As much as she loved her father, Elizabeth was conscious of his deficiencies as a husband and wished rather that she would never marry than that she might find herself wed to a man who, as with the example set by her parents, liked her appearance and liveliness upon first meeting, then grew contemptuous of all she lacked, once they were settled.
Better she marry a minor country squire, or a clerk or tradesman, than a fine gentleman who would forever resent her for not being quite so fine.
Longbourn was made merry for Christmas that week, and Elizabeth hoped that the gloom which had lingered over the estate in the aftermath of the Netherfield ball would finally dissipate. Mr. Collins had hied off home to Kent, there to find a wife more appreciative of his prospects, and the disappearance of the Bingleys and their friend had weighed with varying degrees of confusion and dismay on the eldest of the Bennet girls, as well as their mother. Not even the passage of weeks had soothed the emotions of Mrs. Bennet upon her recent disappointment, and she spared no time relating the tragedies that had befallen them to Mrs. Gardiner.
“I do not blame Jane,” she said to Mrs. Gardiner that evening, at a dinner where they were joined not only by their houseguests, but also by several officers from the regiment, “for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley, if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had not it been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very house, and she refused him. The consequence of it is that Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever, and now Mr. Collins will look upon us with no great sympathy when Mr. Bennet’s tie upon this Earth comes to an end. If my brother is not kind to us then, I do not know what I should do! However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of this winter’s fashion for long sleeves.”
Mrs. Gardiner responded to this speech with all the mildness which might be expected. Farther down the table, where Elizabeth was forced to listen to it without any power of response, she turned instead to her seat mate, Mr. Wickham.
She had not seen the young officer much in the last few weeks, as she and her sister had managed their emotions in the aftermath of the ball. Now that she thought of it, she had not recalled seeing Mr. Wickham at the Netherfield ball at all, though of course, she had been much occupied that evening with Mr. Darcy’s illness and everything his fever had occasioned.
“I see I have not the opportunity to wish you joy,” said Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth smiled. “Yes. My mother shall ensure not a soul in Meryton remains ignorant that I have deprived her of a son-in-law.”
“May I allow that I am glad to hear it? It should be a great loss to society in this neighborhood should you be spirited away to Kent. Additionally, I shall confess that I know somewhat of what you might have found at Hunsford, and especially at Rosings Park. My connection to Pemberley put me in close association with Lady Catherine and her daughter. They are not what I would call amiable neighbors, however they may have been praised by your cousin.”
“I believe my cousin and I have different tastes in neighbors.”
Mr. Wickham laughed then, and the twinkle in his eye and easy grin upon his face struck Elizabeth anew. Had she never noticed how very handsome a man the young officer was before? Had she somehow forgotten his charm and good nature in her malaise? In the past few weeks, her younger sister’s singular occupation with the officers in the village had been a source of little more than annoyance to her, and perhaps that was a reason she had not sought out any of their company. But now she recalled all of Mr. Wickham’s earlier attempts to engage her in conversation and intimacy, and how she had foolishly been too preoccupied with thoughts of Mr. Darcy to pay Mr. Wickham the attention he, with all his attractions, ought to have inspired.
“I do hope that your rejection of Mr. Collins’s suit does not owe its due to a general dislike of all clergymen.”
“Indeed it does not. I cannot say there is any profession against which I am particularly prejudiced. Should the right clergyman come about, I may be properly persuaded to be a parson’s wife.”
“Ah,” said Wickham, and a note of sadness entered his voice, “I regret even more that such an avenue was closed to me.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You? Were you meant to take orders?”
“My whole life,” he replied. “It was the dearest wish of my godfather, the old Mr. Darcy. To that end, he paid for my schooling at Cambridge and even designated in his will a valuable living in his care as mine whenever it came vacant.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Surely then, you should pursue that course. A curate’s post, until such time as the living can be made yours.”
Wickham looked down. “Alas, its vacancy has come and gone, and my benefactor’s son refused to give it to me.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth, “but how could that be? How could his will be disregarded?” How could Mr. Darcy have failed in this sacred duty? Of all she knew of him, his word as a gentleman she trusted absolutely. She could not imagine him treating his father’s wishes with such dishonor. “Why did not you seek legal redress?”
“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honor could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it, to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation.”
She could not believe it. She did not want to. And yet…he had always struck her as a man of contradictions. Her original dislike of his cold manners had given way to a warmth born of gratitude and to an inescapable sense that there was more to the gentleman than she had first ascertained. However, Mr. Wickham had known Mr. Darcy all his life. Did he not know best?
“Darcy asserted that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, whatever thing he felt right in accusing me of. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man. No less certain is it that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse.”
“But what,” said she after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”
“A thorough, determined dislike of me, a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better. But his father's uncommon attachment to me had irritated him from a very early stage in his life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood, the sort of preference which was often given me.”
Elizabeth could easily imagine this. Mr. Darcy’s aloofness was infamous in the neighborhood, and she could not imagine such a character comparing well to the ease and charm of Mr. Wickham.
And yet, unless his disposition was truly dreadful, Elizabeth had difficulty imagining a boy of Darcy’s understanding and sensibility allowing those differences to blossom into a hatred so strong that it would inspire such a malicious, ungentlemanly revenge. After all, to Darcy went all of Pemberley, and the wealth and status that such great holdings must convey. Could jealousy really twist the mind so as to make him inhumane enough to deprive his childhood friend of a parsonage?
She looked down at her plate, her eyes suddenly stinging with unshed tears. She had never really known him. Not at all. The service he had rendered her that night, to which she had ascribed such honor, such gentlemanlike character—was it aught but basic decency? And, given time, might he have used his knowledge of what had happened to his own advantage—such as when pressing upon her liberties, like a kiss on a darkened balcony?
That kiss, though! She had no comparison, but she could not imagine it the kiss of a scoundrel. Still, had that not been how every lady throughout time would hold such kisses? No, not him, they would think, even as they were being led
astray. He could not ruin me.
After a minute of silent reflection, she managed to say, softly, “I do remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper.”
“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham, “I can hardly be just to him.”
That was a charity indeed, given the injustice he had suffered at Darcy’s hands.
She felt as if she had lost Darcy all over again. These past few weeks, in the wake of his sudden departure from Netherfield, Elizabeth had comforted herself with the notion that he had made the right decision. Their unexpected connection was strange, a fascination that bore no rational explanation, and could not—should not—survive through time or under scrutiny. She had believed it to be a very good thing that he had removed himself from her presence, that they both might see clearly how ill-suited they were, and how narrowly they had avoided making fools of themselves.
But she had not, during this time, thought ill of him. She was not so foolishly in love as to have faulted him for his just recognition of the obstacles to their forming any serious attachment. She recognized them herself.
No, for many weeks, she had considered the memory of Mr. Darcy as nothing more than that. A stolen season, a passing fancy, no more to be heartbroken over than Jane’s flirtation with the music-master or the curate who had written her the verses.
But to hear her secret favorite was a scoundrel sent an unexpected wound into her bosom. She had hoped to remember him fondly. Now, she could not.
“I cannot believe it,” she found herself saying. “To treat in such a manner, the godson, the friend, the favorite of his father!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wickham, with a great sigh. “We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together. We were inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. My father began life in the profession to which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit—but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to him, as of affection to myself.”
A great rush of sympathy flowed through Elizabeth as she gazed upon her new friend—for friend she must call Mr. Wickham, as they were united by a common experience. They had both been used very ill by Mr. Darcy.
Chapter 14
Throughout the evening, Elizabeth could not be stirred to merriment, even when Mary was persuaded to play dancing music and the other girls were all invited to take to the floor for a reel or two with the officers. She went through the motions of the dance, and her partner, the ever-amiable Captain Carter, danced well enough, but she could not help the thoughts which crowded upon every step of the last time she had danced.
With Mr. Darcy.
How her nerves had tingled at every touch! She hardly remembered the music, or even the form, just the constant drumbeat that drew her toward him, then away, then back together. The conversation which had risen in tempo and intensity as they’d made their way down the set, the way she had hung upon his every breath, every word, the result being that when he grew weak with his fever, she knew it even before he was aware himself.
That must be all it was. Not attachment, or strong affection. Just the magic woven by a good dance, with a good partner. How foolish of her to have imagined it was anything more. Especially now. Now that she knew he was such a villain.
And yet, the more she considered the dance, the more other flashes of memory returned to her, other touches between herself and Mr. Darcy. Were they true memories of what had transpired during her fever, or was her brain even now conjuring them up only from Jane’s descriptions and Elizabeth’s knowledge of what had transpired? She did not know, but now, she could swear she recalled the feeling of lying in his arms, her face pressed against his lapel, her breath in puffs upon the skin of this throat.
Were such sensations real? And if so, why could she only remember them now, when she ought to be doing anything other than dwelling on the tenderness between herself and a man who deserved not her regard?
Mrs. Gardiner found her alone, as coffee was being served. “My dear girl, pray tell me, do you suffer cruelly under your mother’s admonishments? Or is there an alternate reason for your present attitude of misery?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “I am not miserable, aunt, and I am sorry if it appears so. While it is not pleasant to be told daily that I shall be the downfall of all of my family, I do not hold stock by the judgment, and so I am little concerned by it.”
No, her misery, if it indeed existed, was due to a more present and pressing cause than the half-forgotten, half-hour suit of Mr. Collins.
“You do not regret your choice, do you? I did not have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Collins, and do not know what about him you may have found wanting.”
“I did not find anything to want, I must confess,” Elizabeth replied. “He was in every particular ill-suited to make me happy, even if he had done me the honor of caring about my character when he made his offer. I believe we were the last two people in the world who ought to consider matrimony.”
Or perhaps second to last. Though of course, she doubted now that Mr. Darcy had ever considered such a step with her.
“So it is not Mr. Collins, then.”
“Indeed, aunt,” Elizabeth cried. “You need not hunt for heartbreak in me, when you have a much readier example in the house. Do you not see how Jane has been affected by the departure of Mr. Bingley?”
“I have,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “And I hope to speak to your mother about inviting her to stay with us in London. I believe the change in society might do her good.”
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal. “You should invite her, most certainly! Only, I hope that you do not hold any pretensions that such an invitation might produce a renewed acquaintance between herself and the gentleman who has so lately departed the neighborhood.”
“No,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I confess I thought only of providing for her a more varied society. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her.''
“I wager he will not.”
“Such inconstancy.” Her aunt clucked her tongue. “A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks and, when accident separates them, so easily forgets her. Well, if a few concerts and the odd assembly can help her heal from the wound, London might be quite the ticket.”
“It was no accident, I assure you. We have made the sad discovery that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl, whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked skeptical. “But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea of the truth. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from an half-hour's acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how violent was Mr. Bingley's love?”
Elizabeth hardly felt herself equal to account for it. “I am a poor judge of such things, I have found. However, I never saw a more promising inclination. He was growing quite inattentive to other people and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball, he offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance, and I spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer.”
Indeed, she’d practically had to be rude to get his attention wh
en she’d returned from the balcony, in search of someone to help Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley had been so engrossed in fetching a glass of wine for Jane that nothing short of a tug on his sleeve and an urgent call for immediate assistance had made him notice her.
“Could there be finer symptoms?” she finished. “And Jane felt it too, which is why we must take care with her spirits.”
“Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to you, Lizzy. You would have laughed yourself out of it sooner.”
“I try,” she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Ah-ha!” Mrs. Gardiner crowed triumphantly. “So I do have it right. You, too, nurse a broken heart. Please tell me it is not over the same gentleman. I cannot have two sisters at odds.”
“I have no broken heart, madam,” Elizabeth insisted. “I have only my own folly, in imagining an attachment where none existed, in a man who was likewise a flight of fancy. And, as you said, I should quickly laugh myself out of the entire matter and promise myself not to be taken in by such silliness in the future.”
Her aunt smiled. “Would a trip to London assist you in this endeavor as well?”
“I should not say no, if you wished to make me one of the party,” Elizabeth replied. “I thank you!” She would love to visit the Gardiner’s house again, and walk in the London parks, and visit the shops. She imagined it would be the very thing to make Jane happy, and could hardly do less for herself her, whose heart had not been so bruised as her sister’s.
“Then I shall arrange things with your mother directly. I do hope Jane shall agree to the scheme with the same enthusiasm, Lizzy. You must warn her that we do not go to chase Mr. Bingley.”
“I am sure such a thought would not even occur to her. She is too good already and has convinced herself that the regard between them existed only upon her side.”
In Darcy's Arms Page 8
