as poorly as he dances.”

  “He has said nothing reprehensible to me.”

  “But that does not mean he has said anything of worth, either.”

  “So a man must be clever and graceful to win your affection? I wish you good fortune in finding such a person! Then again, perhaps he has found you?” Charlotte asked with a pointed glance at someone behind her.

  Elizabeth turned quickly, her heart pounding. Then, shoulders slumping, she sighed. It was Mr. Wickham. Smiling at her from across the room, he made his way through the crowd.

  “Lizzy, whatever is the matter with you!” Charlotte whispered as he approached. “You seem almost disappointed! I daresay you will find him agreeable. It would be unjust of you to slight the man after he has already been slighted by those dearest to him!”

  “Do you mean to say that he has told you, too, of his bad dealings with Mr. Darcy?”

  “He told my father when they dined together with some of the other officers. Why do you ask?”

  She had no time to respond, for Mr. Wickham was before her, offering a bow. “May I be so bold as to request a set?”

  Elizabeth wished she could explain, to him and to herself, why she felt reluctant to accept. As she could not, she forced a smile and assented.

  “I am very glad to see you here tonight,” he said after they had begun.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wickham. You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  “The Bingleys are affable hosts. My enjoyment is increased by your presence, of course.”

  “You are too kind, sir.” They turned to those next them in line and performed the proper steps.

  When they met again, he said, “I am also relieved at the absence of a certain gentleman.”

  “Whatever could you mean?”

  He looked puzzled. “Did I not explain at Mrs. Philip’s…”

  “Oh, yes. And if you had not told me,” she said, pausing as they traded partners for a few beats, “I am certain to have heard it from my sister.” They turned. “Or my Aunt Philips.” They turned again. “Or Sir William.” Another turn.

  Face flushed, Mr. Wickham said nothing. Elizabeth immediately regretted her set down. Was it fair to defend a moody, secretive man who had maligned her sister? Was it right to criticize a pleasant, open man who had been so agreeable to all he met?

  Elizabeth said, her tone gentler, “Your situation must weigh heavily upon you.”

  Wickham smiled. “You understand me perfectly. It is true that I have perhaps been too open, but when I learned of his presence here, I could not allow my story to go untold. I would not want him to abuse any of the good people of Meryton.”

  “I hardly think the people of Meryton are in any danger from him.” Most people, she amended silently.

  “He could not do them as much harm has he has done me,” Wickham conceded. “Nonetheless, I would not want anyone—” He met her eyes. “—to be fooled by him.”

  They moved apart, and Elizabeth wished she had followed her father’s example and remained at home with a book.

  “Have you spoken to Mr. Bingley about his friend?” she asked Wickham when he next took her hand.

  “Er, no,” he replied, casting her a startled glance. “I would not want to cause him pain. Indeed, I almost did not attend this evening’s festivities, fearing that a confrontation between the two of us would embarrass our host.”

  “Yet you did come.”

  Charlotte and Mr. Collins fell in between them at the line. “My dear Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins said breathlessly, “I hope you do not mind that I asked Miss Lucas for another set. Knowing that she is a close friend of yours makes it essential that she become my friend, as well…”

  Elizabeth hated to cut short such a pretty speech, but the dance called for her to turn away, and she could not ignore the rules of the dance.

  “I came to Netherfield,” Wickham continued, “because I decided that I could not allow him to keep me from such charming company.”

  Elizabeth could not help but laugh at herself. She was dancing with a handsome officer who paid her the highest compliments; she was the envy of most young ladies in the room (certainly Lydia); and yet, she found herself wanting to argue with a proud, disagreeable, engaged man.

  “You pay me too many compliments, Mr. Wickham. I am not so easily led.”

  “No, you are not, are you?” He smiled. “I know this about you because I am a very good judge of character.”

  “Is that so? Such a skill must be useful in the military.”

  “Yes, though it would have been better used in the Church,” he said.

  “Did you not consider another path to obtaining a living?”

  “How could I? The Darcy family was my only means of entrance. My own father, as I think I mentioned before, died when I was just a young man and had not the means to help me.”

  “And yet you were able to secure a position as an officer.”

  “I had a few friends left, friends who, unlike Darcy, did not hold my modest origins against me.” He smiled. “But I cannot be bitter towards Darcy, for I would not be here now if it had not been for his abominable behavior. I would be giving sermon instead!”

  “On a Thursday evening?”

  “Ah, well, you have caught me. I suppose I would be writing a sermon.”

  “And what would be the topic?”

  “Forgiveness. I have come to realize that he must be the one to feel a greater sense of regret. Had he been a better friend, he might be the one enjoying your lovely company instead of me.”

  “You think you are the reason for his absence?”

  “I do not mean to make myself so important in his eyes,” he replied. “However, I suspect that he did not wish to cause a scene. Of course, if that was his fear, it shows how little he knows me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.”

  She could not help herself. “That is an honorable sentiment. Your forbearance, modesty, and silence on the subject does you credit.”

  And for the second time that night, Elizabeth’s foot suffered from the clumsy misstep of one of her partners.

  The music reached its closing chords, the partners ended with the appropriate bow and curtsy, and Mr. Wickham took his leave of her more abruptly than might be expected after he had spent a quarter o
f an hour plying her with compliments.

  “I could not help but observe,” Mr. Bingley commented a few minutes later, “your dance with George Wickham.”

  Elizabeth shot him a startled glance.

  “Your sister,” he said, looking fondly at Jane, who stood nearby with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, “told me that Wickham had accused Darcy of something dreadful.”

  “And I suppose,” Elizabeth said, smiling, “that you, like she, believe it is a misunderstanding.”

  “No. In this one instance, I must disagree with Miss Bennet. When it comes to Darcy, I cannot believe anything bad of him.”

  “You would describe him as perfect, then!”

  Bingley laughed. “Not at all. Darcy can be proud, even disagreeable, but he is not cruel.”

  “Not to you, perhaps, for he sees you as his equal. But you must own that his behavior towards the less sophisticated people of Hertfordshire suggests, if not cruelty, then at least disdain. He has said little to anyone outside of your household.”

  With a smile, Bingley said, “He has said quite a bit to you, I believe.”

  She flushed and looked away.

  “Did you ever hear of how we met?”

  She tried not to appear as interested as she felt. “No. I assumed you met in town.”

  “At Cambridge, actually. I entered a few years behind Darcy. I was not expected to do much at university except become the gentleman my father never was. He was a merchant, a very successful one but also a man of humble origins.” Bingley smiled ruefully. “My sisters would not be happy if they knew I was telling you this.”

  Elizabeth returned his smile. “You need not feel anxious on that account.”

  “My father died just a few months before I entered university, and I was determined to honor his memory by becoming the most refined gentleman known to London society. The only obstacle I faced was that I had no idea how to behave.” Bingley laughed. “I spent the first few months emulating the most exclusive gentlemen, and by Christmas I was miserable. Fortunately, I met Darcy.”

  “I must own that I find it difficult to believe that Mr. Darcy taught you to be cheerful!”

  Bingley laughed. “That does seem backwards, does it not? Yet, in his own way, that is exactly what he did. I had been invited to a gathering where Darcy was present. All of the other gentlemen were drinking and boasting of—perhaps that is better not spoken of in polite company. There was one gentleman, however, who stood along the back wall of the room, arms crossed, gazing out over the others as if he thought very little of them.”

  “That sounds more like the Mr. Darcy I know.”

  “Indeed. He appeared very unsociable. Had I been in a better mood, I would never have dared to approach him. But I was in such a state that I marched up to him and said, ‘If you despise these gatherings, why bother attending?’”

  She smiled. “And how did he respond?”

  “He looked down his nose at me—I was, and still am, a good bit shorter than he is—and said, ‘Likely for the same reason you are here: it is expected of me.’ From then on, we were friends. I think it was because I challenged him.” Bingley smiled. “He seems to appreciate that.”

  Elizabeth looked away.

  “Though he was soon to leave Cambridge, he helped me in whatever ways he could. Without his assistance, I would never have made my way into society. I regained my cheerfulness; I needed a friend to give me a bit of confidence. Though I am certain that he has given me much more than I have given him, I like to think that I have helped him overcome his natural shyness.” Bingley sighed and looked around the ballroom. “Though I suppose I have not done so good a job as I would have hoped.”

  “Is he not in attendance this evening?” She felt only a little guilty for feigning ignorance.

  “He said he was fatigued. Perhaps he will join us at supper.”

  “Are you discussing poor Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley asked, coming to stand beside her brother. Glaring at Elizabeth, she added, “I would not be surprised if he were ill after riding in the rain today.”

  “I rode in the rain today,” Bingley reminded her, “and I am perfectly well.”

  Miss Bingley scoffed. “You were not drenched, only a little wet. Mr. Darcy, however…perhaps I should send a servant to check on him?”

  “I do not think he would appreciate that gesture, Caroline.” Bingley smiled at Elizabeth. “If you will excuse us, I think we should see to the rest of our guests, should we not?”

  Miss Bingley, always the good hostess (especially when it meant snubbing Elizabeth Bennet), quickly assented to her brother’s suggestion.

  Elizabeth surveyed the room: she could have gone to her mother, who was spending the evening with the other matrons, boasting of Jane’s beauty; she might have stood with Lydia and Kitty, were they not surrounded by officers (including Mr. Wickham); she almost went to Jane, who was talking with Mary.

  She should have gone to Mr. Collins who, for all of his silliness, had the power to help her family after her father’s death.

  In the end, however, she stood at the back of the room, feeling rather like a certain gentleman who knew what was expected of him and yet resented it all the same.

  *

  Running his fingers across the polished surface of the Bingleys’ piano, Darcy thought of the instrument he had purchased for Georgiana. It had been meant as a birthday gift, but she had not been home when it had been delivered. Good brother that he was, he had sent her to Ramsgate for an enjoyable month by the sea.

  Darcy glared at the wall that stood between him and the dancers in the next room. He had retreated to the music room to calm himself, but upon seeing Miss Bingley’s prized pianoforte, he had felt even more enraged. The sight of the instrument should have been less offensive than the scene that had greeted his tardy entrance to the ballroom. Yet the cherry wood and ivory keys, a reminder of the sister he had lost, brought him even more pain than seeing Wickham himself, laughing and flirting with the youngest Miss Bennet.

  The worst of it was, he had only himself to blame. As they grew up together, Darcy had seen what Wickham was becoming, but had he said anything? He had hinted at Wickham’s philandering to his father, but George Darcy had forgiven behavior in his steward’s son that he would never have tolerated in his own. Darcy had been content, or at the very least resigned, to leave the matter at that. He had said nothing in public, nothing to keep his erstwhile friend from using the servant girls because, after all, they were only servant girls. And the tenants’ daughters—what happened to them was the tenants’ business. The courtesans in town, what else were they meant for? The empty-headed misses and young wives of old men were not his concern.

  Yet here was his opportunity for redemption. He could march into the drawing room, announce Wickham’s perfidy, and help the young ladies of Meryton in a way that he had failed to help his own sister. Instead, he sat down on the piano bench and did what he always did when his emotions ran high: he talked himself out of it.

  He preferred to call it reason rather than cowardice. After all, it was more sensible to speak privately to the gentlemen of Hertfordshire. He would be able to warn them of Wickham without exposing Georgiana.

  Or without making a fool of yourself.

  Ah, the unasked but omnipresent question: was he being sensible or selfish, wise or weak?

  With sudden fervor, Darcy slammed his fists against the keys of the piano, hoping the dissonance would jolt him out of his morose mood.

  “First Mr. Bingley’s book, now his pianoforte. You are not a very considerate guest, are you?”

  He was not surprised to see her in the doorway, silhouetted against the flickering candlelight in the corridor.

  “You have a talent,” he replied, knowing he should stand but strangely unwilling to do so, “for making an appearance when I would much rather be alone.”

  It was a savage thing to say, delivered in an even more savage tone. But if he had expected her to recoil and leave him in peace
, he would have been disappointed.

  Odd that he was not disappointed.

  “Mrs. Hurst was under the impression that this room was empty,” she said, glaring—or at least, he thought she glared. With only the red embers of the fire and the dim light from the corridor, it was too dark to be certain. “She said I could rest here.”

  “Rest? Have you been dancing so much then?”

  “I danced with one of your acquaintances,” she replied, taking a step into the room.

  He looked up at her, knowing exactly which acquaintance she meant. “And was he charming?’

  “Oh, very much so.”

  “No doubt he smiled and paid you many pretty compliments.”

  “You know Mr. Wickham well.”

  “Far too well.” Standing abruptly, he waved an arm. “The room is yours, Miss Bennet.” He was halfway to the door before he stopped. “Do you believe him?”

  “You do not even know what he has said about you.”

  “It does not take much imagination to guess. I cheated him out of his rightful inheritance, is that not so?”

  She said nothing for a long moment. Then, “No, I do not believe him.”

  He released a long breath.

  “But you make it very easy for him to be believable,” she added. “Had we not spoken privately, your behavior in public would have convinced me that he was telling the truth. Given different circumstances, I would have believed him.”

  “As many others have. He is an accomplished liar.”

  “And you are an accomplished misanthrope, which is why so many people in Meryton have accepted his story.”

  “Misanthrope?” He felt his lips tug at the word.

  “Are you smiling?” she asked, taking a hesitant step toward him. “That is not fair. You are disproving my assertion without a word.”

  “You make it difficult for me to remain misanthropic.”