by Jennifer Joy
Pent up aggression improved Darcy’s aim, and before a quarter of an hour had passed, he had beat Wickham past any hope of recovery.
Tossing his cue on the table, Wickham held his hands up in surrender. “I cannot best you, so I will quit while I still have some measure of pride. You know, I do very well at the taverns, but I have my work cut out for me if I ever wish to beat you.”
“You will never best me,” Darcy said coolly. Wickham lacked the focus and stamina required. He was too content with the success of the moment to exert himself beyond the present.
“Arrogance at its best,” Wickham sneered.
“It is not arrogance if it is based on fact. You are too careless and take too many risks spurred by desperation.”
Wickham chuckled. “I daresay you are right. It is how I live my life.”
“Life is more than a game.”
“Ah, but, where is the diversion in that, Darcy? What is the use of life unless you are enjoying it?”
“And how can you appreciate diversion unless you have first felt the satisfaction of hard work? To see your effort rewarded when it lightens the load others bear?”
Wickham bowed dramatically. “As spoken by a man who manages one of the largest estates in England magnificently. Who does everything magnificently and so supposes that everyone else must live up to his standards. What you do not realize, Darcy, is that not everyone wants to live as you do. Some of us are content with pursuing whatever gives us pleasure.”
They had argued the same point many times. Too many times.
Darcy changed the topic. “What terms did Miss Elizabeth agree to?”
Wickham sighed. “Of course, duty and honor binds you to extend your protection to a young lady you claim not to fancy. Very well. I have nothing to hide, and so to prove I am innocent of whatever nefarious deed you seem to think I am scheming against a maiden without fortune, I will be honest and tell you everything. Really, there is not much to tell. I merely convinced her to extend her stay until Tuesday for her sister’s benefit. See how selfless I am? What do I possibly stand to gain from encouraging the Bennet sisters to stay? I own they are — either one — handsome enough to tempt me, but what is beauty without a significant dowry?”
Drat it all, Miss Elizabeth was handsome enough to tempt Darcy, too. And thanks to Wickham, he would have to endure three days more in her company, exposing himself to her lively conversation and snappy wit. To top it off, she had intended to leave when a more dishonest female would have extended her stay as long as she politely could.
If Darcy did not stifle his favorable observations (not admiration, mind you) immediately, he was in real danger of falling in … esteem … with a young woman completely inappropriate for him. Her want of connections. Her family! Darcy shivered.
While he doubted a matrimonial manipulation would originate with either Bennet sister, Darcy believed Mrs. Bennet capable of it. He would not let his guard down so easily. “Why do you take such an interest in Miss Bennet’s wellbeing? Did her mother pay you to interfere on her behalf?” he asked.
“You do not think much of Mrs. Bennet,” Wickham observed.
“What good is there to think?” Darcy could not name one edifying quality to recommend the woman.
Wickham cocked his head to the side. “It is a pity. You will not allow yourself to enjoy the delightful company of an intelligent young lady because you see her in the tainted light your poor opinion casts upon her family.”
That was precisely Darcy’s plan. He did not contradict his insightful friend.
Clucking his tongue, Wickham continued, “You always were an excellent judge of character. No doubt, you are correct (as you usually are) to avoid anything beyond the most remote acquaintanceship with Miss Elizabeth. Both of you have strong characters and firm opinions. You would become fast friends under more favorable circumstances, and we could not have that, now, could we?”
No, we cannot, Darcy thought. “I am pleased to see you draw the same reasonable conclusion. It simply would not do.”
Wickham bunched his chin ponderously, rubbing his fingers over his whiskers. “How fortuitous for you she will never have occasion to meet Lady Catherine, or she would sooner think the same of you that you think of her.”
Darcy’s body tensed. “I fail to see any resemblance between Miss Elizabeth’s family and my aunt.” How dare Wickham speak of a peer, of his social superior, in the same sentence as an insignificant family with scandalous manners.
The fool continued babbling nonsense. “…what with your ‘engagement’ to Miss de Bourgh, such a sickly thing and not at all suited to you, it truly is astounding your aunt would presume on your free will and force you to bend to her wishes merely because she decided it would be so before you could speak for yourself. Never have I met more pomp and presumption.”
Darcy seethed through his clenched jaw, “You dare defame my relations to my face.”
“Where else would you have me do it? Would you have me speak ill of you behind your back? Do you think so poorly of me, too? Must all your friends endure such scrutiny?” Wickham laughed, smacking his hands together. “I would pay good money to watch Miss Elizabeth set Lady Catherine down a notch. Her ladyship would not know what had happened until it was done. I can see it now!” Raising his voice in imitation of Aunt Catherine, he mimicked, “Obstinate, headstrong girl!”
Darcy did not laugh, though he could imagine the scene Wickham described with striking clarity. He warned, “Do not mock my family. Or do you forget your attachment to my father — your godfather?”
Wickham rounded the table. “I have not forgotten. I do, however, find it interesting how quickly you dismiss the faults of your aunt — whose presumption in speaking of a pretended and wholly inappropriate engagement to her daughter far surpasses Mrs. Bennet’s ambitions, who has made no such claim on you on behalf of any one of her daughters.”
Darcy wanted very badly to refute Wickham’s comparison as ridiculous — preposterous! But he could not. There was a disturbing ring of truth Darcy could not in good conscience deny.
Mrs. Bennet was vulgar and presumptuous and would swoop like a hawk at the opportunity to attach one of her daughters to an eligible gentleman by any means necessary. The briefest thought of her set Darcy’s teeth on edge.
And there was his aunt, Lady Catherine. She was no better, even though she had all the advantages of higher society.
Which was worse?
Why did he resent Mrs. Bennet while accepting his aunt’s senselessness without question? Did he excuse her, as everyone else did, because of her position in the first circles?
Darcy did not like the conclusions he was forced to draw. And being unable to despise his aunt or to hold Mrs. Bennet in higher esteem, he determined it an exercise in frustration to think of either of them at all. He would have said as much to Wickham … but Wickham was gone.
Chapter 19
“Mr. Darcy must believe me as bad as Mother,” Elizabeth said, crossing the floor to where Jane sat in front of the window. In reality, it was lovely out of doors after so many days of rain. The light gray sky was an improvement over the recent black clouds. Perhaps sitting in the garden was not a bad idea after all.
Oh, who was she fooling? Elizabeth had put her interests ahead of her sister’s to fulfill a fantasy. And she felt horribly guilty for it.
Jane said sweetly (for Jane was always sweet — not like Elizabeth, her scheming, manipulative, selfish sister), “I doubt that. Were you able to secure a carriage? What a relief to know we shall be home soon. I hate to impose, and though the Bingleys have been everything kind and attentive, I do not wish to overstay our welcome.”
Oh, the guilt! Elizabeth grabbed a pillow and buried her face in it, dropping onto the end of Jane’s bed in a dramatic fashion worthy of Lydia. How could she tell Jane what she had done? But she must, and fast.
“Lizzy, what has happened?” Jane asked. Elizabeth felt her sister settle beside her, leaning against her
in support.
Dropping the pillow to her lap and clutching it to her stomach, Elizabeth said, “I am a wretched, selfish creature.”
Jane tried to interrupt her, but Elizabeth pressed on. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would make an appearance soon, and Elizabeth had a lot of explaining to do in too little time.
“You will understand when I have finished, but Jane, there is not much time. Mr. Bingley was nowhere to be found, and before I could ask Miss Bingley for the use of the carriage, I chanced upon Mr. Wickham. I told him our plan to depart today, and … to make a long story short … he convinced me to extend our stay until Tuesday in exchange for a favor.” Elizabeth’s heart fluttered and her skin warmed, sending delightful sensations down her arms to her fingertips at the promise of exchanging letters with Mr. Wyndham. However, not all the sensations coursing through Elizabeth added to her contentment. Like a fly floating in a bowl of punch, her churning stomach ruined what should have been wonderful.
Jane was shocked. “A favor from Mr. Wickham! Lizzy, what have you done?”
Elizabeth clutched the pillow tighter. She felt awful, and yet… She said with great regret and no repentance, “Nothing I would not do again. He knows Mr. Wyndham and offered to deliver a letter to him for me.”
Yes, she was a wretched, willful creature.
Poor Jane. Elizabeth saw the struggle in her sister’s mind playing across her features.
“Lizzy, if you are discovered, the damage to your reputation will be irreparable. However, I also understand why you are willing to risk disapproval and ruin. It is not every day a lady is offered the chance to communicate with the man who has inspired hope and love in her these many years.” Jane lowered her voice. “Mr. Wickham promises to be discreet?”
“Yes. I do not entirely understand his motives. He is not one to do anything without receiving some advantage from it, I think, but neither can I refuse when he has offered me the chance to write to the man of whom I dream — the man whose poetry lights my soul on fire. I would forever regret allowing this opportunity to pass me by, and so I must take a risk.” Elizabeth squeezed Jane’s hand. “What if he writes back to me? What if I can establish a correspondence with Mr. Wyndham? Naturally, we would meet, and…”
How quickly her thoughts jumped from an introduction to marriage! Elizabeth shook her head. Mr. Wyndham might be a reclusive, temperamental earl suffering from gout for all she knew. Or worse. He might already be married.
Elizabeth tugged at her bodice. It had become exceptionally tight. Where had all the air in the room gone?
Why had she not thought to ask Mr. Wickham? Elizabeth could not breathe until she knew. While Mr. Wyndham had become everything she wanted him to be in the safety of Elizabeth’s imagination, the reality might be … disappointing. Elizabeth clutched Jane’s hand tighter.
Jane wrapped her arm around Elizabeth, pulling her closer. “I fear your heart will be broken, Lizzy, though I pray every night that your Mr. Wyndham is everything you hope him to be.”
Elizabeth leaned into Jane, seeking comfort when there was none to be found. There were too many reasons she ought to have refused Mr. Wickham’s offer. The risk to her was great, the least of all being her reputation.
What if Mr. Wyndham did not measure up to the image she had built on the poems she had grown to love? What if he disappointed her hopes and shattered the dream of the life she had constructed around him? Elizabeth had been told her prospects were dismal for so long, she had taken comfort in Walter Wyndham — in a representation of a man who may not exist at all.
Except Mr. Wickham said he existed. Why would he say so unless it were true? What reason would he have to lie if it were not? He asked so little in return. Only three days.
To know the truth of Mr. Wyndham terrified Elizabeth, but she would rather risk heartbreak than a lifetime of wondering what could have been. She had to try. She had to know.
Before she could tell Jane the rest of the story, Miss Bingley burst into the room followed by a maid, whose arms were laden with wraps, shawls, and blankets.
Jane disguised her surprise well while Elizabeth explained. “We thought you might enjoy a change of scenery. Mr. Bingley is probably already waiting for you in the garden.”
If Miss Bingley saw Jane’s becoming blush, she was quick to cover it up with the contents of her maid’s arms.
In short time, Jane’s genteel kindness inspired even the sour Miss Bingley to fuss and suggest an outdoor picnic in the garden. Tables and blankets were fetched, and Elizabeth imagined the cook scrambling to meet her employer’s demands.
It was a lovely picnic which Elizabeth endured with diminishing patience. She had a letter to write.
The conversation not requiring full use of her intellect (Mr. Darcy did not bother to attend) and being unable to ask Mr. Wickham more questions without being overheard, Elizabeth drafted several versions of her letter in her mind. When she finally returned to the writing desk in her bedchamber, the words poured out of her quill and it was done.
Elizabeth did not see Mr. Darcy, and his absence was later explained when he did not come down for dinner either. He had some letters of an urgent nature which needed to be penned in time for Mr. Wickham to deliver in London on the morrow. Elizabeth’s was not the only letter Mr. Wickham was charged with, and she took comfort that he was not making a special trip to town for her. It added a degree of sincerity to his offer if he had already planned to act the messenger for Mr. Darcy.
All would be well.
She would finally meet Mr. Wyndham.
Elizabeth had thought she knew what impatience was.
Mr. Wickham departed from Netherfield Park as early as one accustomed to living in leisure was capable of doing. She tried to discern the time he planned to return, but she could not ask directly for fear of appearing overly eager — a mistake she would not make before she had negotiated a meeting with Mr. Wyndham. The letter was only the first step.
Hoping beyond hope Mr. Wickham would bring back a satisfactory reply from Mr. Wyndham, and knowing her expectations were foolish, Elizabeth’s only recourse was to help the time pass as quickly as she could.
Thank goodness Betsy had sent her book of poetry.
The house was silent, the residents of Netherfield Park having gone to the services in Meryton.
Once Jane was settled and resting, Elizabeth stole away to the library. Even had the inhabitants been within the estate’s walls, she would have been safe from them in that room. There were not enough books to tempt Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley was not a great reader (as was evidenced by the many empty shelves), and Mr. Bingley’s sisters would rather do anything other than improve their minds when they, by their own estimation, had very little to improve.
Although Elizabeth loved the coziness a well-stocked library provided, she needed no more than her precious book of poems and her own thoughts to pass the never-ending hours.
Chapter 20
Darcy should not have gone to services that Sunday.
He was in a turbulent mood. Forced proximity to Bingley’s haughty sisters usually had that effect. Adding to the intensity of Darcy’s displeasure, he had been obliged to listen to Mrs. Bennet express her concern for her eldest daughter when she could not have been more pleased with the convenience of her falling ill at Netherfield Park.
As soon as Darcy could pry himself away, he mounted his horse. He had not realized how great a mistake his eagerness to leave was until he overheard Mrs. Bennet presume aloud, “Anxious to return to Netherfield Park where my daughters are guests. They are handsome, and I have always said my Jane will marry into a fortune. Lizzy is determined in everything she does, and I daresay she will do very well for herself despite her limited prospects.”
It had been too late to dismount and linger, and Darcy had no desire to hear any more nonsense from the matron. He felt Mrs. Bennet’s beady, scheming eyes on him, but he refused to acknowledge her. He was not prey for her to snare in her traps.
His
horse had fought the bit, unaccustomed to being held back when his master would encourage him, but the stallion had made up for lost time once they were out of Mrs. Bennet’s view. Darcy had reveled in the gallop, short though it had been.
After a brushing of his boots and a change of coat, Darcy sought solace in the one room he was certain to find peace — Bingley’s poorly stocked library.
While the sight of empty shelves did nothing to improve Darcy’s mood, the task of filling them certainly did. Bingley’s library provided a wonderful challenge.
On one hand, no house was complete without the comfort of a respectable library. On the other, Bingley was prone to throw himself headfirst into a project rather than educate himself on the most beneficial way to proceed. His lack of knowledge was soon recompensed by his ability to learn by doing. Understanding this about Bingley’s character, Darcy took it upon himself to ensure that his friend’s acquisition of the skills he required as a landowner was as painless to those surrounding him as they were to Bingley himself. Bingley would despise himself were his inexperience to harm others, and men such as Bingley were not born to bear the burden of that kind of guilt when Darcy could smooth his path.
Light reflected through the library’s doorway, glistening on the polished wood. The maid must have pulled the curtains.
Darcy stopped short. He was not alone.
Sitting by the window with her feet pulled up under her skirts was Miss Elizabeth. She was so engrossed in her book, she did not look up when a board squeaked under his boot.
Remembering what had happened the last time he had startled her in this same room, Darcy cleared his throat and stepped forward with as much noise as a gentleman could manage.
“Mr. Darcy! I did not hear you.”
“I did not wish to startle you.”
She smiled. “You have a habit of it, but as you can see, I am sitting in a chair rather than toppling over it this time.”
