Chapter Text
They completed the steps of the dance without further conversation, the hostile silence between them louder than the swell of music that filled the ballroom.
But even like this, even when he was piqued and Elizabeth’s mouth was pinched, Darcy could not deny that he still found her lovely.
Every time the dance called for them to face one another, her eyes bored into his as though she might drive into his mind and glimpse his thoughts through sheer force of will. He half-feared she could somehow— it would not surprise him in the least to learn that his mind was as defenseless against her as his heart was proving to be. And that she, with one penetrating look, would come to know how highly he regarded her, how much she intrigued him, even though he would not— he would never— speak such words to her.
For this dance was, as Darcy had envisioned earlier in the evening, his goodbye. One dance with her, and then off to London to put her out of his sight. He would throw himself into the season, and forget Hertfordshire and the sparkling, intelligent eyes of Miss Elizabeth Bennet for good.
Taking his leave of her now, however, proved to be impossible. Whether it was the twinge of pain he felt as she walked away from him, or the infuriating echo of her sympathetic words for Wickham that spurred him to follow her, he could not correctly determine. All he knew was that after he had straightened from his bow, he hastened after the swish of her gown as if tethered to it. He followed her to the edge of the ballroom and resumed their previous conversation, astonishing himself, and her, with his actions.
“You say you have heard such different accounts of me. Would I be correct to guess that your struggle to make out my character began after listening to stories from your most recent acquaintance? For it would not shock me in the slightest to hear that Mr. Wickham—” Darcy could not help but snarl the name “—has begun spreading his lies here. That man would gleefully slander my name across oceans if he could. Do not allow yourself to be taken in— for all that he may be congenial in company, he is certainly no gentleman.”
A scowl stole over Elizabeth’s features at his words, so fierce that Darcy nearly stepped back from its intensity. “It is no surprise to me that we should disagree on this as well, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her tone biting. “I, for one, believe the mark of a gentleman is in his behavior— in his address, his manners, and his consideration for others. In fact, I find Mr. Wickham to be more of a gentleman than many others who claim the distinction by the simple accident of birth.” Her pointed remark hung in the air between them, and Darcy realized that the challenge in her face he saw now, that he had seen before and interpreted as flirtation, was in fact anger.
Elizabeth had been angry when they had spoken at Netherfield during Jane’s convalescence. Her bold, defiant looks were not a gambit to draw his attention, but a sign of genuine dislike.
And now, Elizabeth was angry with Darcy on behalf of Wickham. Somehow Wickham, with his honey-smooth words and guileless eyes, had, in the span of a week, thoroughly won Elizabeth to his side with flattery and, no doubt, falsehoods.
For a moment, his own fury rising, Darcy was tempted to simply walk away. Why warn her further, when his words would likely fall on deaf ears? What did he owe her, or the Bennets, or for that matter, anyone in this inconsequential town? If Elizabeth believed Wickham’s lies so readily, if she cared so much for Wickham that she would rise up in defense of him against those who spoke the truth, then by God she could have him. She and the people of Meryton would learn soon enough what he was, and would be sorry for it.
But looking at Elizabeth, still so arresting even when she was returning his glare with an intensity to match his own, Darcy knew he could not leave her to such a fate. No matter what she thought of him, he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was a gentleman. He would at least make the attempt to protect her from Wickham. He would not wish the events of Ramsgate on anyone.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, shaking off the grip of his rage and adopting as dispassionate an expression as he could manage, “I wonder if you would permit me to share what I know of Mr. Wickham and his character? Though I would first ask for your promise of discretion.”
Surprise flitted across Elizabeth’s face. “Very well,” she replied warily.
Darcy stepped in closer to her, bending his head and pitching his voice low, to ensure that his words would not carry. “I have known Mr. Wickham since infancy. Perhaps he explained that we grew up together?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“That much is true; we spent much of our childhood in each others’ company, as he was the son of Pemberley’s steward, and a favorite of my father.”
It was a complicated history, and one Darcy had little practice retelling. Doing so now called forth seldom-revisited memories of his youth— racing without a care on horseback in the summertime, grand adventures and sword fights in Pemberley’s woods, Georgiana taking her first tottering steps during a spring picnic on the lawn, the smiling faces of his mother and father. How invincible he was then. How golden and happy things were, before the tragedies that had been lying in wait descended upon them all. His mother gone, his father a wraith for a time before expiring as well, an estate practically the size of the entire county squarely his to manage, a sister who became his ward, and a friendship that he discovered too late had turned rotten.
He spoke quickly. Elizabeth’s eyes— a curious depthless brown, he noted rather unhelpfully— grew large when he told her of the legacy of one thousand pounds that his father had left Wickham and widened further still when he spoke of the three thousand pounds that he himself had placed in Wickham’s hands not three years ago.
“I had hoped, that in giving Wickham the value of the living in exchange for his relinquishing his claim on it, I would be free of him. His misdeeds had been mine to sweep up for years, and I longed to drop the connection. But it was not to be. Wickham returned a few years later, penniless yet again, having made no attempt to study the law. Claiming a desire to enter the clergy, he asked for the living itself. Needless to say, I refused.
“Wickham was furious at my rejection. He tried to smear my name, perhaps to shame me into acquiescing, but found little sympathy in Derbyshire, where my family has lived for generations and my own character is known widely. Failing at this, and still in debt, he then plotted to take advantage of a local well-dowered girl of only fifteen. Conspiring with her companion, he convinced the girl that he was in love with her, and that they ought to elope. Thankfully, she confessed to her guardian at the last moment, and Wickham’s scheme was thwarted. He fled, and I had not seen him until a week ago, now a lieutenant in the militia.”
There was silence as Elizabeth absorbed his words. She seemed lost in thought, as if she were assessing his story as one would a bolt of woven cloth, running her fingers over its length yard by yard to check the integrity of the fabric.
“It is clear that little love exists now between you and him. But… perhaps Jane has the right of it,” she mused aloud, “and there is some misunderstanding between you and Mr. Wickham that might yet be resolved. For your accounts are more similar than not; they diverge only on a few points.” She frowned, and her focus sharpened on him again. “Though he did not mention the failed elopement you spoke of… I wonder, how did you come to know about the girl?”
“I know,” Darcy replied at once, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, “because the girl is my own sister, Georgiana.”
Elizabeth gasped, and Darcy closed his eyes, reliving his shock when he had sighted Wickham in Meryton, laughing gaily, holding all the Bennet sisters spellbound with his easy charm. “He appears to have come through unscathed— though I very much doubt that his heart was ever engaged. I am sure he only mourns the loss of her thirty thousand pounds. But my sister believed herself in love with him, and loved in return.” Darcy thought of Georgiana’s muffled sobs, which could be heard through the closed door of her room, night after night. “She is still recovering after being so cruelly used, and may never be the same for it.”
“I am… that is…” Elizabeth trailed off, staring at him. If Darcy had been a man with less control over himself, he would have fidgeted in discomfort. Instead he held himself very still, hardly daring to breathe. Was she now judging him, as he did himself, for allowing his sister to come so perilously close to ruin?
She cleared her throat. “You have my word, sir, that I will not tell another soul what you have told me tonight.”
She appeared to be on the verge of saying something more, but Darcy decided it was far past the time for his farewell. He nodded tersely as he bid her a good evening, and turned away before she had even risen from her curtsey.
He crossed the room, hardly aware of anything beyond the pounding of his own heart. He was in shock, he supposed, that he had shared so much with someone who, truthfully, he knew so little. What was it about her that seemed to completely make a mockery of his good sense? It had been foolish to single her out for a dance as he did, and it was utter recklessness, telling her about Georgiana. Richard would string him up if he ever found out.
But Darcy did not wholly regret his actions. Elizabeth, he was confident, would keep her word. And if she heeded him, if she gave Wickham the wide berth that she ought, it would have been worth it. That rogue had already destroyed too many things that Darcy held precious.
For though she could never be his, he could admit that Elizabeth was a rarity among women.
She did not have the unquestionable beauty of her elder sister, but she had a way of talking, of moving, of expressing herself that drew the eye and held it. His notice of her had grown until it had spilled over into attraction. Even that had not truly perturbed him, for he had assumed, incorrectly, that her allure would fade, unable to overcome the disparity of their situations, his distaste for her relations, or some yet-to-be-revealed natural defect of hers.
But as the weeks passed, the feelings Darcy had thought would be fleeting only strengthened. Her wit, her laugh, her spirit, her eyes— all of it appealed to him, and he found himself itching for her presence, eavesdropping on her conversations, and staring at her whenever in her company. It was when he caught himself picturing her at Pemberley— in the library, in the rose garden, in his bedroom— that he realized the danger he was in.
A loud throat clear pulled Darcy’s unseeing eyes back to the present. A man, who Darcy recognized as one of Elizabeth’s dance partners from earlier in the evening, was trembling excitedly before him. The same look of displeasure that had marred Elizabeth’s countenance for the entire duration of the first two dances now appeared on Darcy’s.
Mr. Collins, as the man introduced himself to Darcy’s startled revulsion, was the rector of Hunsford, a living granted by Darcy’s aunt, the Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The man rambled on rapturously about the condescension of his patroness, enamored with the sound of his own voice, and though Darcy did not veil his disinterest, Mr. Collins did not appear to see it.
Darcy finally resolved to turn away just as Mr. Collins said, “I could not help but observe, sir, that you and my cousin Elizabeth were just now in deep discussion. I admit that it pleased me greatly to see that she has gained your esteemed notice, for it further supports my decision: Lady Catherine bid me to choose a wife from amongst my cousins, you see, and Miss Elizabeth is to be it.”
Darcy’s attention snapped at once to the man’s face. “You are engaged, then, sir?” he demanded sharply. “You have asked, and Miss Elizabeth has… she has accepted you?”
Mr. Collins tittered. “It is not quite so set as that, but I have been assured by her mother of her interest, and expect that I will be in a position to humbly receive your most generous congratulations in the next day or two.”
Darcy exhaled deeply. Elizabeth, he was certain, would refuse Mr. Collins— she would not be able to endure this man’s irritating manners and inflated sense of self any more than Darcy could.
But would Elizabeth be given the choice to refuse? Darcy was struck again with the reminder of how little he knew of her, and her family, beyond the superficial. All five Bennet daughters were out, and it was no secret that Mrs. Bennet schemed to match them all as quickly as she could. She would not recognize Mr. Collins’s idiocy, seeing as she hardly had any sense herself.
Mr. Bennet would, however. Darcy had more than once caught a deeply amused smile on that gentleman’s face, as though he was perpetually watching a stage comedy unfold about him. But though Mr. Bennet might see Mr. Collins’s servile foolishness for what it was, it did not necessarily follow that the gentleman would strive to protect Elizabeth from a lifetime of it. Mr. Bennet might very well rejoice in handing over the responsibility of one of the many women he had under his roof. Certainly it didn’t appear that he had taken much care in his choice of spouse, so how could one assume Mr. Bennet would prove more discerning in the selections for his daughters?
No, it was clear: Elizabeth could not rely on her parents.
“—as you are her dearest nephew,” Mr. Collins prattled on. “She has relayed to me on more than one occasion that your taste and hers align perfectly in all matters. So I put it to you— do you not think that her Ladyship would agree that Miss Elizabeth should be the one to receive my offer?”
Darcy pondered if a curt, ‘No, I do not,’ would suffice to dissuade the man. Mr. Collins, evidently fearing that silence meant disapproval, said quickly, “Of course, I had thought of Cousin Jane first, as she is the eldest, but Mrs. Bennet has taken care to inform me that she is expecting a betrothal for her eldest daughter imminently.”
Darcy grit his teeth in frustration. Bingley’s foolish predicament would have to be dealt with later, however.
“Of course Miss Elizabeth would make anyone an admirable wife,” Darcy replied stiffly. “But I have noticed even in our brief acquaintance that Miss Elizabeth takes much delight in laughing and teasing for her own amusement. A parson’s wife must possess an innate sobriety to inspire faith in the many that look to you for guidance. I am not certain she could conform to the role you wish her to fill.”
“You are most correct, sir!” Mr. Collins responded, though he appeared a bit uncertain. Darcy belatedly understood that much of Elizabeth’s sharp commentary likely flew by Mr. Collins’ notice. “Yes, my cousin is quite lively and given to small jokes and teases. But I do think, after our marriage, with a firm hand, she will drop her girlish ways. Lady Catherine has said it is the husband’s duty to discipline—”
“Additionally,” Darcy interrupted, “I have understood Miss Elizabeth to be a great lover of the outdoors. I myself have seen her after she had covered the entire distance from Longbourn to Netherfield, with muddied boots and dress. What would your parishioners think, if they were to see her in such a state? Perhaps someone whose pursuits keep her most happily in the home would be more well-suited to you.”
Mr. Collins nodded. “I am of course aware of what you say— why, Cousin Elizabeth has been out walking nearly all morning every day of my visit thus far, and sometimes she leaves in the evening as well! It is no strike against her— there is much of the divine in nature. Happily, the generosity of your aunt will provide us with the solution to suit all parties. Lady Catherine has offered me use of Rosings Park, an invitation which I feel I may rightfully assume would extend to my wife. Cousin Elizabeth may then continue her walks there, no parishioners would witness her in a state of dishevelment, and Lady Catherine would be most pleased to find the gift of her invitation well-used.”
Darcy opened his mouth to retort, but found he had not a single rebuttal to counter with.
“And,” added Mr Collins with a wide smirk, “I am sure Cousin Elizabeth, like all women, has long dreamt of the manifold joys of motherhood. I anticipate she shall be quite eager to start a family of her own, and to ensure her happiness, I will perform my duty diligently— though of course I have many other demands of my time! Given her youth and my vigor, I would imagine that soon after our marriage, she will be happily in a family way, and will deem it necessary to curtail her walks herself, out of prudence.”
The image of Elizabeth, increasing with this man’s child, flashed in his mind. Darcy tasted bitter bile in the back of his throat.
Casting an eye about the ballroom desperately, Darcy spied Mary Bennet, plunking away at the pianoforte. “I do not need to tell you sir, that my aunt and cousin rarely come to London, or seek diversion away from Rosings. As such your wife might expect to be invited to tea with some regularity, as there is a dearth of suitable society in the surrounding estates. It would please my aunt greatly if your wife could offer more than just her company and conversation. Perhaps you ought to seek someone musically minded, as neither Lady Catherine nor Miss de Bourgh play.”
Mr. Collins furrowed a brow. “Yes, I have thought the same, in fact, for there cannot exist anyone who has a more innate appreciation for music than her Ladyship. But I can assure you that Cousin Elizabeth does play well enough. And with her Ladyship’s instruction and encouragement, I am sure she would devote herself to the instrument—”
“Knowing my aunt as I do,” Darcy interrupted again, wearily wondering at the vagaries of life that had him prolonging a conversation with this man, “she would welcome your bride to Rosings with special notice. One cannot forget that Lady Catherine had always wished for a larger family. Perhaps you might consider someone younger, who Lady Catherine might mold, might nurture. She once longed for more children; she only has Miss de Bourgh.”
This, finally, appeared to have convinced the man. “Yes, of course,” Mr. Collins said slowly, excitement creeping into his tone. “One of the younger sisters. That my wife might be like her Ladyship’s daughter, and myself… not a son, I would not dare to suggest it, but…”
Darcy, entirely drained but sensing victory, tuned the man out at last.
His eyes sought Elizabeth, and found her safely tucked in a corner with Miss Lucas, blithely unaware of her near miss.
It was just as well.
Turning back to Mr. Collins, Darcy dipped his chin in the barest of nods before walking away without another word. There were other disasters looming that required his attention now.
The entire Netherfield party was gone within two days.