The Elizabeth Conspiracy

by Jennifer Joy

  He wanted to point out that in birth, they were equals. Instead, he scoffed. "Not everyone is as captious as you are, Anne. If a lady such as Miss Bennet were to refuse an offer of marriage from a gentleman, I would credit her with enough honesty to believe she meant it."

  His hopes crumbled as he said it, for he knew it to be true. He had seen to that with his odious proposal. The letter might clear his character of Wickham's accusations, but Darcy now realized it was not enough. He had to answer for his own error.

  Anne poked a finger at his cravat. Her eyes were full of mischief, and she smiled like the child who had snatched the last piece of cake from the pantry. "How interesting! You have fallen for her."

  Elizabeth's anger took a more pleasant turn toward curiosity at the letter in her hand. Mr. Darcy's letter.

  That it contained a matter of importance she was certain, for why else would he breach propriety to give an unmarried lady a letter penned by him? Its weight suggested an explanation of great length. With the accusations she had thrown against him, what else could it be?

  Her chin jutted forward at the thought. Gone was the humble man who had apologized when he had crushed her bonnet. In his place was the arrogant Mr. Darcy she had met and come to know begrudgingly in Hertfordshire. In his immense pride, had he sought to enumerate on all of the points in which she was wrong with the intention of making her regret her refusal? She would not put it past him. He had managed to have the last word before he left the evening before, and Elizabeth held no doubt his self-regard would demand he depart from Kent on the morrow in the same fashion.

  "Very well then, let us see how Mr. Darcy will explain my error," she said as she settled in for an entertaining reading which would, if anything, convince herself that she had indeed made the correct decision in refusing him. To think she had thought him changed! And all because of a bonnet!

  Lifting the page high, all the better to thumb her nose at the gentleman, she imagined him in all his haughty glory reading the words on the page to her.

  And thus she began, the letter in her hand dropping to her lap after the first paragraph with the weight of the information it contained. Her skin tingled and her head felt light. She gasped many times, holding her fingers like a fan over her breast to calm her heart.

  The letter was not at all what she had expected.

  When she had finished devouring the pages, she held it closely to her chest, breathing deeply and focusing on the crushed straw of her bonnet lying on the trunk at the end of her bed. Her thoughts swirled in dizzy confusion. She had expected an explanation, but not this.

  True to his word, Mr. Darcy did not repeat his offer nor attempt to persuade her to reconsider her answer. Instead, he expressed how he wished for her to forget it.

  In her mind, Elizabeth knew it to be for the best. However, by the end of her first reading, she could not help but wish, for her own vanity's sake, that he not find himself able to forget her so easily.

  She shook her head. "No. Surely I was not so completely mistaken in his character," she said, hoping the sound of her voice would offer some clarity to the conflicting views yielding to doubt in her own mind.

  She read the letter again, this time slowly and meticulously. Her whole body tensed in concentration as she picked apart every sentence, comparing it to what she had observed for herself — without the influence of anyone else's opinion.

  Mr. Darcy openly acknowledged his interference with Mr. Bingley and Jane. Had he attempted to excuse his conduct, Elizabeth could easily have dismissed the rest of his letter. But he did not. He presented the facts as he had seen them, devoid of emotion or influence from Mr. Bingley's sisters.

  Though her heart squeezed for Jane, Elizabeth could not discredit his observations nor mark them as insincere. Had not Charlotte suggested that Jane ought to be more forthright in expressing her admiration lest Mr. Bingley believe her indifferent?

  Nor could she think ill of Mr. Bingley for being influenced by a trusted friend when she had accepted a reputation-tarnishing story from Mr. Wickham — a man who was practically a stranger.

  If Elizabeth could turn back time, she would have taken Charlotte's advice more seriously. She would have repeated it to Jane, who would have overcome her shyness at the risk of losing the man she had grown to love. Elizabeth would have told Mr. Wickham to save his stories for someone more gullible than her.

  Guilt twisted her stomach, a sentiment Mr. Darcy seemed to inspire in her of late. She ought not to have judged him so harshly.

  All the anger she had directed at Mr. Darcy for separating her dear sister from Mr. Bingley had taken a sharp turn to point, at least in part, directly at Elizabeth. She had possessed an important piece of information which she had neglected to pass on to Jane. She had forgotten how important appearances are when characters are yet unknown … and how deceiving they could be when a person's behavior is misunderstood as the rest of Mr. Darcy's letter revealed.

  While he dealt in facts which he offered his cousin to confirm, Elizabeth sensed the pain seeping through his words when he wrote of his father's preference of Mr. Wickham and that evil man's (Elizabeth could no longer think of him as a gentleman knowing what she knew) treacherous dealings with Mr. Darcy's little sister, a young lady vulnerable in her ignorance.

  Unwilling to extend her pity to Mr. Darcy for the wrongs he had suffered — he would not want it, nor could she completely forgive him until he apologized for his slights against her — Elizabeth extended her empathy wholeheartedly to Miss Darcy, who had been used very badly, who had given her heart to a man who only wanted her dowry to cover his debts.

  As Elizabeth read, she knew Mr. Darcy's account to be true. The side glances merchants cast upon Mr. Wickham when he entered their establishments were explained in clarity, as was his hurried account about Mr. Darcy's unjust treatment of him in order to garner favor by use of the charming manners he possessed.

  Gripping the pages in her lap, Elizabeth shook her head and rubbed her cheek. Mr. Darcy had appealed to her sense of justice in his opening words, and she found she could not deny him before the irrefutable evidence he provided.

  For one, he had called upon Colonel Fitzwilliam to confirm the truth of his admissions. Even more impressive was his willingness to share the damning details of Mr. Wickham concerning his sister — information which, in the wrong hands, would lead to her ruin.

  And to think Mr. Darcy had trusted her with it.

  Chapter 15

  Darcy tossed another waistcoat on top of the growing mound of discarded clothing piled on the chair in his changing room. The double-breasted, green marcella cast a sickly glow on his complexion. The embroidered yellow silk with brass buttons looked too festive for what would surely turn out to be a grim occasion. Maybe he should stick with the single-breasted, cream-colored satin. He searched through the mess of fabrics, frustrated that a simple matter such as dressing should provoke so much struggle and uncertainty.

  He had not heard Richard come in until he spoke. "You should wear the blue waistcoat with the velvet coat collar."

  Richard's decisiveness irked Darcy. "Why blue?" He knew the answer as he voiced the question. Elizabeth often wore blue. She must like the color. It suited her.

  "Miss Elizabeth favors blue," said Richard.

  How loathsome it was to be told what was painfully obvious. But Darcy stifled his ill-humor. He needed to be alert for trouble at dinner, and he needed Richard's help for Elizabeth's sake.

  With a nod at his patient valet, Darcy accepted the blue waistcoat, shrugging into the fitted kerseymere and fastening the cloth-covered buttons.

  Richard asked, "Are you ready to leave on the morrow?"

  Darcy had wrestled with that very question since meeting Elizabeth in the corridor. His subsequent conversation with Anne had convinced him. "I think we ought to extend our stay, if that is agreeable to you."

  "I am at your disposal," Richard said with a deferential bow which he no doubt thought would disguise
his grin. "How much longer?" he asked, his lips twitching.

  "Three weeks." Darcy braced himself, knowing what would come.

  Richard did not disappoint. Lashing out with relaxed fists, he punched Darcy in the arm and ruffled his hair with calloused knuckles like they were children again. "You clever dog! I knew it! I knew you would want to stay longer now that Miss Bennet is Anne's guest."

  "If only it were that simple." If only he had not proposed like a buffoon, insulting not only the lady he respected and admired above all others but her family as well. And to have his own cousin demean Elizabeth's position in society by offering her a position meant for spinsters or ladies in reduced circumstances and no other option!

  "What have you done?" Richard asked, his grip tightening on Darcy's arm.

  "You assume I am the problem?" Darcy wrenched out of his grasp, not liking the bitter taste of regret on his conscience, but preferring it to the acidic sting of shame and guilt. Only his determination to amend the wrongs he had done against Elizabeth convinced him to stay. He had set Anne on her. Anne, who had a lifetime of entertaining herself by seeing how far she could manipulate those around her to her will, who would ruin a lady for no other reason than to serve her selfish purposes.

  "Of course I do!" exclaimed Richard. "Why else do you think I would rather stay here with you than return to my barracks? I cannot trust you not to bungle your future with the haughty facade you use to intimidate others."

  "If only it were merely a facade," Darcy mumbled. He seemed to be swimming in "what ifs" lately. Ever since he met Elizabeth.

  Richard gasped and clutched his cravat. "Is that humble speech I hear?"

  Darcy grumbled at him. "It is no laughing matter."

  Squeezing his shoulder, Richard said softly, "I know it is not, Darcy. But I am more convinced than ever that Miss Bennet is the right lady for you. She makes you a better man. For that reason alone, you must stay."

  He may as well have kicked Darcy in ribs. The one woman he loved so much his heart ached with longing at the mention of her name was out of reach. And he had no one but himself to blame for it.

  The loss of her choked him. Only the ferocity with which he had vowed to protect her from Anne fueled his anger and allowed him to breathe past the grief.

  "Anne aims to keep her as a companion," he said through clenched teeth.

  Richard sat in the nearest chair. He shook his head, running his thick fingers through his hair. "Tell me everything you know."

  Darcy started his narrative when Elizabeth had smacked into him in the corridor, bravely holding back her tears, and ended it with Anne's insightful appraisal of his emotions.

  Richard rose, slamming his fist into his hand and declaring, "I must change my coat before dinner."

  Darcy had expected a strong reaction from his military cousin, but not a change of wardrobe. "Why? You look perfectly presentable."

  Richard said, "Anne has declared war. I must dress for the occasion … you know, send her a clear message that we are unafraid — nay, eager — to engage in combat. Tis a pity you do not have a red coat."

  While Darcy appreciated Richard's enthusiasm, he could not risk making Anne a worse enemy. "Tread cautiously, Rich. We have to assume Anne will use the knowledge she has about me against Miss Elizabeth. She is vulnerable here, and Anne is capable of making her stay miserable. We cannot allow it."

  Richard rubbed his chin and moved his jaw from side to side, visibly strategizing. "You leave Anne to me tonight," he said with a glint in his eye that made Darcy fear for Anne (almost). Richard was a force to be reckoned with when his hackles were raised. If anyone could take Anne down, it was him. He rubbed his hands together, adding, "You just focus on your Miss Elizabeth. I will see to the rest."

  As if it were possible for Darcy to see anyone else in the room when Elizabeth was in it. "What of Aunt Catherine? She is not blind." Darcy did not like being kept in the dark. Richard's mischievous grin only added to his concern.

  Richard considered for a moment. "Aunt Catherine genuinely does not believe you would attach yourself to anyone other than Anne … unless the lady had a fortune and a title. Fortunately for you, Miss Bennet possesses neither. She is safe from Aunt Catherine."

  Unless she heard about my ill-received offer of marriage, thought Darcy. Then nobody would be safe.

  Elizabeth dreaded dinner. Not because she feared the company she would have to keep, but she rather feared that one condescending remark from Miss de Bourgh would provoke such a reply as would give Lady Catherine an apoplexy when Elizabeth told her daughter just what she thought of her.

  She did not feel the need for Colonel Fitzwilliam to confirm the veracity of Mr. Darcy's accounts. She did, however, given the gravity of the contents of the letter, feel the need to reassure Mr. Darcy that his trust in her was not in vain. But how could she possibly do so with his aunt and Miss de Bourgh present?

  She had read the letter so many times, she had committed it to her memory … where she would keep it safe. As for the letter itself, she had burned it, watching the pages char until they turned to ash and crumbled in the fireplace.

  Donning her favorite blue dress, Elizabeth checked her hair in the vanity glass and reached up to smooth an unruly tendril. Though she saw her reflection, she hardly knew herself.

  How was it possible for her to so thoroughly despise a man undeserving of her premature judgment only hours before, when now, she knew him to possess all the goodness she had claimed he lacked? She had been wrong. Not that Mr. Darcy was perfect — not by any means — but he was innocent of the faults of which she had accused him boldly to his face.

  Garnering her courage, ready for the first evening of clever cuts and blatant condescension in the weeks to come, Elizabeth went down to the drawing room where she would wait until dinner was called.

  The hair on her arms stood on end, and she hesitated before stepping inside. Had she been out of doors, she would have hurried her pace to make it indoors before the thunder rumbled and the lightning struck. The air was so heavy, it would certainly crack.

  She proceeded forward, stepping onto the red and gold Turkish rug cautiously. Looking past the gilded, brocade chair with the high back where Lady Catherine reigned supreme in her favorite room, Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy. He stood before the fireplace, his profile reflected in the immense giltwood mirror with the Royal Tudor crown above the mantle. He was handsome in a blue waistcoat that matched her dress.

  Beside him stood Colonel Fitzwilliam, striking an intimidating pose in his full army uniform.

  The image of both gentlemen — one powerful in his controlled expression and firm stance, the other dressed for battle and alert — was both comforting and disturbing.

  "Do you expect Napoleon to join us for dinner, Colonel?" she asked in an attempt to lighten the tension in the room.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam answered with a forced smile that failed to reach his eyes, "Far worse."

  Darcy must have seen her confusion. He added, "Our worst enemies are often those closest to us."

  The colonel mumbled, "And those we are obliged to claim as family."

  As if on cue, Lady Catherine entered the room in a swirl of swooshing silk, followed closely by Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson.

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth glanced across the table at Miss de Bourgh, seated between her mother and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and wondered how such a diminutive woman could create so much turmoil. Elizabeth doubted Miss de Bourgh had revealed her plans to replace Mrs. Jenkinson to her male cousins — unless it suited her purpose to do so — leaving Elizabeth to suppose the conniving lady had yet another scheme in progress amongst those seated in the dining room.

  Lady Catherine took her responsibility to educate Elizabeth in the elevated ways of a proper lady in society seriously. It was torture, seated as Elizabeth was beside Mr. Darcy without any opportunity to speak to him. To reassure him. To thank him.

  "Three weeks is no time at all, but you shall be
nefit greatly from Anne's company. She is exemplary in deportment." If your daughter is the archetype to be imitated, I fear for society.

  "Now that Anne's health is improved, she will dedicate herself to improving her drawing, her skill at the pianoforte, and her needlework." I gather from the way your daughter rolled her eyes that she has other, more nefarious uses for her time.

  "A young lady without these accomplishments — which any female raised properly with a governess would naturally possess — cannot expect to receive an offer of marriage." On that point, you are quite mistaken, your ladyship, for I have rejected two such offers, Elizabeth thought with a sigh.

  "Without the benefit of my instruction and Anne's influence, you would have to marry beneath your station." I hardly think Mr. Darcy is beneath my station, but you will never understand the compliment you just paid me because I will never tell you. I will tell no one.

  "Of course, even a tradesman would wish to marry into a fortune," Lady Catherine concluded with a sip from her wineglass.

  Before Elizabeth could think of a witty retort, Mr. Darcy said, "You forget love. Some people are fortunate enough to marry because they recognize in each other the one person in thousands — perhaps the entire world — who challenges them to become a better version of themselves, who can communicate with a look more than most manage in a torrent of words, who inspires hope with a smile, and both comfort and chaos with a touch."

  Elizabeth stared in front of her. How did he so clearly express what she most desired?

  She so badly wanted to look at him, but knew she must not. It would tell him too much, and she was not ready to admit how wrong she had been. Not quite. And certainly not in front of Lady Catherine and her pernicious daughter.

  Lady Catherine scoffed. "Love is a fickle emotion. You will not be remembered by future generations of Darcys for having married for love, but rather for the advantages you can give them by marrying well."