This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  “You would have to ask him that,” he replied, looking away.

  “Oh, come now, Richard! We both know he wants me to make an advantageous match. And then, when she is a little older, Georgiana will be next on his list.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Your father should have been born a woman; he would have made a fine matchmaker.”

  “And tell me, Fitz, what is so terribly wrong with wanting to ensure the continued happiness of our family? My father has always looked out for our best interests.”

  “Your father may have good intentions, but we have very different ideas about what constitutes happiness.”

  “Do you not also want to have a harmonious and well-respected family?”

  “Yes, but I do not see how removing Georgiana from my household has accomplished such a goal.”

  “When my father discovered how close we were to scandal, he was understandably troubled. Given enough time, he will forget the matter.”

  “Forget the matter?”

  “Spend the Season in London,” Richard said, seemingly unperturbed by the scowl on Darcy’s face. “Go to a few balls, attend a few dinners—show my father that you have some stake in maintaining the family’s stature. You know, he has often said that you would be a great force in Parliament if only you—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “If my father can be persuaded that you have the family’s best interests at heart, he will be more amenable to the idea of you resuming your role as Georgiana’s guardian. In the meantime, you will be near Georgiana, for my father has convinced Lady Catherine that Georgiana belongs in London for the Season. You may even be able to have Georgiana stay with you for a week or two—”

  “How very generous! She may stay with me, her brother, her guardian, for a week or two—and for such a small price! I have only to be at the whim of your father.” Darcy stood so quickly he sloshed his brandy, sending several fat drops of liquor to the carpet. “No.”

  “Fitz, do sit down.”

  “I will not be one of your father’s pawns, nor will I subject Georgiana to such a scheme!”

  Sighing, Richard downed the remainder of his drink. “I think,” he said, standing and going to the decanter, “that this conversation requires a bit more brandy. Do you—”

  “No.” Darcy fell back into his seat. “No.”

  As Richard settled back into his chair, Darcy stared into the fire, forcing himself to concentrate on the arrhythmic dance of the flames until his heart rate slowed.

  “We were all, in our own way, looking out for Georgiana,” Richard said suddenly. “When we behaved as we did in the summer, we did mean to look out for her.”

  “I do not blame you for it, Richard.” Darcy sighed. “I wish you had not said anything to your father, but I do not blame you for it.”

  Richard blinked. “Do not mistake my intentions; I am not apologizing. I was fulfilling my duty to my father, not to mention my duty as an executor of your father’s will.”

  “Your duty? I hardly see how gossiping about my sister is part of your duty.”

  “Come now, Fitz.” Richard sat back in his chair, swirling his drink. “I am certain you do not mean what you just said.”

  Darcy knew Richard too well to be fooled by his relaxed posture and mild tone. Like many younger sons, Richard Fitzwilliam had become an officer for the steady salary and prestige; unlike many of his colleagues, Richard had actually earned his rank by having a stronger will and sharper mind than anyone thought possible for such an affable gentleman.

  “Do not play the fool with me, Richard. When your father came for Georgiana, he made it clear that you had not meant to tell him of Wickham, that you had let the matter slip and that it had taken a great deal of pressure to get the full story out of you. So what is to be? Was it your duty that led you to tell him? Or was it a fear that your he might cut the purse strings?”

  Richard’s face reddened. Then, after taking a large gulp of brandy, he said, “You know that I love you like a brother.”

  Darcy took a deep breath. “And I you.”

  “Then do not take this the wrong way.” Richard set down his drink down, leaned forward, and gripped Darcy’s shoulder. “Your arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain for others do you no credit.”

  He jerked back as if hit. He had admitted to these very flaws with Elizabeth, but to hear such a charge from his cousin—from one of his few true friends—was a blow indeed.

  “From the moment you told me of Wickham’s actions, I wanted nothing better than to kill the bastard.” Richard’s lips turned upward, but Darcy could not think of the expression as a smile. “I kept my temper because I knew that my duty to your sister, to you, and to our family was more important than indulging in my personal desire for revenge.”

  Darcy looked away.

  “I have always acted out of duty,” Richard said, his voice so low that the crackling of the fire almost overwhelmed it. “Always.”

  “I should not,” Darcy said quietly, “have accused you of being motivated by money.”

  “We are both out of sorts, Fitz. It is true, at least, that I did not initially mean to say anything. Yes, my father had to press me for the information. I did not want it to come to this!”

  “Neither did I. And not just for my own sake. I may be selfish, Richard, but I love my sister and want the very best for her.”

  “I know. I want the same.” Richard leaned forward. “Would it be such a terrible sacrifice to remain here for the Season?”

  Darcy said nothing for a long moment. Then, without fanfare: “I am engaged to be married.”

  Gaping, his cousin fell back in his seat.

  “Her name is Elizabeth Bennet. Her father is a gentleman who owns a small estate in Hertfordshire.”

  The two men looked at each other for a long moment.

  Finally, Darcy said, “Well? Will you not tell me how much of a fool I am? How I have been snared by a fortune hunter after only a few months in the country?”

  “No.” Richard’s shoulders slumped. “No. I know you too well for that, Fitz. You are too apt to see people for what they are, even those you love. If you have proposed to her, she must be sincere.”

  “She is more than sincere. She is everything I could want in a wife.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt she is everything you want in a wife.” Richard stood. “I hope, Fitz, that she is worth the pain this decision will cause you, not to mention Georgiana.”

  Though he felt as if some great weight pressed down on his chest, Darcy managed to keep his voice steady: “I will retain custody of Georgiana, even if it means a legal battle.”

  Staring down at him, Richard said, “You would risk so much?”

  “Yes.” Darcy stood so that they were eye to eye. “Yes, I would risk everything I have.”

  Richard’s smile was bitter. “That is not what I meant. But as I said, you are selfish.”

  “You may call it what you like. I will not live my life to fulfill your father’s dream of seeing Matlock become one of the most powerful names in England.”

  “How very noble. Of course, in the process of declaring your independence, you risk the reputation of your sister. If knowledge of Wickham’s behavior is made public, if there is even a hint that her virtue might have been compromised…”

  The weight pressed down with even more force; Darcy clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. “Those who know and love my sister will stand by her.”

  “It is not so simple! Our family’s reputation is at stake, as well. Do not put us in the position of having to choose between Georgiana, whom we love dearly, and the well-being of the family as a whole!”

  Darcy leaned toward his cousin so that there was only a thin slice of air between them. “You dare to call me selfish when you would turn your back on Georgiana—who has done nothing wrong, I might remind you—in order to spare yourself the embarrassment of scandal?“

  Richard took a quick step backwards. “I will see myself out.”
/>
  “You did not answer my question!”

  Richard yanked open the study door. “I will never turn my back on Georgiana. I love her too well for that. But I cannot say what my family will do. I will allow you the honor,” he said without looking back at Darcy, “of explaining your situation to them tomorrow. Good evening!”

  He did not know how long he stood in the open doorway of his study before Norris came to him.

  “Sir, should I prepare your bed—”

  He blinked; the study had grown dark. “I want the fire stoked. And candles. I will need more candles.”

  Without waiting for his butler’s response, Darcy went to his desk and fumbled for his pen. He had a letter to write.

  *

  Longbourn: Friday, November 29

  Dear Mr. Darcy,

  Two letters in one day! You must not be fooled into thinking that I am to be one of those wives who cannot bear any separation from her husband (though I think I may very well become one of those wives, after all). My last letter was so poor in both style and content that I could not allow very much time to pass before writing again. Oh, I do not promise an improvement in this letter’s quality (though it is afternoon and not midnight, which at the very least means there will be fewer blots). I had considered plying you with so many pretty compliments that you would forget (or at least forgive) my many errors. Yet, as you are not wont to flatter, you are not, I suppose, susceptible to flattery. Therefore, you will have to settle for a letter that contains nothing of import except the most astonishing news:

  Mr. Collins is soon to be married.

  As the previous recipient of one of Mr. Collins’ vaunted marriage proposals, I should not, I suppose, be surprised by this turn of events; my cousin desires matrimony to such a degree that he is more particular about the wording of the proposal than the object of it. I can also imagine how it came to be that he should ask my friend Charlotte Lucas, for they have been thrown together a great deal in these past few days. But that she, whom I have always thought so sensible, should accept him so soon (or ever at all)—this was the true surprise.

  Perhaps you think my astonishment an unseemly display of conceit; this is the sentiment Charlotte expressed when I could not hide my disbelief—and disgust. I do no mean to suggest that Mr. Collins’ affection for me, if it may be called affection, was so deep that I thought it impossible for him to love another. Truly, my astonishment is rooted in the idea that she should accept after so short an acquaintance.

  Yes, I do recognize the hypocrisy of that statement.

  But no, I do not! I will be bold enough to proclaim that there is no merit at all in comparing our engagement to that of Mr. Collins and Charlotte Lucas. Yet this is exactly what Charlotte has done; she has likened her decision to accept him with my choice to marry you. She said that I should understand better than most how little one needs to know about one’s future spouse, that so long as a man is respectable and well-positioned in life, knowing the particulars of his tastes and habits matters little.

  It struck me, as Charlotte said this, how Jane must have felt when I told her of our engagement—how everyone except Papa, who knows a little of the understanding we share, must view my acceptance of your proposal. They imagine that I see you only as a wealthy and well-connected man, and though you are such a man, how much more than that you are!

  That is, I am afraid, as close to a pretty compliment as you will receive in this letter, for I must go to dinner. We are to tell Mr. Collins this evening of my father’s illness. He leaves for Kent tomorrow, and even Papa knows that he cannot keep such a secret from the heir to Longbourn, not when our cousin is making plans to marry. Furthermore, Mama has threatened to eject Charlotte Lucas from Longbourn should she visit again; this spite warrants some explanation, I suppose.

  I will say this for Mr. Collins: he has done what none of us has managed in these past two days. His proposal has returned to my mother her poor, abused nerves. We were beginning to fear that she had lost them altogether, and woe, what a tragedy such a loss would have been!

  Yours, with love,

  E.B.

  P.S.—As cross as I am with Charlotte, I must admit the truth of at least one of her claims: I do not know many details about your tastes and inclinations. Even she, who has spoken with her betrothed for no more than a few hours in her life, knows that Mr. Collins has a liking for herring, pheasant, and roasted potatoes. When asked about your preferences, I have only Shakespeare and teasing to fall back on, and while these interests of yours could never be tiresome to me, I fear they do not satisfy those around me who insist that a woman may only be in love if she knows her betrothed’s favorite foods.

  *

  Elizabeth hesitated before folding the letter. She had not expected how difficult a task it would be to write him. She knew not how to balance her teasing with her truer feelings, yet this was not what troubled her most. She had not told him of all that had occurred that day.

  After Charlotte’s astonishing visit, Elizabeth had escaped the house, walking toward Meryton to clear her head. Yet the cold air and pretty walk, usually so effective in helping her gain perspective, did little to ease her worries. Her father’s health had declined rapidly in the past two days; it was as if, now that he no longer needed to hide his illness from his family, his body had surrendered to the reality of the cancer. Or perhaps he had been worsening steadily, and she was just now allowing herself to see the symptoms for what they really were. Whatever the case, she had woken that morning and found him unwilling to leave his bed. She would have stayed with him, forgoing Charlotte’s visit and all other company, had he not told her that he would never speak to her again if she did not leave him be for a few hours.

  After reaching Meryton, she had planned on turning back, but had the misfortune of coming across her aunt Philips.

  “Oh, my dear, I have heard the terrible news! I was just going to your mother now!”

  Elizabeth had been astonished, for although her aunt possessed an uncanny talent for discovering gossip, news could not be spread without a messenger.

  “Oh, but Lydia and Kitty told me; they left my house not an hour ago! They went to the milliner’s shop on ________ Street. I initially thought this indelicate of them, worrying about lace when their father lay dying. But as dear Mr. Wickham pointed out, the poor girls do need a distraction!” Then her aunt had paused. “My dear, it is clear to me now why you chose that horrible Mr. Darcy. When I heard the news yesterday, I nearly swooned. True, he is rich, but he is such a cruel young man! Still, it was a very sensible thing for you to do, securing him at such a time! Even Mr. Wickham, who has been so wronged by the gentleman, agreed that you had acted in the best interest of your family.”

  Elizabeth had barely registered this speech when Kitty and Lydia, each carrying a box of finery and accompanied by Mr. Wickham and Mr. Denny, had come upon them in the road.

  “How fortunate!” Wickham had said, his smile at odds with his narrowed eyes. “We were accompanying Miss Lydia home.”

  No one except Kitty and Elizabeth had seemed to notice that Kitty had been forgotten.

  “Are not Mr. Wickham and Mr. Denny such kind gentlemen?” Lydia smiled brightly at Wickham and then patted Denny’s arm. “Oh, do not give us that look, Lizzy! Mr. Wickham does not mind at all that you are marrying that horrible Mr. Darcy.”

  “I do mind, very much,” Wickham had said, “for I do not think it fair that such an undeserving man should be rewarded with such an admirable wife. Nonetheless, I wish you the very best. It will be difficult, I suppose, giving up such a charming sister—” He had paused to smile at Lydia. “— for one as disagreeable as Miss Darcy. But I do understand why you should have to make such a choice.”

  Elizabeth had forced herself to bite her tongue—literally. Oh, how she would have loved to expose him then and there. The gall of him, insulting Miss Darcy in such a way! And for him to insinuate that she, Elizabeth, was marrying for money! She felt certain that he had
known her predicament: to expose him meant exposing Miss Darcy, and that was something Elizabeth could not do.

  “Mr. Denny, thank you for accompanying my sisters, but we do not need your assistance. Come along, Kitty, Lydia.”

  Kitty had hurried to Elizabeth’s side, but Lydia, who still hung on Mr. Denny’s arm, had glared at her older sister. “You did not thank Mr. Wickham!”

  “Lydia, now. Father is expecting us.”

  “Oh, do not mind me, Miss Lydia,” Wickham had said. “I am used to insults from the Darcy family.”

  The walk home had not been nearly as peaceful as the walk to Meryton. But Elizabeth had managed to ignore her aunt Philips’ censures, Lydia’s sullenness, and Kitty’s prattle. Instead, she had spent the walk recalling every detail of the encounter so that she could relay it in her next letter to Darcy.

  Yet a few hours later, when she picked up her pen, Elizabeth had found that she could not write to him of the incident. How could she possibly trouble him with her idle suspicions and her wounded pride when he had so many burdens to bear in London? What good would come of her reminding him of all the pain Wickham had caused the ones Darcy loved? He needed to be sensible, not incensed, if he wanted to convince his family to return Miss Darcy to his care.

  Still, she felt she should not keep it from him…

  “Oh, Lizzy!”

  She looked up to find her mother pacing in the corridor outside her bedroom.

  “Do put down that letter! Your Mr. Darcy can wait! I do not know how I will survive this dinner. To think! Charlotte Lucas will be mistress of Longbourn!”

  With a sigh, Elizabeth pressed her wax seal against the paper. The letter would have to do.

  *

  Berkeley Square: Friday Saturday, November 29 30

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  There. I, too, have made a mess of the date. Now you and Bingley may both be content knowing that I am not as talented a letter writer as Miss Bingley supposed. Bingley once accused me of taking so long to write a letter because I liked to fill up the page with large words. I can promise you that, on this night, there will be few words, long or short. Like you, I have taken to writing letters in the middle of the night, and I will claim the same deficiency: my words do not do me justice at such a late hour. There is so much that I have to write—and so little that I know how to say, especially after such a day. The trip to London was uneventful, but soon after arriving, my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam called. I can only write that an unpleasant conversation ensued. Forgive me for not writing more; I do not mean to withhold details as a means of exciting pity or anxiety on your part.