This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  “You did not come to find your reticule?”

  She did not return his smile. “I am afraid that Mr. Collins knows of our engagement.”

  “Mr. Collins?” Darcy blinked, then groaned. “Mr. Collins.”

  “Yes. He spent nearly an hour this afternoon trying to explain to me why I must be mistaken about my own engagement.”

  “Does he know of your father’s illness?”

  “No, we are trying to keep that from him as long as possible. At the moment, he is preoccupied with saving you and Lady Catherine from my clutches. He is likely preparing a letter to Rosings as we speak.”

  “If that is the case,” Darcy said with a humorless laugh, “then my aunt will not receive it, at least not for quite some time.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I received a letter from my uncle two days ago, but as you might imagine, I have been somewhat distracted and only read it this afternoon. My uncle writes that his daughter, Sophia, has made a very good match; she has become engaged to the Earl of Sheffield, and they will be married in early spring. Lady Catherine, Anne, and Georgiana have been persuaded to join my uncle’s family in London for the Season, ostensibly to congratulate my cousin and help her shop for her wedding clothes. But I, too, have been invited, no doubt so that I will make peace with the family by proposing to Anne.”

  Elizabeth’s lips parted, then closed. Finally she said, “Then you should go to London.”

  “May I remind you that we are marrying in less than a month?”

  “You should go to London.”

  “I will write to him and refuse. I will also tell him of our engagement; it was dishonorable of me to consider hiding you from my family until after we had already married. Your father censured me for it yesterday, and he was right to do so.”

  “You are being far too critical of yourself.”

  “I am not being critical enough.”

  “So you will write to your uncle out of some abstract moral duty? You know that he will sue for custody of your sister when he finds out. This was the very thing you hoped to avoid by marrying me.”

  “I hope, by marrying you, to gain a wife I love and admire. You seem to find that a difficult point to accept!”

  She flushed. “I suppose I do. I cannot help but return to the fact that I am, as you pointed out earlier, a great deal of trouble.”

  “Elizabeth…”

  “I know, I know. This is very unbecoming. You certainly do not need to placate my vanity at such a trying time. Tell me, then, what to do, how to support you. I am new at this, after all.”

  “As am I.”

  They said nothing for a moment. Then she shook her head. “I cannot allow myself to be the wedge that drives you from your sister!”

  “Elizabeth, if you want to support me, do not concern yourself with this matter! I will write to my uncle, as I should have before now, and I will explain my views. We will come to an agreement.”

  “I do not see, though, why your uncle should come to any agreement with you now. What will you be able to promise him in return for reclaiming your sister? That you will bring into his family a country nobody with no fortune or connections? He will think you have been snared by a fortune hunter; he will not trust your judgment.”

  Darcy gazed down at her profile, torn between exasperation and admiration. She had perceived the problem, and he knew, from the tone of her voice, what she would urge him to do.

  “Unless,” she added hopefully, “he sees how much you love your sister. Then perhaps he might be persuaded that she belongs with you.”

  His lips twisted into a bitter approximation of a smile. “My uncle is not known for placing others’ sentiments above his own.”

  “Then you should go to London,” she said again, “and if he should press you on the matter of our engagement, I would not hold you—”

  He brought her hand to his chest. “Do not attempt to finish that sentence, Elizabeth. I will not consider the idea, now or ever. Besides, you do not truly believe what you are about to say.”

  She looked up at him, eyes flashing. “I do not mean it? I am quite sincere when I say that I will not be the cause of your sister’s separation from you.” She tried to tug her hand from his grasp. “If that means that this cannot be—”

  “It will not come to that,” he said, holding firm. “My uncle will have an inducement to reason with me. With his daughter’s impending marriage, he will not want a scandal.”

  “But Lady Catherine…”

  He sighed. “She will be difficult to persuade.”

  “Then you must go to London and speak with her.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head. “You know that I am right. Besides, how long has it been since you have seen your sister?”

  He dropped her hand and turned away. She had, of course, hit on the heart of the matter. His uncle’s letter had not been the only he had received; Georgiana had written to him, as well. While she continued to maintain a pretense of cheerfulness, he guessed she was lonely and afraid. All the while, he spent his days in Hertfordshire, bantering with a woman who made him irrationally happy.

  After a long moment of silence, he felt her hand on his shoulder.

  “Fitzwilliam.”

  He turned, his eyes widening.

  “I know,” she said, smiling a little. “You have not given me leave to speak to you in such an intimate way. I have shocked and disgusted you.”

  “Say my name again.”

  She laughed. “No, I will not. I have gained your attention, which was my only aim.”

  “You will never lose my attention, Elizabeth.”

  “This kind of talk is why you must go to London. You must think on this matter rationally.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “You should at least consider what your family has to say. Oh, do not look at me as if I were heartless! I do not want you to go, of course, but I would never forgive myself—and I think you might not forgive me, either—if you were to lose your sister because you remained with me in Hertfordshire.”

  He pulled her into his arms, sighing deeply when she pressed her frame to his.

  “I will not be gone for more than a week.”

  “Well,” she said, withdrawing from his embrace and smiling up at him, “I have it on good authority that the less you know of me before the wedding, the more secure our happiness will be. So by all means, stay away for more than a week, if you like.”

  “If I did not know your teasing spirit, I might think you wanted to get rid of me.”

  “Of course I do. What woman wants her bridegroom underfoot when she is planning a wedding?”

  “Do you think you might spare even one serious word for me before I depart for London?”

  She looked away. “You will leave first thing in the morning?”

  “No, I will call on you and your family first. I will depart directly from Longbourn.”

  “Would you be so kind as to carry a letter to your sister? If you approve, that is.”

  “Very much so.” He tried to catch her eye. “Will you write only to her?”

  “Oh, is it your vanity that needs placating now?”

  “Not my vanity. Perhaps my pride, though, for it has been suggested that I have an excess of it.”

  “But where there is a real superiority of mind—”

  “Do not repeat what I said then!” he interrupted, laughing. “I do not understand you, Elizabeth Bennet. One moment, you are teasing and flirtatious—”

  “Flirtatious!”

  “And then you turn missish. No, do not laugh and say that you are coy.”

  “Then what should I say? That I am violently in love with you and do not know my own mind when we are in the same room together?” She met his gaze. “Do you realize that only a fortnight ago, we sat in this very room, debating vanity and pride as mere acquaintances? That not even two months have passed since we met on the balcony of the assembly hall? So much has occurred since then that I begin to
think I do not know this person named Elizabeth Bennet. It is easier for me to tease and flirt, as you say, than to explain my deeper feelings. But you must not let me fool you into thinking that I do not, after all, harbor those deeper feelings.”

  He brushed his fingers across her cheek, smiling when she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. “I could ask for no better endearment, Elizabeth.”

  Eyelids fluttering open, she stood on her tiptoes. “This,” she whispered against his lips, “is my teasing, flirtatious, missish way of explaining—”

  He did not let her finish.

  *

  “Nearly a half hour,” Miss Bingley said to them when they came across the party in the upstairs hallway. “That is a very long time to find a reticule.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “Do you know, I employed Mr. Darcy to help me find the thing, only to realize that I did not bring it with me to Netherfield after all?”

  Darcy bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing; he really did feel sorry for Miss Bingley. That all her aspirations had been dashed by one with no fortune, no connections, no accomplishments—that her long-held dream of becoming mistress of Pemberley had been destroyed by a woman whose only recommendation was a pair of fine eyes—appeared to be too much for her to accept with equanimity.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Longbourn: ThursdayFriday, November 28 29

  Dear Mr. Darcy,

  Do you know that I have wasted two good sheets of paper attempting to begin this letter, only to realize on my third attempt that I have dated this version incorrectly? When I began writing to you, it was in fact November 28; but the clock has struck midnight, so out of a desire to be as precise as possible (for I think that would please you more than most), I have changed the date to reflect the passage of time. Still, this has caused a terrible blot on the page, and I fear I will now be subject to the same criticism you directed at Mr. Bingley when we were at Netherfield a fortnight ago. I believe the excuse he gave was that his ideas flowed so rapidly he had not the time to express them properly. I cannot claim the same admirable deficiency. Indeed, I hope you will forgive me for how few ideas flow to my pen; I should like to cite my inexperience (for I have never before written a love letter). The lateness of the hour does me no credit, either; I do my very best thinking in the morning, which is why, since we have almost always met in the afternoon or evening, you have found me to be so vexing. (I shall have to think of another excuse when you have the privilege, if one may call it that, of seeing me in the early morning hours.)

  Well, I have managed to take up half a page with words that say very little. I should start over yet again if I had any more paper to spare, but I used six sheets in order to write a one-page letter to your sister; she, after all, does not know me well enough to suffer through blots and nonsense. I hope you will read the letter I have enclosed to her. If you do not find it suitable, I beg you to dispose of it. I would rather her think me negligent and illiterate than hurtful. My words, as you have daily proof, may sometimes cut—not out of spite but out of a vain attempt to appear clever.

  I imagine you smiling a little at my request; you think my sentiment noble and wish to commend my goodwill toward your sister. Yet my concern for her, while sincere, is also selfish. Having never met her, I may only know her through you (and if you should find the time to write, you must tell me more about her). I fear hurting your sister not so much her own sake as for yours. The truth of the matter is that I fear hurting your sister for my sake, for if she were to suffer, you would suffer, and if you were to suffer…

  You see how complicated this has become. I refer to more than my letter to Miss Darcy. I will not revisit the topic you found so distasteful only a few hours ago; I am aware that my dithering does more harm than good, for you are too honorable and I am too selfish to undo what we, in a fit of a sentiment, have already done. Realizing, then, how little I can do to lighten the burdens you bear, I may only make this small but solemn promise: I will strive to be the wife and sister that you and Miss Darcy so dearly deserve.

  Had I not already indicated the lateness of the hour, you might have guessed it by the increasingly illegible and mawkish nature of this letter. I will close, then, with a plea: remember we that cannot all be as talented at letter writing as you and Miss Bingley.

  Yours, with love,

  E.B.

  *

  Darcy did not, as a rule, believe in rereading correspondence. This practice had developed out of the two guiding principles in his life: pride (he felt his memory and intellect were equal to the task of comprehending a letter immediately) and practicality (he had little time to mull over the words of others, unless of course those words were preserved in a book, preferably a very old one).

  Since coming to Hertfordshire, however, he had lost his bearings. Pride and practicality had been unable to keep him from losing Georgiana; indeed, he held these traits partially responsible for her absence. Had he not given in to reason, Darcy would not have given in to his uncle’s demands. Had he abandoned his pride, he felt certain that, on this cold November night in London, he would have been listening to his sister’s rendition of Mozart instead of the dull tick of the hallway clock.

  So, although it might once have been uncharacteristic of Fitzwilliam Darcy to pore over a short, irreverent, and partially illegible letter, it seemed natural enough to the man who had chosen to marry Elizabeth Bennet. Indeed, it was not only natural but enjoyable, which is why he ignored the persistent knock at his study door and read again the letter Elizabeth had handed him before he had departed Hertfordshire for London earlier that morning.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Frowning, Darcy looked up. “Norris, I am busy.”

  His butler raised an eyebrow. “Then I will tell Colonel Fitzwilliam to call another time.”

  “No.” He put down the letter with a sigh. “Please show him in.”

  As Norris bowed, Darcy caught the smile on the old servant’s lips. Norris was, as his uncle had once claimed, more irreverent than was generally desirable in a butler. This made Darcy all the more certain that Elizabeth would approve of him.

  In the few hours since he had arrived in London, Darcy had examined his household with new eyes: she would delight in the shrubs out front, loathe the gaudy brass knocker on the door, feel overwhelmed by the number of maids, and cherish the family portraits on the second floor.

  (Of course, these were his views, but he was still in the early days of love and had not yet learned that she might care for him without sharing his opinions on things less profound.)

  Hearing the sound of his cousin’s voice in the corridor, Darcy stood and smoothed the wrinkles from his waistcoat.

  “And your nephew, Norris?” Richard was saying. “How does he like the life of a sailor?”

  “Oh, he is well, but hungry, as I believe all sailors are, Sir.”

  The study door opened.

  “I could have told him that the army treats a man better!” Richard Fitzwilliam laughed, and for a moment, Darcy allowed himself to enjoy the sound of his cousin’s good humor. Before Ramsgate, Darcy had considered Richard to be among his dearest friends. Afterward, they had exchanged such words that he did not know what kind of reception he might receive—or give.

  Norris bowed and closed the door behind him.

  For a long moment, they were silent. Then, Richard came forward, his hand extended. “Fitz.”

  Darcy crossed his arms. “You know how much I hate when you shorten my name, Rich.”

  Richard hesitated and then, ignoring Darcy’s stiff posture and cool tone, threw his arms about him, squeezing Darcy so tight that he felt breathless.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, man,” Darcy said, pushing him away, but smiling all the same. “You are still an uncouth and sentimental lout, I see.”

  “And you, Fitz, are still a priggish pain in the arse.” Richard clapped him on the back and smiled. “And you know that I cannot abide calling you Fitzwilliam. It is too confus
ing for this simple brain of mine to call another man by my own name. Now, a drink?”

  Darcy nodded and motioned toward the arm chairs near the fireplace.

  “I am very glad,” Richard said, settling into his seat, “that you have decided to come to London.”

  “I did not expect you to call so soon after I had sent my card,” he replied, pouring them both a cup of brandy.

  “I had planned on staying in this evening, but when I saw that you had arrived, I could not help myself.”

  “The rest of the family?” Darcy asked, sitting across from Richard.

  “They are attending the theatre.”

  “Georgiana?” The word was barely audible.

  Richard took a sip of his drink. “She was, I believe, very much looking forward to the performance. I do not know why either of you have such a fondness for Shakespeare. I do not understand a bit of it. That Hamlet fellow, for instance…Denmark should be grateful he committed suicide. He would have been a terrible leader with all of his indecisive ‘to be or not to be’ nonsense!”

  “I was not inquiring about her preference for Shakespeare.”

  Richard sighed. “I know.”

  “She is unhappy, Richard. You know she is unhappy!”

  “On the contrary, she is adjusting.”

  “Adjusting?” Darcy leaned forward in his seat. “I do not want her to have to adjust.”

  “As I said, I am glad that you have come to London.” Smiling, Richard added, “She will be very glad to see you. All of the family will be.”

  Darcy stared down into his brandy, wishing he had not poured it in the first place. Already his head ached and his stomach felt uneasy.

  “I am not going to marry Anne.”

  “No one expects you to, Fitz.”

  Darcy shot his cousin a look of disbelief.

  “Oh, very well. Aunt Catherine expects it. But no one else does, not even Anne.”

  “And your father?” Darcy met Richard’s eyes. “What does he expect?”