A Dishonorable Offer

by Timothy Underwood

  “Ah, then you have no cause for embarrassment, no matter what the novel is. Is it The Monk? Quite a scandalous piece.”

  Elizabeth gave up and with a defeated sigh pulled her arm away from his so that she could take the volume out of her coat pocket. Looking away from Darcy she handed it to him. He took it in his sadly freed hand. He much preferred to be holding Elizabeth’s arm to her book.

  “Pamela?” Darcy looked at her, fully believing that Elizabeth did not like the book which had been such a rage amongst young women so many years earlier. He grinned. “You hope some foolish Lord will marry you after repeated attempts at your virtue?”

  Elizabeth turned her eyes down and bit her lip, her cheeks reddening. “You said I have no cause for embarrassment, since I do not like the book.”

  “I also implied I thought that was merely an excuse. I see why you would not admit to reading it.”

  Elizabeth said, “I despise Mr. B. He is a worthless man. It speaks ill of my sex that so many of us admire such a book with such a poor model of a hero. I read it because Maria Lucas adores the book, and she wished to hear my opinion.”

  “Really?” Darcy blinked. He had never read it, but he knew the plot had a squire try to convince a very beautiful housemaid to become his mistress, and then when he failed to convince her to accept his offer, he married her. Before he could stop himself, Darcy glanced at his horse and said quickly, “You despise him so much for seeking to make the girl his mistress? Is that so very wrong in your mind?”

  “No, it is not that which makes me despise him.”

  “You do not despise him for that?”

  Elizabeth stared at him. Darcy realized she could easily put a poor characterization on his asking such questions. Even though it was a discussion of literature, it was even more pointed than her earlier flirtations. He felt a fear that he would frighten her away. He opened his mouth to try to take back the question.

  Elizabeth spoke first. “That alone it is not enough to generate my hatred. I disapprove, but I’d not wish to despise so many gentlemen. Mr. B. did not listen when she refused. He conspired to keep her from returning to her family, he destroyed her opportunity to find another position, he read all of her mail, and eventually stole her letters so they would not reach her parents. He even hid in the closet while she—” Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth. “Never mind. Mr. B’s defects go far beyond seeking a…mistress.”

  “He did what in the closet?” Many years ago Darcy had read Henry Fielding’s parody, Shamela. It had been licentious and arousing. But Darcy had thought it was mostly the satirist’s exaggeration. Surely no such scenes would be in a novel that had been that widely read by young ladies.

  “This conversation is quite inappropriate already — Mr. B. hid in the closet while she and the housekeeper undressed, and then once they were in bed popped out and tried to kiss her.”

  Elizabeth’s face had turned red all the way up to her forehead and down to her chin. But she grinned at him widely, evidently pleased by having told the slightly naughty story. Darcy grinned back at her. She blushed and looked away, still smiling.

  Darcy shook his head and glanced at his horse and then looked at the cows in the field they were walking along. “How was that book allowed to be so widely read by young girls?”

  “Oh, that is simple.” Elizabeth’s voice was suddenly scholarly and enthusiastic. “If you read novels, or look at collections of plates and illustrations from the time, it is clear that manners and modes of fashion have changed greatly over the years. Now, while the looseness and flow of high-waisted gowns” — Elizabeth illustrated the modern style by touching her hand right below her breasts, where a yellow silk cord tied the sides of her coat together. Darcy’s eyes had a little trouble going back to her face — “have often been spoken of as a sign of the deteriorating morality of her day, collections of Hogarth and novels such as Tristram Shandy and Pamela show that despite their stiffer dresses and the men’s wigs and the general unnaturalness of fashion, morals were far looser then. You have already quoted a line from Shakespeare which proves the point for his century.”

  “Our morals are not terribly strict.”

  “Perhaps you are right; one hears such stories of the Prince Regent and nonesuch. Still, however exposed the indecent is today, it was even more exposed then.”

  “You are right. Have you read Fielding? I have read his parody of Pamela, I just had no idea those scenes were in the original.”

  “You mean Shamela? I have not read it. But I did read Tom Jones. I do not think highly of how he jumped from one woman’s bed to another while claiming to be in love with his patron’s daughter.” Elizabeth flushed red, and then looked down shyly. “Oh, I should not talk about that. Do say you do not despise me for speaking so forwardly about such topics. It shows a lack of delicacy. Ladies today are supposed to pretend they know nothing about any such matter. But I have read too widely to be as delicate as girls of this era are intended to be.”

  “Miss Elizabeth, you could never offend me. Besides, my uncle’s plan of education for my sister was…unorthodox. Next to her you are a paragon of delicacy.” Darcy’s face heated at how Elizabeth quirked her eyebrow at him. “Enough of this topic. I have a different subject I have meant to raise.”

  He pulled Elizabeth’s arm closer to his side and leaned his head closer to hers. “I have a question about you — about a characteristic behavior of yours. First though, I have a confession — one which will shock and horrify you. Are you prepared?”

  Elizabeth theatrically widened her eyes. “Oh, yes! I dearly love to be horrified.”

  “Good.” Darcy spoke with assurance. “For this is particularly horrible. That night we first met at the assembly ball. Before Bingley convinced me to dance with you, I stood next to a painting. A portrait of our dear monarch — you follow so far?”

  Elizabeth nodded, a smile playing on the edges of her pretty lips. “I had noticed you there. You looked most intent.”

  “I was very intent. But, alas, it was a face far prettier than our monarch’s that I studied. Though, I fear, less regal. Yes — from your blush I see you suspect. My study was your face, and an interesting object it was. Have I horrified you by confessing that I am such a poor subject of his Majesty that I would allow the face of a beautiful woman to distract me from the contemplation of Him?”

  She pressed a hand against one of her bright red cheeks. “You should not flatter me so — and I do not believe it. I do not — you are too proud an Englishman to let even a very, very beautiful woman" — she grinned at him, with a twisted smile — “distract from the contemplation of that face which has led us, His children, for so many years.”

  “Ah, I see you missed a key part of my confession. Was yours merely a beautiful face, the old lined features of our monarch would have drawn me. However — and here we come to what I wish to ask you — it was the play of emotion that entranced me. A portrait cannot change, not even one of his Majesty. You sat with a huff, and you had this expression of sad melancholy. It made me wish to comfort you. But you then closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall, and this soft, content smile crossed your face. It made me wonder what image played in your mind to bring it. And then, a frown grew to mar your features. However, as I watched, you opened your eyes and straightened with what seemed to be an iron bar of determination. Then you pulled your fingers into a delicate fist and shook it at whatever thought troubled you. I lost my concentration upon you then, for Bingley demanded my attention, but I cannot curse him for it, for I did dance with you as a result.”

  Her eyes were wide and her mouth open with a smile. “You watched me that closely? Why — I remember sitting there.”

  “So I ask, what thought went through your mind? I have seen you sit to the side of a room with a similar smile twice since. What are you thinking?”

  Elizabeth blushed and shook her head. “No, no. It is too private, too embarrassing. I cannot say.”

 
Darcy flashed her his dimpled smile, throwing all of his enthusiasm and curiosity into the effort. “Please, please. The curiosity — you must save me from it."

  “Mr. Darcy, that is a very charming smile. Does it usually gain you your object with females?"

  Darcy nodded and flashed a different grin, this one smug and self-satisfied. “Yes, usually. Please do tell me, I promise not to laugh very hard.”

  Elizabeth giggled. “And if I do not wish to be laughed at, at all?”

  “Nay, do not say that. You would not be so cruel — you have said that you dearly love to laugh, I cannot believe you would deny to the rest of the world opportunities to laugh.”

  “I do see your argument — but I have never claimed to be even or just in all things. While I may enjoy a laugh that does not mean my vanity will survive being the object of one.”

  “Yes, but is not vanity a vice? If being laughed at can kill your vanity, would that not be beneficial to you?”

  Elizabeth laughed again. “You make a compelling argument. However, to no avail.” Her face turned serious, and she looked Darcy in the eye. “It really is a matter too private to speak of.”

  “I understand.” Darcy realized his voice was little flat. He wanted to know, and…he wanted Elizabeth to trust him far enough that she would tell him anything.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips and shook her head. She poked Darcy in the arm. “Don’t be like that. You look like a child denied a sweet. You can’t expect to know everything."

  “Perhaps you could tell me something else about yourself, something less private and less embarrassing — but still embarrassing?”

  “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself? And then, if it impresses me far enough, I’ll reveal some nibbet of the deep secrets that lie within my head.”

  “Fair.” He wanted to tell her about himself. To prove that she could tell him anything. It was an odd emotion: Darcy had never felt such a desire before. It frightened him a little. He wanted to tell her about how his father died, about his faded memories of his mother, about his uncle, about his cousins, about how he met Bingley.

  Things he had never told anyone else.

  Despite the light teasing tone of their conversation, he suddenly felt serious.

  “Do not think too hard on it,” Elizabeth spoke, “we are only just becoming friends.”

  “Is not exchanging intimate secrets how close friendships are established? I think — Miss Elizabeth, there is something about you — something in your manner. I spoke truly when I said that since I saw you that evening I have wished to understand you better. You and I shall become dear friends. Only…I am reticent. I am not in the habit of presenting my secrets. I do not share myself easily.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “But you speak so easily.”

  “As do you — I fancy myself a good observer of character, you are flirtatious and forward in your conversation. The opposite of reticent, but I can tell that much of what you say is learned patterns that only play on the surface, it is not who you truly are — oh, do not become offended. It is a very charming surface.”

  “You are right.” Darcy stopped walking and grinned. “Aha — I know what secret of my past to reveal, and it is quite embarrassing. Though I am not sure if it is so very private."

  “I am all ears — and a mouth, which I use to inform you that the rest of me is ears.”

  “As a university student, when I attended parties, I almost never talked to women — I was not terribly fond of the men either, I fancied myself a scholar then, and most men seemed numbskulls who only spoke about hunting.”

  “I have gained the impression that, among your other talents, you are quite the sportsman.”

  “And I have, through introspection, made the discovery that boys of twenty are in general numbskulls.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “And so you would not wish to be judged by the habits and beliefs of your former numbskull self.”

  “I would not talk to women, and when I was forced to I inevitably insulted them, on accident. I habitually stood at the edge of rooms scowling and thinking about Latin.”

  Elizabeth giggled again, turning her pert nose up delightfully.

  “When my cousins visited me during my second term at Cambridge they discovered this awful habit. Now both are charming men — though I assure you, they are shorter than I am. They consider easy conversation with women as a key accomplishment of a gentleman. I disagreed. So Richard and Derwent wrestled me to the ground and sat on me until I changed my mind. Embarrassed by defeat, I gracefully accepted my lessons.”

  Darcy stood back and held his hands wide gesturing at himself. “What charm you perceive in me, is a result of their teaching.”

  Elizabeth clapped. “An excellent tale — should I ever meet your cousins; I must thank them on behalf of my sex. Your height and noble mien would make you well worth looking at no matter what, but without those conversational skills, I fear you would not be half the paragon of masculine perfection that you are. I do have one complaint, while that story is embarrassing, you promised a story that would be quite embarrassing.”

  He flashed Elizabeth his dimpled grin until she blushed and looked away. “But I have not finished yet. The smile, the one you complimented as very charming, does it change your opinion to know that I spent some four hours grinning at then Captain Richard Fitzwilliam again and again until my other cousin, the Viscount Derwent, at long last pronounced it satisfactory and demanded I spend ten minutes in front of the mirror practicing it each morning for the next month, or else he’d box my ears in.”

  Elizabeth laughed; it was a happy warm sound. “I entirely withdraw my complaint. Show me the smile again.”

  He did and Elizabeth immediately laughed. Darcy waggled his eyebrows at her, and she laughed harder. When her amusement flagged he grinned at her again and she giggled once more.

  “I fear,” she said, “I’ll never see you smile that way again without laughing. I cannot decide if the effect is ruined or improved.”

  “Now that I have satisfied you, it is your turn to tell me a story about yourself.”

  Elizabeth bobbed her head. “It is. You have earned something. I hardly know what to say though — I fear I have nothing so amusing which springs to mind.”

  “I don’t wish amusing. I wish true. But though, if your tale is amusing, so much the better. My cousins have been like brothers to me since my father died. Tell me about something you have done with your sister — our first conversation was about how much you care for her. Why?”

  “You want me to talk about Jane?" Elizabeth raised an arch eyebrow. “She is perfect after all.”

  “No.” Darcy shook his head. “I want you to talk about yourself with her. Excellent as I am sure she is; your sister alone does not interest me at all.”

  Darcy could see in Elizabeth’s blush and the pleased tilt of her lips that, though she clearly adored her sister, being told that she was of far greater interest affected her. Miss Bennet’s features and figure were nearly perfect, while Elizabeth’s were only very fetching — no doubt Elizabeth was used to Jane receiving greater consideration from men and her awful marriage obsessed mother.

  It made Darcy sad for Elizabeth. It did not seem to have hurt her, but she deserved to be the first.

  She was the first for him.

  "Jane, Jane always — she always thinks the very best of everyone; she always does the right thing. Not like me, I ran from being too ladylike and proper. She would have thought well of Squire Booby, not due to blindness but simply because she believes the best of everyone. When things go wrong — she was always the one — when Father was dying, Jane was only thirteen. Mama retreated to her room when Papa took sick and did not come down until Mr. Collins — the father of the present Mr. Collins — arrived to take possession of the house. I sobbed and sobbed, and refused to believe it could be real. Once Father died, I ran about everywhere and hid from the nurse and Mama and everyone. I climbed trees and let my
dresses become filthy. Jane was left alone to make sure everyone was cared for and the servants were managed. Lydia was only five. I felt so awful for Jane when I realized how alone she’d been, and how I should have helped.”

  “You were only a child yourself, twelve?”

  “I was eleven. I know what you think, it is very true, Mama should have managed. But she has never managed well.”

  “No. I dare say she does not.”

  Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment.

  Darcy grabbed her arm and squeezed it. “I should not speak against her. I do wish you had someone to protect you. What she said to you was not right.”

  “I do not mind. I really do not.” Her clear brown eyes looked into his warmly. “I thank you for taking my part.”

  “That is the second time you have said you do not mind about a serious matter. Perhaps you should mind. I mind for you.”

  “It would not do a morsel of good if I let her words hurt me. I swore after her bankruptcy, when she…she screamed at me and Jane for a full hour, blaming us for not marrying… Jane had only received kind words from her before. It was devastating the way Jane’s face fell when she realized what Mama could say. I’d always known she could be cruel, but Jane never believes ill of anyone. But she now knows about Mama.”

  Of course Mrs. Bennet had screamed at Elizabeth. Such tirades were likely to be common if she could say something of that sort in front of strangers. Darcy asked softly, “What did you swear?”

  “I swore I would never let anything she said make me unhappy. And I don’t. Life is so beautiful, every day, friends, books, cold afternoons, conversations with tall handsome gentlemen who are a little too flirtatious, but very kind. I love life, and I will not let Mama make me unhappy.”

  Was he very kind? Something twisted in Darcy’s stomach. He needed to live up to the trust in her eyes. But he did not know what that meant he should do.

  Elizabeth added, “I should not have told the story. It is quite improper to tell it. I should not expose my mother so, but you… It is so natural and easy to talk to you.”