Darcy and Elizabeth

by Maria Grace

  The first five days of 1812 offered moments of solace, punctuated with flashes of torment. Leaving off all thoughts of Elizabeth left him muttering and pacing. Nightmares plagued him, leaving him as sleepless as an opium eater deprived of his poppies. The worst of it he kept at bay by diving into his work. Pemberley’s farms and fields would benefit much from his frenzied studies of the latest techniques in farming and drainage. But every venture beyond the confines of his sanctum brought fresh waves of irritation. Everything called her to mind, sometimes subtly, sometimes with poignant clarity, but always returning to thoughts of her.

  The afternoon sunlight tumbled through the windows, laying a neatly ordered path of light through his study, illuminating everything the way he best liked it. Yet, even the well-arranged room, the books that lined up just so on the shelves, the neat stacks of work on his desk, not a page out of place, none of those things soothed his soul as they usually did.

  Darcy paced across the front of his desk, eyes never leaving the taunting bit of stationary. Lady Matlock’s elegant hand plagued him with an invitation to her Twelfth Night ball.

  The missive arrived the day after his return from Meryton, when his thoughts were still well-ordered and his to command. He had immediately sent his promise to attend. The act had been automatic, a reflex of politeness, bred into him by a long line of proper, well-mannered Darcys. Had he but taken a few moments to consider his actions ... but no, even if he had, he could never have foreseen his current state of agitation.

  Under the best of circumstances, he dreaded balls. This one in particular, he loathed with a fire reserved for all things pretentious and social.

  He did not perform well to strangers. This ball would be naught but an extended performance to many strangers. He might as well be a circus animal—a wise pig or a counting horse—put through his paces for the peeresses and heiresses by ring master Lady Matlock.

  The only lady he had any desire to perform for ...

  No! She would not occupy his thoughts now. The port decanter caught a glint of sunlight and tipped its hat at him from across the room. What an excellent notion.

  The housekeeper’s knock stopped him mid-step.

  Dash it all!

  He squeezed his eyes shut. It was too early in the day to seek solace from port in any case. “Come.”

  She peeked in and dropped a small curtsey. “Colonel Fitzwilliam to see you, sir. Are you home to him?”

  “Show him in.” How could Fitzwilliam have known how little he wanted company at present? His timing was remarkable that way.

  Darcy tugged his coat straight and hurried into a chair near the fire. No point in giving Fitzwilliam the satisfaction of seeing evidence of his discomfiture.

  “Good afternoon, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam sauntered in, relaxed and informal, as though this were his own home.

  How did he do it? Fitzwilliam seemed at home wherever he went and never met a stranger. Whether on the street or at a ball, people thronged to make his acquaintance.

  “Good afternoon.” Darcy rose and offered a small bow. Still probably too formal for the occasion, but it was the most comfortable greeting he knew. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

  Fitzwilliam extended his hand and would not withdraw it until Darcy shook it. Yes, their relationship did permit such familiar gestures, but was it necessary to exercise them at every encounter?

  “Do try to relax, Darcy. We are family after all.” Fitzwilliam sank into his favorite chair and balanced one foot upon the other.

  Had he any idea of his appalling posture? What a dreadful picture he painted of one of His Majesty’s officers.

  “You may thank my mother for the call.”

  Darcy clutched his temples. “Dare I ask her purposes?”

  “Probably not, but I will tell you all the same.” Fitzwilliam laced his hands behind his head and sniggered. “She instructs me to ensure your attendance at her ball.”

  “I already sent—”

  “I know—I saw the response myself—she showed it to me to scold my penmanship. Excellent hand you have, by the bye, most elegant.”

  “And that is not enough for her?”

  “You know how fastidious she is, and she knows how you would rather break your own leg than attend.”

  “You think I would manufacture a fall down the stairs to avoid the ball?”

  “Not I.” Fitzwilliam touched his chest and shook his head. “But my mother is an entirely different matter.”

  Darcy stared at the ceiling and muttered under his breath.

  “Truly, I do not understand your aversion to—”

  “Donning a costume—worse yet, one not of my own choosing?” Darcy strode to Fitzwilliam and towered over him.

  “Must you always make the worst of everything? I will have you know, Mother selected your character very carefully. Brooded over it for days, lest it keep you from attending. I am instructed to inform you that there will be no random draw out of a hat for you. Father has strict directions as to the sleight of hand necessary to guarantee you receive her choice for you.”

  Darcy threw his head back and pressed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

  Such genuine thoughtfulness. He had done Lady Matlock a great disservice expecting so little from her. Assuming the best from people, even his own people, was clearly not his strong suit.

  “I can see you are surprised.”

  Did Fitzwilliam have to look so pleased with himself?

  “Aunt Matlock is indeed most gracious.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Whilst I appreciate the consideration, it does little to change the material fact that I am expected to perform!”

  “She assures me that your character will require no performance on your part, merely act like yourself, and you will be ‘in character’ as it were. She has probably crafted Christopher Curmudgeon in your honor.” Fitzwilliam swallowed back a laugh.

  Best ignore that remark all together.

  Darcy stalked across the room, following the faint track worn into the carpet. “I do appreciate her efforts, but still, I am denied my choice of partners for the evening. I must spend my time with whomever she draws from that ridiculous bag of hers.”

  “Everyone knows that it is a matter of chance. You are far too concerned—”

  “No, I am not. You know full well how desperate the society gossips are to speculate on who I might or might not be involved with. Did you see the most recent entries?”

  “No, actually, I missed the most recent round of that foolishness.”

  Darcy stomped to his desk and flung open a drawer. He snatched out a newspaper already folded open to the piece in question and thrust it at Fitzwilliam. “I burned the first copy, but thought I should retain the evidence to convince naysayers, such as yourself, of the very real dangers these harpies present.”

  Fitzwilliam grumbled and scanned the page. He muttered several colorful epithets that Darcy could just make out. Fitzwilliam always did have the most colorful oaths.

  “Daft, feather-pated quill driver.” He tossed the paper back into Darcy’s hands. “Whatever did you do to make them so interested in you?”

  “A single man of good fortune must be in want of a wife!” He snorted. “You may have my share of their attention if you wish.”

  “What, and encourage my mother to take a greater interest in my comings and goings? No, indeed. Still, you may take heart. Mother, in her great and magnanimous wisdom has also taken this concern under consideration.”

  Darcy returned the paper to his drawer and shut it with a bit more energy than he intended. “To what further machinations may I look forward?”

  “She wishes me to assure you that if you but indicate a preference to her, she will contrive to make certain you have the partner you desire.”

  Darcy paced to the window and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. There in lay the problem. The partner he desired was not in London. Even if she were, her name would be completely unknow
n to any lofty personages. Dash it all! He could not even be seen with her in public without his life—and hers—coming under meticulous scrutiny. He pressed his temples.

  Rot and nonsense! He must regulate his thoughts, not allow them to wander to her. She was most unsuitable in every way—fortune, breeding, connections, even her manners were barely adequate. And her family—truly appalling, nearly every one of them!

  That was what he must focus on ... not her fine eyes and informed, if pert, opinions. Not the exhilaration he found in conversation with her or the compelling way she challenged him to consider his own opinions.

  He ran a finger along the inside of his cravat.

  “Darcy?”

  “There is no one I am interested in. I ... I do not wish to be forced to spend the entire evening with any one young lady. People—including her family will get ideas, conveniently forgetting it was an act of chance alone that led me to being with her the first place.” He threw his hands in the air.

  “What about my sister? Letty is engaged, but her betrothed is on the continent right now. She has no need to use the opportunity to seek out an eligible man, so will miss nothing by being your companion. Not to mention, Lord Blake is known for his jealous streak and would not approve of Letty taking another partner for the evening. You, he will not perceive as a rival for Letty’s attentions, thus keeping both of you safe.”

  “Jealous? But she has accepted his offer—”

  Fitzwilliam shrugged. “I know. You need not convince me of the unseemliness of his attitude. Write to Blake yourself, you will see. The green-eyed monster is his own personal companion, following him everywhere like some demon spaniel. All I can say is that you would be doing Letty a favor as much as yourself.”

  Darcy stalked across the room and scratched the back of his head. It was difficult to abandon the opportunity to be useful, particularly to one of his family. And Fitzwilliam was not exaggerating Lord Blake’s jealousy.

  “I suppose that would be acceptable.” But, only barely.

  Letty was not unintelligent, but her interests extended only so far as the ton. He would be forced to listen to her prattle on all evening about the latest on-dit. At least she would not be coy or flirtatious—and she would not expect him to call upon her the day after the ball.

  Better still, her engagement ensured that the gossips would find their pairing of little interest. Exactly what he needed to make the night tolerable.

  “So then, I may assure Mother you will come tonight?”

  “I can tolerate an evening in your sister’s company, but I will not—”

  “Play any games, except a dignified rubber of whist.” Fitzwilliam waved off his concerns. “Yes, yes, be assured, we all know that. I did not expect this would be the year we would see your face deep in a bullet pudding, or silently gesticulating a clue in charades.”

  Darcy shuddered. How did any find such pastimes amusing?

  “You are fortunate. Letty prefers cards to other games as well. Be warned though, you may have to lower yourself and compromise to play commerce with her. She is notoriously bad at whist.”

  He had forgotten that. “I can accept the compromise.”

  “Very well then, I shall bring my mother the news she most desires to hear.” Fitzwilliam pushed to his feet in his slow effortless way that declared he had nary a care in the world. “I do not understand why she works so hard to see you come, nor why you say you will attend an event that you so clearly dread.”

  “Aunt Matlock requires my attendance because she wishes to see me married. She will take any opportunity to present me on the marriage mart, even if it is with your sister on my arm. I have no doubt she still hopes I might dance with some other young ladies and give her the credit of bringing me together with the partner of my future life.” Darcy pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

  What would Aunt Matlock think, seeing him dance with the young lady he truly wished to partner? She would probably redouble her efforts and make Elizabeth the scorn of the ton. Aunt Matlock did not take well to upstarts and vulgar mushrooms, rising up in spheres to which they were not born.

  Fitzwilliam sniggered. “Why do you put yourself through this when you could so easily decline?”

  “It would be improper, impolite and ill-received to refuse her invitation.”

  Had he forgotten the force of nature Aunt Matlock became when someone attempted to gainsay her? Not to mention, it was required to honor Mother’s memory.

  “As you will.” Fitzwilliam tipped his head and left.

  Darcy returned to his desk and cradled his face in his hands. At least Fitzwilliam did not seem to suspect the underlying truth. He would be intolerable and persistent in his interrogations should he have any inkling as to the true object of Darcy’s torment.

  Still, politeness aside, Lady Matlock’s invitation might help him forget, even if for an evening. Letty’s company, and constant chatter, had a way of distracting Darcy from any semblance of ordered thought.

  At present, any distraction from the intruding memories of a charming Elizabeth Bennet was a welcome one, even if it was a Twelfth Night ball.

  January 6, 1812 Twelfth Night. Meryton

  Aunt Phillips hosted a Twelfth Night party, but had chosen to do so without consulting the Kings, who hosted a dinner and party of their own at the same time. It seemed little coincidence that all of the officers declined Aunt Phillips’s invitation in favor of the Kings’. Though little different from last year’s company, the gathering seemed drab and colorless. Lydia and Kitty felt the officers’ loss keenly and loudly, especially after a few cups of punch. Finally, Papa intervened and suggested it was time that everyone returned home.

  That had never happened before, and hopefully would never happen again.

  Elizabeth trudged upstairs, if she could abscond to her room quickly enough, she might not be called upon to help Kitty and Lydia prepare for bed. Elizabeth’s cheeks still burned for all they had said!

  She wandered around her moonlit room. Sleep was not going to come soon. If only Jane were here to talk all this over with. But even if she had been, Jane would have been far too distressed for words right now.

  Elizabeth lit several candles and pulled out her portable writing desk.

  My dear Aunt Gardiner,

  I hope this letter finds you well and warm this new year. Papa has had his first footer here to assure our future in the coming year. While I am not nearly so assured as he of our fortunes in the coming months, I do have news which I believe shall make for an agreeable start to the new year for you.

  Concerning Mr. Wickham: I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.

  Elizabeth paused and tapped her pen against her lips. Perhaps she had understated her feelings a bit to please her reader. More than just a bit really. But someone should get some pleasure out of the current turn of events. Moreover, Aunt Gardiner would probably be pleased to hear of his defection in favor of Mary King and her new fortune, but Mama’s returning ill-humor and ill-health would be news far less well-received. With Charlotte’s impending wedding there was little hope for improvement any time soon. Was it too soon to hope 1812 would conclude on a more agreeable note than it had begun?

  January 7, 1812. London

  The morning after Twelfth Night, Darcy blinked rheumy eyes, staring at the window, and trying to avoid the miserable brightness sneaking around the edges of the curtains. His head throbbed, stomach protesting like a mob rioting in the streets.

  A mob would have been easier to quell.

  He pressed his belly and smacked his lips. Drinking so much had been a poor choice, even if it had been in the privacy of
his study, after the ball.

  His study—he glanced about—he had slept in his study in his favorite leather wingback!

  He squeezed his temples and groaned as fragments of memories came rushing into place.

  On his return from the Matlock ball, he had intended to return to his chambers. The port in his study had called to him, though, one glass after another, until his best intentions faded away into an alcohol muddled haze. Port after several generous glasses of Aunt Matlock’s famed—and very potent—punch was a very bad idea indeed.

  The housekeeper pounded on the door.

  Why did she feel the need to do that, today especially? A polite tap was all that had ever been needed to garner his attention. He would have to speak to her about that ... later.

  The door squealed like a dying animal as she opened it. “Sir.”

  “What?” He clutched his temples and bit back the harsh words dancing on his tongue. There was no need for her to shout.

  “I brought you something to help your ill-ease, some coffee, and a bite to eat if you wish it.”

  He flicked his hand toward a small table.

  It would be a miracle if she did not crack every piece of porcelain on the tray with all the rattling and clattering. Was it possible to make more noise?

  She shuffled out and slammed the door. The woman had never been so ungainly before—why now? He would have sharp words for her when—

  His stomach roiled, and he reached for the glass, full of a slightly opaque liquid, sparkling in the too bright afternoon—afternoon?—light.

  He shaded his eyes against the glare. How could it become afternoon so quickly?

  He gulped down the contents of the glass.

  Gah! With any good fortune, the drink would work better than it tasted. Not that it would be difficult. Could she not have provided him with something less foul than his temper?

  He pitched forward and scrubbed his sandy eyes with his palms. If only he could scour away the previous night as well.

  What a fool he had been, trusting Aunt Matlock would indeed make his evening tolerable. How clever of her to assign him and Letty the bard’s Benedick and Beatrice, so, in her words ‘their debates and disagreeable remarks would be entirely in character.’ How kind and generous her assessment of him.