A Pemberley Medley (A Pride & Prejudice Variation) Page 7

  “To you? That man proposed to you?” He sounded horrified.

  “Yes, and was extraordinarily reluctant to accept no for an answer! Fortunately, he found consolation quickly.” She could not believe she was sharing this story with Mr. Darcy, of all people.

  He seemed to recover enough to see the humor in the situation. “Extraordinarily quickly, I should say.”

  Elizabeth wished she had known this side of Mr. Darcy months ago. Perhaps if she had, she might have welcomed his interest in her, instead of putting him off. She could see that it had been there all along, in some of his teasing at Netherfield, but she had been so blinded by his remark at the assembly that she never saw it.

  She would have been flattered had Mr. Darcy shown interest in her at their first meeting. Were it not for his pride, there would have been nothing for her to dislike, and she would never have spoken so warmly of her dislike of him to Mr. Wickham. Instead, how quick she had been to believe Mr. Wickham’s stories about him, assuming him to be ill-tempered and missing all of his attractive aspects! She rarely had the opportunity to encounter a gentleman with Mr. Darcy’s education and knowledge of the world. She glanced up at him, only to discover him regarding her warmly. It was difficult to pull her eyes away, and her pulses began to flutter.

  They had almost reached the parsonage when Mr. Darcy stopped and turned to her, a serious look on his face. “There is something I must ask you while we are still in private.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. There was only one question which gentlemen sought to ask ladies in private, but she had not expected this after their quarrels. She did not even know what she would answer. She was still too confused about his character, and it was only in the last few days she had been willing to admit he had any redeeming features at all. How could she consider a proposal of marriage?

  He appeared not to notice the heat in her cheeks. “It concerns your sister. I observed her closely at the Netherfield ball, but I saw no signs of particular regard for Mr. Bingley. She appeared to enjoy his company, but no more nor less than that of any other gentleman in attendance. I was certain her heart was not touched.”

  If Elizabeth had been embarrassed before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now, after misapprising his intentions yet again, especially when she realized she was oddly disappointed to have been wrong. She took a deep breath, attempting to restore her composure, and reminded herself that Mr. Darcy, however much he might admire her, was unlikely to ever act upon such feelings, especially given his objections to a match between Mr. Bingley and Jane. Her sister’s last letter had been full of sadness which Jane had struggled unsuccessfully to hide. And Mr. Darcy had as much as admitted to his part in her unhappiness. How had Elizabeth allowed herself to ever conceive that such a man might be attractive to her, or to forget his abominable pride?

  She spoke carefully. “Jane’s feelings, though deep, are little expressed. She is very private in matters of the heart.”

  “Is it your belief, then, that she cared for my friend?”

  Elizabeth suddenly wished for nothing more than to be out of his company. She folded her hands behind her back and began to walk again. She heard him fall into step beside her, but she kept her eyes on the path. “I will not violate my sister’s confidence, but I assure you I am aware of her heart, and she is not mercenary.”

  He paused. “I did not mean to suggest she was. Your sister herself is beyond criticism. But a dutiful daughter of ambitious parents might accept a man whom she had no particular affection. Your mother’s wishes in the matter were quite clear to anyone who met her. The behaviour of your mother and younger sisters, combined with your family’s low connections, made such an association unfavourable for a man of Mr. Bingley’s standing. If she truly cared for him, such obstacles might be overlooked, though even then it would be difficult. But I saw no evidence that was the case, and I told my friend as much.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing. How dare he say such things to her, and not even have the grace to look ashamed of himself? His calm countenance suggested he expected her to agree with his assessment of her family, her low connections. Such pride was beyond any she had ever attributed to him in the past. Ill-mannered man! To think she had begun to warm to him!

  “I wonder at your troubling to take the time to speak to me at all, Mr. Darcy,” she said tartly, “given the many failings of my family and your obvious doubt of my own honesty and knowledge of my sister. Surely you can find someone more appropriate to pass the time with. If you will excuse me, sir.” She swept past him as quickly as she could, but was halted by his hand on her arm. Enraged, she turned to face him.

  “I meant no insult to you, but merely was sharing my honest reservations. Perhaps you might have preferred flattery to the truth, but disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.”

  “There is a difference, sir, between flattery and gentleman-like behavior. If you wish a polite response from me, look first to your own manners, sir, not those of my family. Mr. Wickham was correct about your abominable pride.” She knew those words would hurt him, but in her anger no longer cared. “I hope no one ever injures your sister as you have injured mine. Good day, sir.” She shook his hand off and hurried through the parsonage gate, away from his disturbing presence.

  Darcy did not move as the door to the parsonage slammed shut behind Elizabeth. It was as if all the air had been stolen from his lungs and he would never breathe again. He knew not what infuriated him the most, her criticism of his manners – the nerve of suggesting he did not behave like a gentleman! – her agreement with Mr. Wickham, or her departure without allowing him to respond. Wickham! How could she still believe that cad after what he had told her?

  But she had saved the worst for last, without even knowing how hard her arrow would hit its target. That he had hurt her sister, albeit unintentionally, he could not deny. She could not have known that Georgiana had also been deceived by a man she believed she loved, who left her without a backwards glance except for his regret over losing her dowry, or that Darcy was still worried about her loss of spirits. His lively younger sister had turned into a shadow of her old self, and it was all Wickham’s fault.

  And Elizabeth saw him as doing the same to her sister.

  It did not matter that he had believed he was acting for the best, that his actions, unlike Wickham’s, had no malicious or selfish intent. Or not much selfish intent, he immediately amended his thought, since his hopes for a match between Bingley and Georgiana could not have helped but to make him more opposed to Bingley’s interest in Miss Bennet. To Elizabeth, he was the man who hurt her sister, regardless of the reason, and she could no more forgive him than he could forgive Wickham for what he had done to Georgiana.

  He fingered the feather in his pocket, remembering the moment when Elizabeth had touched him to remove it, her face alit as much from her inner spirit as from the sun. He had never stood so close to her before, and he had wanted nothing so much as to taste her lips. He had thought she might have felt the same, but he had been fooling himself.

  He turned his feet away from the parsonage and began to walk slowly back to Rosings. There was only one thing for him to do.

  The following day, Mr. Collins reported that they were summoned to dine at Rosings again that evening. Elizabeth found herself taking unusual care with her preparations, then laughed at herself for her efforts. What, after all, did she hope to accomplish? Mr. Darcy might notice, but he was unlikely to ever act upon it. And she could not make it through an entire conversation with the gentleman without becoming angry at him.

  But when they arrived, the sitting room was empty except for Lady Catherine and her daughter. Elizabeth waited for some mention of the missing parties, and was grateful when Charlotte asked after the two gentlemen.

  “They have returned to London,” pronounced Lady Catherine. “I assure you, I feel it exceedingly. I believe nobody feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young
men; and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are.”

  Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes. So Mr. Darcy had left, without even mentioning it to her. Had he thought it of no importance to her? Or was leaving her of no importance to him? Perhaps he was just as glad to leave after their quarrels. Any admiration he had for her certainly would not have survived the knowledge of her prejudices and her anger. If only she had guarded her tongue better!

  Mr. Collins said, “I am sure they are already missing the delightful company of their dear cousin, Miss deBourgh.”

  Elizabeth was sure they were missing nothing of the sort, so Lady Catherine’s next words came as a shock. “It is true, and although it is not yet official, I would not be surprised to see an announcement in the newspapers soon.”

  Mr. Collins hastened to make obsequious congratulations to Miss DeBourgh, who looked as if she did not feel the matter deserved celebration. Elizabeth, folding her hands so tightly that her knuckles ached, was glad to have everyone’s attention focused on the other young lady, for she was sure no one could miss the heat rising in her cheeks.

  It was too late to think about what she might have wished for. She would have to make the best of it, and there was no point in dwelling on such an unpleasant subject. She would think no more of him. With new determination, she looked up and rejoined the conversation.

  Elizabeth had never realized how much energy one could expend to avoid thinking about one particular thing, especially when that thing seemed to want to be at the forefront of her mind. After a night of restless sleep and a morning where everything seemed to remind her of Mr. Darcy, she was heartily sick of it. Soon, she told herself, she would be unable to breathe the air, because it would be a reminder of Mr. Darcy, since he also breathed that same air!

  Finally she decided that if she could not avoid thinking of him, she would attempt the opposite, and deliberately think of him until she was bored with the entire subject. What, after all, was Mr. Darcy to her? He had admired her, and while she could not help but feel the compliment to herself, there was no reason for that to change her opinion of him. He was not as ill-tempered or unfair a man as she had thought, but it did not therefore follow that he was a paragon of virtue. He was proud, uncaring of the effect of his behaviour on others, and altogether too concerned with himself. Her feelings were hurt not because she had lost an admirer whose good opinion she desired, but because her injured vanity had wanted more appeasement from him. What better cure for having been named as tolerable, but not tempting, than to receive a proposal of marriage from that same gentleman? But she was not a child who needed someone to tend to her ills. Clearly Mr. Darcy had indeed decided that she was tempting, but that was all. If he had truly loved her, he would not have left her side and the same day become engaged to his cousin. No, his affection, if she could term it such, was a shallow thing, if it could be so quickly forgotten! He, like Mr. Collins, had not regretted her for longer than it took to propose marriage to another woman. She would not regret such a fickle admirer, either.

  Having settled the matter to her own satisfaction, and having determined that renewing her dislike of Mr. Darcy was much more satisfying than dwelling on her loss, Elizabeth embarked upon a journey of annoyance with the gentleman. By the end of the third day, Charlotte declared herself heartily sorry she had ever heard of Mr. Darcy or his many faults. Elizabeth, chagrined, began to keep her thoughts to herself once more, which proved to be fortunate, since the following day the gentleman himself, accompanied by Colonel Fitzwilliam, once more called at the Parsonage.

  Once her initial shock had worn off, she noticed that Mr. Darcy had returned to his old silent habits. Perhaps he had not wished to make this call, but felt somehow obligated. With a hint of tartness, she said, “We had understood from Lady Catherine that you did not intend to return to Rosings this season.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “I do not know why, for we told her we would be but a few days.” He winked at Elizabeth. “Sometimes one needs a change of scenery even from a place as charming as Rosings Park.”

  Mr. Darcy seemed to bestir himself long enough to ask, “Miss Bennet, have you heard from your sister of late? Is she still in London?”

  “She is, although she has not written recently.” Elizabeth wondered at his interest, after their last conversation. It was no doubt an attempt at civility, but it could be nothing more. Whether he admired her or not, he was engaged to Miss DeBourgh, and that was an end to it.

  Elizabeth pointedly turned her attention back to Colonel Fitzwilliam, conversing gaily with him for the remainder of their call, but through it all, she remained uncannily aware of the dark eyes fixed on her from across the room.

  She was determined to remain annoyed with Mr. Darcy, so the following day, she was pleased to receive a letter from Jane, which would no doubt provide more ammunition for her pointed dislike of Mr. Darcy, the source of her sister’s pain. As soon as she had the opportunity, she collected her bonnet and gloves and went for a long walk where she could take her time in perusing her sister’s missive.

  What a blow, then, it was to her preconception of the contents, to discover that Jane not only sounded like her old self, with none of the sadness of her recent letters, but almost ebullient. The surprising cause for the change became readily apparent, and Elizabeth read her sister’s news with increasing delight, any thoughts of Mr. Darcy quite forgotten in her celebration. She finished the letter and put it away, but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again to allow her to bask once again in her sister’s happiness. It was at that moment that she heard a familiar voice call her name, and she looked up to see the subject of her earlier ill-humour.

  Even Mr. Darcy could not dampen her spirits at that point, so she folded the letter and put it once more away before greeting him with all civility.

  He took his place walking beside her and said, “You seem happy today, Miss Bennet.”

  “I am indeed. I received a letter from my sister Jane, who is in excellent spirits.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Apparently Mr. Bingley came to call at my uncle’s house, and she was able to report that he was in good health.” Elizabeth stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, but he seemed unperturbed.

  “Yes, he had mentioned he might do so when I saw him last.”

  Elizabeth turned to stare at him in surprise. He looked uncomfortable, and shrugged his shoulders at her questioning look. “Did you see him in London, then?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did.” He seemed disinclined to say anything more.

  Her cheeks flushed, Elizabeth fixed her eyes on the path ahead of them. Had Mr. Darcy told Mr. Bingley of Jane’s presence in London? It seemed the most likely explanation. But what had he meant by it?

  She remembered that she had confirmed Jane’s affection for Bingley just before Mr. Darcy’s surprising departure for London. And then, on his return, the first question he had asked her was whether she had heard from Jane.

  He must have done it. She felt warmth all over at the idea, certain he must see how embarrassed she was. She wished she could thank him, but how could she when he had not admitted to the action? Not to mention that he was engaged to another woman.

  It was dangerous to let herself feel warmth toward him. Tightening her bonnet strings, she said, “I understand there is reason to congratulate you, as well.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “I do not understand.”

  He had said he abhorred disguise, but that was another falsehood. “Lady Catherine told us of your forthcoming engagement to Miss DeBourgh.”

  “That nonsense again?” he exclaimed irritably. “I have no intention of marrying my cousin, now or ever.”

  “But she said….” Elizabeth reviewed the conversation at Rosings in her mind, and realized that Lady Catherine had neatly avoided stating directly that the two were engaged. A feeling of relief suffused her. />
  Mr. Darcy’s annoyance had not yet faded. “How could you, of all people, believe such a thing?”

  “I am not in the habit of disbelieving what I am told,” she said in confusion, perceiving that he was affronted. In an effort to reduce the tension, she changed back to the previous subject, rashly saying what she had only minutes ago decided not to say. “I cannot help but thank you for speaking to Mr. Bingley. His visit made Jane very happy.”

  “Do not thank me. I did nothing more than a friend’s duty of confessing my error.”

  “Still, it was generous of you.”

  His mouth twisted. “I would not wish Miss Bennet unhappy, nor stand in the way of my friend’s joy. The experience of having a sister in pain is not unknown to me.”

  She stole a glance at him. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  “When my sister was but fifteen, George Wickham took advantage of her innocence to persuade her that he loved her. His object, of course, was her dowry. It was pure chance that led to their elopement being foiled.”