Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  “I do hope you have not found Miss Bennet worse than you expected,” said Mr. Bingley, reaching forward to take his teacup from Miss Bingley, who did the honors of pouring.

  “Indeed, I have, Sir,” Mother replied with a tremor in her voice. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”

  Miss Bingley’s fingers turned white where she gripped the teapot. Elizabeth watched her hands closely lest she “accidentally” spill the boiling beverage over one of them.

  “Removed! It must not be thought of! My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal. Is that not so, Caroline?” Mr. Bingley said, proving to Elizabeth that he chose to see only the good in others or else he would have known how inconvenienced his sister was to have them there.

  “You may depend upon it, Madam, that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us,” Miss Bingley replied with cold civility. One needed only to look at the lady to see she had endured enough of the Bennets.

  Mother was profuse in her acknowledgments, adding, “I am sure, if it was not for such good friends, I do not know what would become of her, for Jane is very ill indeed and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world — which is always the way with her. My Jane has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to her.”

  Elizabeth clasped her hands together, rubbing her aching knuckles. While she never tired of hearing Jane praised, she wished it was not so often done at the expense of herself and her other sisters. It was tiresome to hear how bleak one’s prospects were when Elizabeth wished to be loved deeply for how she was. Like she imagined Mr. Wyndham would love her … if she could ever meet him.

  Mother’s purpose became painfully clear when she repeatedly interrupted Lydia’s attempts to secure a ball at Netherfield Park by turning the conversation back to Jane. She extolled her virtues to the point of embarrassment, encouraged to continue when Mr. Bingley proved eager to listen.

  Miss Bingley, on the other hand, had reached her limit. “I wonder how Miss Bennet is yet unmarried if her virtues and accomplishments are so extensive.” She added a sweet smile which she must have thought softened her words.

  Mr. Darcy’s eyes snapped to her, but it was Mr. Wickham who spoke. “It is splendid you should wonder such a thing when you are unmarried despite your inexhaustible list of accomplishments, Miss Bingley. How have you managed it? Tell us, and in so doing, perhaps you might satisfy your own curiosity about Miss Bennet.”

  Miss Bingley turned positively red, and Mr. Wickham’s smile grew as he reveled in her discomfort.

  Elizabeth clamped her teeth together and held her breath lest she so much as smile. Today was a test in composure, and for Jane’s sake, Elizabeth would not laugh at Mr. Bingley’s sister. She would wait until she was alone in her room.

  Chapter 13

  Mother smiled with increased interest at Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth imagined she was determining which daughter the gentleman would be better suited for. She was not done, however, convincing Mr. Bingley of Jane’s desirability.

  “There was a gentleman,” she continued, “who seemed about to propose. He wrote her some pretty verses.”

  Elizabeth had to stop her before Mother completely ruined any chance Jane had of winning Mr. Bingley’s heart. Saying the first thing that popped into her mind, Elizabeth blurted, “And that put paid to it. I wonder who was the first gentleman to resort to such a tactic.”

  Mr. Darcy said, “I thought poetry was the food of love.”

  As did Elizabeth, but she was not about to agree with him when she sought to change the topic away from her mother’s blatant advocacy on behalf of Jane. “Of a fine, stout love it may. But I am convinced that one poorly written sonnet will turn a slight regard cold.”

  Elizabeth could never marry a man incapable of expressing himself and his regard sincerely. She would sooner laugh than swoon. That much was true. Although she had to admit that if a gentleman were to attempt to woo her with paltry words, she would own to a certain degree of admiration for his effort in composing something which did not come naturally to him. She was not as completely without heart as her words made her seem.

  Mr. Darcy’s eyes did not waver from hers, and the longer he held her in his gaze, the more she wished he would look away.

  As for Mr. Bingley, he appeared greatly relieved to learn he would not be expected to compose a sonnet anytime soon. Jane was far easier to please than she was, and for her sister’s sake Elizabeth was grateful for it (although it did little to appease Elizabeth, who feared she was destined for spinsterhood. Oh well, she would be the eccentric aunt to Jane’s children. She would find happiness in that.)

  “You understand a great deal on the subject. Are you a reader of poetry?” asked Mr. Wickham.

  Elizabeth could have expounded on the subject for hours, but not now and not in their present company. “I appreciate a well-turned verse as much as I enjoy walking out of doors — as much as anyone else, I suppose,” she replied with a shrug.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Mother said, patting the cushion around her. “I had quite forgotten, but I thought you might wish for the book your uncle Gardiner sent to you from America.”

  Puffing her chest out in pride, Mother added, “Such is our company, Mr. Bingley. My brother and his family are great travelers and so thoughtful in their attentions to my girls by sending them gifts from abroad.”

  “Is he the one in trade? Or is he the attorney in Meryton?” Miss Bingley asked, more to point out their lower connections than to hear the reply.

  Her cut was lost on Mother, who replied with indefatigable satisfaction, “Mr. Phillips is an attorney. He married my sister. No, my brother resides in London where he keeps a townhouse. He sent Lizzy a book of poems, and I brought it so she may read it to Jane.”

  Elizabeth knew better than to credit her mother for her thoughtfulness. Sending the book must have been Betsy’s idea. She had swooned when Elizabeth read one of the poems aloud to her two nights before.

  Elizabeth wanted to grab for the book, but she did not want to appear too eager to secure her beloved volume from her mother either. She held out her hand, but her mother was not paying the slightest attention to her.

  “Do you often read poetry, Mr. Wickham?,” Mother asked, waving Mr. Wyndham’s book in front of Mr. Wickham’s nose. If Elizabeth leaned over, she could snatch it away.

  Mr. Wickham had not anticipated her question. He shifted his weight in his seat and cleared his throat before he said, “I take delight in beauty in all of its forms.”

  It was a charming answer, and Mother was greatly pleased. So pleased, Elizabeth noticed, that she set the book of poems back down on the cushion.

  Elizabeth dropped her extended hand. She would have to wait.

  “My Jane is certainly the most beautiful young lady to be seen in and around Meryton, but my Lizzy is often praised for her sharp wit and quick humor. She can recite every poem in this book, such an admirer is she of the poet’s work and so clever is she to put them to memory.”

  Elizabeth’s face burned. She heard Miss Bingley huff, no doubt offended at not being foremost in her mother’s measure of the beauty to be found in that part of Hertfordshire.

  Again, Elizabeth felt Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her. She refused to acknowledge his attention and kept her gaze fixed on her lap. She already knew what he thought of her. She was not tempting enough and had no prospects.

  The gentlemen were quiet until the butler announced the arrival of the surgeon. Elizabeth wanted to kiss the man for interrupting her mother’s conversation at the same time she would have strangled Mr. Darcy for sending for the surgeon at all. While her ribs were probably bruised, Elizabeth could breathe now with ease (so long as she did not breathe too deeply.)

  Now, there would be no concealing the accident that had caused Elizabeth’s disco
mfort from her mother.

  “Surgeon? I do hope you have not suffered an injury, Mr. Bingley,” Mother said.

  Mr. Bingley looked as astounded as Mother was concerned. “No, though I would sooner wish it were me than one of my guests.” He looked between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth did not trust either gentleman to know how to appease her mother, if in fact she could be appeased when a clear opportunity for her to force Elizabeth and Jane to stay on longer at Netherfield Park landed on her lap like yet another gift from Heaven.

  “I had a little fall in the library, that is all. Mr. Darcy called for the surgeon as a precaution. It is nothing to trouble yourself over,” Elizabeth said.

  “A little fall?” Mr. Wickham exclaimed. Leaning forward in his chair, he said, “Miss Elizabeth fell from a significant height and only minutes ago suffered from a terrible pain at her side. Darcy was fortunate enough to come to your daughter’s aid, but he sent me to fetch the surgeon in haste to ensure no greater harm was done.”

  Elizabeth swallowed her groan. At least Mr. Wickham had left out the bit about Mr. Darcy catching her.

  Her mother could not have looked happier, and Elizabeth could not guess which fact pleased her more: That her daughters’ stay at Netherfield Park would certainly last longer, that a charming gentleman had hastened to fulfill a task for her benefit, or the manner in which Mr. Darcy might have compromised her when he came to her aid in the library. The unfortunate incident was replete with possibilities.

  From the way Mother’s eyes gleamed as she looked at Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth’s worst fear was made irrefutable. Her mother’s opinion of him had changed.

  Chapter 14

  No sooner had the Bennets departed and Miss Elizabeth’s slim figure slipped through the doorway than Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst giggled behind their hands.

  “Have you ever met a more vulgar family?” Miss Bingley said between snickers. She did not bother to lower her voice. Miss Elizabeth might have overheard.

  Darcy clenched his fists. “Would you have them remain at home when one of their own is ill?” he asked through clenched teeth. Mrs. Bennet’s exaggerated praise aside, she was a loyal mother. And while her ambitions for her daughters were blatant and distasteful, she was forthright about it.

  Miss Bingley cocked her head to the side, her confidence in his approval of her cuts against a family so far beneath her notice was jarring to Darcy. What had he done to encourage this boldness in her?

  She said, “Miss Elizabeth had sense enough to blush at her mother’s crass speech, although her attempts to change the subject were hardly effective in quieting Mrs. Bennet. If she were my mother, I would perish of shame before I allowed her to mix with higher society.”

  Bingley was quick to reply. “Do you believe yourself so far above them you defame them? You forget yourself, Caroline. You forget how our father grew our fortune in trade. By birth, the Bennets are superior to even you. They are more equal to Darcy than we are.”

  Darcy cleared his throat, upset that his first inclination was to clear his name and elevate himself above the Bennets. Aside from the difference in fortune and manners, he supposed they were equals. Granted, his grandfather was an earl, but Darcy himself had no title to boast. He was a landed gentleman the same as Mr. Bennet. And while Darcy felt confident in his superiority regarding social graces and propriety, he owned he had a few relatives who failed to meet the same standard he demanded of himself — much like the eldest Misses Bennet, who had conducted themselves with the utmost care since their arrival to Netherfield Park. Though their mother would have them impose on Bingley’s hospitality as long as he would allow it, neither lady gave any indication of resorting to artful devices to extend their stay.

  Miss Bingley gasped. “The Bennets equal to Mr. Darcy? How can you utter such foolishness, Charles?”

  Darcy did not want her defense. He said, “By birth, they are my equals. And in your brother’s quickness to defend their character against those who would cowardly malign them, Bingley is my superior.”

  Darcy left the room, pride holding his head up when shame weighed him down.

  To his right, he heard a rustle and gasp.

  Two brown eyes met his, golden flecks sparking like embers in a fire.

  Miss Elizabeth was the last person he wished to see, and judging from her reaction, she had heard Miss Bingley’s unflattering comments.

  She twisted her hands together before forcing them to her side. Raising her chin, she said, “I heard my name, so I lingered. It is sufficient punishment for eavesdropping to hear others’ true opinion of oneself and her family — a lesson a wiser person would have learned after the first time.”

  Darcy was stunned. “The first time?”

  Miss Elizabeth bowed her head. “I would rather not admit to a breach of propriety before a man I so recently accused of ungentlemanly behavior, but my sense of justice demands honesty. I heard your opinion of Jane … and of my … lack of prospects…”

  Darcy held up his hand. He did not wish to hear Miss Elizabeth repeat his words. He had meant them. It was a fact that gentlemen of circumstance would never willingly attach themselves to a lady with so little to recommend her. However, he had not meant for her to overhear his frank assessment. He rather wished the words unsaid now. There was nothing left to do but apologize.

  Taking a deep breath, Darcy said, “You do not need to explain yourself, Miss Elizabeth, least of all to me. I am sorry you overheard, and I … I ought not to have said what I did yesterday.” Darcy’s gut twisted, but he continued, “You were right to criticize my speech. It was ungentlemanly of me.”

  She raised her hand and shook her head. “I am caught listening to a conversation again after admitting to eavesdropping before and yet you are the one to admit your error? Pray admit no more faults, or I shall have to expose more of mine.”

  Darcy stopped, grateful she had put an end to his apologies.

  Chewing her lips, Miss Elizabeth met his eyes again. Silence surrounded them, and Darcy wished he could read her thoughts. There were questions in her wide eyes and raised brow — questions he would give her the relief of answering if only she would give them voice.

  He held her gaze, willing her in his heart to speak.

  But Miss Elizabeth said nothing. And Darcy felt stupid standing in the empty hall, pondering the silent lady before him.

  Or did she expect him to speak? Was she as anxious to hear his thoughts as he was to hear hers?

  Shoving his hand through his hair, careful to avoid the throbbing bump on his forehead, he asked, “Is your injury much improved?”

  Her eyes widened, her vision aimed at his own injury (which Darcy could only suppose looked as bad now as it felt.) Reaching out with her fingertips, she stopped herself before her skin brushed against his.

  Darcy ought to have flinched or stepped back, but her gesture warmed him through and dulled the ache beating against his skull.

  Not that he could have moved had he wished it. His feet were rooted in place, and the urge to lean forward toward her nearly overwhelmed his better sense.

  “You are hurt! I should have noticed earlier, but of course it would have been a miracle for you to escape injury completely.” She looked down at her hand and rubbed her knuckles. “It is a good thing you only suffered from the strike of my hand and not my head, for I believe mine to be harder than yours.”

  “Ha!” Darcy erupted, clamping his lips shut before he insulted the lady further or risked Miss Bingley following him to the hall to see what had provoked his laughter.

  Miss Elizabeth, however, did not curb her merriment. “Do not look so astonished, Mr. Darcy. While it smarts to hear others offend my vanity, I hope I never grow so proud I am unwilling to poke fun at myself.”

  Her whole face smiled, but Darcy could not join in her glee when her humor so clearly made plain his own error.

  He tried to explain. “I was distracted at the assembly. Bingley invited me to join him a
t Netherfield Park, so I might help him determine if he is ready to take on the management of an estate of his own. It is an overwhelming task for one unaccustomed to the variety and quantity of responsibilities attached to a properly cared for property and its tenants. The assembly was an unwanted distraction—”

  Even as the words slipped past his lips, Darcy wished he could take them back. What a pitiful apology he made, listing a series of excuses which ought to have had no bearing on his behavior toward Miss Elizabeth and everybody else assembled.

  Thankfully, she stopped him from continuing. “Please, Mr. Darcy. You do not owe me an explanation.”

  “You are right. An explanation is insufficient when a sincere apology is required. I am sorry I slighted you, Miss Elizabeth — the first time and the second. It shall not happen again.”

  His shoulders relaxed. There was relief in doing the honorable thing, no matter how badly it stung his pride in having to make such an apology in the first place.

  She arched her neck, the corner of her lip curling up. “Am I to understand that I am tolerable enough it will not be such a punishment for you to endure my company until my sister’s health improves? That is convenient, although we are both determined not to trespass a second longer than necessary.”

  Returning her humor, appreciative of how much easier she made it for him to admit to his fault, Darcy said, “If you find the company here barely tolerable, then who am I to keep you longer than you wish to stay?”

  “Touché, Mr. Darcy.”

  She grinned, and Darcy wanted to continue their exchange so badly he immediately became tongue-tied. He had already asked about Miss Bennet’s health and her own. He had apologized and now felt much lighter than he had before.

  Before he could gather his scrambled thoughts, she held the book of poetry up. “I really must not make the surgeon and housekeeper wait for me any longer, or I will never get back to Jane. Thanks to you and the maid at Longbourn, I have more than enough to read to her.”