“Would you like another cup of tea, Lizzy?” Aunt Gardiner asked.
Elizabeth shook her head mutely as she stared unseeing out of the window. Her aunt had insisted that she stay in bed to recover from the shock of the previous day’s events, although Elizabeth would much rather be pacing, or perhaps taking a long walk.
“I put extra sugar in it,” her aunt said enticingly.
Elizabeth sighed and took the cup, placing it on the table beside her bed. Her aunt was of the opinion that enough tea could solve anything, including nervous conditions, a broken heart, a fever, the plague—and, most likely, the Peninsular War. Elizabeth had already consumed so much tea that morning she felt as if she would float away.
Despite all the tea, she remained mired in an odd state of anger mixed with sadness, a dollop of guilt, and a pinch of shame: a recipe for a particularly awful stew. The anger was directed at Mr. Darcy for his high-handed behavior and arrogant assumption that naturally she would prefer him over Mr. Wickham because of his fortune.
The sadness had been provoked by a realization during her long, sleepless night that she could not marry Mr. Wickham; any future relationship between them would forever be tainted by Mr. Darcy’s actions. If Elizabeth loved Mr. Wickham, perhaps they could overcome that obstacle, but her amiable feelings toward him were not enough to surmount the scandal which could erupt if she defied Mr. Darcy.
She had sent him a note that morning breaking off the engagement. Hopefully her mother would not be angry that she had declined another eligible offer of marriage. Of course, if her mother knew Elizabeth intended to refuse Mr. Darcy…
The guilt sprang from that intended refusal. Mr. Darcy could provide even more security to her mother and sisters, but Elizabeth could not imagine accepting his offer. She was too angry, and he was too selfish and disdainful of others.
And the shame stemmed from that small (very small, Elizabeth insisted to herself) part of her soul which seemed content—even delighted—at the prospect of marrying Mr. Darcy. Feeling like a traitor to her own values and identity, she had at first attempted to deny such sentiments. How could the thought of a future with that man provoke anything other than revulsion?
But in the stillness of the nighttime, Elizabeth had admitted to herself that even before the incident in the garden, she had caught herself admiring his fine figure and serious manner. And then the kiss…well, the kiss…
Elizabeth always found herself distracted when she recalled the kiss. It had been very… Extremely…
Surely she would not have responded so…passionately if she had been prepared for the kiss. And it was her first real kiss; any previous kisses had been mere meetings of the lips by comparison. Of course, she had a strong reaction.
Perhaps all real kisses were like that. Did all wives feel like their husband’s kisses were a drug that they craved every minute of every day? Elizabeth somehow doubted it. Her mother certainly seemed more preoccupied by her nerves than her husband’s lips. And her aunt did not appear to crave her uncle’s touch.
If a simple kiss could engender such sensations, what would happen in the marital bed? Elizabeth shivered, goosebumps erupting along her arms. How would it feel if Mr. Darcy touched her?
Nor was the effect limited to his kisses. Conversation with the man always had a vivacity and energy she experienced with nobody else. Although he was proud and difficult, she always enjoyed matching wits with him. Unfortunately, her conversations with Mr. Wickham could not compare; he was amiable and pleasant, but he never made her feel quite so alive.
And, thus, the shame.
“You are thinking about Mr. Darcy again?” Aunt Gardiner asked, sitting on the side of Elizabeth’s bed.
“How did you know?”
Her aunt smiled gently, sadly. “You develop a small crease here whenever you are worrying the subject.” She indicated with a finger to her own forehead.
Elizabeth sat up straighter in bed. “I do not know if I can reconcile myself to becoming his wife.”
“It is despicable the way he took advantage of you, but too often that is the way of the world. Wealthy men believe they are entitled to…privileges,” Aunt Gardiner spat out the words, leaving no doubt of her disapproval.
“He simply assumed I would be happy to be his wife!”
“It is not an unreasonable assumption. Most women would be thrilled to become the mistress of Pemberley.”
“They may have him.”
Aunt Gardiner leaned forward and took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. “Being Mrs. Darcy would have many compensations. Once you had an heir and a spare, you need not be intimate—”Elizabeth did not allow her aunt to finish. Pulling her hand from her aunt’s grasp, she clutched the bed covers instead. “Why does everyone assume I will simply marry him? There are always choices….
The other woman’s brows drew together. “What else would you do?”
“I-I could refuse to marry anyone. I could become a nun!”
Her aunt’s lips twitched. “That is a possibility I had not considered….You are not known for your…piety.” Elizabeth could not refute that accusation. “Would that be truly preferable to marrying Mr. Darcy? After all, he is very wealthy. He could help your family tremendously.”
“I know.” Elizabeth forced herself to release her grip on the covers.
The back of her head throbbed, threatening to become a headache. Was Elizabeth’s attraction to the man a result of his wealth rather than genuine feelings? She had not loved Mr. Wickham, but she had been willing to marry him because of his many merits. Was she now perceiving merits in Mr. Darcy because she found his fortune attractive? Elizabeth had no desire to form a marital bond under such pretext.
She sipped her cooling—and far too sweet—tea. How did Mr. Darcy so constantly confuse her? Even her own thoughts and desires confounded her.
Perhaps she should not have returned his note unopened. But sending a letter as if they were already engaged had seemed presumptuous on his part. She had been seriously tempted to throw it in the fireplace; however, her uncle had believed she should return it. Now she wished she knew the letter’s contents. She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to loosen tense muscles.
Lying in bed would not solve her dilemma. Elizabeth pulled back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I believe I shall take a walk. Perhaps that will clear my head.”
Her aunt stood. “It may do you good. I will leave you to dress.”
But before she reached the door, it opened, and Shaw peered in. “If you please, ma’am, there’s a Miss Darcy here to see Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Miss Darcy?” The girl must be there to plead her brother’s case.
She knew little about Mr. Darcy’s sister other than her age. Mr. Wickham had described her as proud and arrogant, and Elizabeth pictured a younger version of Miss Bingley. The very thought made her head pound.
Aunt Gardiner must have guessed her thoughts from her expression. She pursed her lips. “Hopefully the sister is less difficult than the brother. I shall go down and greet Miss Darcy, so you will have time to dress.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said softly.
***
Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth was in the Gardiners’ drawing room with Miss Darcy seated opposite her—and yet another cup of tea in front of her. Aunt Gardiner had slipped out of the drawing room to report that the girl was quiet, well-mannered, and exceedingly shy. Despite her nervousness, however, she seemed determined to speak with Elizabeth. Now that Elizabeth was facing the girl, she agreed with her aunt’s assessment; there was no air of arrogance or superiority about her. Why had Mr. Wickham described her otherwise?
Her aunt had offered to remain in the drawing room, but Miss Darcy had appeared more at ease with Elizabeth alone, so she had declined. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the upcoming Christmas holiday. Elizabeth learned that most of the Darcys’ relatives were away from town for the Christmas season. She was also informed that Mr. Darcy gave his sister Christmas gifts which were far more than she deserved, and that he was very good at snapdragon while Miss Darcy preferred charades.
The girl’s hands fidgeted with the sash of her dress, and she swallowed frequently. Elizabeth wondered if the girl would ever work up the nerve to move beyond small talk. Finally, when there was a lull in the conversation, Miss Darcy seized the opportunity. She lifted her chin and looked Elizabeth in the eye. “I must speak to you about M-Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. She had expected a stalwart defense of Mr. Darcy rather than stories about Mr. Wickham. After all, Miss Darcy must have been quite young when Mr. Wickham had left Pemberley.
Miss Darcy continued without prompting. “I know my brother warned you about Mr. Wickham’s character, but he did not give you specific reasons for caution…out of a sense of delicacy for my feelings.”
Her feelings? How did anything concerning Mr. Wickham affect Miss Darcy?
The girl held herself very still, looking quite small on the upholstered settee. “But I believe you should know the whole story, so you will understand William’s concerns and actions.”
And she proceeded to relate to Elizabeth a most amazing tale of how Mr. Wickham had rejected the living set aside for him in Mr. Darcy’s will. Instead, he had received a payment in cash, which he wasted on a life of idleness and dissipation. Then he had concocted a scheme to seduce and marry Georgiana to gain access to her dowry.
“If William had not arrived at Ramsgate unexpectedly, Mr. Wickham would certainly have persuaded me to elope with him—for I did believe myself in love with him,” Miss Darcy said, her voice trembling a little. “But when my brother turned him away, Mr. Wickham left Ramsgate altogether, and I knew William was right. If he had truly loved me, he would have continued trying to win my hand, or he would have been willing to wait until I was older. But when William opposed the match, he gave up the scheme and went into the army.” Tears glistened in the girl’s eyes. “He never really loved me; it was all playacting.”
Her chest aching in sympathy, Elizabeth was struck by this girl’s courage at relating such a story—which did not show her in a favorable light and could ruin her reputation if generally known—to a complete stranger. Miss Darcy must love her brother very much to take such risks.
Elizabeth crossed the distance between them in two steps and, with a rustle of petticoats, sank onto the settee next to the girl. Miss Darcy had been fumbling about, seeking her handkerchief, so Elizabeth handed the girl hers. She accepted it and gingerly wiped her eyes. “I beg your pardon. I am not usually such a watering pot,” Miss Darcy said with a shaky laugh.
“I can imagine recalling such events is most distressing,” Elizabeth said in a low, soothing voice. She wanted to put her arms around the girl and comfort her, but their brief acquaintance did not allow such liberties.
Miss Darcy peered at Elizabeth through tear-spangled lashes. “Do you believe me?”
Elizabeth blinked several times in rapid succession. Disbelieving the story had not even occurred to her; she had only thought of alleviating the younger woman’s distress. There was no guile or deceit in Miss Darcy’s manner. It was nigh inconceivable that she had concocted such a shameful story.
But if Elizabeth accepted the truth of Miss Darcy’s story, she would be forced to admit that Mr. Wickham had lied to her about Mr. Darcy, his family, and many of his interactions with the man. Furthermore, Mr. Wickham had attempted to take the innocence of a girl of fifteen years for no other reason than his own personal gain.
Elizabeth suddenly felt dizzy, as if she had been spinning in circles and the world swirled around her. This was the man she had believed in. This was the man she had agreed to marry. This was the man she had nearly entrusted with her heart and entire future.
Elizabeth clutched the arm of the settee as if it were the only solid thing in the room. Mr. Darcy had warned her, but she had not credited his words. Confident in her own discernment, she had chosen to believe Mr. Wickham instead. Elizabeth now saw that there were inconsistencies in Mr. Wickham’s accounts of himself that she had willingly ignored. And she had discounted how eager he had been to relay personal stories and to slander Mr. Darcy’s name. Yes, he was at fault, but so was she. He had poured his poison into a willing ear.
Why was I so eager to believe the worst of Mr. Darcy? Just because he had mortified my vanity at the Meryton assembly? How petty her actions appeared to her now. Elizabeth was buffeted by a whirlwind, pulled down and down and unable to know which way was up.
“Y-Yes, of course,” Elizabeth responded to Miss Darcy rather absently, torn between self-recriminations and horror at Mr. Wickham’s behavior. Her hand rose to cover her mouth as if she could somehow reclaim all the terrible things she had said to Mr. Darcy throughout their acquaintance. Miss Darcy had held up a mirror to Elizabeth’s own actions, and Elizabeth did not like her reflection at all. The other woman regarded her with no small alarm; Elizabeth must appear quite pale and agitated.
“You do believe me?” Miss Darcy repeated in a plaintive voice. Her eyes were practically begging Elizabeth.
Elizabeth swallowed, trying to focus on her rather distressed guest. “Yes, Miss Darcy, I do.” She grasped and squeezed the girl’s hand. “I am simply aghast at my own lack of judgment.”
Miss Darcy squeezed back. “He deceived me as well, and I knew his character. I had far more reason for suspicion than you.”
“Do not chastise yourself,” Elizabeth told her. “You were very young.”
The girl took Elizabeth’s other hand and turned to face her completely, her eyes shining with hope. “If you believe me, will you accept William’s offer of marriage?”
Taken off guard, Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond and then closed it again. If she believed Miss Darcy and accepted that she had been completely deceived about Mr. Wickham’s character, then Elizabeth must also be prepared to believe that she had been completely wrong in her assessment of Mr. Darcy. This realization plunged her back into the whirlwind. I have been wrong about Mr. Wickham and wrong about Mr. Darcy. What else have I been wrong about? Perhaps Mr. Bingley was secretly tyrannical, and Mr. Collins was Prince Charming. It was almost too much to comprehend.
However, accepting that her opinion of Mr. Darcy was mistaken was not the same thing as wishing to marry the man. After a moment’s reflection, Elizabeth responded slowly to the other woman, “It is not quite that simple…”
“Of course not!” Miss Darcy exclaimed. “He described how he kissed you before your aunt and uncle’s entire household. I would be mortified.” Her eyes were almost as round as her mouth.
Elizabeth simply nodded, viewing these actions in a new light.
“But let me assure you that my brother is the best of men,” Miss Darcy rattled on. “Everyone says so. The servants love him, and he has the happiest tenants in Derbyshire. And, of course, he is a wonderful older brother; sometimes he is kind to me even when I do not deserve it.”
Elizabeth was a little amused at the younger sister singing her brother’s praises. Lydia would certainly never be caught saying such laudatory words about Elizabeth! “It is a complicated situation,” Elizabeth explained. “I did not expect his…proposal.” To put it mildly. “We are not very well acquainted.”
Miss Darcy clasped her hands together as if in supplication. “But you must marry him!”
Bracing herself for another argument about how her reputation had been compromised, Elizabeth reached for her teacup and took a sip to disguise her inevitable wince.
“He is violently in love with you.”
Elizabeth barely managed not to spray tea all over the front of her dress. She set down the cup with shaking hands before replying. Surely Miss Darcy must be wrong. She had misinterpreted her brother’s words. He had compromised Elizabeth to save her from Mr. Wickham, but she had seen no sign of his particular regard for her. “In love…with me? W-Why do you say so?”
“He told me so.”
Perhaps the girl was simply being carried away by her sense of romance. “What did he say?”
“He told me he had admired you since he first saw you in Hertfordshire, and he feared Mr. Wickham would propose to you to get revenge on him. He is always searching for ways to hurt William.”
Elizabeth’s world was turned upside down once again. Mr. Wickham had not proposed because he cared for her, but to get revenge on Mr. Darcy. She had nearly become a tool for his revenge. But such a plot would not succeed if Mr. Darcy did not actually care for Elizabeth. It followed, therefore, that not only did Mr. Darcy have feelings for her but also Mr. Wickham recognized them.
It made sense in a twisted way; many pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She had wondered if Mr. Wickham was truly in love with her but could not conceive another motive for proposing. Her dowry certainly would not entice him.
Mr. Darcy loved her, and Mr. Wickham did not. Have I been wrong in my understanding of everyone’s feelings? Perhaps Jane secretly loathes me, and Miss Bingley actually holds me in the greatest esteem.
“Are you feeling ill?” Miss Darcy asked suddenly. “You have grown quite pale.”
Elizabeth could only imagine.
“Maybe you should drink more tea.” The girl reached for Elizabeth’s teacup.
“No,” Elizabeth said, managing a calm voice. “I am heartily sick of tea. I thank you, Miss Darcy. I do not feel ill. I simply…was not prepared for this news.”
The girl drew back her hand. “Mr. Wickham’s behavior is quite shocking. I am sorry you had to hear that story.”
Oddly, the news of Mr. Darcy’s sentiments may have shaken Elizabeth even more than Mr. Wickham’s perfidy. “I am glad you informed me,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Perhaps you should rest?” the girl asked.
Elizabeth glanced down at her trembling hands. “Yes, perhaps I should.”
“I would like to visit again. If you do not mind?” Miss Darcy asked shyly.
Once she moved past her initial reserve, the girl was pleasant company. Elizabeth could imagine becoming her friend. “Yes, I would like that.”
It would be nice to see a friendly face again after what was sure to be a series of long, sleepless nights.