Denny eventually worked up the nerve to propose to her, half supposing she might refuse him (for even he could see she was a terrible flirt). In fact, she had looked rather uncertain for most of the proposal (which lasted an interminable twenty seconds), but the moment he mentioned the necessity of elopement, she had thrown her arms about him and declared that he possessed just the kind of adventurous spirit she required in a husband.
That Darcy had come to know the many, sordid details of Lydia Denny’s love life might have been distressing to him, if he had not been expecting the much worse outcome of Lydia Bennet, seduced and abandoned by George Wickham. Even so, it embarrassed him that she made a point of calling herself Lady Lydia and reminded anyone she met that she was now wealthy. For everyone (except Lydia herself) realized that Denny’s future name and income depended on his parents’ willingness to readmit them to the family.
It had been in the London home of the Marquess of Dedham—the very last place anyone would ever have thought to look—that Darcy had finally discovered Lydia. He had been making inquires at the clubs about Denny, thinking that gentleman might know something of Wickham’s whereabouts, and had come to learn that Wickham’s friend was in fact the youngest son of of a Marquess with a different last name. This had been surprise enough, but to find Miss Lydia in the drawing room, attempting to serve tea to her red-faced mother-in-law, had been such a shock to Darcy that he had actually laughed—a sound that startled Lydia so violently that she had poured more tea on the Marchioness’s dress than in her cup.
The conversation that followed had been awkward, to say the least. Denny could not be expected to tell the story of their elopement, for he was too embarrassed and stumbled over almost every word he spoke. So that left Lydia to explain their romantic tale—one that had included several months of misdirection in Meryton (“As if I could ever love George Wickham! I only danced three sets with him—a real sacrifice, I tell you, for he has very strong breath—so that others would not suspect that dear, sweet Denny had captured my heart!”) and an outright lie (“Of course Wickham never returned to Meryton! He would have been hounded by his debtors. Denny only told Mrs. Forster that because I told him to say it; I knew it would confuse you all!”) so that they might elope to Gretna Green without anyone suspecting. That Lydia recited this narrative with nary a blush, even as she described how much effort she had put into deceiving all her family and friends, suggested she really was the silliest girl in all of England.
Lydia and her husband had only just returned from Gretna Green, and thus far, the Marquess had managed to keep this brewing scandal quiet, thanks in large part to Denny’s failure to change his name. Thus Darcy encountered no difficulty convincing the Marquess and his wife to send the newly-married couple back to Hertfordshire, where Denny could resume his position in the militia.
“Ah, well,” the Marquess had said to Darcy, as he, Denny, and Lydia prepared to leave London, “I cannot be too hard on my boy. She is a pretty thing, and besides, if as good a man as you was caught by one of these Bennet chits, Darcy, I suppose Lord Harry hardly stood a chance.”
“Lord Harry?” Lydia had exclaimed before falling into a fit of giggles that had lasted half the ride to Hertfordshire.
“Do you suppose,” Darcy asked, as he and Elizabeth turned and made their way out of the churchyard, “that we will ever be so fortunate as to hear dear Lord Harry speak an entire sentence?”
“I assumed he married Lydia precisely so he would never have to,” replied Elizabeth. “Now tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this walk through the Hertfordshire countryside? Miss Bingley is correct; the mud will be treacherous.”
“I cannot believe, given your past behavior, that you have any concerns for the cleanliness of your hemlines or shoes, and so I can only assume you must be worried about me.”
“I am more concerned for Bartley,” she said, speaking of his valet, “for he will have to clean your boots.”
“You ought to be worried about Bisset; she may give her notice after seeing the state of your clothing.”
Elizabeth waved a hand. “She knows how little you care for my clothes, Mr. Darcy, and therefore has ceased to be anxious on account of my appearance; she realizes it is a lost cause. I suppose you invited me to walk so that we might discuss mud, clothing, and servants.”
“Naturally. That, and I was thinking of my father.” Darcy paused and looked down at her. “No doubt you have been thinking of your father, as well.”
“I have.” She sighed. “It is strange, returning to Hertfordshire and not finding him here.”
She had already told him of her unconventional visit to Mr. Bennet’s gravesite, and he could not help but smile sadly at the image of her, sitting with her back against her father’s grave.
“Do you want to visit his grave again?”
“No.” She squeezed his hand and urged him toward a path that led away from the churchyard and the main road. “Let us walk to Oakham Mount. It was my favorite walk growing up, and I had not thought to take it again, at least not on this visit. But as this is a season for the unexpected…”
They walked in silence for some time, happy to do nothing but breathe the fragrant air and listen to the buzz of the insects in the meadow they traversed. Eventually, he turned and caught her studying him.
“You never did tell me why you were thinking of your father,” she said quietly.
“I remembered something he said to me once.” He repeated his father’s words, adding, “It was not a favorite saying or philosophy he seemed to hold dear; indeed, I do not think he ever said those words to me again. But somehow, they struck me as important.”
“Perhaps because it feels as if we are starting anew—even more so than when we married. There were too many uncertainties on our wedding day to pretend that event marked a true beginning.”
“Yes, I suppose you are correct.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket and said, “Even Wickham’s whereabouts are certain now.”
“What?” She stopped walking and glared up at him. “Just how long have you been keeping that information a secret?”
He laughed. “Since this morning. I received a letter from Richard, but did not want to discuss it in front of Miss Bingley. It seems Wickham took our bait, after all; when he was chased out of Meryton, he ran to the open arms of General Burnett. Richard found him under the General’s command, and though he has racked up a new set of debts already, Wickham seems to be behaving himself as well as can be expected.”
“I cannot help but worry,” said Elizabeth, taking his arm again, “that we will hear from him again.”
“Oh, most certainly.” Darcy scowled. “When he has run out of money, he will write and remind me of all our past associations, particularly his relationship with Ana. But at least he does not seem to suspect that I bought the commission.”
“Would that be such a terrible thing, for him to be beholden to you?”
“He has been beholden to me for his entire adult life,” Darcy replied, “and it has only infuriated him. Our best chance of never hearing from him again is to hope that he may find some measure of independence.” He paused. “In that respect, I pity George Wickham. My father’s will gave him the material means to make his own way, but money alone cannot inspire a man to choose his path in life.”
He turned and met those eyes he loved, so bright and full of admiration for him, that he could not stop himself from reaching down to kiss her.
“What are your views, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured against his lips, “on an al fresco bedroom?”
He laughed and pulled her close. “Probably the same as yours: the grass would be irritating and the insects a nuisance. Besides,” he said, adjusting her bonnet, “I would not for the life of me sully your innocent childhood memories of this fine walk through the Hertfordshire countryside.”
“How sensible of you,” she said, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “You have not always been known to make such sensible decisions.”
“Indeed not, and I must admit to having one regret regarding the highly insensible decision to marry you.”
She glanced up at him, her eyes wide enough to remind him that Elizabeth Bennet—for all her cheerful confidence and valor—would never completely shed the fear that she had damaged his reputation. Though there would always be those who looked askance at his choice of bride, the people who mattered most would not only understand but honor his decision to marry this clever, spirited woman. And even those who did not understand—such as his uncle and aunt—would come to forgive, if only because Mrs. Darcy now had a sister married to the Marquess of Dedham’s son. Surely that was a connection worth having, no matter how it had come about.
He smiled at the idea that Lydia Bennet might be the source of his social redemption.
“Well?” Elizabeth asked. “What is your regret?”
He cupped her face in his hands and brushed his lips against hers. “I have not yet heard you snore.”
She laughed until he kissed her again, this time deeply enough for him to think that grass and insects might not be such an inconvenience, after all.
But he was sensible, and so was she; they made it to the top of Oakham Mount, clothes all in proper order and hands, for the most part, where they were expected to be. It was only as they stared out at the scene below them—nothing compared to the views in Derbyshire, of course, but a charming prospect of the fields stretching toward Netherfield and Longbourn—that she spoke again, and in a more serious tone than he had expected from her.
“Will you regret me if I do not bear you children?”
The words were so surprising, and seemed so absurd to him, that he had to choke back a laugh. The question was not, of course, amusing. But how could she ever suppose he might love anything or anyone more than he loved her?
These would have been pretty sentiments to share with her, but to speak them aloud—in such a sacred spot and at such a vulnerable time—seemed wrong somehow, as if he were placating instead of respecting her.
So he said only, “No, never,” and her entire frame relaxed.
“It has only been seven months,” she said, as if working to convince herself, “and I know I am being silly, but with so many people around us having children, I could not help but worry.”
“I would not have taken you for an anxious woman.”
“Oh, but you forget that I am the daughter of Fanny Bennet, she of the miraculous nerves!”
“If we do not have children,” Darcy said, looking across the fields below, “we have a long list of people who will deserve to inherit Pemberley: Ana’s children, should she marry and have children of her own; or if not, Richard’s—or even Jane’s and Bingley’s, for I am at liberty to dispose of our property as I will.”
“Dispose of Pemberley?” Elizabeth tsked. “I never thought I would hear such language from you, Mr. Darcy.”
“It is only a place.” He smiled. “A place I love above all others—but still, only a place.” He fell silent for a long moment. “I suppose that is why I was thinking of my father—of how much I have grown to be like him. As it relates to his meticulous care for Pemberley, I can only be grateful. But he isolated himself with each passing year, and in the process, alienated my mother. I would never wish such a thing for us, and after Ana’s willingness to sacrifice our uncle’s good opinion for my sake, I could not forgive myself for secluding her again at Pemberley when she wishes to be out in the world. I was thinking that we should spend next winter in London—for Ana’s sake, and yours.”
“Mine?” She laughed. “Do you suppose I enjoyed all those calls, those dinner parties, those dreadful conversations with women who had no idea what to make of me?”
“No, but you enjoyed the theater and the exhibitions. And you must want to be near the Bingleys and their child. They will certainly spend the winter in London, as they must take on the impossible task of getting Miss Bingley married.”
“For shame, Mr. Darcy! I do not think I have ever heard you speak so harshly of her.”
“After how she behaved to you this winter, do you suppose I could think well of her?”
“No, but if you may pity George Wickham, allow me to pity Caroline Bingley, who wanted nothing more in life than to be the Mistress of Pemberley.”
Darcy grimaced. “I beg you not to put such an image before me ever again.”
“I would be quite glad for an opportunity to be near Jane, and Ana would be happy there, I am sure. If she enjoys spending time with my sisters and mother, then goodness knows she must be more sociable than you once assumed.”
“Indeed. Though my uncle and his friends may not welcome us, we will always find good company with the Bingleys and Gardiners. Besides, in time, my uncle will come to forgive Ana, if not me.”
Elizabeth sighed. “But I would miss Pemberley—as I think you would, too.”
“As I said, only a place.”
“So it is.”
She pointed to a spot on the horizon—Longbourn, he realized, squinting into the distance.
“There is another place, and one I thought I would always be sad to leave behind. But as it is,” she said, taking his hand and leading him back down the path, “I think I am ready to go home, Fitzwilliam.”
The winter in London would surely be more difficult than they supposed. They would feel cramped and exhausted by all those people—or maybe only he would. Ana (a name he still did not like, to tell the truth) would show more enthusiasm for gossip and fashion than he could possibly stand. Perhaps Elizabeth would still be without a child, and she would feel the weight of that disappointment, no matter how many times he reassured her. Lord Matlock would cut him, and Lady Catherine would descend on Darcy House to unleash a harangue that would make his hair stand on end.
There would be so many trials, and she was right: he would miss Pemberley. Dreadfully.
But he would be with her, and they would laugh in spite of every challenge. So let winter come. On this fine summer day, he could wish for nothing more than this rich, imperfect life—this disconcerting happiness.
THE END
Acknowledgments
This book began as a story called “Fate and Free Will,” which I shared with friends in the Jane Austen FanFiction (JAFF) community. Without the encouragement of these dear readers, some of whom I have met in person, but most unknown to me except through the genius of the Internet, I would not have begun, persisted or finished.
The foremost supporter of this book has been Debra Anne, to whom this book is dedicated. Her editorial suggestions, friendship, and ability to organize and encourage the JAFF community in our area made writing JAFF fun and worthwhile. Debra Anne, you are one of those amazing people who impact so many lives, perhaps without even realizing it.
I am also grateful to Colleen Cowley, whose ideas on self-publishing and writing have been so helpful—and whose friendship is invaluable.
Thank you to all the readers on A Happy Assembly whose suggestions and encouragement made this book better.
My family provides the foundation for all my endeavors (whether they like it or not). To my husband and daughter, thank you for giving me the time, space, and encouragement to pursue my dreams.
Finally, I acknowledge Jane Austen, who being long dead and quite famous needs no acknowledgment. Still, she deserves my unending thanks (and perhaps my deepest apologies, as well). Her brilliant characters, biting humor, and clear-eyed understanding of human nature have been (quite obviously) an inspiration.
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This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 41
