Page 49 of Heiress of Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variations)
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in the library at Rosings, grimly reading an agricultural article about wheat. His life lay in shattered ruins around him, since the woman he adored had so cruelly rejected him. He had been ecstatic last night to finally claim the lady who had won his reluctant heart, only to have her spurn him angrily.
“In the spring, this variety of wheat...” he read for the eighth time, and then set aside the book. It was useless. Try as he might, he could not concentrate.
He had been angry last night, no, he had been furious, and when he wrote the letter describing his dealing with Miss Jane Bennet, Mr. Bingley, and the foul Wickham, he had done so out of a sense of deep outrage and a need to defend his own honor.
Now that he had written the letter and delivered it to Miss Bennet, all he could do was grieve over his own idiotic heart, which had lurched into love with a woman who was not worthy of the Darcy name.
Or was she? He had, he acknowledged reluctantly, been entirely too cocksure in his offer. Thinking back, he had spent all of one sentence declaring his love for the object of his adoration, and the next few minutes decrying her family and connections. Elizabeth Bennet was a spirited young woman and obviously his manners had not recommended themselves to her from the very beginning. How could he have been so confused, so wrong, about her? He had assumed their frequent walks through the park here at Rosings had been a joy to her as much as to him, when in truth she had been merely tolerating him!
The sad truth was that he had never so much as considered that a woman would reject him. He had been raised to know his own worth, not just financially, though his wealth was immense, but socially. He was Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, nephew of an earl, son of Mr. George and Lady Anne Darcy. He had truly believed that any woman in England would accept him, save perhaps for a duke’s daughter or a princess of the blood.
The door opened and Darcy cringed a little. He had hidden himself in the library to get away from everyone and did not care to interact with even a maid.
A moment later, he was on his feet, his mouth gaping unbecomingly. Miss Elizabeth Bennet stood before him with Colonel Fitzwilliam at her side. The lady looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Darcy compressed his lips as he wondered what else could go wrong on this day.
“Miss Bennet,” he heard himself say as his body and mouth, propelled by years of training, bowed and spoke appropriately.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth responded, curtsying. “I do apologize for intruding, but I fear your cousin absolutely insisted that we speak.”
Darcy glared at his cousin who, to his surprise, glared back.
“What is it, Richard?” he inquired in offended surprise. If anyone was to be distressed, it should be himself, not his cousin.
“What is it?” the military man repeated, stepping forward to poke Darcy in the chest with one sturdy finger. “What is it? Miss Bennet informs me that repulsive excuse of a man, George Wickham, is currently residing in Meryton, and you did not inform me.”
Darcy stared at Richard in bewilderment and then looked at Elizabeth, whose own color was heightened.
“You said I could consult the colonel on the matter of ... of Mr. Wickham,” she explained nervously, “so I asked him to read the letter.”
Darcy straightened slightly more, glad once again for his height. He always found looming over another man to be a helpful tactic when he was uncomfortable.
“I assume you confirmed that Wickham is a scoundrel?” he inquired coldly.
“Of course I did,” Fitzwilliam replied, his jaw tight, “and I apologized for having an idiot for a cousin who does not know how to properly offer for the hand of a lady. I also asked forgiveness for gossiping yesterday morning while Miss Bennet and I were walking in the park. I was the one who told her that you ‘rescued’ Mr. Bingley from ‘the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage’, not realizing, of course, that the lady in question is Miss Bennet’s beloved older sister.”
Darcy winced inwardly but maintained a haughty air. “I hope this is a warning to you, Fitzwilliam, to hold your tongue.”
“Your cousin’s loose tongue only confirmed what I knew to be true, Mr. Darcy, that you look down upon us Bennets quite dreadfully. Nevertheless, I am ... most grieved that I took Mr. Wickham’s part against you. His outward appearance is one of goodness, but inside he is a serpent.”
Darcy felt his shoulders relax infinitesimally; at least Elizab ... Miss Bennet believed him in the matter of Wickham.
“He is,” the Colonel averred, his face dark with disgust, “and thus I find it incredible, and frankly unconscionable, that you have done nothing to protect the good people of Meryton from the man’s depredations, Darcy. Something must be done, and you are the one to do it!”
Darcy shook his head in some agitation. “I cannot, you know that. If he speaks of Georgiana’s folly at Ramsgate last summer, her reputation would be ruined. I was a poor guardian in hiring Mrs. Younge, who was in league with Wickham to entice Georgiana into a scandalous elopement. I could not sleep at night if my own failure destroyed all hopes of a happy marriage for my sweet sister.”
Elizabeth sighed sympathetically. “I do understand. The reputation of a lady is such a fragile thing, and Wickham is an adept at manipulating others through his honeyed words. Nonetheless, I am concerned for the young women in the neighborhood, who are unaware of the viper in their midst.”
“Wickham has always sought to win his fortune through marriage,” Darcy pointed out. “I do not believe there are any heiresses in the neighborhood of Meryton who are in danger.”
“There is a Miss King, who recently inherited ten thousand pounds from her father,” Elizabeth declared, a worried wrinkle between her eyes. “I do not know her well, but she seems a pleasant girl, and I would grieve if she were tied permanently to a ruffian.”
“Nor are heiresses the only ones in danger,” the colonel added. “Wickham will not marry a penniless girl, but he has no compunction in ruining young women to feed his own vile appetites.”
“Richard, please, this is hardly an appropriate conversation,” Darcy reproved his cousin, his eyes darting to Elizabeth, whose face was pale.
“No,” the girl replied, “No, I must know the truth. Is Wickham ... would he ... use violence?”
“He has never been violent,” Darcy asserted firmly.
To his surprise, Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “There were rumors to the contrary. Jenny Reynolds, for example.”
Darcy was astonished. “I never heard such rumors.”
“Who is Jenny Reynolds?” Elizabeth asked.
“She is niece to Mrs. Reynolds,” the Colonel explained, “who is the much beloved housekeeper at Pemberley. The girl was a maid at Pemberley, and was found to be with child some years ago by Wickham. I heard that the girl did not ... she was not a willing participant.”
“That cannot be true!” Darcy replied in distress. “I would have been told!”
His cousin shook his head dismally. “Your father was ill, and you were, quite legitimately, exhausted with caring for him as you shouldered the responsibilities and burdens of administering Pemberley. Furthermore, your father would never hear a word against Wickham, and everyone knew it. No, you were told nothing.”
Darcy found himself breathing quickly, and once again his gaze darted to Elizabeth, whose eyes were filled with sympathetic tears.
“What happened to her, this Jenny Reynolds?” she asked huskily.
“She and her twins are being cared for at Pemberley expense,” Darcy said, struggling to keep his voice steady, “as are other women ruined by Wickham. But I still ... it is hard for me to believe that this rumor is true. I despise Wickham thoroughly, as you know, but he is a very handsome and charming fellow. It seems far more likely that Jenny Reynolds foolishly gave in to his seductive words.”
A secret door, hidden in the wood paneling, abruptly popped open and Miss Anne de Bourgh surged into the room, her usually pale face flushed with outrage.
“How dare you, Fitzwilliam Darcy?” she snarled.