Page 2 of Mistress of Pemberley

Netherfield, at three o’clock in the morning, was finally silent; the last carriages had departed from the house, and although the earlier commotion had served as a good excuse for remaining awake, in the quiet that now settled, Darcy was forced to recognise that sleep eluded him for far more profound reasons than the noise. He had dismissed his valet, though his preparations for the night were not yet begun.

The evening had been both exquisite and exasperating. Each time he beheld Miss Elizabeth, he nursed the hope that some extraordinary occurrence—a miracle or calamity, some dramatic event—might either tear down the barriers between them and compel him to declare his love and offer her his hand or get into his carriage and leave the country and that marvellously exasperating lady forever.

He was amazed at how swiftly matters had unfolded—from the reluctance with which he had accepted Bingley’s invitation to Hertfordshire to the startling impression Elizabeth Bennet had made upon him almost from their first encounter. Realising how much he admired her left him stupefied yet oddly content to feel so deeply. But as her family became more involved, the situation descended into something resembling a disaster.

Elizabeth grew more impressive with each meeting, showing her sharp mind, quick wit, humour, and love for life. But her family ruined any hopes. Her mother, lacking grace and manners, would do anything to see her daughters married, especially the eldest, who was indeed beautiful yet clearly wished to ensnare Bingley. Yet, despite this goal, she never seemed genuinely interested in him. She was distant, rarely smiled, and only tolerated his company. Then, he met her youngest sisters, who openly flirted with officers without restraint.

Darcy had initially intended for his sister, Georgiana, to join him at Netherfield. But the day he saw Wickham in Meryton, he had hastened to send her to London from Pemberley, where she had spent the last couple of months. He wished her to be with family who might protect her, should the need arise. The sheer misfortune of encountering that man nearly drove him to quit Hertfordshire altogether. Still, with her bright smile and playful banter, Elizabeth had stopped him from leaving. He wanted to know how much her family’s future mattered to her, for he would have proposed marriage without hesitation had she been willing to sever ties with Hertfordshire entirely. Yet such a subject was dangerous as long as he did not know her exact feelings towards her family, its delicacy demanding a tact he did not possess. And that was precisely the moment he regretted Georgiana’s absence. With her beautiful smile and honest gaze, she would have befriended Miss Elizabeth and discovered more about her inclinations, wishes, and dreams than he could ever have done.

He could not help imagining her as the mistress of Pemberley, presiding over his home with the same elegance and natural grace his mother had once embodied. In London, he imagined her dazzling society, her sharp mind and radiant presence captivating his friends and family. She needed little to perfect her natural distinction—a few new gowns, a skilled maid, and the jewels of his late mother, which waited for the future Mrs Darcy.

However, the path was not straightforward, and obstacles appeared at every step. Bingley’s sisters had implored Darcy to intervene and speak sense to their brother, who they insisted was being used by Miss Bennet for his wealth. Though their entreaties barely concealed their true motive—a desire to see their brother marry into a family of more significant consequence—Darcy had feigned agreement, for he, too, harboured concerns. He resolved to speak to Bingley before breakfast the next day.

As he prepared for bed, Miss Elizabeth’s image rose unbidden, her graceful figure vivid in his mind. He saw her dancing at the ball, her movements imbued with rare elegance and a personal style that added to her general charm. Yet, suddenly, another image overlaid her perfect form, dancing with rare grace. A few days prior, at Bingley’s insistence, they had gone to Lucas Lodge, to an engagement at which Miss Bennet would be present. To Darcy’s profound displeasure, in the music room, he had spotted Miss Elizabeth at the pianoforte, singing while Wickham turned the pages.

The sight had filled him with anger. Could even she have succumbed to the charms of that scoundrel? But only moments after, he saw her smiling and conversing with other officers, naturally and without any hint of flirtation, and it reassured him. As he moved to join the group around her, Wickham crossed his path—deliberately, Darcy now realised. Their collision was planned. Although Wickham had bowed his head in mock deference, Darcy could not restrain himself from murmuring in a low voice, “On the hunt?”

The words had scarcely left his lips before he regretted them. Wickham had surveyed the room with a sneer and replied, “Here?” His disdainful gaze and the hatred that had flashed in his eyes were more worrying than chilling.

He departed shortly thereafter, leaving Bingley behind, eager to breathe the fresh air. Yet, on his way back to Netherfield, he wondered with dread whether Wickham had surpassed the stage of being a mere scoundrel and libertine and had entered a realm where he might prove truly dangerous for Darcy or his family. His behaviour at Darcy’s solicitor’s office, where he had demanded to see the elder Mr Darcy’s will, had been so shocking that he had to be forcibly removed. Penniless, it was no wonder he had joined the militia to survive the winter in this obscure corner of England.

Darcy sighed. His father, the elder Mr Wickham, had been honest and loyal to the Darcy family. Still, many tales were told at Pemberley about his mother. And the son, unfortunately, seemed to have inherited her traits. And here he was, profoundly indifferent to the ladies without a substantial dowry that populated the country yet feigning interest just to play with them.

Darcy still lamented that he had not challenged that scoundrel to a duel, but with the colonel around, that had proved impossible. Yet the idea never left his mind. While the thought that Wickham might endanger Miss Elizabeth in any way made him sick, he could do nothing, as any attempt to warn her about Wickham’s character had failed. His only confidence was in her honest nature and keen observation that would not let her fall into a disastrous trap.