by Jennifer Joy
“Take care of the basket, Lizzy,” the matron said. “And remember your promise! You must use your time in London well!”
Fortunately, the carriage rolled down the drive before Darcy heard more of Mrs. Bennet's nonsense. Her parting words, however, took the color out of Miss Elizabeth’s face, and Darcy had to wonder what promise she had made to her mother.
He looked at Longbourn, knowing the building would provide no answers but desirous of a visible explanation all the same.
A flurried motion drew Darcy’s eye to the window of the second floor. On closer inspection, he saw it was Mr. Collins. With a great deal of struggle, the clergyman opened the window and leaned over the ledge while waving a handkerchief.
Miss Elizabeth flared her nostrils, turning in her seat to face forward.
Returning to his perusal of Mr. Collins, Darcy watched as the man buried his face in his handkerchief, his body jerking so violently he nearly tumbled out of the window. He would have landed on top of the youngest Bennets, who still stood outside Longbourn, holding each other and weeping. Fortunately, the clergyman avoided making the pathetic scene worse by grasping onto the curtains and entangling himself in the lengths of fabric.
Miss Mary was the only Bennet to look up and notice Mr. Collins’ hardship. She rushed inside, presumably to his rescue, while Mr. Bennet shielded himself behind a book.
Finally, just before Darcy’s carriage rounded a corner, Mrs. Bennet herded her two mourning daughters indoors much like a sheep dog guided its woolly charges into a pen.
It was a spectacle from which Darcy had difficulty wrenching his vision away. Much like a carriage accident.
Darcy looked at the two young ladies sitting opposite him. It was growing increasingly difficult to believe they had emanated from the Bennet household.
Chapter 7
Elizabeth wished she could pinch herself to wake from this bad dream. As if her mother’s blatant scheming, her sisters’ tantrums, and her father’s inappropriate mockery were not distressing enough, Mama believed Elizabeth had made a promise. She must return from London engaged or else agree to marry Mr. Collins without argument.
It did not matter that no such promise had been made. Her mother had it in her mind they had agreed on the ultimatum, and so it was as good as sworn.
Elizabeth tried to fix her vision forward, but with Mr. Darcy sitting directly in front of her, looking at Longbourn with open scorn, it was tempting to peek back to see what else he could see that could possibly worsen his opinion of her family. Not that she cared what the horrible man thought.
She turned … and instantly regretted it. Blast her curiosity!
Her face burned in shame. Elizabeth did not care what haughty Mr. Darcy thought of her and her family, but did they have to go to such great lengths to make themselves ridiculous? She felt ridiculous holding Mama’s large hamper, careful to lean the bulk of it against the side of the carriage, so it would not squeeze against Mrs. Holton. For once, Elizabeth was grateful for her slight frame and the precious extra space it gave the basket.
The direness of Jane’s and her situation stirred Elizabeth’s humor. Of what use was wit if she could not make sport and laugh at herself? Better to laugh than to cry.
At least Elizabeth did not have to worry that Mr. Darcy would be tempted to make an offer for her after her mother’s imposition and the scene he had just witnessed. The idea was so far-fetched, Elizabeth held her breath lest she giggle. She imagined Mr. Darcy sitting at the table during one of their family dinners and had to suck in her cheeks to contain her merriment at the comedic image.
“Please allow me to ease your burden,” Mr. Darcy offered, reaching for the basket.
Elizabeth did not want his help. She felt his judgment and wrapped her arms more tightly around the cumbersome hamper. “Thank you, but I am quite comfortable.”
It was not a complete falsehood. Whatever was inside the hamper kept her legs as warm as the heated bricks Mr. Darcy’s footman had provided for their feet.
Jane cast her a warning glance.
Elizabeth bit her lips. Had she spoken too sharply?
Jane had made her promise to make no mention of Mr. Wickham or Mr. Bingley’s sudden departure from Netherfield Park. Only honor kept the questions burning in Elizabeth’s mind from crossing her tongue. It was a challenge not to hurl the flaming accusations against Mr. Darcy when he sat opposite her, his legs so long, his knees brushed against hers every time the carriage rounded a turn.
Mr. Bingley offered to take the basket as well, but while it tempted Elizabeth to accept his assistance, she refused. It would take his attention away from Jane. If their mother expected Elizabeth to return engaged, she could only imagine the consequences to Jane were she not to secure Mr. Bingley. She would marry Mr. Collins to spare Elizabeth. And Elizabeth would not allow it. Jane simply must succeed with the affable gentleman. Love would triumph over adversity, Mama, probably Mr. Bingley’s sisters, and even Mr. Darcy. It was plain to see that Mr. Bingley adored Jane.
As Elizabeth pondered Mr. Bingley's fine qualities, every one of which made him perfect for Jane, she realized that as considerate as Mr. Bingley was, he had not been the first to attempt to ease her burden. It had been Mr. Darcy.
She might have classified Mr. Darcy’s thoughtfulness as gentlemanly had it not conflicted so completely with her poor opinion of him. Mr. Darcy, the thoughtful gentleman? Elizabeth dismissed the unwelcome thought as quickly as it had occurred to her, scolding her mind for its treachery.
Honorable gentlemen did not betray the wishes of a beloved father, nor did they cast out their childhood friends from the only home they had ever known without any means with which to earn a living. They most certainly did not use their influence to separate a man and woman so obviously in love.
Mr. Darcy hardly deserved to be called “gentleman,” no matter the gentlemanly breach in his character leading him to offer assistance and a comfortable ride to London.
Why had he offered, then? What selfish gain did he stand to enjoy?
Elizabeth considered him briefly. His dark, wavy hair curled upward under his hat as if it wished to push it off his head. She wondered if his hair was as unruly as hers. Like her, Mr. Darcy was blessed with thick locks. He would not bald in old age (unlike Mr. Bingley, who Elizabeth guessed would begin combing his hair forward before the next ten years had transpired.) Life was oftentimes unfair like that.
She looked away before Mr. Darcy caught her staring at him. He was pleasant to gaze upon, she admitted to herself with a sigh as she wiped the fog from the glass.
Thick, gray clouds loomed perilously low in the sky. She knew what that meant. Her mother would be thrilled, but Elizabeth prayed they make it to London before the snow fell. She would hate to be stuck at the next inn with Mr. Darcy — no matter how handsome his aspect was.
Mr. Bingley chattered energetically, trying to converse with Jane. But Jane was shyer than usual. The shame of their unintentional imposition and the unsympathetic disapproval Mr. Darcy pointedly expressed was too much for her sensitivities. Still, she was lovely. Her manners were perfect, and she smiled freely.
Elizabeth would love for Mr. Darcy to attempt to find a fault with Jane as he so easily did with the rest of her family. She supposed his family was without flaw — a cold, distant bunch who never spoke above a dignified tone. Surely, he had no male relatives intrepid enough to pilfer his brandy and cigars like her sisters did her ribbons and slippers. How dreary his home must be.
When Jane finally overcame her timidity, she again offered an apology. She explained how they had mistakenly believed their aunt in Meryton to be the one to convey them to London and how, based on the confidence one has with family, she had insisted Elizabeth accompany her.
Elizabeth felt Mr. Darcy’s dark eyes on her.
She returned his glare evenly. She might have promised not to mention the subjects for which he would eventually hold an accounting, but she could delight in her mother’s f
rustration of his plans. Overcome by the Bennet matriarch and chaperoning the very couple he had sought to separate! It was glorious!
Elizabeth waited for his censure, but it did not come.
Instead, he said, “Mr. Collins is unwell.”
Was it a question or an observation?
She replied, “He is,” in a voice merrier than she had intended. In a sadder tone, she added, “Poor man.”
That only sounded worse! Elizabeth bunched her mouth up before Mr. Darcy could add impertinent laughter to her growing list of socially unacceptable demerits. Not that she cared what he thought. His good opinion — should one attain the unachievable heights of his approval — was not worth the trouble to gain. He had admitted to a resentful nature. He did not forgive the faults of others easily, having so few of them himself from which to inspire sympathy. (Of course, he had not admitted to that, but Elizabeth thought it all the same.)
Mr. Darcy smiled, his eyes never wavering from hers. He had caught her blunder, but he seemed to share in her mirth when he ought to have disapproved.
Confused, Elizabeth looked down at the basket on her lap before she did something she would regret (like return his smile) and shifted the hamper’s weight again. Tingles ran up and down her right leg. Soon, she would not be able to feel the left one either. Mama’s extravagance was meant well — even if it meant Elizabeth would be unable to walk once they reached their uncle’s home.
“Please, I must insist. You are uncomfortable,” Mr. Darcy said, reaching out to the basket and pulling it off her lap before she could refuse.
Elizabeth’s embarrassment gave way to amusement when the full weight of the hamper rested in his arms and his eyes widened in surprise. She choked down her laughter and said sincerely, “Thank you.”
She saw the question in his eyes, but he was too polite to ask.
Elizabeth considered explaining her mother’s reasoning for sending the basket, but she did not entirely understand it either. Unless her mother was convinced they would be trapped in the snow between inns for some days. That would explain it perfectly. But Mr. Darcy would not appreciate hearing it, and so his curiosity could go unsatisfied for a while. It would be good for him.
Frustrated at the difficulty sketching Mr. Darcy’s character presented, Elizabeth determined — again — not to think of him at all. She turned her attention to her sister.
Jane politely inquired after the rest of Mr. Bingley’s family, who would follow them to London the following day.
The topic of relatives having been introduced, it was only natural for Mr. Bingley to inquire after their uncle.
“Uncle Gardiner is our mother’s brother. He and our aunt Madeline have four lovely children,” Jane said.
Elizabeth loved those children. With a large smile, she said, “Nieces and nephews who all adore their aunty Jane.”
Jane laughed softly, “They play with their aunt Lizzy all day. They only come to me when they are tired and in need of calm and quiet.”
Elizabeth praised Jane again. “You are too modest. You tell the best stories.”
“To put them to sleep. It is you they run to when they wish for adventure,” Jane countered.
What was Jane doing? There was no gentleman in the carriage Elizabeth wished to impress. Her sole purpose was to raise Jane in Mr. Bingley’s esteem. Elizabeth had not promised not to praise her sister.
Elizabeth tried not to show her exasperation. Mr. Darcy looked at her too closely, and he would notice.
He probably thought it was beneath him to enter a child’s nursery or to encourage their fanciful imaginings when he had graver matters to attend to. He must have been a sullen child.
Mr. Bingley squinted his eyes in thought. “Gardiner. I cannot say I know the name.” He blushed. “My father discouraged friendships with his former acquaintances in trade.” He cast a telling glance at Mr. Darcy.
Spurred by Mr. Darcy’s disdain toward the working class, Elizabeth laughed boldly. “Ah, the taint of trade. No one would blame your father for wishing the best for his children, but it is a pity the most honorable gentlemen of our acquaintance should proceed from such humble beginnings. Our uncle, for instance, is an exceptional man and a worthy friend.”
Jane clasped her hands tightly together, a sure sign of her disapproval. She would not allow Elizabeth any jabs. Not even subtle ones, apparently.
Mr. Darcy’s expression did not change. He did not deny the truth of Elizabeth’s words, nor did he approve of society’s view. She did not know what to make of his silence, and so she reaffirmed her determination not to waste her intellect trying to understand the man. Again.
Mr. Bingley, however, reacted just as a gentleman ought to. He smiled, saying, “I do not doubt it, and I look forward to meeting him today.”
Panic surged through Elizabeth. Goodness, she had not considered that. The gentlemen would not deposit her and Jane on the curb with their luggage and continue on their merry way. They would expect to be introduced to Uncle Gardiner, and they would be certain to see his surprise at the unexpected arrival of his nieces. Or worse! What if they arrived at Gracechurch Street and nobody was home?
Elizabeth slumped against the cushion, thankful when Jane redirected the conversation.
“Our aunt grew up in Lambton. That is near your estate, is it not, Mr. Darcy?”
His expression softened at the mention of his home, and Elizabeth inwardly applauded Jane’s growing boldness.
“It is near. What is your aunt’s family’s name?” he replied.
Elizabeth doubted the grand Darcys rubbed elbows with the working class villagers, so it was no surprise to her when he did not recognize their surname.
Jane, being much more forgiving than Elizabeth, offered an explanation, “Our aunt was young when she left Lambton, and her family soon followed her to London to help our uncle with his business. You must have been too young to remember them.”
“She might have known my mother,” Mr. Darcy said tenderly, a hint of a smile curling his lips for a second before he replaced it with a frown. He shifted the basket he held and looked intently out of the fogged window.
The man was a puzzle. How could a man who had acted so callously toward his childhood friend speak of another with any affection at all? Would he justify his actions toward Mr. Wickham? And what of Mr. Bingley? How could Mr. Darcy deny his own friend a measure of happiness with Jane? He was capable of tender feelings. Elizabeth had seen it, although briefly, when he spoke of his mother and his home. Or maybe she was the one who needed spectacles.
The sour expression he wore did not invite questions, not that Elizabeth would ever inquire directly about the personal matter when others were present to overhear it. She was not like her mother. And, Elizabeth had promised. Oh bother, that promise!
Elizabeth sat in silence, trying to put Mr. Darcy out of her mind. Never had she known a more temperamental and contradictory person than the man brooding across from her.
While she ignored him easily enough, or at least pretended to, she could not say the same for Mr. Bingley. His cheer smacked against an unbending wall of reticence. Wherever Mr. Darcy’s mind had led him, it disturbed him greatly … which added to the discomfort of the other individuals in the carriage, who went out of their way to please those in their company.
Unwilling to allow Mr. Darcy to spoil what should otherwise be a pleasant trip for Jane, Elizabeth brought up the subject which had provoked a smile earlier. Pemberley. She asked, “Do you intend to return to Pemberley soon?”
Mr. Darcy kept his attention toward the window, but Elizabeth saw the corners of his mouth curve down and the muscle at his jaw tense — far from the tender smile she had expected.
Jane shot her a pleading look. Even Mr. Bingley, who always had something appeasing to say, seemed at a loss.
Elizabeth dearly wanted to roll her eyes. If one harmless question caused so much turmoil within the carriage, how was she to make it better? She resented that it fell to her to
mollify Mr. Darcy when she considered him to be the most disagreeable gentleman of her acquaintance. In all of England!
What had Mr. Bingley seen in him to encourage Mr. Darcy’s friendship?
For Jane’s sake, Elizabeth tried again. “I merely ask because I would rather be in the company of my sister than so far away from my home. You must miss your sister dearly.”
She immediately knew she had said the wrong thing.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes cut over to Elizabeth, piercing her with an intensity that left her feeling exposed.
“You know nothing of my sister,” he said with a bitterness that silenced her.
She fiddled with her pearl, running it back and forth over her chain until all the negative emotions Mr. Darcy provoked within her subsided. Tucking her necklace under her collar, she clasped her hands together and sat as far back against the cushions as she could.
If Mr. Bingley and Jane wanted conversation, they could very well converse between themselves.
Elizabeth was done with Mr. Darcy.
Chapter 8
Darcy would rather be at Pemberley instead of sitting opposite a curious young lady who asked all the wrong questions. What did she know about his sister? What had Wickham told her?
His stomach lurched. Pressing his eyes closed, Darcy inhaled slowly through his nose and out his mouth. He had made it unmistakably plain to Wickham that the consequences to him would be dire should he ever speak against Georgiana or attempt to come near her. Quicker than he could blink, Wickham would find himself inside a debtor’s prison from which he would never be permitted to leave.
Wickham would not dare expose Georgiana to scandal at the loss of his freedom. Or would he?
Darcy cracked open his eyes.
Miss Elizabeth peered at him as if she were near to discovering his greatest mistake.
What would she think if she knew how near his own sister had come to ruin while under his protection? How dearly Georgiana suffered because he had not recognized the danger Wickham posed?
