In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  Elizabeth flushed, imagining it.

  “Lizzy!” Lydia cried. “Look, it’s Mr. Denny.” The officer was a particular favorite of the youngest Bennet and half the reason she had campaigned for this trip to the village.

  “Indeed,” said Kitty. “And who is the gentleman with him? What a handsome young man!”

  Lydia shrugged. “He might be, in regimentals.”

  Mr. Collins was properly scandalized by this exchange, and presently the gentlemen themselves were upon them. In short order, the Bennets were introduced to the newcomer, a gentleman named Mr. Wickham, who was to join the regiment. Elizabeth had to agree with Kitty that he was one of the most handsome men she had ever met, and he spoke with an ease and charm that soon had the whole party—save Mr. Collins, who seemed out-of-sorts to be so upstaged by the officers—chatting like old friends.

  Soon after, they heard horses approaching, and Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy rode up on their mounts. Having clearly recognized Jane, Mr. Bingley was quite intent on greeting her and even explained that he had been on his way to Longbourn to call upon her again.

  Jane blushed very prettily beneath the rim of her bonnet, and Elizabeth smiled and held her tongue. Calling upon her again, so soon? Every gossip in the village would have them engaged by the end of the week!

  As they spoke, she ventured a glance at Mr. Darcy, but he was not looking at her. Indeed, he was staring resolutely at everything but her. So much for his insistence that she was the thing he noticed upon every occasion. Perhaps that was just a thing he’d said to wound her, in response to her own unkind words to him. But then, even as the thought crossed her mind, Mr. Darcy turned to where she stood, near Mr. Wickham, and the look of surprise and anger that crossed his face could not be mistaken.

  She could not pretend that she didn’t know the reason. After all, the last time they had met, she had not kept her feelings to herself. He had every right to be angry at her for such insults, especially given the service that he had so recently rendered her.

  Perhaps they had never liked each other. But, she must admit, that was no call for her to act so uncivil.

  Still, why did he glare so now? On his face was an expression of more than disdain. Indeed, it was utter hatred. And it seemed to extend from her even to her companions! Mr. Wickham, beside her, at last appeared to notice the gentleman’s attention and touched the brim of his hat in a mild greeting.

  Several moments passed, and then Mr. Darcy barely deigned to touch his hat in return, then quickly directed his mount down the road.

  Elizabeth was all astonishment.

  Mr. Bingley did not seem to notice his companion’s departure for a minute or so as he spoke to Jane and, when at last he did, was forced to prod his horse into a swift trot to catch up with Mr. Darcy.

  “Well,” said Mr. Wickham, jovially, “what a delightful assortment of characters are here to welcome me to the neighborhood.”

  Elizabeth nearly felt called upon to apologize for the behavior of Mr. Darcy.

  “Oh, Mr. Bingley has been a delightful neighbor,” said Lydia. “He has promised us that he will even throw a ball! We are beside ourselves with happiness. Jane, you will make sure that Mr. Bingley invites all the officers, will you not?”

  “Lydia!” Jane cried, “It is hardly upon me to help decide Mr. Bingley’s guest list.”

  But Lydia merely snickered, and they walked on to the village altogether, talking of balls and dancing, while Elizabeth remained lost in thought.

  Chapter 8

  The next chance Elizabeth got to talk to the new officer was at her aunt and uncle’s house the following evening. Mr. Philips was an attorney in Meryton and had invited the officers to dine. All his nieces were overjoyed by the occasion and were pleased moreover that he had contrived to include the newest officer, Mr. Wickham, in the party.

  The only damper on the evening proved once more to be Mr. Collins, who had developed a tiresome habit of following Elizabeth into each and every conversation she attempted to have, presiding over each one as if he’d somehow developed the right to cast judgment on her every opinion. She was certain by this point that he had fixed it within himself that she should make him a desirable wife, that she should be his imagined mistress of the Hunsford parsonage, that she should make a fourth at the quadrille table at Rosings. It was all so very disagreeable, and Elizabeth was not afraid to admit that it cast Mr. Darcy’s behavior toward her in a far different light.

  Mr. Darcy had argued philosophy with her. His opinions, though different from her own, came from a place of great understanding. When he commented on the picturesque, it was to quote Gilpin. When he spoke of music, it was to compare an Italian aria to an English one. Once, she recalled now, he had even finished a stanza of a poem she had trouble recalling, a poem that she must admit, she was astonished that he’d even know, let alone like enough to quote upon command.

  Mr. Collins, by comparison, enjoyed no great powers of the mind. Nor had his education extended beyond that which seemed to have been required to take orders. When he disagreed with her, it was not on the merits of the topic under discussion, but rather a general astonishment that she should partake in such conversations at all.

  “This must not be to a lady’s interest,” he said to her, while she was engaged with several officers in an exchange about their training methods.

  “I am certain these gentlemen do not care for your unformed thoughts,” he admonished while she chatted with a few clerks about the new roof above her uncle’s chambers.

  She would rather disagree with Mr. Darcy a thousand times a day than be told by Mr. Collins that she should have no opinions at all.

  Elizabeth had never been so relieved in her life as when Mrs. Philips managed to call him away to the card tables. Retreating, she presently found herself seated next to Mr. Wickham. He was, above all people in the room, the one she most wished to converse with over the course of the evening, but as he’d proved very popular with every young lady present, owing to his good looks and charming manners, she’d thought it quite impossible that they would be given the opportunity.

  But, now that she had it, she found her conversation with him….somehow lacking. Mr. Wickham did not disagree with her, nor did he find her opinions shocking. He was everything charming and ready to be charmed in turn by her.

  She did not, however, feel as if the conversation ever rose beyond the level of idle chatter. The Philipses were welcoming hosts, the dinner had been quite splendid, and the new instrument in Mrs. Philips’s drawing room was a superior example of a piano-forte, and ought certainly to be played over the course of the evening. His new companions in the regiment were fine men, and he was glad to be among them, for he hated to be idle. His new home in Meryton was everything one could ask for, for a man who craved society and new friends.

  It as all nice enough, Elizabeth thought. And yet…

  She was nearly ready to allow her sister Lydia, who had been hovering nearby, a chance to take her place upon the sofa when Mr. Wickham himself turned the discussion in the direction to which Elizabeth found her own mind most often engaged.

  “What a pleasure it was to meet Mr. Bingley yesterday,” her new acquaintance said. “Is Netherfield very far from Meryton?”

  “A little over a mile,” Elizabeth replied.

  “And has Mr. Darcy been long in the neighborhood?”

  The moment the name spilled from his lips, Elizabeth felt the air between them change. Her heart raced and her breath caught, though whether it was from fear or anger she could not tell. However, she knew at once this was no casual question from Mr. Wickham.

  “About a month,” said Elizabeth, and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”

  “Yes,” replied Wickham, “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been c
onnected with the estate in a particular manner from my infancy.”

  Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

  “You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.”

  “Oh, do not concern yourself about that, Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth replied with a wave of her hand. “I know well that Mr. Darcy’s manners are aloof. That he should be cold upon first meeting does not surprise me at all.” Besides, if Mr. Darcy had been cold yesterday, it was most certainly Elizabeth’s fault. “I often wondered if he would greet his own family in the street.”

  He studied her carefully. “Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

  She did not, in that moment, know how she might answer. There were so many variations that seemed true.

  Yes, she knew him well. He had carried her in his arms through the night.

  No, she knew him not at all. Was he the aloof cad who belittled her, the noble gentleman who rescued her, the young man who seemed as confused and distracted as she was every time they were in the same place?

  “I spent several days in a house with him only last week,” she replied at last, rather lamely. “We were both guests of the Bingleys. He is a man of many firm, fine opinions.”

  Mr. Wickham’s eyes narrowed, as if he was uncertain whether or not this report constituted praise or censure. And well he might be! Elizabeth was uncertain herself. At once, she felt foolish. She should not have spoken so to someone connected to Pemberley!

  “I do not mean to say that he is not agreeable,” she said quickly. “Indeed, he has lately rendered me a great service. You can write to your friends in Derbyshire that they have nothing to fear from their great emissary in the south.”

  “I am sure my friends in Derbyshire,” Mr. Wickham replied evenly, “would be pleased to hear it.”

  Mr. Wickham then changed the topic of conversation, and though Elizabeth continued on, she felt each of her answers to be dull and could not imagine that Mr. Wickham found her company met any expectation. She could not stop thinking of the disservice she had done Mr. Darcy.

  They had argued and teased each other relentlessly at Netherfield, but when it really mattered, he had come to her aid, and he did not seem to hold her wild behavior that night as any sort of strike against her character. The apology he had offered to her in the hall of her home, the horror he’d felt that she might for a moment even suspect him of referencing the night of her fever—had been utterly guileless. And she had returned it with insults.

  Little wonder he felt awkward about meeting her on the street. She ought to apologize. She would, the very next time that he came to call with Mr. Bingley.

  “Did you not hear me, Miss Bennet?” asked Mr. Wickham. “I was wondering if you had ever been to Bath.”

  Elizabeth blinked and realized she had not heard half of the conversation. “No, no, we have not been.”

  Soon after, she found a graceful way to take her leave, with some measure of relief. It would not do for her to compare every gentleman to Mr. Darcy, as Lydia might compare the men of Meryton to the militia officers. She must manage to find another topic for discussion, or everyone would begin to suspect that there was but one thing in her foolish little head at all times:

  Mr. Darcy.

  The weather in Hertfordshire turned grim indeed, stranding the Bennets home for days on end. Elizabeth’s father could not escape from Mr. Collins through hunting. Elizabeth’s sisters could not walk into Meryton and see the officers.

  Worst of all, Mr. Bingley could not contrive to call upon them and could not bring Mr. Darcy along for company.

  Another girl, a truly impertinent one, might have written the gentleman a note. But she was not that ill-bred, no matter what Miss Bingley might suggest, or what traipsing about the gardens barefoot at midnight might lead someone to think.

  Someone who, Elizabeth was forced to admit to herself, as the damp, gray days stretched on, was certainly not Mr. Darcy. For he didn’t think that at all. She had misjudged him terribly.

  The only bright spot upon the week was the promised ball at Netherfield, to which invitations had arrived for everyone at Longbourn, including Mr. Collins. The younger girls’ enthusiasm at this discovery could only be attributed to their belief that, if Mr. Collins had received an invitation, every officer in the militia must have, too. It certainly could not be due to Mr. Collins’s immediate promise to dance with “all of his fair cousins” over the course of the evening.

  He had managed, on this occasion, to secure Elizabeth’s hand for the first two dances, an inconvenience she bore stoically. After all, a dance was not an engagement, and the man would be returning to Kent soon enough. The ball would provide ample other sources for amusement, and, more importantly, it would give her the opportunity to speak to Mr. Darcy again.

  For Elizabeth had come to the conclusion that she would not rest easy until she had fully apologized for her behavior to him, and thoroughly thanked him for the service he’d rendered on the night of her fever. Then, perhaps, she could stop thinking of him so much, of remembering every detail of their conversations and arguments, and in each review, finding more at fault in her own behavior, and more to admire in his. She could only conclude that she had been so offended by the words she’d overheard him speak upon their first meeting, the words which he had never intended for her ears, that even though she had laughed at the time, she had made him repay that slight to her on every other occasion. She had started fights with him at every opportunity. She had never once let him express a thought or opinion without leaping in to disagree.

  She was as bad as Mr. Collins, in her way.

  But it would end now. She would thank him, and apologize to him, and then whatever this strange connection between them was could be severed. She would not think of him. He might not think of her. It would all well and truly be forgot.

  It must be.

  As she dressed for the ball, she found herself studying her reflection in the glass. She was not as pretty as Jane. To that, Elizabeth had long since become reconciled. But she was attractive in her own way. She’d always been fond of her eyes, for example. Her hair was thick and lustrous, her cheeks were rosy.

  When I am in your presence, you are the only thing I notice.

  Her image in the glass grimaced as Mr. Darcy’s words floated up to haunt her. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and finished getting ready.

  She would conquer this. She must.

  Chapter 9

  Darcy did not know if it was the heat from hundreds of candles arrayed above the ballroom floor or the perfume of a hundred guests who mingled below which so pained his head, but by the time the band Bingley had hired for the ball began to play, every note resounded like the crack of a hammer against his skull. He did not even dance the first two dances, his agony was so great. Instead, he indulged in a glass of brandy, which did muffle the pain somewhat, and watched the dancers from a distance.

  Bingley had chosen to dance with Jane Bennet. Of course. Darcy shook his head, then put a hand against his brow as his temples throbbed in protest. His friend was acting a fool with this girl. The entire tiny town no doubt expected them to make an announcement at this rate. Bingley would break her heart if he was not careful. He must be careful, the way Darcy was being careful with the young lady’s sister.

  It was the work of a moment to find Elizabeth among the crowd.

  Her dress shimmered in the candlelight, and her curls bounced as she moved. Her skin glowed rosy with the heat of the crowd, and on her face was an expression of ease and joy as she danced with a soberly-dressed man that Darcy recognized from their meeting in Meryton earlier that week. He did not know the gentleman’s name, but as the dance progressed, Darcy could see that this partner did not do justice to Elizabeth’s skills, and whenever she turned in his direction, he thought he could catch a glimpse of annoyance in her countenance.

  A strange temptation overtook him and soon cr
owded out every bit of discomfort in his head. She needn’t be forced to dance only with those who could not keep up with her. He would dance with Elizabeth, if she’d let him. He would see that smile upon her face and know that he was the cause.

  When the dance was done, Darcy watched as her partner led her about the floor, then left her to chat and flick her fan about with a daughter of Sir William Lucas, who was soon collected for a dance by a militia officer. Elizabeth was alone. Quickly, before she could be waylaid by any more of these damnable officers, he approached and bowed.

  “Miss Bennet, good evening.”

  She turned around at the sound of his voice. Her chest rose on her sharp intake of breath. “Mr. Darcy. I am happy to see you.”

  She was? “That is a singular occasion, is it not?”

  “I—” she saw his smile, and her look of alarm faded. “Oh. Perhaps it is. But it does not follow that it should remain so. I am pleased to see you because I believe that in our last conversation I was unfair to you. And unkind. I owe you a debt of gratitude, sir, and I have been behaving most ungratefully.”

  “I have told you before, do not think of it again. I assure you that I never do.”

  This was a falsehood. Indeed, Darcy was certain that Elizabeth would be shocked to discover exactly how often Darcy thought about holding a nightdress-clad Elizabeth in his arms, and where, and under what circumstances.

  “You are a gentleman, as always, sir.”

  He was not certain what to say to that. The musicians began again. “Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me, if you are not otherwise engaged?” He leaned in. “It is not a reel, you see. You have nothing to fear from my opinion of the dance.”

  And yet, her voice shook a bit when she responded, and somehow it thrilled him to hear it. “Thank you, sir. I am not engaged.”