Darcy and Elizabeth

by Maria Grace

  “Does Jane not have hopes yet for Mr. Bingley?”

  “She does, she does indeed, but hopes are only that until the settlements are signed and the marriage is done. I hope she will marry him. I expect she will marry him,” Mama covered the distance between them in two brisk steps and poked Elizabeth’s chest. “But it was you who were made an offer and refused it. What is to become of us! What I ask you!”

  There was little point in trying to answer such a question.

  “I will tell you this. If it were not for the officers you brought home yesterday, I would indeed never see you again.”

  At this moment that possibility sounded rather pleasing.

  “I hope that effort was you repenting of your error and trying to make amends for it. I still do not know if I will accept your energies, though. Perhaps now, you can see how very great your foolishness is.”

  Elizabeth held her breath. She dared not risk speaking her mind now.

  “That Wickham fellow seems quite charming enough for all your foolish romantical notions. And he is an officer. I fully expect to see you behave in a more fitting way with him than you did with Mr. Collins. Go now and fetch Hill for me. My nerves! Oh, my poor nerves!”

  Elizabeth scurried out, instructed Hill and bolted outside.

  Fresh air, she needed fresh air, although even that was tainted with the memory of her recent assignation with Charlotte. The garden would not do. The footpath toward Oakum Mount, that was a far better plan.

  Soon the shade of the path closed in over her and the cool spread over her heated spirits.

  Had Mama just ordered her to flirt with Mr. Wickham? How else was she to interpret Mama’s command? There was no way around it, Mama had suggested she secure Mr. Wickham as soon as may be possible just as Charlotte had suggested Jane should secure Mr. Bingley.

  Elizabeth caught herself against a large oak and clutched it for support. It did not seem it mattered to Mama whom she married, so long as she did it quickly.

  At least Mr. Wickham was a much more agreeable conquest than Mr. Collins could ever be. He was warm and open and easy company. He had an excellent sense of humor, was well-spoken and a very good dancer. Though he had a sad history with Mr. Darcy, he did have a great many friends around him. By all accounts, he was a very eligible man.

  Eligible and agreeable—that seemed a rare combination.

  Perhaps it would not be a bad thing to become further acquainted. At least it would please Mama. Certainly she would not throw herself at him, that would be unseemly at best and entirely beyond her nature. But she would not mind getting to know him better.

  In fact, that might be a very pleasing thing indeed.

  December 6, 1811 St. Nicholas’ day. London

  Just over a se’nnight later, Darcy stepped out of his solicitor’s office onto the largely barren street and adjusted the capes on his greatcoat against the sharp breeze and grey looming skies. It was unfortunate Mr. Rushout could no longer continue in his office as Pemberley’s steward. Fortunately, the solicitor knew of some promising candidates. But reviewing their letters of introduction would take some time and meeting with them would take even more. With any luck the process could be completed by spring.

  That meant he would have to supervise the spring planting more closely than usual, but perhaps that was not a bad thing either. A man should never get too far from the business of his land. He patted his portfolio, stuffed with letters and papers to review.

  Deep thunder rattled the nearby windows, and a chill blast of wind, tinged with the scent of impending rain, tore past. The downpour would not hold off until he reached Darcy House. But there was a coffee house—Blair’s—just two streets away. If he hurried, he might make it there before the storm.

  Fat raindrops pelted him the last half dozen steps to the coffee house, but he ducked inside just before the pounding rains unleashed. A serving girl saw him to a table in an isolated corner and took his order. He sat with his back to the wall and glanced about the room.

  The place smelt a bit dank, but that may have just been an artifact of the weather. On the whole it was probably cleaner than most such establishments. The table was covered with a clean cloth and it seemed the floor had recently been swept; all details in its favor, even if the furnishings were mismatched and somewhat dingy, a little like the clientele. Still, the other customers appeared gentlemanly enough to make this a tolerable enough stop.

  Appealing aromas drifted from the kitchen, baked goods, soup or stew perhaps, and the strong scent of fresh coffee. The serving girl returned with a pot of coffee and a platter of cold meat and bread. A bit of nuncheon would help distract him from the tedium of the task at hand. He broke the seal on the first letter of introduction, a Mr. Northwick. Studied at Eton and Cambridge ...

  “Darcy!”

  He started and looked up, directly into Bingley’s grinning face.

  “Fancy meeting you here. I had no idea you frequented Blair’s too!” Bingley pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “I have never been here before. It seemed an expedient location to avoid the rain.”

  “An expedient location to avoid the rain? Seriously, Darcy?” Bingley laughed heartily, cheeks glowing whether from the chill outside or his mirth, Darcy could not tell. “At least you are enjoying some of their very fine coffee. You must have some Sally Lunn bread. It really is not to be missed.” He waved the serving girl over and requested some, along with a pot of tea.

  That was Bingley. He had a way of just marching into one’s quiet life and injecting his own brand of marginally controlled mayhem into it.

  “I am glad to see you. Very glad. Caroline has an invitation she wants me to convey.”

  “Caroline? I thought we had discussed the matter already, and you know my thoughts quite clearly.”

  “Pish posh, Darcy you are jumping to conclusions. Caroline is hosting a Christmas dinner at Grosvenor Street and wishes to include you amongst the guests.”

  “You know I do not prefer to socialize. It would be best for me to abstain.”

  “You ought not spend Christmas alone. That is far too lonely a fate for a man with both friends and family. Besides, this party is your fault.” Something in Bingley’s tone—a party being someone’s fault? That was a sentiment quite unlike him.

  “My fault? That is absurd.”

  Bingley raised his index finger and shook it at him. “I would not be here in London, apart from your forceful insistence that it was the right and proper thing to do. Were I not in London, this party would not be happening. Thus, since it is your fault I am in London, the party is equally your responsibility. As such, you must attend.”

  Darcy huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It almost sounded as though Bingley did not enjoy being in London. But that was hardly possible. He always enjoyed town.

  “Surely you cannot tell me you object to Christmastide entertaining?” Bingley drummed his fingers on the table.

  Though he was not apt to socialize, he did not on principle object to Christmastide socializing. This year was different, though. If only he might be left alone, he might quiet the cacophony in his own head. One which centered on Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head sharply. Why was it, the very thing he least wanted to dwell upon would not leave his mind for a king’s ransom? Perhaps distraction among merry society was the best thing indeed. “No, I do not object. You may thank your sister for her gracious invitation, and tell her I will be there.”

  “Capital! Absolutely capital! She will be very pleased.” The serving girl dropped a plate of warm Sally Lunn bread on the table between them. “Now, we must enjoy some of this bread before it gets cold. You will not regret it.”

  “The party or the bread?”

  “Neither one!”

  Bingley was correct on one count; the bread was excellent. As to the other, it would remain to be seen.

  The rain dwindled to a tolerable drizzle, and Darcy offered his tak
e leave, tucking his neglected paperwork back into his portfolio. Bingley could be a bit of a rattle at times, but sometimes the distraction was pleasing, even if it meant he now had a social obligation for a Christmas dinner. Wearisome as it might be, Bingley was probably right, it was better than spending the evening alone.

  Even with just sprinkles and mist, the rain left him feeling damp and vaguely cold by the time he reached Darcy House. Leaving his greatcoat with the housekeeper to be properly dried, he bypassed his study and went directly to his room for dry clothes, his favorite banyan, and a warm fire. He settled into his favorite overstuffed leather chair and propped his feet up.

  The room was quiet save the fire’s crackling. Shadows danced along the walls’ walnut paneling. Deep green wool drapes were pulled shut against the chill. Snug and warm and private, if a little lonely.

  Though he had not asked for it, the housekeeper sent up a mug of hot cider which accompanied a small package on a silver tray. What was that? He picked it up, revealing a note bearing his name in a very familiar handwriting.

  Georgiana.

  He leaned back and smiled. She had remembered. That probably should not please him so much as it did, but there it was.

  He opened the note.

  My dear brother,

  I am sorry we could not be together this St. Nicholas’ Day, but I find I enjoy our tradition far too much to allow distance to stand in the way. I hope this finds you well and warm, and that you will think of me when you use it.

  GD

  He chuckled softly. In some ways they were so alike. He had sent a similar note and package to Pemberley with instructions to Mrs. Reynolds to make sure Georgiana had it today. Hopefully she would enjoy the new sheet music—perhaps she might even play for him when he returned. She was still so shy after all that had happened. Would that ever change? What would it take to see her back to her cheerful, albeit quiet self?

  He opened the brown paper wrapping revealing three embroidered linen handkerchiefs, one with his initials in white silk, one with a fine pulled-thread design, and the last with a sprig of lavender. What an odd choice.

  Miss Elizabeth always smelt like lavender. No doubt it would be one of her favorite flowers. She would appreciate Georgiana’s fine sewing and her thoughtful generous nature. Miss Elizabeth would probably be good for Georgiana, helping her find laughter and confidence once again.

  What would Elizabeth think of the Darcy family tradition of St. Nicholas Day gifts? Would she find it frivolous or old fashioned, or just too sentimental? No, she seemed far more sympathetic than that. What family traditions did the Bennets observe during the Christmastide season? What would it be like merging traditions from two families? Would it be difficult to embrace different customs even as he would want her to embrace his?

  He threw his head back and groaned. Why should the Bennets’ Christmastide practices matter to him? And why did she continue to come, unbidden into his thoughts?

  December 16, 1811 Meryton

  Over the next fortnight, neighborhood dinners and parties offered numerous opportunities for contact with Mr. Wickham. Enough so, Mama’s ill-temper and health were largely unchanged. For the time being at least, little, if anything could make up for Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr. Collins and Charlotte’s victory, but her continued interaction with—and encouragement of—Mr. Wickham helped.

  The effect did not survive the return of Mr. Collins, though. Mama took to her rooms, complaining loudly of the inconvenience of having him at Longbourn when by all rights he should stay at Lucas Lodge, especially when her health remained so indifferent.

  As if young men were not vexing enough, Mr. Bingley’s continued absence did little to improve matters. The gossips of Meryton now circulated the intelligence that Mr. Bingley meant to quit Netherfield for the whole of the winter.

  That was probably due to the successful efforts of Mr. Bingley’s sisters. No doubt they wished to keep him away. The efforts of the two unfeeling women, and his overpowering friend, Mr. Darcy, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy—was she even actually in London?—and the amusements of London, were likely strong enough to overwhelm his attachments to Jane.

  Poor Jane so suffered under the anxiety of the situation. They could never speak of the matter between them, though; it was too much for Jane to bring to words, so she suffered in silence.

  Mama, though, enjoyed no such delicate restraint and plagued them constantly with her complaints over it all when she was not describing her abhorrence of Charlotte Lucas as her successor as Longbourn’s mistress. Poor Jane began keeping to her room.

  Two days later, a letter from Miss Bingley arrived. Jane said little and pointedly avoided Mama and anyone else who might question her as to its contents.

  The following morning, she bade Elizabeth to her room and showed her the letter. Elizabeth curled up on Jane’s neatly made bed as Jane paced along the short wall by the window, dodging the press and the dressing table that blocked her path.

  Miss Bingley neatly described their enjoyment in London, Mr. Bingley’s partiality to Miss Darcy, and her expectations for its right and natural conclusions. How like her to put an end to all doubt of Mr. Bingley’s plans and attachments.

  Though Jane readily believed the letter, it was difficult not to wonder just how much of it was the truth of Mr. Bingley’s state, and how much was wishful thinking on the part of Miss Bingley. She was the type of person who would assert how she hoped things would be rather than how they actually were.

  Jane paced along the long wall now, in front of the fireplace, the mantle stained with smoke. “If Mr. Bingley’s sisters believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us. They are not so unkind. Moreover, if he were so attached, they could not succeed in parting us.”

  Elizabeth pulled her knees up under her chin. “I fear you credit his sisters with far more good will than I believe them capable of.”

  Jane sank down in the window seat. The sunlight behind her glowed like a halo. “By supposing Mr. Bingley’s affection toward me, you make everybody act unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. I pray you, do not distress me by the idea.” She ran her long fingers down the edge of the curtain. “I am not ashamed of having been mistaken. At least it is slight and nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light in which it may be understood.”

  How could she directly oppose such a wish? Best refrain from mentioning Mr. Bingley’s name to Jane again.

  Forbearance though did not prevent her from thinking about the matter at great length. If Jane was correct and her separation from Mr. Bingley was to be permanent, then Mama’s anxiety was ... heavens it was not nearly so groundless as it had seemed earlier. With none of the Bennet sisters enjoying any prospects for marriage, their situation, should tragedy befall them, looked bleak indeed.

  Though not formed for melancholy, the thought did give Elizabeth great pause.

  December 18, 1811. London

  Darcy dismissed his valet and took a final glance in the mirror. Well-brushed black coat, crisp white cravat, shoes polished to a shine. He was neat, proper, and hopefully unremarkable. Though it was only a small card party at the Matlocks’, it would be his luck to encounter some gossip writer skulking around the nearby streets, like a weasel waiting to sneak into the henhouse. Scavengers and vermin, all of them. The back of his neck twitched.

  Card play was hardly amusing. If he had any choice in the matter, he would skip the whole thing. But that would offend Aunt and Uncle Matlock, a greater price than he was ready to pay for the luxury of an evening at home.

  He went to his study to get in a few minutes of work before the coach was ready. A recent letter from Mr. Rushout required his attention. Just as he settled down to read it, the housekeeper peeked in and rapped on the doorframe. He waved her in.

  She curtsied in front of his desk. A small, somewhat severe-looking woman with dark hair and darker eyes, her size was deceptive. She
had a sharp, quick mind and could recall the tiniest detail about anything related to her work. Darcy House had been without a mistress since Mother had died, but despite that lack of guidance, she ran the house flawlessly.

  “Sir, it is coming up on St. Thomas’s Day. Have you any special instructions about the mumpers this year?”

  Not something he had given any thought to at all. “Are there many of them?”

  “We have a fair number who visit each year, and what with all the losses to the French, the numbers have only grown.”

  Unfortunately, she was right. Napoleon had ensured England would not run short of widows.

  “In the past, we have always had wheat for them, sir.”

  Darcy chewed his lower lip. “Do that, and give them a few pennies as well.”

  “That is very generous of you, sir.” Though she would never say such a thing, something in her eyes looked pleased.

  “In these cases, I think it better to do too much than too little, do you not?”

  “I know they will be very grateful.” She curtsied again and left as the footman appeared to announce the carriage.

  He settled into the soft leather carriage squabs. The smell of fresh polish lingered in the air, a bit too strong for his liking. So, he pulled open the curtains and the side glass for a bit of fresh air.

  The streets were crowded this evening and the going slow enough that Darcy could clearly see the faces of those they passed. So many people!

  Peddlers, their faces dusty and worn, calling out their wares with heavy packs on their backs or loaded hand carts. Tradesmen making deliveries, boxes piled high. The occasional dandy and his mates, parading around, hoping for notice. And the beggars.

  They were everywhere, paupers, begging for help and sustenance. It was difficult to tell the deserving from the undeserving poor. How many times had he been counseled to give only to the deserving poor? But how was one to know who was truly deserving?