In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  Chapter 25

  Mr. Bennet’s letter came with the morning post. He didn’t write to the girls often, and when he bothered, it was almost always addressed to Elizabeth, with the appropriate requests to send his firstborn his love and paternal affection, which Jane always took in with the same small smile that Elizabeth had once believed a symptom of her overwhelming goodness and sweet nature, but now understood more heartily as a calm, benign response to a disappointment that might otherwise consume her.

  Elizabeth had been her father’s favorite all their lives. Lydia had been their mother’s for sixteen years. Jane, who was, quite possibly, better than all of them, did not lack for parental love, but had not inspired strict devotion, either.

  Today, they opened the letter together.

  Dear Lizzy,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and neither ruined by London’s finery nor exhausted by its frenzy. All at Longbourn remains as we ever were. The brown mare foaled, and the black rooster has finally gone to meet its maker. Thank your uncle for the shipment of books which just arrived in town. I believe I know to whom I am truly indebted.

  The house is no quieter for all it has been liberated of two of its occupants. The other three girls more than make up the difference in volume, though of course, the clamor is now completely lacking in sense. Kitty and Lydia continue to entertain the officers at every possible opportunity, with their mother’s blessing and encouragement. Mary has taken to hiding in my study when they come, with the conclusion that I am now well-educated on her stance regarding the brittle beauty of a woman’s reputation, and how guarded one should or should not be when dealing with the potentially undeserving of the other sex. I am reminded that I might wish to be more careful with her choice of reading material, lest she deem every man in Meryton a devilish rake.

  At any rate, there is at least one officer in the militia that Kitty and Lydia have determined to cut entirely from their acquaintance, for the unpardonable sin of becoming engaged—Mr. Wickham. The unrepentant fellow has apparently secured the affections of one Miss Mary King, who, Mrs. Phillips has informed your mother, was lately made an heiress of ten thousand pounds by her grandfather in Liverpool.

  That I have not contrived to supply each of my daughters with a similar fortune is a sin I am made daily reminded of, ever since the news got around the village. Pray, tell me if men’s affections are today so pecuniary that such extraordinary amounts are now required to induce them to take a daughter off my hands? Are there none as insensible to fortune as our dear, disappointed Mr. Collins?

  Only, do not write back to me with your answer. Come home instead, for I have not had two words of sense in this house since you have departed.

  Give my love to Jane.

  Your forlorn Papa, etc.

  “Poor Papa,” said Jane. “Can he not see how badly Mary wishes to impress him with all her peculiar notions?”

  “No,” said Elizabeth, “for she does it very badly, indeed. I will add only, poor Mary!” She had hoped her absence would bring the pair of them closer, as they both had the same bookish tendencies, and was disappointed at the missed opportunity.

  And Mr. Wickham, engaged! That was good news for the young officer, and Mary King’s inheritance would mean that they were likely to be able to marry right away. Elizabeth had never come to know the gentleman too well, as he’d come to Meryton so soon before her own departure, but given the history of his fortunes that he’d once shared with her, she could think of no one who more deserved finding happiness with a lady of means. She wished them all the best.

  There, Mr. Darcy. All your jealousies did nothing to destroy Wickham’s future after all. Elizabeth could not help feeling a sense of smug satisfaction to realize that the man’s schemes had come to naught. Wickham might not have the living he’d been promised by his godfather, but he would find another path in life. Mary King was a sensible girl, not yet seventeen—not the most beautiful or charming, in Elizabeth’s estimation, but there was little harm in her. They would no doubt be very happy.

  And did not those thwarted by the machinations of Mr. Darcy deserve to be happy? It was a subject far too much on her mind, as the weeks dragged on, and the ache which had begun the moment Elizabeth had refused his offer did not altogether fade.

  There were times, indeed, that she wondered what other choice she might have made, had he proposed in a more gentlemanlike manner. Had he concealed his scruples, his revulsion, and flattered her that his attachment was entire and unalloyed. She might have done something foolish, such as forgetting all the ways she knew that he was not good-natured—maybe not even respectable, given the matter of Wickham and old Mr. Darcy’s will—and accepting him. The manner of his proposal had been, in the end, what had saved them both.

  It was done now. Had been done for a month, and were the man’s name not so constantly dropped by both Bingleys, Elizabeth might have been able to put the entire affair behind her, and look back on it as some sort of great joke, as she did with Mr. Collins’s preposterous offer.

  Who would have thought, only a few months back, that Elizabeth would have turned down two offers of marriage, while Jane had yet to respond to one?

  Although, Elizabeth had to admit, from what she understood of the standing between Mr. Bingley and her sister, an offer of marriage would come the very moment Jane indicated to her admirer that she was open to receiving it. Oh, how Charlotte Lucas would gape in shock to learn of the way Jane was delaying Mr. Bingley in his courtship. Charlotte, who had once told Elizabeth of the expedience in Jane’s securing Mr. Bingley’s promises, long before she was certain either of her own feelings or his character. Charlotte would likely swoon to hear that Jane had, upon reflection, decided the complete opposite.

  In short, Jane had most frankly told Mr. Bingley that if his intentions toward her were friendship, she welcomed it, and if they were headed toward marriage, she was not entirely set against the possibility—but, there were many obstacles between them that must be overcome before she could even hope to consider an offer.

  “And if that sends him away again,” Jane had said at the time, “then he would not be a man to whom I could entrust my life’s happiness, anyway. Our poor mother. She would not like to hear how careless we have become about marriage proposals from eligible young men. But of course, it is not only our material security that must be considered. There are many ways to be made miserable, are there not?”

  Elizabeth, it must be admitted, gaped a bit as well.

  At any rate, such declarations did not send Mr. Bingley away, but instead set him on some sort of quest to be worthy of the lady, whatever that meant to the two of them. Elizabeth was not altogether sure. But as it formed the bulk of her amusement for the past few weeks, she had no wish to complain.

  Heavens knew she had little else to amuse her these past few weeks. She found the regular social engagements distasteful of late, consumed as she was with a constant worry that she might be placed in the presence of Mr. Darcy. And Captain Atwood had been lately abroad in Cumbria. She hadn’t seen him in weeks.

  Had she imposed upon him the outsized expectations shared by their friends, she might even feel neglected by his absence. Instead, her emotions hardly rose above the level of a vague sense of boredom on the subject of his absence. When she considered it at all, it was only in hopes that his wit and vivacity might shake her from her gloom.

  “Jane,” she said to her sister now, “do you suppose we might consider returning to Longbourn? Our father seems to miss us immensely.”

  “Are you longing for home?” Jane asked.

  “Are you not?”

  “My favorite thing at Longbourn is with me in London,” said Jane with a smile, toward her sister, “though I can well understand Papa’s desire to have you home.”

  “He would like us both.”

  “He would take me over the younger girls,” Jane corrected. “But I bear no illusions father longs for my company. I am ‘good, sweet Jane’ who has no
thing but kindness and platitudes.”

  “Oh, indeed not!” laughed Elizabeth. “You forget, he has not met the new Jane. I think he would like her very much.”

  “How funny the world is sometimes, that I was obliged to leave home in order to find what would make me most welcome there.”

  And how funny that Jane had also been forced to suffer the temporary loss of Mr. Bingley’s attentions in order to develop the character most likely to secure his permanent affection. For Elizabeth had little doubt that Mr. Bingley was in love now—true love, not just the partiality that had subsisted between them in Hertfordshire, when they had a few assembly dances and a half dozen evenings spent in each other’s company.

  Mrs. Gardiner had been right in that respect. London had done Jane a world of good. Elizabeth flattered herself she had some hand in her sister’s awakening. Had Jane been alone here, Elizabeth did not know if she would have been so sociable as to change her perspective or even to cross paths with Mr. Bingley again.

  Surely it was the only good thing to have come from Elizabeth’s presence in town. She had come here to help rid herself of the ghost of Mr. Darcy haunting her thoughts. But he had never left, and now his echoes were filled with ever-more enticing words.

  Such as, I want you.

  Such as, I love you.

  I love you, Miss Bennet. Elizabeth could barely close her eyes but she heard it anew. For a month, she’d been trying to liken Mr. Darcy’s proposal to Mr. Collins’s—insulting, condescending, inappropriate. But there had been a single distinction that she just could not shake. He had told her that he loved her, and she could not, no matter how much she wanted to, conclude once and for all that he had been mistaken.

  More time in London could not help her at all. She needed a change, something to help her forget Mr. Darcy, once and for all. Something sturdy, and solid, and certain.

  She was still considering this in the afternoon, when Mrs. Gardiner was out and Jane was in the nursery with the children. She sat all alone in the parlor when the servant entered.

  “Miss? Captain Atwood has come to see you. Are you in?”

  Elizabeth hesitated for a long moment, then nodded and stood.

  “Yes. Bring him to me.”

  Chapter 26

  The soprano was Italian, and her songs had numbered three before they’d all paused for coffee. That was the beginning and end of what Darcy would be able to report regarding the evening’s concert, and all because of the two people who were sitting not five yards away, their heads bent together in quiet but animated conversation throughout the lady’s performance.

  Captain Atwood and Elizabeth Bennet. Even now, it took all Darcy’s strength to focus on the cup in his hand and not the strange prickling sense he possessed of where in the room the couple stood, still talking. He supposed their engagement to be announced any day.

  Perhaps he should go to the continent.

  The prickling sense got worse and then—worst of all—he heard the merry tones of Captain Atwood’s greeting.

  “Mr. Darcy! How splendid to see you!” He turned to see the man himself standing there, smiling audaciously, with Elizabeth on his arm. Her eyes were averted.

  “Good evening,” Darcy said with a nod. “Miss Bennet.”

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “I must thank you, sir, for your help with Mr. Shetterly. I learned only yesterday that my cousin, Mr. Fortingham, had known him in his youth. They were overjoyed to make each other’s acquaintance again.”

  “I am very glad,” said Mr. Darcy. He had set his steward upon the task of finding a good man to assist the master of Dovenlea. Shetterly had been an attorney in Kympton, but had retired several years ago when his wife died, and was well-versed in the management of estates. Darcy’s steward believed he was exactly what Atwood and Fortingham needed.

  “You are too kind, indeed, to make such an effort on behalf of a near stranger.”

  Elizabeth now looked up, a line of interest—or was it confusion?—between her brows. But still she did not look at him—not directly. Not for long enough. Her focus remained on Atwood.

  Of course it did.

  “Not at all,” said Darcy. “Dovenlea is a noble old estate, and the Fortinghams a fine old family. I shall always do what I can to preserve the county I love.”

  No, that had been the wrong word to use, but it had slipped from his lips before he could help himself. He flinched.

  Elizabeth flinched, too.

  “Someday,” said Atwood, “I hope to learn to love Derbyshire as much as you do.”

  That was more than Darcy could bear in that moment. He bowed and excused himself.

  Elizabeth felt as if she’d like the floor to swallow her whole, rather than stand in silence and listen to Mr. Darcy and Captain Atwood bandy the word love about her head all evening. It was torture.

  She couldn’t even bring herself to look at him directly while they spoke, and the few glances she’d stolen showed a man grown pale and thinner than he’d been in Hertfordshire or even the last time they’d met, in the Gardiners’ parlor. She hadn’t seen him look so ill since the night of the Netherfield ball. A wave of concern rose within her, and she tamped it down. It was not her place to be worried on behalf of Mr. Darcy.

  “Pray,” she said to her companion, in hopes of distracting herself from the direction of her thoughts, “do tell me who is Mr. Shetterly, and what business Mr. Darcy has to do with you and Dovenlea?”

  Quickly, Captain Atwood sketched for her the details of the arrangements he’d made to assist his cousin. “And Mr. Darcy helped me with every particular. I knew he could be trusted to come to the aid of a neighbor. His reputation in Derbyshire is the very best.”

  “Is that not because he owns half of it?”

  Captain Atwood laughed. “It is often the case, is it not? But Mr. Darcy, I believe, has more than earned the good opinion that all have for him.”

  “I am quite astonished to hear this. I had believed him to be as haughty and unfriendly at home as he is abroad.”

  “Has he been?” Captain Atwood asked. “How curious. But perhaps you mean only that he does not dance, a flaw I have also heard, and one that is held particularly unpardonable among ladies.”

  But he had danced… with her. Elizabeth did not say this, however. “You may recall the night we met, I was shocked by Colonel Fitzwilliam’s saying that he had heard of my sister and me from Mr. Darcy.”

  “I believe I recall something of that nature…”

  “I will admit to you now that I thought the report to be an unflattering one.”

  Captain Atwood smiled. “That is an impossible prospect for any man, Miss Bennet, to deliver an unflattering report of you. And I believe it equally rare that one might hear such a thing from—or about—Mr. Darcy.”

  Then she’d wager Captain Atwood had never spoken to Mr. Darcy about her. Elizabeth wished she could put it aside, but she could not. She was doomed, she feared, to press upon the topic at every opportunity. Never in her life had she felt so aligned with Miss Bingley.

  The audience was reconvening. In a moment, they would return to their seats. And yet, somehow, Elizabeth knew that Mr. Darcy was no longer among them. He had gone.

  She was not sure if she was relieved or despondent. Her skin seemed to tingle and buzz from being so close to him after so long. Still—still!—she responded to him this way. Would it be ever thus?

  “Is that so?” she said. How Elizabeth managed to keep her voice calm in that moment, she did not know. “I have heard another story of Mr. Darcy, and this one from a Derbyshire man. I had an acquaintance, Mr. Wickham, in Hertfordshire, who said he had been promised a living by old Mr. Darcy, a living his heir refused to bestow. Perhaps it is not right to put your trust so completely in a man who would break his word.”

  Now Captain Atwood did frown. “That is a grave accusation indeed. I have not heard this tale, though I regret to say that I have heard that gentleman’s name before, under
other ignoble circumstances.”

  “Whatever can you mean?” Elizabeth asked, as a feeling of dread wound its way around her heart.

  “It is not for the ears of a lady such as yourself,” Captain Atwood replied. “Let it be enough to say that I would be loath to allow him alone in the company of a young lady, particularly a very young one.”

  “You cannot be serious,” she exclaimed. “He has been associating with my sisters, in my father’s house, for many months!”

  Captain Atwood’s frown only grew deeper. “If I were you, I would write to your father at once and advise him to discontinue the practice. Mr. Wickham, I fear, is not a man to be trusted.”

  And yet Elizabeth had counted on the veracity of his tale of woe. She’d clung to it every time she felt as if she could not withstand the pain of having refused Mr. Darcy. She’d told herself it did not signify, for no matter what the strength of her feelings might be, she’d made the right choice. She knew—or thought she did—from Mr. Wickham’s sad experience that Mr. Darcy had a mean and resentful nature, and would soon enough come to regret the momentary passion that had caused him to believe himself in love with her.

  If that had been untrue—if, in fact, Wickham had been the scoundrel all along… Elizabeth felt faint. Presently, however, another concern occurred to her.

  “I will have to do more than simply write to my father. I recently received a report that he is engaged to be married to a sixteen-year-old girl from my village. The matter did not disturb me before now, for all her large dowry and, I suppose now, her tender age.” She had thought it an odd and materialistic match, but had not considered it might be one made in deception.

  Her companion’s face was a thundercloud. “I am sorry to hear that.” But they were obliged to stop speaking, as the music began again.

  Darcy was deep in his cups and didn’t much care who knew it. He hadn’t been able to take a minute more of that damnable concert. He might never be able to hear a soprano again. He sat alone at a table in his club, with such a dark expression on his face that every toady and hanger-on in the place knew well to steer clear.