Page 34 of I Thee Wed (Pride And Prejudice Variation #2)

In the fifth week of their visit, while Mary and Elizabeth were abroad in the gig, a boy came breathlessly to the parsonage.

“Is Mrs. Collins at home?” he asked.

Kitty shook her head. “She is out with my sister. Can I be of use?”

“My mistress is troubled with nerves,” the boy explained. “She begs Mistress Mary to come and pray with her, for her prayers always bring comfort.”

Kitty fetched a Bible at once and accompanied him to the cottage of Mrs. McDonnell, a gentlewoman of seventy-two.

She read aloud, “Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you,” and then prayed with her.

With her pretty voice, Kitty sang from the hymn book until the old lady’s trembling eased.

Then she turned to the maid. “Prepare lavender tea in warm milk with honey at bedtime. It will soothe her and bring sleep.”

When she left the cottage drive and entered the road, Kitty was met by the sudden appearance of a horseman. He dismounted and bowed.

“Good afternoon, madam. Forgive me. I did not see you, and my pace was too fast. This lane is rarely used.”

Kitty smiled. “Not at all, sir. I see you have leisure for riding, while I must content myself with errands for the parish.”

He laughed. “So, you judge me idle, and yourself a lady of consequence?”

She teased him. “I think you a gentleman with nothing more pressing than to kick his heels, while I am a lady of purpose.”

“Then I stand rebuked. May I introduce myself? Stephen Warwick, at your service.”

Kitty curtsied. “Catherine Bennet, though most call me Kitty. I am the sister of Mrs. Collins, the rector’s wife.”

“Ah. I heard the rector was lately married. You are but visiting?”

“For a few months, sir. Then I return to Hertfordshire.”

He regarded her with interest. “Then perhaps I shall see you at church on Sunday?”

“Indeed. Do you attend, Mr. Warwick? I have not seen you there, sir.”

“Not as often as I ought,” he said with a grin. “But I may be persuaded this week just to see you.”

By then, they had reached the parsonage lane. Kitty inclined her head and smiled encouragingly. “Here I must leave you, sir. Good day.”

The following afternoon, Mr. Warwick called at the parsonage, where he lamented to Mary that he had missed Miss Kitty. His disappointment was so marked that Mary invited him to dinner.

When Elizabeth and Kitty returned from their parish rounds, Mary told them of the arrangement. Kitty flushed and whispered to her lovely elder sister, “I fear he will fall in love with you when he sees you.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Then I shall spare him the danger.

I will enjoy an early dinner in the kitchen, say four o'clock, and then I shall take an evening walk in the grove at Rosings.” She turned to Mary, “I will pack a little basket with fruit, cheese, and small sandwiches to take along in case I get hungry after my walk. The evenings have been unseasonably warm, but I will wear my heaviest cloak and will take mittens and a cap to wear under my bonnet in case the evening turns cold. I doubt I will become ill if I dress warmly.” She giggled. “It will be an adventure.”

Mary agreed with some surprise. “You shall take a lantern, Lizzy. I would not risk your losing your way upon the bluffs after nightfall.”

Elizabeth ate alone in the kitchen, a plain meal of leftover chicken pie, bread, and cheese, while the cook and her helper busied themselves with the family’s dinner.

She packed her own basket with provisions for later, took the lighted lantern Mary handed her, and went out by the kitchen door.

She walked to the edge of the bluffs, and a dramatic sunset met her eyes.

Then, she walked on to the folly and spread a light blanket on the stone bench.

She had been writing in her journal for a quarter of an hour when a step on the gravel made her look up.

Mr. Darcy, finely dressed and darkly handsome, stood in the shadows.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a smile, “I hope I do not intrude. I saw the lantern light from my bedchamber, and curiosity got the better of me. I was compelled to walk down and investigate.” He glanced at the blanket, the basket, and her journal.

“Is this your dinner, Miss Bennet? You have not touched it. I hope you are not unwell?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am well, sir. I had dinner at four o'clock. These are extra provisions, should I become hungry on my adventure. Will you join me? There are sandwiches enough to share.”

He seated himself, and she offered him a small plate of finger-sized sandwiches.

“This is tasty,” he said after eating the small square in one bite.

“I made them myself,” she replied with a grin. “It was that or go hungry. I was asked not to remain for dinner at the parsonage, so I took a plain meal in the kitchen, and now I’m on an adventure.”

Darcy laughed. “Then I must suppose there was good reason for your banishment.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “You shall enjoy the jest. Kitty has an interest in a gentleman who dines there tonight, and she feared he might admire me too much if I were present.”

Darcy’s brows rose. “And who is this gentleman?”

“Mr. Stephen Warwick. He inherited his estate six months ago after returning from six years in the West Indies.”

Darcy considered. “Warwick? Then he must be Hugh Warwick’s heir. I know of him. So Miss Kitty has caught his attention? Interesting.”

Elizabeth smiled. “From what Kitty reports, he seems a pleasant man. But enough of him, pray, eat another sandwich.”

Darcy accepted, still amused. “You are the most accommodating sister I have ever met. I cannot imagine Miss Bingley doing anything so self-sacrificing for either Louisa or Charles.”

Elizabeth laughed. “No indeed, sir. I do not think there is any risk of that ever occurring.”

He gestured toward her journal. “You were writing when I came. Do you sketch?”

“No. Unfortunately, I cannot draw. But I like to write.”

He asked, “What do you write, Miss Elizabeth? Are you writing the next popular Gothic tale?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. Nothing so ambitious as a novel.”

“Then allow me to read your journal. Surely what you are writing is not so secret that it cannot be shared?”

“I fear that you may mock my efforts.”

Darcy looked at her. “I promise, Miss Elizabeth, I will not mock you or your work. May I?”

After a pause, Elizabeth handed the journal to him. He opened it and leafed through until he reached the most recent entry, then began to read in silence.

The Dryad

She dwelt unseen within her oaken shade,

Through endless years her somber vigil kept;

Where sun and shadow on her branches played,

She sang while mortal voices slept.

One morn a wanderer strayed beneath her boughs;

He lingered oft, and sought her lovely face.

She gave her trust, he bound her heart with vows,

Yet she found not love, one day he left that place.

Long she waited, seasons rose and fell,

Till hope lay cold, her tender faith was rent.

Her silent wood became a hollow shell;

Joy no longer lived, her heart was spent.

At last, he came, an old man, bent with years,

To seek the Dryad where her branches grew.

She, fair as ever, tempered by her tears,

With sorrow turned away from love she once thought true.

“You held me then,” she said, “but nevermore.

To live, I vow to trust in men no more.”

Darcy read in silence, his brow intent, his lips pressed into a thin line. Elizabeth, though she pretended indifference by smoothing her napkin, could not help but glance at him.

His expression was unreadable, and then she saw his color deepen. He shifted, then he looked away from her, and his eyes strayed back to the open page.

Elizabeth, emboldened, teased lightly, “You look as though my poor scribblings were a sermon of Mr. Collins’s and you were the unwilling parishioner who was forced to listen.”

Darcy lifted his eyes to hers. They were darker than before, and she saw he was uncomfortable. “No,” he said quietly, “nothing could be further from the truth. Your words.” He stopped, as though the admission went too far, then closed the journal with care.

Elizabeth reached for it, but he held it a moment longer. “This is not the work of an idle fancy,” he said gravely. “It is deeply felt and painful and telling.”

Elizabeth, surprised at the sincerity of his tone, laughed a little to cover her discomfort. “You are too serious, Mr. Darcy. I began writing only to amuse myself, but now I am refining the poem and mean to submit it to a ladies’ journal, and then I shall pray they will publish it.”

“I wish you luck, Miss Elizabeth. What is your pen name?”

She grinned, the devil in her eye. “Mr. Elias Bennet.”

He returned the journal with a quiet chuckle. “It is a fine choice, and since it is a man’s, you will be certain to earn accolades.”

Elizabeth said playfully, “Sir, now you have read my little secret, I suppose I must demand something in return. Do you have no verses tucked away in your own pocketbook? Perhaps a sonnet to a lady’s eyebrow?”

The corner of his mouth curved, though not quite into a smile. “I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, I am no poet. Words fail me more often than they serve.”

“Then you must leave them to me,” she said, tucking the journal away.

Darcy rose suddenly, consulted his watch, and spoke. “I must return, or Lady Catherine will suspect I have gone astray.” He paused, then turned back. “Miss Elizabeth, may I have a copy?”

Elizabeth rose, also, brushing the crumbs from her gown as she stood.

“Yes, of course, if you wish it. Please do not betray my secret haunt to your formidable aunt. We have been granted the use of the gardens, but this folly lies outside the garden proper, and I hope she will not be offended that I make use of it.”

He smiled. “Your secret is safe with me.” Then he bowed and walked down the shaded path toward Rosings, and Elizabeth watched him until he was out of sight. She sighed and sank back upon the bench. “Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she murmured to herself, “you are a puzzle I may never solve.”

While Elizabeth lingered in the grove with her thoughts, the parsonage drawing room was anything but tranquil.

Mr. Warwick was enamored of Kitty. Mr. and Mrs. Collins observed how his gaze kept straying to their sister, how he stumbled over his words when she looked up suddenly and caught him at it, and how he barely touched his meal, though the food was delicious.

Mary and Kitty were both hopeful that Mr. Warwick might prove a suitor.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, ate her sandwiches alone beneath the stars by the light of the lantern.

Her thoughts were puzzling over Mr. Darcy.

The tall man with handsome features had been polite this evening.

Yet her mind returned to his behavior in Hertfordshire.

She could scarcely believe this was the same man who had so publicly denounced her mother.

That conduct revealed a want of judgment and character.

Worse still was his part in the separation of her sister from the man who had loved her in return; it was unkind, and in Jane’s case, cruel. How could he do such a thing?

She turned the matter over and over in her mind, viewing it first from one angle and then another, yet always arriving at the same conclusion: Mr. Darcy was a complex man, one she could not understand, and probably never would.

Later that evening, when she returned to the parsonage, Kitty met her at the door, cheeks pink and eyes alight.

“Lizzy! Mr. Warwick loves to laugh, and he can tell a good joke. He also paid a compliment to my efforts with the elderly of the parish. He said his mother has heard all about me from her friends in the neighborhood, and everything she has heard has been good.”

Elizabeth smiled, hanging up her cloak. “I am happy that all went well at dinner. But Kitty, you must not lose your head. Men can be extravagant with compliments, and then leave you as though they had never spoken them.”

Kitty waved this aside. “It is not only his compliments. He is handsome, and he listens. He does not look past me as so many gentlemen have done. He asked if I would walk out with him tomorrow.”

Mary added in her calm way, “With a maid in attendance, of course.”

Kitty giggled. “I can hardly wait.”

That night, Elizabeth lay awake reflecting on life.

Mary was happily settled; Kitty had captured the attentions of a handsome estate owner; Jane was blissfully married; and Lydia was, she hoped, learning better comportment at her expensive school.

But what of herself? What was wanting in her that she could not secure a man’s affection?

Her first love had abandoned her, and now Mr. Darcy had spent time with her that very day, but did it signify anything to a man of his consequence?

She fell asleep at last, haunted by Mr. Darcy’s unreadable eyes.