Author: Alix James
Category: Other
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“Oh, that was only because he saw that Lizzy was standing nearest Mr. Collins when Mr. Darcy was asking about—well, I do not know what they were actually talking about, but he seems to know that awful fellow. Lizzy, what did he say to you afterward?”
Elizabeth had been idly picking away at a bit of embroidery, her mind a hundred different places, and she was slow to answer Lydia’s query. “He said that he and Mr. Darcy had known each other since boyhood. I do not think they are friends.”
“Come, is that all? He must have said much more for how long he talked to you.”
“Hmm? Oh—he said that if he receives an invitation to Mr. Bingley’s ball, he will request the honor of a dance from each of us.”
Mrs. Bennet scoffed. “Of course, he will receive an invitation! How very foolish of you to let him think otherwise. Why, Mr. Bingley said himself when he called that the regiment were all invited. Goodness me, the date has scarcely been set, and already my girls have half their sets spoken for!”
Elizabeth broke off her thread and cast her embroidery over her lap as she gave her mother a dispassionate look. A dance with Mr. Wickham was an appealing prospect, but to enjoy it, she must first endure a set with Mr. Collins. She tried, and failed, not to pout a little at the thought.
The talk turned next to plans for the ball. Ribbons must be bought, lace must be turned and made over, and there was that tear in Lydia’s gown to mend. “Oh!” fretted Mrs. Bennet, “and your father says the almanac promises the rain is to begin by next week. How shall we ever get the flowers for your hair and shoes at the last minute?”
Much distress followed this, for Lydia, in particular, had set her heart upon selecting her own shoe roses. In the next moment, however, it was all forgotten, for Charlotte and Maria Lucas arrived to join the excitement. Charlotte claimed a seat between Elizabeth and Jane, and Mary soon joined them.
“Have you heard the news?” she asked in a low voice.
“News?” Jane glanced at Elizabeth, then back to Charlotte. “Other than Mr. Bingley is hosting a ball in a fortnight?”
“Oh, that is old. No, no, about Sarah Long. She has gone on holiday, they say, but no one seems to know where or with whom.”
“She did not go with her aunt?” Elizabeth asked. “Mrs. Long has been speaking of going to Bath this winter.”
“No, for Mrs. Long remains at home. Why, Mama saw her only yesterday, but we did not know then to ask after Sarah.”
Elizabeth gave her sisters a cynical look. “Are you certain of this, Charlotte? Mrs. Long is ever free with her tongue—I cannot credit that Sarah could have gone, and her aunt would say nothing of it.”
Charlotte merely lifted her shoulders. “Perhaps it is not the sort of ‘holiday’ one talks about.”
“Oh, Charlotte!” Jane whispered loudly, then covered her mouth. “You cannot suspect that Sarah could be—”
“Well, I am sure I do not know, but there have been a few other girls sent away since the Regiment have come.”
“But this would be the first gentleman’s daughter,” Jane objected. Elizabeth and Charlotte looked at her curiously, and she faltered somewhat in embarrassment. “I only mean that usually the soldiers do not dare to trouble the daughter of such a family.”
“She was not the daughter, but a niece,” Charlotte pointed out, “with no money or expectations of her own. Her only claim is that her father is in the navy and occasionally wins prize money. A handsome militia officer with a smooth enough tongue may well have turned her head with hopes of marriage.”
“Oh, I prefer to think only that she has gone on a pleasure tour,” Jane pleaded. “At least so long as we can, let us believe the best, shall we?”
Charlotte looked dubious, but it was Mary who at last replied. “It is noble of you to feel so, Jane, but let us not overlook the very reason for sharing uncomfortable news—assuming it is true. We ought all to think for ourselves and to heed the examples of those who have gone before. We are, none of us, invulnerable to flattery or prejudice, and are just as liable to fall if we do not guard our behaviors.”
Elizabeth could not fault Mary’s logic, but she was not content with dismissing Sarah’s travels as the result of an unchaste manner. Why, if there was a girl among her general acquaintance who seemed vulnerable, it was not Sarah Long—the girl who seldom even wore pink ribbons for fear they might be called immodest.
No, if Sarah had gone, and no one was saying why, there must be some other cause at work.
7
Darcy dipped his pen again, trying to ignore Miss Bingley’s restless pacing about the drawing-room. He had finally discovered at least one cause of her disappointment; thus far he had not procured some gift for her. Apparently, that was her assessment of his frequent and clandestine departures, and he was content to leave her in that misapprehension for now.
She continued prowling around him speaking of everything but him while still ensuring that he felt himself the center of her focus. This evening, there were no exclamations of how fine his penmanship was or how quickly he had written. It was not for lack of interest on the lady’s part, to be sure—she had tried thrice now to peer over his shoulder. He had simply written nothing.
He owed his sister Georgiana a letter. She had written twice in the last week, and he not at all. What was there to say that he dared tell her?
Your cousin Anne is attempting to elope and is hiding from her mother.
Oh, I bumped into George Wickham.
There is a woman here I believe I could fancy above all others…
Impossible confessions, all! And so, his page remained blank.
What he ought to do first, to clear his conscience, was to write to Lady Catherine. But how to do that without penning some manner of falsehood? Surely, she would be searching for her daughter, and that knowledge alone troubled him greatly. No mother deserved to have her daughter’s whereabouts concealed, no matter how strenuously she objected to her child’s wishes. Yet, if Lady Catherine’s desires were to be answered, he would find himself betrothed to Anne before a fortnight was out—a thing neither he nor his cousin could countenance.
He managed to post a letter to Daniel Sullivan, assuring the gentleman that his betrothed was safe and eagerly waiting for him. Darcy detailed plans to escort Anne to Plymouth himself, the first week of December. Sullivan was a decent enough chap, and if he and Anne thought they would make each other happy, then Darcy was not the man to object.
Still, a persistent worry nipped at his thoughts. Collins would have written to Lady Catherine, and if she heard he was not in London, as she had believed, her curiosity would be aroused. She would write to him, or worse yet, come to demand his help in person. Then he would have no choice but to reveal everything.
Dashed insupportable, all of it! Few things provoked him more than moral quandaries, and this one was vexing, indeed. The only comforting news was that he had received a reply from Richard. His cousin stood ready to help, but it would be another week before he could secure leave from his duties. Until then, Darcy was alone in his dilemma.
The next morning found him mounted and galloping over the rise known locally as Oakham Mount. He had heard Elizabeth Bennet describe it as one of her favored walks, and the spot became an immediate source of fascination for him. Whether it was for the scene itself, or the unacknowledged hope of seeing a raven-haired beauty already there, he had come to think of it as quite the loveliest prospect in the area.
The fresh air and exercise rapidly cleared his lungs and head and even relieved the anxious tingle from his limbs. He had been excessively circumspect regarding Anne’s lodgings, but a casual pass that morning informed him that nothing was amiss. Miss Long had been outdoors when he came into view and had signaled that all was well. That had done much to set his mind at ease, permitting him to relish the rest of his ride.
Scarcely had he bent his horse’s path back toward Netherfield when his secret longings were answered. A lavender bonnet bobbed over the crest of
the hill. He knew that bonnet and knew that buoyant step. He halted his horse and waited for her to acknowledge him before he tipped his hat.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
She blinked in some surprise and took a fractional step backward. “Mr. Darcy.”
He fumbled with his reins, trying to decide whether propriety demanded that he dismount and walk with her or turn away and leave her be. He settled for something in between.
“It is a fine morning,” he said.
She offered a tight smile and a minuscule nod. “It is, indeed.”
“Ah… do you often walk out alone?” he asked lamely. He knew perfectly well that she did, and he continued to be in awe over it.
One chocolate brow curved. “I cannot know how to answer that, sir. Do you mean merely to make polite discourse in asking such a question, or are you expressing disapproval at my daring?”
He shifted in his saddle. “The first, naturally.”
“And if I answer that I do often walk alone, my father would chide me for exposing myself as imprudent. Surely—” she straightened somewhat. “It would be a foolish confession, if I were to make it known that I am often unescorted and walking where there might be no help close at hand.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “A wise observation in general, but you cannot think I would pose you any danger. Nor would I disclose information to another that could put you at risk.”
Her chin lifted in a hesitant nod. “Perhaps. Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy watched her turn away. A wiser man would simply let her go. However, a note in her voice aroused something deep within his being. Suspicion, perhaps? Or was it jealousy for his own good name—a longing for her to think well of him?
“Miss Elizabeth.” He trotted to catch up to her and stopped when she turned.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice even more guarded than before.
“You speak of a lady’s prudence,” he began. Then he faltered, fearing how the next bit would sound to her ears. “I… I hope that you do take proper precautions for your safety.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you refer to some specific threat, sir?”
“There is always a threat, is there not?”
She clasped her hands before herself. “I suppose that depends on who knows my whereabouts.”
Darcy tried to bite his tongue, glancing away from her for a second. “And can you control or predict the persons you encounter on a public road? I only urge you to take caution, particularly with…”
She titled her head. “With a bounty of single gentlemen about, searching for diversion?”
Darcy stared, bristling. Did she mean to say that she distrusted even him? He gritted his teeth. “I meant to say the militia. They may be received as gentlemen, but many do not adhere to such principles in their private affairs.”
She dipped a curtsy. “I shall remember your advice. Good day again, sir.”
8
The man was insufferable.
Did he really think a caution uttered from his lips held any power over her? That she respected—nay, trusted and even liked him enough to heed his words? Why, he was the very man in all of Hertfordshire who set her the most on her guard!
For two days, Elizabeth grumbled and fretted in her spirit over the imperious Mr. Darcy. If there had been some true evidence of wrongdoing, or if his words to her had been faulty in any way, she could have consigned him to the back of her mind as a rotten fellow, one to be avoided at all cost. Instead, he had seemed… gentle. Concerned. Haughty and commanding, yes, but not malevolently so.
It was this that tormented her, for she was certain in her heart that he was concealing something, yet she could not settle with herself what it was. Worse, she could not bring herself to examine the reasons why it would trouble her so much. What if he had been keeping a woman in Meryton and had sent her away in secret? It was no concern of hers, surely.
So why could she not cease thinking of it?
One evening, the family at Longbourn, along with others in the neighborhood, were all invited to her aunt Philips’ parlor for an evening of cards and merriment to ward off the winter gloom. As a kindness to the young ladies present, Mrs. Philips had also invited a handful of her favorite militia officers, as well as the party from Netherfield. It was a crowded house—too crowded for dancing, but not objectionable for the sorts of flirtations that stirred the hearts of the young.
Elizabeth was full of hope that the intriguing Mr. Wickham would attend, and she was not disappointed. His face was the first to greet her after putting off her wrap, and soon he had fetched her a drink and secured a place for them to stand.
“I have been hoping I would see you again,” he began. “You did not answer my question from the other day.”
Elizabeth playfully sipped at her glass. “I do not recall a question. What can you mean, Mr. Wickham?”
“Why, how you can be so enchanting, of course,” he replied with a wide grin. “It is a great mystery, and I would very much like to know the answer so that I, a poor simple soldier, might have the means to guard myself against your charms.”
She laughed. “Mr. Wickham, if the question is one of caution against the charms of the opposite sex, is it not the lady who must exercise prudence? In such cases as these, it is most warranted, for I can see that you are practiced in the art of flattery.”
“Upon my word,” he vowed with a hand to his chest, “if there be a man cursed with a wooden tongue, it is myself. Any inspiration to pretty words must be wholly attributed to the company I keep, madam.”
“In that case, I shall take care to be just interesting enough to provoke handsome remarks, but dull enough that you still retain your wits about you. Will that suit?”
He lifted his glass. “Enchanting and generous. My heart is in great danger, Miss Elizabeth.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, sir, for it is not my way to prey upon the hearts of respectable men. However, I may caution you about others.”
His brows raised in interest. “Really? Oh, do tell. Which fair creature must I be wary of?” He cast his eye about the room. “The youngest Miss Lucas is a fetching young lady.”
“Maria is a darling girl, but much like my own sisters, she is full young. I doubt she would prove very trying to your defenses.”
He turned back, his smile still winsome. “What of Miss Mary King over there?”
“Ah, now there you have struck a point.” Elizabeth touched her finger to her chin and pretended to consider. “I have never found her conversation to be a cure for boredom, but there are some who do not object to the pale, feverish look in a girl.”
He laughed heartily. “Miss Elizabeth, if I did not know you better, I should think you to be insulting the young lady! But surely, a spiteful word never crossed your lips, so I must have misunderstood.”
“You are speaking of my elder sister, I think. Unfortunately, I am more than capable of tart opinions, and I repent of the one I just expressed. It was uncharitable and unfair to Miss King, who—as far as I know—is a sweet girl who has never given anyone offense, save when she speaks of her expectations. At such times, she can stretch both the patience and the credulity.”
“Oh! Is that a touch of jealousy, Miss Elizabeth? Surely, a lady of your manifold charms cannot feel threatened by one such as Miss King.”
Elizabeth held up a hand and looked repentantly down at her drink. “I am properly chastened, Mr. Wickham. I ought never to have yielded to the temptation to say an unkind word of her. You are correct—I have no cause to repine when comparing our situations, for though she does claim some inheritance is to be hers one day, she does not enjoy the same close familial ties I have been blessed with.”
Mr. Wickham’s expression turned pensive. “You speak wisely, for not all can claim the comfort of family. I myself am woefully alone in the world, save for… well, it would not do to speak of it, not with certain individuals present.” He tipped his head to the corner, where stood Mr. Darcy.
>
The gentleman appeared to be just in the act of turning away when they looked in his direction. Elizabeth watched as his gaze flitted guiltily about the room, pretending interest in one random object after another before “accidentally” catching hers once more. There was the faintest narrowing of his eyes as he shot his cuffs, straightened, and walked to another corner.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Speaking of wooden tongues…”
Mr. Wickham nearly snorted into his drink. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth, we shall be the very jolliest of friends.”
9
She was laughing at him—he could sense it by the way his neck burned under the heat of her occasional glances. Well, what did he care if Miss Elizabeth was a fool who would not heed rational advice? It was not as if he was responsible for her welfare. But her eyes did sparkle so when she laughed…
Stop it, man!
Darcy snatched his gaze away—again—and forced himself to stare at Mr. Collins, playing cards with Mrs. Philips. The man was the perfect antidote to amorous thoughts, whether he was digging in his ear with his finger or professing wisdom on topics he was clearly ignorant of, or insulting his hostess by comparing her cozy abode to Lady Catherine’s ancestral holdings. Still, Darcy could only bear so much vulgarity, and he soon found himself desperate enough for a diversion to seek out Sir William Lucas.
The gentleman was uncharacteristically quiet this evening, and there was a gravity about his jowls that spoke of some heavy cares. Darcy gave him a small nod and was prepared to stand silently by the man, sharing a drink and nothing more, but Sir William cleared his throat.
“What a fine amusement cards and conversation are for young people. Do you agree, Mr. Darcy?”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied.