In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  Elizabeth felt as if she should speak, and also as if there were nothing she might say to even laugh it away.

  “I wish I could mind it as I used to, Lizzy, and not count myself so fickle to own that what I thought was love was mere fancy, but I must conclude that my feelings could not, upon reflection, have reached the height I once believed. Maybe I can come to understand that now because I am wiser in the ways of the world. And for that reason, I cannot fault anyone.”

  Leave it to Jane to reason out that a broadening of her experience, and an increase in worldliness, made her more likely to forgive someone for treating her ill than the other way around!

  “I cannot be anything other than joyous that your heart has mended.”

  “Has it mended, Lizzy, or was it never broken in the first place?” Jane shrugged. “And is it not pleasanter for my memory of Mr. Bingley to believe it the latter?”

  “Perhaps Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley were correct, and our educations have been sadly lacking in this regard.”

  Jane’s brow furrowed. “They took issue with our education?”

  “And our accomplishments,” Elizabeth replied. “Though in retrospect I am not sure covering screens and speaking German would have been as helpful to us as learning exactly when a man was serious in his attentions.”

  “That, I am afraid, Lizzy, is not a lesson that can be taught by a governess or a visiting master. We might only learn from experience.” For the briefest instant, the sadness had come back into her expression, and Elizabeth was given to doubt all her protestations that her heart had never been touched. “But come—let us cease all conversations about those who matter so little in our lives. It is not likely to come to pass that we will ever see Mr. Bingley or any of his set again.”

  “Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, though she was not so sure. Jane must think primarily of the Bingleys, for whom, if they did mean to quit Netherfield entirely, it was very unlikely they would cross paths again. But as for his friend Mr. Darcy… Elizabeth was not wholly insensible to a way in which they might meet once more. Captain Atwood was already friends with Darcy’s cousin, and as his new estate was located in Derbyshire, it stood to reason that he and Mr. Darcy might be similarly acquainted with each other.

  Not that she should care. For who was Mr. Darcy to her? No one, as it turned out. A man who had kissed her once. Held her once. But no one outside themselves and Jane knew the latter, and even fewer knew the former. There were some days, indeed, when Elizabeth wondered if she alone remembered the time that Mr. Darcy had pressed his mouth against hers in the darkness, had taken a few glorious moments to crack her world to its core.

  There were some days when she wondered if it had happened at all.

  Chapter 18

  Lady Atwood’s ball was precisely the sort it should be. Everyone anyone thought must be on the guest list was sure to be included, and many people everyone was quite shocked to discover had received an invitation also made their way thither. The resulting crush was just what Lady Atwood thought a ball ought to have, and she felt quite satisfied that the results would be discussed for the rest of the season.

  Jane and Elizabeth, of course, attended the ball, and despite their weeks in London preparing for such festivities, it must be said that neither girl, having once viewed the splendors of Lady Atwood’s ballroom, might ever be satisfied with a Meryton assembly—let alone a dance at a country house—ever again.

  Elizabeth had dressed with some care that evening, in a new gown that had just been delivered by a dressmaker in town, and between Jane and Mrs. Gardiner’s maid, her hair had been ornamented to perfection. She was feeling rather pretty this evening, even surrounded as they were by so many ladies of fashion. And, as she and her sister caught sight of Captain Atwood making his way through the crowd toward them, she could not help but think that her preparations had not been in vain.

  Captain Atwood looked very fine that evening, as well, and Elizabeth was not insensible to the looks he’d been receiving across the floor from many young ladies and quite a few matrons besides. Lady Atwood herself had warned Elizabeth that news of the gentleman’s recent inheritance was beginning to get out, and he would suddenly be quite the catch among the single women of London.

  “I would not wait too long to decide you wish to catch yourself a husband after all, Miss Elizabeth,” the woman had noted wisely from behind her fan.

  “I have promised Captain Atwood a dance,” Elizabeth replied, “and that is all.”

  They did dance, and they had glasses of ratafia and talked most animatedly to all of their acquaintances, and danced again. And then Captain Atwood was obliged to leave her and dance with other ladies, and so Elizabeth danced with a curate from Bath and the son of an admiral from Liverpool, and she and Jane found each other across the punch bowl, and Elizabeth’s frenzied joy at all the dancing and people was tempered somewhat by the wrinkle that had for some strange cause suddenly blossomed between her sister’s brows.

  “Why, Jane, what can it be? Are you not enjoying the ball?”

  “Lizzy. He is here.”

  “Who is here?” She looked around, and her fingers tightened so hard around her punch glass she thought she might crack the crystal.

  For standing at the other end of the long table were none other than Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. A moment later, she realized that they were in conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and that neither Mr. Bingley nor the colonel was looking in their direction.

  But Mr. Darcy was. Mr. Darcy was.

  Their eyes locked, and in that instant, she knew it would be impossible to ignore him entirely, even in this crush, even if he deserved it.

  She must admit that she had spent more than a little time these past few months imagining what she might do if she saw him again. If she would cut him, or decry his behavior to her. She had a list of withering remarks just ready to deliver.

  But a single glance had made them all vanish like an old dream. For the first time in her life, she was not sure if she was equal to speaking to a person. But neither could she pretend he wasn’t there. Her every feeling prevented it. And so she nodded briefly, her eyes fluttering downward as she acknowledged him.

  He looked well, in the latest clothes, and with a haircut that must surely be the work of London barbers. It was not fair for someone so very rich to also be so handsome. Like a prince out of a fairy tale.

  She remembered the sensation of his arms around her, his jaw beneath her palm, his mouth upon her own…

  Mr. Darcy also bowed, a movement which did not go unnoticed by his cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked around to see who it was that had captured Mr. Darcy’s attention and smiled when he saw Elizabeth and Jane, then leaned over and said something to the other men.

  The change was instantaneous. Mr. Bingley fairly broke through the crowd, like a particularly eager horse out of the gate, and strode across the floor to where they stood. The masses of people were no impediment; his feet barely seemed to touch the floor. He bowed low.

  “Miss Bennet! What a glorious surprise. I feared my eyes might deceive me, but it is you. In London!”

  “Sir,” said Jane, in the mildest tone Elizabeth had ever heard her sister direct towards anyone named Bingley.

  “How can it be? We all despaired of the notion that you might make it into town. I am afraid, Miss Bennet, that you will be severely scolded by my sister for not informing her of your plans to come.”

  Jane was quite calm as she replied, “I was sure your sister knew.”

  By this time, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had also managed to navigate the crowd and join their group. The ladies divested themselves of their refreshments and curtsied.

  “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” said the colonel with the appropriate bows. “What a delight it is to see you here this evening. Have we caught you in between engagements to dance?”

  “No,” said Mr. Bingley to Jane directly. “That cannot be, for she should have told me if she knew you had come.
Did you only just arrive?”

  Jane said nothing.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had, perhaps, the soldier’s way of sensing a battle on the horizon, tried again. “What mad heat in this room. Perhaps there will be ices in the supper room. What do you say, Darcy?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Darcy, in that disaffected way he always had. “Good evening, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. I hope you have left everyone at Longbourn in good health.”

  Mr. Bingley was still staring at Jane, growing more agitated by the second.

  Elizabeth could not resist and, finding her tongue at last, said, “They are all in excellent health, according to the letters my sister Mary sends dutifully twice a week. I have had nine since our arrival.”

  She saw Mr. Bingley do the math. “Impossible,” he muttered. Louder, he said, “I cannot account for how it is that our paths have not crossed before this date, Miss Bennet. I can only hope to begin to rectify all the hours I have been deprived of your charming company. Tell me, might you grace me with a dance this evening?”

  But Jane only fixed him with a look. “Thank you, sir, but I fear I have danced as much as I intend to this evening. Excuse me.”

  Elizabeth barely had time to register her sister’s words before Jane turned and melted into the crowd, and as she curtsied and followed she could hear Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice booming over the din:

  “Well! Bingley! There’s a first—no, wait, for did not Lord Hasting’s daughter turn you down once at—”

  But the rest of his words were swallowed up by the conversations and the music around them, and Elizabeth focused her efforts on following her sister.

  “Jane!”

  Her sister stilled. Her back was very straight. “I am quite all right, Lizzy. I say, have you seen Captain Atwood? For I believe he has promised to collect me for a dance later, and I must inform him that I shall be forced to decline—”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” Elizabeth replied. “I will not allow Mr. Bingley to ruin your ball. He was very wrong to ask you to dance, after his behavior to you.”

  “I cannot dance,” Jane said firmly. “It would be improper to do so with another now that I have claimed I will not at all.”

  Elizabeth’s jaw clenched and she was about to say more, but then Jane spoke again, in a small, tight little voice.

  “Oh, Lizzy, I had thought—I had told myself it no longer signified. I had convinced myself that I should never see him again and that I did not care. How came he to be at Lady Atwood’s? Of course, but of course! For she knows everyone in town.” Jane’s face disappeared behind her open fan. “What marvelous things we might attempt to believe, if only we are not forced to face the real world.”

  “Dearest,” said Elizabeth, placing her gloved hand on her sister’s arm. “Do not make yourself sick over this. From what I saw, he seemed quite surprised to learn we were here at all, and quite eager to resume his attentions to you upon learning it was so. Perhaps your only enemy has been his sister, as we once thought…”

  “No, Lizzy,” Jane said firmly. ““For his sister may have sought to separate us, but Mr. Bingley left Hertfordshire with nary a word, and I have had months to contemplate what this might mean in terms of his true feelings. Besides, if his sister hates me so now, I should not ever wish to make her my sister, even if I had assurances of the gentleman’s affection. I, who have the love of so many sisters myself, would surely value their opinion as to my choice of partner in life. And if Mr. Bingley is any type of man, I should expect him to do the same. I would never marry against your wishes, Lizzy, as I know you love me and would only wish well for me. And so we must allow it to be the same.”

  “Miss Bennet!” The voice cut through the murmuring crowd, and Elizabeth hated how instantly she recognized it. She turned to see Mr. Darcy bearing down on them.

  But no, it was not them, for Jane had once more vanished into the crush, and Elizabeth was left to face him alone. Her chin lifted.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she said. “What can you mean by coming in all this state to speak to me? I should have imagined we have both said more to each other than is necessary for either of our lifetimes.”

  “You have dropped your fan.” He held it out, and she saw, indeed, that the velvet ribbon which had affixed the fan to her wrist had come undone.

  “Thank you.” She took it. “I suppose that is an adequate answer to my question.”

  But it was not. The fan had been quite trampled and was good for no more than the ash heap. Why Mr. Darcy had taken pains to return it was beyond her.

  But still he stood there, awkwardly, as if he would say something more to her at any moment. Something, perhaps, about his shocking behavior to her on the night of the Netherfield ball and about his even more shocking disappearance. But why would he? If he were truly the type of man she suspected he was, after all she had learned from Mr. Wickham, why would he care to apologize at all?

  The silence stretched on, and she began at last to feel like they were two sticks planted in the mud of a stream, dumb and still as the water rushed around them. She wished to employ her fan, but it was a mangled wreck, so instead she twisted it in her hands and looked anywhere other than his face.

  “Are you quite well tonight, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Tolerably. And yourself?”

  “In the peak of health. I am certain that tonight we both can be trusted to act only as our true nature might tend.”

  He hesitated. “I—I perhaps had a mistaken idea, Miss Bennet. I had been laboring under the impression that neither of us had particularly good memories.”

  This took her aback.

  “Naturally, your memory must be superior to mine,” he went on, and then, very quickly, and with some degree of stiffness, said, “And therefore I feel called upon to beg your forgiveness for any….action I might have undertaken… any action that I cannot recall.”

  Elizabeth fairly barked with laughter. He had no need of apologizing to her for the kiss. If she held anything against him, it was all the behavior that followed. “I can tell you now, Mr. Darcy. I hardly remember anything at all about you—or your friends at Netherfield. It has been so very long, you see, since you left Hertfordshire with nary a backward glance.”

  Chapter 19

  Darcy could not bring himself immediately to respond.

  Elizabeth’s statement had been delivered with the force of a slap, and even she seemed surprised by herself. She tried to snap open her fan, but it had been ruined under the countless feet of Lady Atwood’s guests, so she simply turned away, her lips pursed tight and her eyes—as fine as ever—flashing furiously.

  Darcy could not immediately tell which emotion he felt most keenly. Vindication, certainly—for had not he said he and Bingley should leave Hertfordshire at once, before those Bennet girls got any ideas about their intentions? And a curious sort of satisfaction as well, to realize he had not been the only one affected by what had transpired between them.

  Both of these he accepted with ease. What took him by surprise was the impulse to apologize. It was the same impulse that had led him to pick up her fan off the floor and bring it to her, as broken and flattened as it was, because it gave him an excuse to speak to her alone.

  The distance he had placed between them, the time since he had last seen her—all should have been more than sufficient to snap him out of this strange fascination. Had he not seen a dozen ladies more beautiful and well-connected than she was here in the ballroom tonight? Had he not received calling cards from the guardians of two dozen more at his townhouse over the last few weeks? Why was it he could not resist chasing across the ballroom after the not particularly handsome, practically penniless, completely infuriating daughter of a simple country squire?

  “Miss Bennet, I do hope I am not interrupting you.” A man in a red coat appeared between them. “But I believe the dancing is about to begin again. I say, what has happened to your fan?”

  “A casualty of merriment,” she replied, and D
arcy nearly flinched as he watched her smile upon this gentleman. This gentleman in a red coat who barely came up to Darcy’s chin. The Bennet girls had always had an appalling weakness for the charms of soldiers. Was not this what Caroline and Louisa were fond of saying?

  “I am sure you have heard your friend mention his cousin, Captain Atwood. Let me now introduce you to the gentleman himself: Mr. Darcy.”

  And now the man was nodding in acknowledgment, and Darcy realized he knew him. He knew that face….

  “Ah yes, Mr. Darcy. I believe we did meet once, many years ago, at my cousin’s estate at Dovenlea Park.”

  So this was Captain John Atwood, the new heir to Dovenlea, a smallish but respectable estate not fifteen miles from Kympton. Darcy had received word from his steward soon after leaving Hertfordshire of young Henry Fortingham’s unexpected death and had written to the family accordingly, but he had not expected to meet the new heir presumptive until he returned to Pemberley in the spring.

  Though now that he thought of it, he did recall his cousin telling him he’d made the man’s acquaintance in town. Colonel Fitzwilliam had been away from London for a week or two, and Darcy intended to have them introduced upon his cousin’s return.

  “I do apologize,” he said to Atwood. “I do not know if I recall—”

  “Not at all. It must have been twelve or more years ago now. I may have still been in a skeleton suit and confined to the nursery with the other children.”

  The man was smiling, but not unpleasantly. Twelve years past would put this man beyond the memory of his sister, too. She would have been little more than a baby if she knew him then.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you again now, Captain Atwood.” Probably not more than one and twenty—

  —Precisely, now he thought of it, Elizabeth Bennet’s age. Darcy watched as the gentleman returned his attentions to the woman in their midst.