Page 1 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

ANTICIPATION AND DISCOVERY

I t ought to have been a joyous day, the happiest of days for Elizabeth Bennet.

It was her most beloved sister’s wedding day.

Jane was in love with her bridegroom, Mr Charles Bingley, a wealthy neighbour.

Her parents were overjoyed, the weather had proved fine, and the future, once appearing bleak for the Bennet sisters, had brightened considerably.

Neither did all the Bennets’ hopes for that future rest entirely upon Jane’s marriage. Her cousin, Mr William Collins, upon whom their family’s estate was entailed, appeared to be well on his way to falling in love with her younger sister, Mary. At this thought, Elizabeth found her smile.

Mr Collins had been, Elizabeth was certain, on the verge of proposing to her when an injured ankle had sent him to his favoured couch and kept him confined there.

Mary—by far the Bennet sister who tolerated him best—had entertained him the most during his malady, to the extent she was allowed.

Mr Collins was often foolish, but not entirely stupid; he could see Mary’s obvious attempts to capture his attention, and, flattered, awarded her with more of it.

Her papa had made it clear, as he saw the direction romance was taking, that Mary would not be given permission to marry until her next birthday, in February.

Still, the happy pair seemed content enough to wait.

With so much joy and satisfaction to be had, there seemed little reason for Elizabeth’s current unease. Little reason…but not, unfortunately, no reason at all.

Perhaps I did not see what I thought I saw , she told herself for the hundredth time. But she had seen something , and she was neither completely unsophisticated nor blind.

Again and again, her thoughts circled back to the ball held a month earlier at Netherfield.

It had been the single most exciting event that most who lived in the quiet Hertfordshire countryside had ever experienced.

Even Miss Bingley, not generally known for her happy disposition, had appeared to be enjoying herself.

Several of those she had invited from town had graced the event, along with everyone of any import or reputation for miles around.

It was, to put it in terms the broadsheets might use, ‘a crush’.

All the Bennet girls had worn new apparel, and—to be perfectly frank, if not perfectly humble—as they were the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood, none of them had lacked for partners.

Elizabeth had hoped for one particular partner especially—the handsome lieutenant, Mr Wickham.

He had not appeared, she had been told, due to presence of the vile Mr Darcy.

Mr Wickham had, since the great event, deserted his regiment; his hatred for Mr Darcy had exceeded even hers, she supposed.

On the whole she did not mourn his loss, but it was more evidence of a disgusting lack of honour in Mr Bingley’s dearest friend.

Alas, it was not only Mr Darcy’s actions which were disturbing her peace of mind on a day she most desperately wanted to celebrate. Mr Bingley—always kindly and genial, instantly beloved by the neighbourhood—had given her cause for concern as well.

The ball had lost some of its excitement after she learnt Mr Wickham would not attend, and although she was a popular partner, as the hours wore on, Elizabeth found herself wanting escape.

Just half an hour of quiet would revive me, she thought.

She slipped out, aiming for a retiring room, only to find it practically as full of giggling and chattering women as the ballroom.

Her earlier stay at Netherfield had familiarised her with the home’s arrangement, and she immediately noticed that one of the doors to the seldom-used library at the end of the corridor was slightly ajar, showing a thin stream of light.

She could rest awhile within the spacious chamber, on one of the comfortable leather sofas, much more contentedly than in the overcrowded retiring room.

The library door had creaked noisily as she opened it, and she sighed loudly in relief at the sight of the sofa. She had taken only two or three steps towards it, however, when she heard a man exclaiming in a rather high-pitched, artificial manner,

“Ah-hah! Here it is. I knew I could find it, if only I searched.”

A female voice answered with overdone excitement. “ Goldsmith’s Geography! Just what I was looking for. I am so happy to have it.”

“Perhaps, now that the mystery of the missing geography has been resolved, we might all return to the ballroom,” came the low-toned voice of an entirely different male than the first.

The trio emerged from the other side of the shelves dividing that end of the room, the first an attractive woman in a golden gown, clutching a book against her breast—one of the ladies from London, she noted. The two gentlemen had been none other than Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy.

“What! Miss Elizabeth! How you have startled me!” Mr Bingley cried with insincere surprise at the sight of her.

“We were just searching my shelves for a book Lady Petherton has most particularly wished to peruse! Lady Petherton, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose family’s estate, Longbourn, is but a few miles from Netherfield.

Miss Elizabeth, Lady Petherton—Lord Petherton’s widow, you know. ”

Elizabeth, bewildered, managed a curtsey; the woman inclined her head politely in acknowledgement of the introduction.

“Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy have been very kind, very helpful,” Lady Petherton murmured.

“I am afraid I must return to the dancing before I am missed. Thank you again.” She achieved a curtsey towards them all without removing her hold upon the book, and quickly departed.

“I do hope you are not finding our entertainment lacking,” Mr Bingley said, and keeping up a steady stream of chatter, he and Mr Darcy led her from the room without ever enquiring as to why she had entered it.

Then, adding insult to injury, Mr Darcy asked her for a set she had no polite means of refusing; in the midst of her disappointment over Mr Wickham’s absence, she was compelled to hear Mr Darcy’s contempt for the poor lieutenant.

Elizabeth had allowed it, allowed herself to be drawn back into the gaieties of the ballroom, and even accepted a dance with a man she detested.

But she knew what she had seen. Mr Bingley, pretending to be surprised at the sight of her—when her entry into the library had not been at all quiet—and Mr Darcy, whose eyes blazed with a peculiar fire she could not understand, both men accompanying a handsome stranger whose bodice now plainly required repair.

Not only that, but she had examined every book in Netherfield’s very meagre collection during her earlier stay. There were none of the very popular works from the Reverend Goldsmith in it, of that she was quite certain.

What had she interrupted? What had the three of them been doing together? Her mind shied away from wondering about it, but she could not forget.

When Mr Bingley had called at Longbourn a very few days after the ball, along with a grim-faced Mr Darcy, to ask for Jane’s hand in marriage, Jane had been over the moon with happiness. Elizabeth had been…troubled.

I know nothing , she reminded herself. It could all be…nothing. What would I even say to Jane? There are a thousand reasons, innocent reasons, for a bodice to require repair, and they are respectable men, who surely would not…would not…

She forced her thoughts determinedly in another direction.

There was much to do today. Elizabeth, together with Mrs Palmer, the vicar’s wife, was making the chapel presentable for Jane’s wedding, and they had decided that some greenery could add beautifully to the display of blossoms sent over from Netherfield’s orangery.

As it was yet quite early, she took a basket to fetch what was needed.

She was passing the extensive grounds of Lucas Lodge at the outskirts of the village, the only noise her boots crunching upon the stony path, when the unmistakeable sound of retching disturbed the quiet.

Elizabeth whirled, seeking, and quickly spotting the source of the interruption. She had not seen Charlotte Lucas in several days, and was shocked by the change in her appearance.

Charlotte had never been blessed with handsome looks; her nose was snoutish, her chin too small, her figure rounded and rather shapeless—she bore an unfortunate resemblance to her father, the fact of which her unkind brothers liked to tease her.

But she had always been a cheerful, practical friend, good-humoured and vigorous.

Not today.

Her skin was sallow, her cheeks gaunt. The cap she usually wore had slipped off; her hair hung, lank and tangled in its folds. Elizabeth hurried over, rubbing Charlotte’s back as the illness gripped her.

“Charlotte! Poor, dear girl! We must get you to bed!”

Charlotte shook her head in protest. “No. It is only…I-I—” She broke off abruptly, turning away, and when she looked at Elizabeth again, her eyes were empty and bleak. “I have a megrim, that is all. I have been afflicted with them of late. It will pass.”

Elizabeth stared at her in concern. Something was wrong, rather desperately wrong—she just knew it. It was two hours until the ceremony. Half an hour’s delay would probably not make much difference to the chapel, but might make one to her friend.

“Perhaps we could sit together for a few minutes?”

“You must have much to accomplish this morning.”

“I am going to collect some pine boughs for the church. It will not take long. You are not dressed for the out of doors, however. We could go inside and talk, perhaps?”

This overture, however, Charlotte firmly refused. “It is mild enough. We-we could sit in the garden. I believe your sister will have a fine day for her wedding.”

But after they were seated upon a bench in a quiet corner of the Lucas property, her friend had nothing to say. Her nails, Elizabeth saw, were bitten to the quick. Such a nervous habit was not at all like Charlotte.

“It is not simply a headache, is it,” Elizabeth said, making it a statement rather than a question. Charlotte had made herself ill with some sort of distress, and it was imperative that she confess it.

Her friend nodded her agreement, while Elizabeth ran through all the possibilities in her mind.

There were not many of them—Charlotte’s seven-and-twenty years had hardly been full of trauma or drama, either one.

“Did John ask Hortense Goulding to marry him?” That event might lead to such despair, for Charlotte and Hortense hated each other, and since she likely must depend upon her eldest brother’s support someday, this had been her friend’s deepest worry.

“No,” Charlotte answered dully.

“Please, tell me what happened. Tell me how I can help.”

“You cannot. No one can.”

Elizabeth took her hand. “Then allow me to be your friend while you cope with whatever it is.”

For long moments they sat in deepening silence, but at last Charlotte looked at her, tears welling in her eyes. “I am with child, I think,” she said.

Of all the possible and impossible troubles, this one was the last Elizabeth had ever expected.

Charlotte had never, to her knowledge, experienced so much as a flirtation, much less a suitor.

It was all she could do not to gasp. She clutched Charlotte’s hand more tightly, trying to keep her voice even.

“Who is the father?”

But at this question, Charlotte let go of her hand and stood abruptly, hugging herself. “You will not believe me if I tell you.”

“Of course I will. You are my dearest friend in the world.”

“He has promised me that he will deny everything. It is useless to accuse him.”

Elizabeth did gasp this time. “The blackguard! Did he…did he impose himself on you?”

Charlotte whirled, facing her with a ravaged expression. “No. Our passion was…was mutual. He is not a villain. There are reasons…his life is not his own. He cannot do as he pleases. He loves me, but he cannot marry me.”

Elizabeth blinked at this explanation in the deepest sort of surprise. Charlotte had always been a practical sort—for her to succumb to the wiles of such a rogue and then shield him was the most improbable circumstance she could imagine.

Charlotte began pacing back and forth before her. “My father will throw me out if I tell him. I know he will; his reputation means everything to him. He will wash his hands of me.”

This might be true. Sir William was a benevolent sort of autocrat, but he valued what others thought of him beyond anything.

“He…the father has given me a sum of money…a hundred pounds. I might be able to…to go to London with that.”

One hundred pounds, for the life of the man’s child, for destroying Charlotte’s entire world .

Fury filled Elizabeth. There must be an answer, a means of getting the father to pay more or perhaps even wed her friend.

She could not simply accept this outcome.

Alone in London without friends or family, Charlotte and a child? It was unthinkable.

“You must tell me who the father is, Charlotte.”

“It will do no good.”

“Tell me.” Elizabeth saw the uncertainty, the raw emotion in the other woman’s face.

Was she scared to reveal it? “Perhaps nothing can be done, but I am your friend. I will stand by you, assist you, somehow, by some means. Your secrets are safe with me. I will find a way to help, you know I will. All I ask is to know his name.”

Minutes passed in silence, and Elizabeth finally decided that Charlotte would say nothing more.

“Promise me that you will tell no one, and most especially that you will say nothing to him ,” Charlotte suddenly blurted.

Elizabeth sighed. “Very well,” she promised quietly, not sure that she meant it.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Charlotte snapped, sounding bitter now instead of protective. “Mr Darcy is the father. I do not know why I hesitated to tell you. I daresay I could shout his name from the top of Oakham Mount, and no one would believe me, or do anything about it if they did.”