Page 16

T he days following their guests’ departure from Netherfield were tedious and dull. The sky seemed to agree, for it was as if Elizabeth had gone and taken what was left of the winter sun with her. Grey clouds rumbled and heavy rain poured almost all day long, leaving Darcy little recourse but to hide in either the bookless library, or Bingley’s study if he wished to avoid the rest of Netherfield’s occupants.

Miss Bingley, thankfully, seemed to have gotten the hint and had stopped pestering him as often as she used to. Darcy strived to count it as a blessing even though it did little to help his temper.

At the end of the day, he missed Elizabeth. Much more potently than he had first assumed he would. Despite having been confined to one room for the majority of her stay, her presence seemed to linger everywhere in Netherfield, just waiting for him to turn his head and spy her apparition from the corners of his eyes. He could easily imagine her sitting beside him with a book of her own while he read in the library, or join him for a game of chess in the morning parlour. Every time he broke his fast, he was reminded of the ridiculous conversation he had had with her on his preference for coffee, and every time he gazed out onto the drenched front gardens of Netherfield Park, he was reminded of their last walk together, followed by the conversation he’d have with her uncle, followed by the conversation he’d had with her.

He was going to marry Elizabeth Braxton.

Preparations, of course, ought to be made as soon as feasible. The moment the rain stopped and the roads reopened, he needed to contact his solicitor in London. Georgiana needed to be informed of the development also. Perhaps he could also have his younger sister come to Town for the season. The two ladies could meet, and maybe, after the wedding, once Elizabeth and Georgie had grown closer to each other and gotten more comfortable, they could also discuss Georgiana’s coming out. She would be turning seventeen soon. She was old enough to want one.

Darcy shook his head, a little bemused at his own snowballing thoughts. The man he was before he came to Hertfordshire would perhaps berate him for how hasty he was being about this entire matter, but Darcy could not help himself. Her family’s consequence was irrelevant, and so was her fortune. Elizabeth would be a wonderful wife, and a good sister to Georgiana. That is all he needed to ensure his own happiness. But, over and above that, her sociable nature, the way she held herself, and the way she spoke, would all be a boon to him on the occasions where he would not be able to avoid mingling with the ton, and her warm smiles, her teasing quips, and her quick wit would satisfy his needs for a perfect partner in more private settings.

As it was, Wrexham was far enough away from Derbyshire that they would not have to meet with her family too often if they turned out to be just as distasteful as the Bennets, and Darcy already had more money than he knew what to do with. His family, especially his uncle and aunt from his maternal side would be harder to convince, but as much as Darcy valued their advice, he was in a privileged position in the world to be able to answer to no one except God Himself. They could protest as much as they wished, but all parties involved were aware that they needed him and his influence and wealth more than he needed them.

Making up his mind, and formulating a rough timeline of the coming events in his head, Darcy quickly turned away from the window, where he had once again found himself staring out at the pouring rain and wishing for it to stop, and walked over to the escritoire kept in the corner of the library. Settling down in the chair that was perhaps a little too small for a man of his stature, he ignored the discomfiture and grabbed a piece of parchment,dipping his quill into the ink. Knowing his letter to his sister would be long, detailed, and take up most of his time, he started first with the missive he intended to send his man of business.

He was just finishing his correspondence to Georgiana when he heard the door behind him open. Darcy turned around only to see Bingley grinning gleefully at him,

“The blasted rain has finally stopped!” His friend announced, causing Darcy to whip his head towards the window in surprise. Not only had the rain stopped, the sun had come out, shining more brightly than it had all last month. Darcy stood abruptly. The letter to his sister could wait. If Bingley’s thoughts were in any way similar to his, it was time to give the Bennets a visit.

“To Longbourn?” He asked his friend, already knowing the answer. Bingley bounced on his feet,

“Aye! To Longbourn!”

Elizabeth breathed a deep, cleansing breath as she walked out of Longbourn for the first time in three days. The sun was shining brightly but the pavements were muddy and wet still, and she needed to hike up the skirts of her dress just to walk. Even still, it was much easier to avoid stepping in puddles and marshy soil than it was to avoid Mr. Collins and his offensively pitying gaze every time he looked at her. The man was an absolute fool with no mind of his own. Every time he spoke, he was either quoting the scriptures —alongside the most convoluted interpretations of the verses— or his patroness, some Lady Catherine de Bourgh or other.

Since the day he had arrived at Longbourn, he had made no effort to hide his intentions. From the moment he had laid eyes on Jane, he had panted after her like a starving dog, staring at her face, her bosom, and strangely enough, her feet. It was not until a private conversation with Mrs. Bennet (in which, Elizabeth had no doubt she had persuaded the stupid vicar against her favourite daughter) that Mr. Collins directed his eyes away from Jane. Unfortunately, he seemed to have found a new object of affection fairly quickly, and since yesterday afternoon, he had begun focusing all of his wooing prowess towards poor Kitty.

Consequently, the atmosphere at Longbourn was more than a little off-putting. Lydia was relieved that she had been spared the attentions of ‘that unattractive buffoon’, Mary seemed almost offended that she was entirely skipped over, and Kitty looked perpetually terrified at the idea of being courted by a man who was quite literally four times her size. Elizabeth was endeavouring to find amusement in the situation the same way her uncle was. After all, she had seen the look that had passed over Mr. Collins’ face the moment he had found out about her deceased parents and knew that she was (fortuitously) out of the running. And yet, the longer the ridiculousness went on, the less enjoyment she found in her Bennet cousins’ collective discomposure.

More than anyone else, she felt bad for Kitty. Kitty —who was already of a weak disposition— often looked on the verge of crying whenever Mr. Collins even so much as addressed her. It did not help at all that Mrs. Bennet was encouraging the match with all her might. Her cousin’s distress and anxiety were the only reasons why Elizabeth had decided to sacrifice the first clear day after three days of near-ceaseless downpour and had invited Mr. Collins, alongside Jane, to take a walk with her under the guise of showing him around Meryton.

Kitty, of course, was too ill to walk such a large distance, Lydia was too busy mending a bonnet and could not be bothered to join them, and Mary insisted on visiting the Lucases seeing as she had not met with Charlotte in almost a week. With only Jane and Elizabeth as companions for the duration of their trip, it was Mr. Collins’ prerogative that he offer both the ladies an arm as escort to the village.

When he only offered one to Jane, she looked at him as if she were looking at a strange creature with three heads. Elizabeth only laughed. Clasping her hands behind her back, she deliberately started walking a little in front of the pair, humming to herself as behind her, Mr. Collins started a conversation with Jane on the variety of root vegetables he was growing in his little kitchen garden behind his home.

George Wickham was walking along the streets of Meryton, feeling more than a little dashing in his new militia uniform. Beside him, Denny was just coming out of the tailor’s shop, having paid for George’s uniform on the promise that he would be paid back. Wickham smirked at his new friend’s gullibility, but smacked his back affably when the older man joined him. Looking around the small town, for a moment, Wickham had to hide the bitterness he always felt whenever that feeling of having been robbed of his rightful place in the world flared up within him. If only it had not been for Fitzwilliam Darcy, he would currently be sitting around in one of the many lavishly decorated rooms in Pemberley, dressed in priceless jewels and imbibing ridiculously expensive alcohol. But, no— here he was, in some no-name town located in some insignificant shire. At least the uniform made him look like a hero of some silly novel. It would certainly make it much easier to court girls in this garb.

Speaking of which, Meryton did seem to have its fair share of pretty women. Wickham’s eyes tracked two ladies strolling along on the street across from him, a heavy-set but easily overlooked man accompanying one of them. Wickham nudged his friend, then motioned discreetly towards them,

“Do you know who they are?” He asked, hoping the answer would be yes. Denny had been in the —shire militia longer than him, and no sane man would leave the afore-mentioned two beauties alone without at least learning their identities. Denny’s eyes followed his, then he scoffed,

“You have excellent taste, my friend, but I suggest you look away. Both ladies are unattainable, and getting involved with either of them would be more trouble than you can handle.”

Rather than discourage, the warning only worked to further intrigue Wickham. He raised a brow, “Why? Who are they?”

“The blonde is Miss Jane Bennet. She is the eldest daughter of the village’s most prominent family. She is said to soon be getting engaged to the new owner of Netherfield Park, the largest estate in the area. I believe his name was… Bingley? Yes. Mr. Bingley of Netherfield Park.”

Wickham shrugged. He had worked with worse odds before. Though… Bingley…why did that name sound so familiar?

“What about the other one?”

“Miss Elizabeth Braxton.” Denny nodded, “She is even more unreachable than Miss Bennet. She is Mr. Bennet’s niece. Both parents are deceased, but it is said that she has caught the attention of a very wealthy and influential gentleman.”

“Hmm…” Wickham rocked on his feet, looking over the two women more closely than before. Both of them were beautiful enough to not look amiss even in the most lavish of London balls, though, if he had to choose, Miss Jane Bennet would be more to his taste. Perhaps he just had a preference for blondes.

The two ladies seemed to be making their way towards the haberdashery, and Wickham had just made up his mind to follow them into the shop when suddenly two horse riders rode up to them, stopping only a few paces away. The riders climbed down from their horses, and approached the women. Wickham stood frozen as the taller of the two men removed his hat, revealing his profile,

“Ah… those must be their suitors.” Denny observed from beside him, “Handsome enough fellows, I suppose. Mr. Bingley is the shorter one, if I remember correctly. He and his friend came over to our encampment to have dinner with a bunch of us a few days ago. The evening is a bit of a blur. I had had a little too much to drink that night, you see. What was his friend’s name-”

“Darcy.” Wickham almost stuttered, his face paling. He watched as Darcy gazed down at the dark-haired beauty in front of him, his eyes fond and warm. Being childhood friends with his arch-nemesis came with its own perks and cons. He did not know which of them 'the ability to read Fitzwilliam Darcy better than almost anyone' was. The old chap was in love all right. And if the young lady’s answering smile was any indication, the feeling was mutual.

“Ah! Yes, Mr. Darcy!” Denny blinked in surprise, then looked at his new friend, “Are you acquainted with the gentleman?”

Wickham considered himself a daredevil of the highest calibre, but even he knew messing with Darcy twice in the same year was the same as courting death by duel, consequences be damned. The made-up story of how he was ill-used by the Darcy family was on the tip of his tongue, but with the niece of the most influential family of the village in love with the man, Wickham knew it would not fly here. Clenching his jaw, he huffed and turned around, almost stomping like a child as he left the street,

“Hey! Wickham! Where are you going?”

Where else? He was getting out of Meryton. It was a good thing he had not yet officially joined the militia. He would have to try his luck elsewhere.

Wickham had heard Brighton was quite nice this time of the year.