Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  Jane, who had been calmly stitching her piece of embroidery, now joined Elizabeth in the hall outside their father’s study. As beautiful as she was sensible, Jane suggested, “If the cart driver is lost, then perhaps it would be a kindness to assist him along his way. We will have a tea tray ready for you when you return.”

  Elizabeth smiled at her thoughtful eldest sister, grateful she had already asked Mr. Hill to inquire if they might be of assistance to the men with the cart. It was the simplest solution and one her father would have seen to immediately had he not been too distracted confounding Mother.

  The butler came in through the entrance just then, droplets of rain showering from his coat where he stood. “The crate is from Mr. Edward Gardiner. Where would you like to receive it?” he asked.

  “In the parlor, of course,” Mother said, rushing out of Father’s book room to the parlor to clear a space.

  Elizabeth ran to help her while Jane herded Kitty and Lydia out of the way of the men carrying the crate. In minutes, the lid of the crate was pried off, Father paid the men a sum for their troubles, and straw littered the carpet and floors.

  Mother was beside herself with joy. “How very like Edward to think of us while he and his family are away on business. He always has been my favorite brother. We shall invite them to a grand dinner with the best families in Hertfordshire on their return.” She rubbed her hands together, no doubt already running down the list of unmarried gentlemen she could invite to court her unmarried daughters.

  Kitty pulled out a bolt of pale pink fabric with tiny rosebuds printed on it. “It is so soft,” she said, holding it out for them to pet as she did.

  “And there is enough for Jane to have a new dress made. I noticed how drawn Mr. Bingley was to the pink ribbon she wore at the assembly. This shall do very nicely,” Mother said.

  Lydia pouted until several other bolts of cotton fabric were taken out of the crate and brushed free of the straw stuck in them.

  Even Mary, who did not take much pleasure in material goods, had difficulty restraining her excitement when a flute was uncovered.

  “An instrument you can play in your bedchamber or take with you out of doors, my dear. I daresay the cows will produce better milk with the benefit of your practice in the fields,” Father observed.

  For Mother, there was a new fan with a velvet ribbon she could loop around her wrist. It opened to a painted design of brightly colored birds.

  “Is there a letter?” Elizabeth asked, unable to get any closer to the crate than she was with her mother and younger sisters taking up all the space.

  Uncle and Aunt Gardiner had traveled to America to establish trade connections from which they hoped to profit, should the wars with Napoleon ever end. It was generous of them to think of their relatives at Longbourn, but Elizabeth craved news.

  “I received a letter from them a fortnight ago. It escaped my mind until now, I fear, but they assured me they had arrived safely in Albany and intended to travel down the coast where it is reputed to be much warmer even in the winter months,” he said.

  “Mr. Bennet, how could you forget such a thing?” Mother complained.

  Father shrugged his shoulders. “There is no harm done. They are well, and I have no doubt you are enjoying their presents all the more for not knowing to expect them. Your brother did make mention of sending a crate in his letter, though he gave no indication as to when it would arrive.”

  Mother made her displeasure known with a few clucks of her tongue but was otherwise too distracted with the treasures piling up on the chair beside her to censure Father further.

  He would have returned to his study had there not been several books wrapped in brown paper and twine at the bottom of the crate. The first was a journal of Patrick Gass, an explorer whose name Elizabeth had heard mentioned along with Captain Meriwether Lewis and Lieutenant William Clark, detailing the expeditions of the intrepid adventurers scouting the new frontier. The next few books he uncovered looked as promising as the first, capturing Father’s attention as much as they did Elizabeth’s … though she would have to wait for him to finish before she could read them.

  Elizabeth knew she ought to be content with the promise of a new dress, but when Lydia and Kitty had a stack of ribbons and fripperies between them, Mary had her new instrument, and Jane had a fur muff and cape lined with satin, Elizabeth pushed her way closer to the side of the crate to better inspect if perhaps her gift had fallen to a corner on the bottom.

  Lydia huffed. "That is all? I do not understand why Jane gets the furs when all I have are these ribbons."

  “Lizzy, this book is addressed to you,” Father said, handing her a wrapped book with her aunt’s handwriting on it.

  They had not forgotten her after all. Feeling silly for doubting them, Elizabeth took the book while Mother organized the removal of the crate and the cleaning of the carpets.

  Mary had already gone to her room. High-pitched chirps and shrills came from upstairs.

  Lydia grabbed Kitty by the elbow and pulled her away to better entertain themselves in more lofty pursuits. She had a hat to trim with her new ribbons.

  Kitty was not completely without a sense of fairness. “Only a book for Lizzy when we have all of this?”

  Taking a seat over by the fire, Elizabeth tore the paper off the book.

  Her heart swelled as she saw the curved letters engraved in gold on the cover. She ran her fingers over his name, the leather as smooth to her skin as his name was when it rolled off her tongue.

  “A Book of Poetry by Walter Wyndham,” Elizabeth whispered. Her sisters could have the dresses and the fineries. Elizabeth would not trade the verses for all the contents of the crate.

  She pressed the book to her chest, lowering her chin and inhaling the intoxicating scent of a newly bound collection of poems penned by the man she dreamed of meeting someday.

  Chapter 2

  Jane understood what Mr. Wyndham’s poetry meant to Elizabeth.

  Gathering her furs, Jane said, "Lizzy, I seem to have misplaced my favorite pink ribbon. Would you be so kind as to help me search for it?"

  Kitty and Lydia fell suspiciously quiet at the table where they sat trimming the bonnet. Their silence was as good as an open confession. They must have pilfered the ribbon before the arrival of the crate.

  Mary entered the room, her fingers still covering the dainty holes of her new instrument. Not one to use gentle speech when blunt tones would do, she said, "Lydia has it. She took it from your room, hoping you would not notice it was gone, so she might wear it on her bonnet. Stealing is a sin born from envy." She glowered at Lydia self-righteously until Lydia stuck her tongue out.

  Not knowing how to react to the unseemly outburst, though she had been the recipient of such vulgar gestures numerous times, Mary twirled on her slippered foot and returned to her room.

  Elizabeth often thought Mary and Lydia would benefit from each other's association if they could endure one another long enough to profit from their company. As it was, they avoided each other like the pox. Mary's pious views clashed too greatly with Lydia's selfish pursuits of whatever brought her pleasure.

  As Jane passed the table, Elizabeth heard Kitty whisper, "It was your idea! Do not expect me to volunteer my pin money to replace Jane's ribbon."

  With a smile, Elizabeth followed Jane up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  "Those two will spend the rest of the day arguing over who ought to replace your ribbon," Elizabeth said, closing the door behind her.

  Jane sighed. "And, in the end, I suspect neither of them will bother to think of me the next time they visit the haberdashery."

  "Their pangs of conscience never last long. I think they are convinced it is not stealing so long as it is done within the family. We ought to be honored to receive such a distinction," Elizabeth added with a chuckle.

  "It disturbs you as much as it does me, Lizzy, though you attempt to cover it over with humor. But let us not dwell on the moral challenges our
sisters suffer. Open your book."

  Elizabeth needed no further encouragement. Running her fingers once more over the poet's name, she opened it to the first page. A letter dropped into her lap.

  She held it up. "It is from Aunt Gardiner."

  Being addressed to her, Elizabeth did not need to read the contents aloud, but she held no secrets from Jane. She read:

  Dearest Lizzy,

  Would you have believed it? A book of poems by your favorite author, Mr. Walter Wyndham. I do believe this explains why his poems have only appeared in the ladies’ journals in England while he has a book printed in America. He must be American! I am asking anybody of consequence we meet if they know of him (discreetly, of course), so that I might inquire when he next plans on traveling to England, for I know how dearly you wish to meet the gentleman. Your uncle believes my inquiries are in vain, but since he does not prohibit them, I am free to ask whom I choose. If Mr. Wyndham is here, I shall find him. And I will give a full account of every detail.

  We miss you dearly, Lizzy. It seems strange we will not be at home to receive you and Jane at our residence as is our custom at the end of the year. However, the children are excited to visit this new world, and I will admit that I am, too. Our accommodations have been superior to what we had envisioned, and while the transportation is rougher than we are accustomed to, it is not unbearable. So far, the journey looks to be a profitable one for your uncle, and for that, I am grateful. How heartbreaking it would be to make such a long voyage for naught.

  I promise to write more later, trusting you will eventually receive this missive and all the others I have sent. Edward has written several letters to your father as well. Pray ask Mr. Bennet occasionally for news of us, as we are well aware of his tendency to forget to share his correspondence.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes at that. Father was infamous for sharing news at the most inopportune times, often months after he had received word.

  She continued reading:

  Enjoy your poems, Lizzy. I saw that several of your favorites from the magazines are inside, as well as a few which seem to be new. Oh, I do hope so for your sake!

  Yours in the pursuit of the elusive Mr. Wyndham,

  Madeline Gardiner

  Elizabeth clutched the book to her chest again. "Oh, Jane, how glad I am that I was not invited to dine at Netherfield Park with you tonight. I shall have all evening to spend with my new treasure." She flipped through the pages, her eyes devouring the words, her heart warming at the familiar phrases and beating in excited anticipation at the new, unfamiliar poems awaiting her.

  It was not that the poems were perfect. Far from it! They were marvelous in their imperfections. No emotions more honest had ever been written than those of Mr. Wyndham’s. They pierced through all the superficial meanderings and nonsensical metaphors to reflect the honesty of his soul — a soul Elizabeth understood. A soul which, unfortunately, was not to be found on English soil but in far-away America. More was the pity. Would she never meet the man who inspired her thus?

  Jane looked out of the window. It had stopped raining, but the clouds looked heavy. "I only wish Father would allow me to use the coach, but Mother is determined. I fear she is right about the rain, and I shall be forced to abuse Miss Bingley's hospitality. She and Mrs. Hurst have been so kind to me, I do not wish to trouble them."

  "Anyone would delight in having you under their roof. Mr. Bingley probably knew nothing of his sisters’ plans to invite you to dine at his estate, or else he would not have arranged to dine with the officers in Meryton. I doubt he will find your presence a burden." Of that, Elizabeth was certain. As to the other residents at Netherfield Park… Well, they could choke on their white soup for all Elizabeth cared.

  Jane blushed. It was no secret that from the first time she and Mr. Bingley had laid eyes on each other at the Meryton Assembly the month before, her heart had been susceptible to the attentions of the gentleman.

  Knowing the tenderness of her sister's heart, Elizabeth had closely observed Mr. Bingley and had been delighted to find in him Jane's equal in amiability and gentleness. They would make a wonderful match … so long as the less amicable around them did not attempt to ruin the happiness they seemed to find in each other.

  That Mr. Darcy, for instance. Never had Elizabeth met a man so contrary. He was pleasing to the eye, but though his form was statuesque — tall and perfectly proportioned — he held all the emotion of a marble statue. Not once had he condescended to dance with anyone outside his immediate party at the assembly.

  Elizabeth caressed her book. A man like Mr. Darcy could never appreciate the depth of emotion inside. The raw realness, the aching vulnerability. Walter Wyndham's poems had taken Elizabeth’s breath away. She had always believed it a grave injustice that his poetry should be limited to publication in women's journals, and so it was with great elation she held his published tome in her hands. If only she could meet him…

  "What do you think he looks like?" Elizabeth wondered aloud.

  She did not need to explain to whom she referred.

  Jane said, "I think he must be quite handsome. Tall, with dark wavy hair and crystalline eyes with a hint of melancholy that disappears when he laughs."

  Eyes that reflected his pure heart — a heart Elizabeth knew in her bones to be her match. She was not given to fancy, but of this she was certain. Otherwise, how could his poems affect her as they did?

  Jane knew Elizabeth's taste well. Her description was that of Elizabeth’s ideal gentleman. Only one detail bothered her. Elizabeth asked, "Do you think he laughs often? There is such an intensity to his work, I fear he is too often serious. I could never truly love a man without a sense of humor." It was the one concern she could not quite justify about the image she had created in her mind of Mr. Wyndham. To her, he was perfect. If he possessed a sense of humor, an appreciation of the ridiculous as she did, then there could not be another man Elizabeth could love more.

  Was it possible to love a man she had never met? How could Elizabeth not fall for someone who spoke so clearly to her deepest sentiments — who understood her so completely and with whom she sympathized over the tenderest emotions?

  Jane nodded. "Why should he not? Even the gravest of characters have been known to indulge in merriment. If I know you at all, I would deem you worthy of the challenge of ensuring he had much about which to laugh."

  Elizabeth chuckled. "That I would. If I cannot find another’s foible to poke fun at, I have several of my own from which I can choose.”

  “Do not say such things, Lizzy. You are never cruel, and I pray you would not make yourself ridiculous just to entertain others.”

  Jane was the sweetest sister. So completely lacking guile and malice. And so completely unlike Miss Bingley, who had ensured during the Meryton Assembly to point out every fault she found in a superior tone loud enough to be overheard by Mr. Darcy (who did nothing to silence her or defend the innocents she had maligned) and anyone else who was unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

  “Very well, Jane. Since I must be willing to own my own mistakes, I must be more diligent in not making any. There is much good to be said about humility, but it is a rather painful quality when one has been in the wrong.” Elizabeth’s thoughts again turned to Mr. Darcy. He stood to benefit from a healthy dose of humility.

  Two taps sounded at the door before it opened. The maid peeked her head inside. “Mrs. Bennet wants me to see to your hair, Miss,” she said.

  Jane sighed. “I do not know why you should bother Betsy. My hair shall be ruined with the rain by the time I get to Netherfield Park.”

  “If you can cover the ringlets at the front with a cape, I shall put the rest up in braids so nobody will notice,” Betsy suggested.

  They continued planning, but their voices faded to a soft hum. So lost was Elizabeth in the musings of her own mind, she did not realize how long the room had been silent until Jane spoke. “I know you will not agree with me, but I suspect your Mr. Wyn
dham is a gentleman very much like Mr. Darcy.”

  An unladylike gasp escaped Elizabeth at her sister’s sacrilegious speech. “There was nothing poetic about his refusal to dance with me. ‘Not handsome enough to tempt me’ he said.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Mr. Wyndham would never insult a lady’s vanity with such a poorly worded cut nor would he offend a roomful of ladies by refusing to dance. No, Jane, I cannot agree with you. I will go so far as to say there is not one poetic bone in Mr. Darcy’s body.”

  Betsy had sense enough to nod her head in agreement. Elizabeth had always liked the girl.

  Jane looked at Elizabeth’s reflection in the mirror. “What he said was incredibly rude, I agree. However, I could not help but recall one of Papa’s favorite axioms: Still waters run deep.”

  Elizabeth knew the saying well. Father always used it against Kitty, Lydia, and Mary to show how silly his daughters were. There was nothing still or deep about them in his mind. However, Elizabeth was not so certain the adage ought to be applied to Mr. Darcy. Especially when Jane — who tended to think the best of everybody — suggested it.

  Mr. Darcy lacked emotion. He was certainly not a poet. And Elizabeth would think no more of him — not when she could spend the evening poring over Walter Wyndham’s beautiful words.

  Chapter 3

  Darcy contemplated the view out of the library window. The weather had cleared enough for him to entertain thoughts of riding over Bingley’s property. There were no books on the shelves to tempt Darcy to stay, and if he remained indoors much longer, he risked being found by Miss Bingley. Darcy would do anything to avoid her conversation. He took care not to give her any cause for encouragement, just as he did with all ladies to whom he would never consider an attachment.

  Bingley was kindness personified, a quality Darcy valued highly. He possessed no disguise or secret agenda to advance his own interests at the expense of others. However, all of Bingley’s fine traits were lacking in his sisters, who ambitiously grasped above themselves to achieve social heights which did not belong to them. Darcy endured the two females for Bingley’s sake. Bingley was a good man. An honest man.