Page 4 of A Maid of No Consequence (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

THE GREATEST MISFORTUNE OF ALL

E lizabeth sat on the bench in Hyde Park a quarter of an hour before the time she had set to meet Mr Darcy.

She played nervously with the fringes of her much-loved shawl.

It had been a gift from her aunt and was one of the few possessions she had taken with her from Longbourn.

Looking down at her thread-worn day dress, she groaned.

“Why, oh why, did I say I would meet him? What a ridiculous and irresponsible thing to do!” she whispered to herself.

She began to rise, desperate to leave before Mr Darcy arrived, but it was too late—she felt his eyes on her.

She turned, watching him approach. When he came nearer, Mr Darcy looked as handsome and elegant as he ever did.

The past five years had made him broader across the shoulders and tiny lines had formed round his eyes.

Maturity sat very well on him. And then a thought occurred to her: he must be married by now!

Why did she not think of that sooner? Undoubtedly, he was. How could he not be?

“Miss Bennet.”

He bowed formally, and a warm smile formed across that chiselled jaw.

The Mr Darcy she knew did not give smiles so easily and its rare beauty touched her.

She had never thought to see him, smiling or solemn, again.

If she was not careful, her heart would no longer be her own.

And yet, she would never admit, even to herself, that it had been his since the weeks she had spent near Rosings at Hunsford Parsonage.

She dipped her head shyly. “Mr Darcy.”

He gestured to the space on the bench beside her. “May I?”

“Of course.” She tried to smile, though her mouth felt as if it were not working properly; a case of nerves no doubt. She wondered whether he was unsettled as well.

“Are you well? You took quite a fall yesterday, and I have been concerned for your welfare.”

“I am well. Thank you.”

“I am very glad to hear it. I still cannot believe you are here.” He cleared his throat quickly and said, “I mean to say, I cannot believe you are in London. How long have you been here?”

“Some five years. We are to go to Northamptonshire shortly.” She looked around anxiously, feeling all the awkwardness of explaining the past few years to this man. “Sir, I do not know why I proposed this meeting. The more I think on it, the more I realise how very inappropriate?—”

“There are people nearby, and we are not alone. Can we not be, at least friends, of a sort? Meeting in the park to talk over old times?”

“Friends.” It was a word she had not really thought of in connexion with Mr Darcy.

He was either a cold stranger, a frustratingly new acquaintance, or a man who treated his friends with aloofness and his enemies with disdain, and made an offensive proposal of marriage to the woman he purported to love.

And yet after reading his letter, he had very quickly become a man she had admired and had hoped to know better—and not only as a friend.

Thus, she had chanced to send him her own missive in reply to his, improper though it was to do so. She had poured her heart into that letter, apologising, explaining her regrets and how she had come to think better of his character. And of course—sharing her bad news.

When he did not respond to it, he quickly became the man who hurt her very new, very tender feelings of…

what was it exactly? Admiration? Esteem?

She did not have the words but she knew it felt important, and singular.

She had never felt for any man the way she had felt for him in the briefest of moments, before her life had changed utterly and completely.

Elizabeth caught him staring at the right side of her face; she had forgotten her bruise, although fading, was still visible. I ought to have sat on the other side of the bench. She tugged gently at her bonnet, trying to hide the mark, but she knew he had seen it.

“As your friend, I believe I need to know what has transpired these past years,” he said, “and why you are working in the home of Lord and Lady Pollard.” That last part sounded as a hiss between his teeth as Mr Darcy’s armour of immaculate decorum cracked slightly.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sun to find some fortifying energy to answer his enquiry. What could she say to explain how she had lost everything ?

“Life, Mr Darcy. In a word, that is what happened. Or shall I say, more correctly, the loss of it.”

She heard him inhale sharply. Evidently, he had not known. “You truly do not know what happened?”

“I do not. What I do know is that you left Kent suddenly, without any regard as to what I said in my letter. You disappeared, returning to Longbourn, I assumed. But as to why you departed or what your feelings were on what I wrote in my letter? Nothing. Just silence.”

She turned to look at him, and indeed the hurt was clearly there, showing itself in deep lines between his brows. But why? She had explained all and heard nothing in return. “You are incorrect, sir. Against my better judgment, I left you a letter before leaving the parsonage. Did you not read it?”

His eyes widened. He shook his head. “I received no such letter. What did it say?”

The contents of a five-year-old letter were not worth repeating; life had carried them both too far away from that brief interlude in Kent to matter. She paused, gathering courage. “It said that my parents and my uncle and aunt had been in a carriage accident.”

Even five years on, the words were hard to speak aloud. “There was more, but it does no good to repeat it all now. My reasons for leaving did not have anything to do with you, Mr Darcy. My family had been devastated.”

Much as Elizabeth fought back tears, she was not entirely successful.

She had taught herself to keep her emotions guarded, but being in this man’s presence weakened the walls of indifference that she had worked so hard to build.

Mr Darcy once again offered her a perfect white handkerchief, with the familiar FD embroidery.

She wanted to laugh, as she had done the day previously, at the absurdity of being here with Mr Darcy and once again collecting his linens for her tears.

This time, she took the cloth and held it tightly.

“I did not know, I never received your letter,” he said, clearly shaken. Then he gently asked, “The accident was bad? Did they?—?”

She only had the energy to nod. When his hand reached to find hers, she moved it to stop him.

His hand pulled back sharply at her response, making her feel emptier and more alone than she ever imagined.

Reminding herself that she was never his to begin with, nor was she his responsibility, Elizabeth decided she must end the conversation before her heart began to hope.

It would never survive another disappointment.

“I am sincerely and utterly sorry for your very profound loss,” Mr Darcy said quietly.

She looked away and took a breath before continuing. “It was a long time ago, or at least it feels as if it were, in many ways. So much has happened since then and yet I am surviving the best way I can.” She turned to him. “I thank you for your interest in my welfare, but I must go.”

As she stood, her aching ankle from the previous day’s mishap began to spasm. She had bandaged it, but it was still tender. When she winced and swayed slightly, Mr Darcy rose quickly, arms extended towards her. She stayed him with a gesture of her hands.

“I am well.” She gave him a kind smile, unwilling to show him she was in pain.

Mr Darcy ran a hand through his hair, a habit she had seen numerous times in their brief acquaintance. He came to stand just in front of her, too close for comfort’s sake. Did he not know what that did to her careworn heart?

He gestured towards her right cheek. “I would like to know about that fading bruise, just there. I suspect that was not caused by your fall yesterday. Tell me, who hurt you?”

Instinctively her hand rose to cover the injury. “It is nothing, and none of your concern, Mr Darcy.”

“You cannot stay in a home where you are abused! If Lord Pollard has put his hands on you–” His hands balled into fists at his side.

Before she could stop herself, she said, “It is not him.”