by K C Kahler
Bingley chuckled. “I thank you for setting my mind at ease, Miss Elizabeth.”
“As my future brother, you may as well call me Elizabeth. In fact, you ought to call me Lizzy, for you are already one of my favourite people in the world for making my dear sister so happy.”
Darcy moved through the greetings in a haze of jealousy. Bingley had leave to call her by the name Darcy longed to use. How many times had he thought of her in his heart as “Lizzy?” His Lizzy.
He shook himself from his brooding. Nothing would be served by it. Indeed, the rest of the night turned out to be delightful, in part because Elizabeth was lively and open and gracious as ever, often coaxing him to join in the conversation with a small smile and raised brow. His natural reserve could not stand against such an assault.
In the greatest surprise of all, he found himself enjoying the company of his hosts. Over the last fortnight, he had listened as Elizabeth shared her memories of her family, and he had begun to see them through her eyes: imperfect but lovable.
Her parents were perhaps the most difficult to look upon fondly. On the one hand, her mother was fiercely loyal to her daughters and singularly dedicated to pursuing their future security through the only means at her disposal: advantageous marriage. He could not blame her for being a woman of mean understanding. But he found it harder to overlook her clear favouritism towards her other daughters, not to mention her disruptive temper and uncouth behaviour, both sources of distress for a certain young lady. Tonight, however, Mrs Bennet excelled in her role as proud mother and adept hostess, though she was still playing the matchmaker, seating Darcy next to her youngest daughter again.
Mr Bennet was another matter. His failures towards his family were grave, and he could not possibly claim that he did not know any better. The power of checking Mrs Bennet’s inappropriate behaviour rested with him alone, and he had neglected and avoided this duty. Still, Darcy could not help but admire Mr Bennet’s sharp wit, so vividly and fondly related in Elizabeth’s stories, and on full display as he discussed Miss Lydia’s latest book, Evelina, with Darcy, Elizabeth, and, of course, a jubilant Lydia. Mr Bennet had helped shape Elizabeth into the delightful woman she was today by encouraging her study and her wit, and she loved him dearly despite his faults.
Miss Bennet was of course the easiest to respect. Darcy had already admired her protective care of Elizabeth when they had stayed at Netherfield. He now knew her to be the kindest soul, even if she was a bit naïve. He recognised a bit of himself in her concealment of her deeper emotions. It was understandable indeed, with the personalities of her parents, that she should hide her feelings, not only to protect herself from exposure but also to provide a foil to those parents. She had been trying to set a better example for her younger sisters in the only way she could. Tonight, however, her emotions were evident. The satisfaction of Miss Bennet’s mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face as made her look handsomer than ever. Her love for Bingley could not be concealed.
Darcy had come to look fondly upon Miss Catherine as well. The poor girl was at a disadvantage, it seemed, when interacting with others. Darcy could sympathise with her social awkwardness. The difference between them was that she did not hide behind a proud mask. She interacted with people and she sometimes suffered for her efforts, but she did not become intimidated. In fact, she bluntly asked him about Georgiana’s gowns, and he answered with as much detail as he could. She was pleased and excited, asking many subsequent questions that he could not answer to her satisfaction, until finally, Miss Lydia demanded she stop “pestering Mr Darcy.”
The youngest Bennet was also impossible to intimidate. Miss Lydia was undeniably selfish and overly bold. She enjoyed being the centre of attention. But she was still a child and, according to Elizabeth, had begun to mature over the last month or so. She needed constant entertainment and therefore would make up all manner of silly games—like the linking of hands to reach around the ancient oaks. Miss Lydia had a cheerful disposition, never sinking into melancholy even when she was disappointed. She also always tried to cheer others when she thought them depressed; in this, she was similar to Elizabeth.
Finally, there was the mysterious Miss Mary. He had wondered about the middle Bennet ever since the Netherfield ball, and it seemed Elizabeth was growing increasingly curious about her quiet sister as well. They spoke about her the next morning at Oakham Stream.
“I must confess to doing something dreadful,” Elizabeth said. Darcy had come to cherish her intimate confessions most of all. The amusing stories were charming of course, but she shared them with everyone. In their secret place here, she felt at liberty to tell him deeply personal information about herself. And he loved it.
“What dastardly deed have you committed now?” he asked as he offered his arm.
“Let us cross the stream and walk deeper into the woods today. It is mild and dry, and all this walking back and forth is getting rather repetitive, is it not?”
He agreed, and she pointed out the best place to cross. He preceded her and helped her across. “How chivalrous!” she said. “John never worried about keeping my boots dry.”
Darcy’s mood fell considerably with the knowledge that she had come here with John Lucas too. Perhaps this was not their secret place together, but rather, Darcy was the substitute, the temporary replacement. The thought that she would continue these meetings with another man when Darcy had gone made him sick to his stomach.
“Are you quite well, Mr Darcy?” she asked with obvious concern.
Blast! He had let his torment show on his face. “Yes, perfectly well. You mentioned a confession.”
“Oh, it is nothing really. I was simply being melodramatic. If you would rather talk about something else I…I am very willing to listen.”
“Thank you, but I merely remembered an item of business I must write to my steward about.” He despised lying to her. “Please continue.”
She searched his face, her brows drawn slightly together, before speaking again. “Yesterday I looked into Mary’s papers while she left the room for a few moments.”
“That is quite dreadful; how will you live with yourself?”
She glared at him. “Would you like your sister to rifle through your papers?”
Darcy considered; before sending his latest letter to Anne several days ago, it had been in the desk drawer, full of secrets about his L. as well as a full accounting of the Wickham saga, which he had not shared with Anne previously. “No, you are right, of course. So what drove you to commit such an invasion of Miss Mary’s privacy?”
“No one can possibly make so many extracts from Fordyce. She should have rewritten the entirety of the text several times over at the rate she scribbles.”
“Could she be writing a novel?”
“That was precisely my suspicion!” she exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“It was a guess. But I know Miss Mary to be an avid studier of the human character. Perhaps even more so than you. You interact, she observes.”
“Yes! She is so subtle about it, and she never gossips. Most people do not notice her watching and listening.”
“Have you confirmed your suspicions?”
“No, unfortunately. The top sheet seemed to be a long passage about charity. I could not read it carefully enough to know. I also saw a second sheet that rambled on about obstinacy. I do not recall such a passage from Fordyce, but it has been many years since I bothered to read it.”
“Perhaps she does not write a novel, but her own morality essays?”
She snorted. “I would much rather she write a gothic novel. It would be so much more exciting. In any case, my prying yielded no great answers, and I shall no doubt be tempted to pry again in the future.”
“Should you not just ask her?”
“Oh no,” she looked up at him with a mischievous smile, “that would spoil all the fun of this little mystery.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Darcy retreated to
his room to avoid Miss Bingley while Charles visited the Bennets yet again. He should have been glad of his friend’s happiness, but instead he was envious and surly. He felt an urgency, a desperation that his time at Netherfield—his time with Elizabeth—was drawing short.
A knock on his door interrupted his brooding. When he answered, a servant handed him a letter. He recognised the handwriting as that of Roger, the trusted servant Darcy had sent to work at Rosings. A reply from Anne was enclosed. He sat down to read it immediately.
Dear Fitzwilliam,
Mr Collins departs from us soon again to visit his ‘dear Charlotte.’ He will not be carrying any letter from Mother for you. She still rereads your last letter and grumbles over it every now and then. But she will not share it with me. What did you tell her?
Your last letter to me contained all manner of shocks to which I must now reply. First, thank you for finally telling me about Georgiana’s folly. It elucidates some of her more puzzling letters over the last months. Had I known earlier, I would have urged her confidence. I shall do so now. Between the two of us, cousin, we shall restore her spirits and self-assurance.
I understand why you could not write to me of the ordeal before. The fact that you have shared it with your L. is only further proof that you should marry her. Imagine what a more mercenary woman would do with such information! You obviously trust L. completely.
And now I must berate you. I have never been more disappointed in your behaviour; I never thought it possible. You have claimed multiple times that you will not offer for L.; that duty, society forbid it. Yet you indulge in weeks’ worth of assignations in the woods with her merely because you are too weak to resist? Do you not realise that your actions, in addition to risking your own heart and happiness, risk hers as well? Do you wish to injure her, Fitzwilliam? How can you have so little care for her feelings, not to mention, her reputation? What if you are discovered?
I know what you are thinking. If you were discovered, you would do the honourable thing, and the decision would be taken out of your hands entirely. That is the coward’s way. L. would be regarded as the scheming country chit who finally trapped the great Fitzwilliam Darcy. Is that your desire? She deserves a proper courtship. She deserves a husband who enters into marriage willingly and with no reservations. She has already proven, through her refusal of a certain parson, that she wishes to marry for love, not security, and certainly, not due to scandal.
She deserves to be happy. If you feel you can best make her happy, for God’s sake, stop your cowardly hesitation and confess your love to her. If you cannot do that, cease this behaviour at once and leave her be. Leave her be, Fitzwilliam.
You know I am correct. I hope you will act as you ought to have acted from the beginning. Seize your happiness, dear Cousin. So few people ever have a real chance at it. And yes, I shall follow my own advice somehow. Recognising your behaviour for what it is has clarified what my own should be with regards to C.
Good luck to us both.
Yours,
Anne
Darcy read the letter over, feeling more and more ashamed of himself. He had behaved reprehensibly. He had found the most amazing woman—she was kind, witty, lovely, and full of integrity, and she was his perfect match. But he had denied and denigrated this powerful connexion, measuring her against some foolish society standard and finding her situation wanting even as he selfishly indulged his craving for her company. He had wished her to suffer just a fraction of what he was suffering when, all the while, the power to end any suffering was his alone if he would just abandon his stupid prejudices and court her. What a selfish fool! He had been proud, arrogant, and unfeeling.
Tomorrow morning, he would confess his deeper feelings. He would apologise for putting her reputation at risk, and he would profess a desire to court her publicly and properly if she would allow it. The engagement party at Lucas Lodge tomorrow night would be the perfect opportunity to make his intentions known to her family and the neighbourhood. By God, he would seize his happiness. Only her rejection could prevent it.
* * *
Darcy paced along the bank of Oakham Stream feeling a combination of fear and anticipation. How would she react? Would she be surprised, relieved, disgusted? She must know at least to some degree that he admired her. Did she return his admiration?
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, he paced on, but it would not last. He heard a strange sort of cry come from the road. It was Elizabeth’s voice, but…was she injured? He rushed towards the road. But he soon heard her laughter and was much relieved. He stood for a moment, listening to the delightful sound. He ought not go out onto the road lest someone see them together. But then he caught a glimpse of her through the branches. She was not alone.
Elizabeth Bennet stood laughing in the embrace of a young man.
Elizabeth slipped out the back door just as the sun rose. She had been leaving very early this week for fear of running into Mr Collins on his way each morning to visit Lucas Lodge. She wondered why he did not just stay there, for surely even he could feel the loss of Mrs Bennet’s enthusiasm for his presence. Elizabeth suspected that no polite invitation to return would be uttered this time when he took his leave. In any case, when the Gardiners came, there would be no room for Mr Collins at Longbourn, even if he did somehow wheedle another invitation.
The vicar had expressed his profuse congratulations when he was informed of Jane and Mr Bingley’s engagement. “What a relief it must be,” he had said at dinner the night of his arrival, “that one of your daughters had the good sense to be grateful and humble when Fortune smiled upon her.”
“Indeed,” Mr Bennet had replied, “I feel the full measure of my good fortune. Mr Bingley will be called my son. I do pity fathers when their daughters choose to marry halfwits and jackanapes.” Elizabeth could barely keep her countenance, and Lydia nearly choked on her soup.
On Tuesday night when the Netherfield party was to dine at Longbourn, Charlotte had insisted Mr Collins dine at Lucas Lodge. It was a welcome relief indeed. The dinner had been a rousing success despite Miss Bingley’s now slightly less overt disapproval. Elizabeth did not even mind Mr and Mrs Hurst, for the latter was making an effort to be kind to Jane, in her way, and the former treated everyone in the same manner—as second fiddle to his meal.
But Elizabeth’s attention that night had been on Mr Darcy. How differently he had behaved towards the Bennets compared to before the picnic! To see him discussing the latest London fashion in reticules and turbans with Kitty was a shock indeed. He had seen Elizabeth gaping at him during that conversation, and he merely smirked and shrugged.
Now, as she walked towards Oakham Stream, her thoughts were full of him. Could it be that he finally accepted her family; that he finally saw them for real people, not merely players in his entertainment? Could it be that he saw her as more than a diversion?
“I cannot tell you how comforting it is to know some things will never change, Lizzybits,” came a voice from behind her on the road.
Though startled, she immediately recognised the appellation and its speaker. “John!” Her squeal was largely unintelligible as she launched herself at him.
He laughed as he swung her around, and a thousand childhood memories rushed back to her. They nearly toppled over in their enthusiasm.
After he steadied them he said, “I take it this means you have forgiven me.”
She laughed, feeling giddy and silly. “Yes, it pains me to admit, but it turns out I might have been wrong. Though it was still most disagreeable of you not to follow my recommendations on the proper course of your life to the very letter.”
He dramatically wiped his brow. “What a relief! Here I thought you would insist I return to Cambridge immediately to finish my education.”
She pursed her lips. “It is not a bad idea, John.” But she could not keep her stern countenance and began laughing.
“By God, I have missed your laugh!” He hugged he
r again. “Now let me look at you. You look exactly the same, Lizzybits.” He touched her nose.
She swatted his hand away. “And you are far too tan. My goodness! Did you row the ship across the Atlantic yourself?” she said, eyeing his solid frame.
He laughed, his green eyes crinkling in that familiar way. They stood looking at each other, loosely embraced, for few moments as they laughed at nothing in particular.
“Were you going to Oakham Stream? I am anxious to see it again.”
Elizabeth stepped back, shaking herself. Mr Darcy was most likely waiting at the clearing. She was suddenly nervous. She wanted John to like him, and she wanted him to like John. “Yes, I was on my way there.”
“Perfect. It is as if I never left. Come along then.” He dragged her towards the path but suddenly stopped when he saw Mr Darcy there. “Oh, hallo!” John said.
“Mr Darcy! I had heard that you take morning rides.” Elizabeth stepped towards him, hoping he understood. “It seems I am doubly surprised on my walk this morning. Mr Lucas took me quite unawares. You have no doubt heard much of my wayward neighbour since you have been in Hertfordshire. May I present Mr John Lucas, recently returned from parts unknown. This is Mr Darcy, who has been visiting Mr Bingley, the new occupant of Netherfield.”
Mr Darcy bowed stiffly. “Mr Lucas.”
John was not so formal. “Ah! It is very good to meet you, sir. Charlotte has been keeping me informed of all the goings-on in the neighbourhood, so I am not unfamiliar with you or your friend.”
Elizabeth wondered exactly what Charlotte had told John about Mr Darcy. She blushed at some of the more mortifying possibilities before the tense silence prompted her to try easing the two men into conversation. She desperately hoped Mr Darcy would not return to his grave, reserved demeanour.
