Page 20 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A ssignation or no, it was impossible for Elizabeth to escape to the river the following day. The heir to Longbourn, Mr William Collins, had arrived to examine the treasures in his future, not least of which was to be a wife from amongst them. Unfortunately, Mrs Bennet had selected Elizabeth to be the Bennet bride of choice.

Between the dreadful compliments from Mr Collins, and her appalling lack of interest in Mr Bingley, Elizabeth was awash in guilt and dismay.

“I wish Mr Darcy would call upon you,” Elizabeth snapped at Jane. “Mama’s hopes would be fired up to such heights, she might abandon the ridiculous Mr Collins utterly.”

“I am glad he does not call. Do you think he might? He did not pay any particular attention to me at Netherfield.”

“Because of his sister’s arrival, which threw him entirely off his purposes.” Elizabeth considered the question though. Would Mr Darcy call upon Jane after the passionate interlude they had shared? She felt sick at the thought. Because if I cannot have him, neither can she? I could not be so selfish! But she felt the weight of it like a physical pain in her chest.

The following day, all the Bennet sisters were pressed into service by Mr Bennet, who required them to rid Longbourn of Mr Collins for at least a few hours. Hence, Jane, Elizabeth, Kitty, and Lydia set off with him to Meryton, and it was not long before they made the acquaintance of a new officer upon its streets.

Mr Denny introduced them to the new lieutenant, a Mr Wickham. He had all the best parts of beauty—so much so, that Elizabeth wondered if Fate was, again, attempting to divert her path from Mr Bingley. Had she never met Mr Darcy, Mr Wickham would have been the most appealing man of her acquaintance. Unlike Mr Darcy, his conversation was charming, and his eyes lit at their introduction. It was flattering, after all Mr Bingley’s indifference, to see Mr Wickham treat his introduction to Jane with politeness and nothing else while warming rather instantly to Elizabeth. She would have been dishonest had she said she hated his attention.

A few minutes later, everything changed.

The sound of horses drew their notice; Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley rode down the street towards them. Elizabeth could not prevent herself from noticing how broad of shoulder, how noble of brow was the former. He had not the golden good looks of Mr Wickham, or the friendly affability of Mr Bingley, but those men faded into insignificance in his presence, both becoming ‘less’ somehow. She tried to tell herself it was simply her own knowledge of Mr Darcy’s property and power…but it was a lie, and she knew it.

The sun, the moon, and the stars…Mr Darcy simply is.

On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen began the usual civilities. Elizabeth saw how Mr Bingley’s attentions were fixed solely upon Jane, as if searching her appearance for any latent signs of illness. He swore that they had just been on their way to Longbourn, to see how she did. Tearing her eyes away from this proof of his continued disregard, Elizabeth turned to Mr Darcy, wondering if he, too, examined her sister for either weakness or interest.

Instead, he was examining her. When she met his gaze with her own, he abruptly looked away, and in the next moment she saw it land upon Mr Wickham.

She knew already Mr Darcy’s varying expressions of anger, but this was more. His skin grew white with rage, his dark eyes firing into obsidian fury. As for Mr Wickham, he turned bright red, as if embarrassed by the chance encounter, all his charm leaching foolishly away as he stumbled over whatever words he had been about to say. Shortly thereafter the two gentlemen rode on—Mr Wickham touching his hat in fumbling salutation; Mr Darcy did not quite give him the cut direct, but it was a very near thing.

What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know the meaning of Mr Darcy’s wrath.

The officers accompanied them the short distance to their aunt’s home; while both Lydia and Mrs Philips attempted to bring the men indoors with them, they resisted, making their excuses and departing. Elizabeth would have been wild with unrequited curiosity, except that Mrs Philips meant to have them all over the following evening for a game of lottery tickets; since she could not ask Mr Darcy, perhaps she would discover the truth from Mr Wickham himself.

The next day, Elizabeth managed two brief excursions to the bridge, hoping against hope that she could speak to Mr Darcy, and at the same time, dreading the prospect. Due to her mother’s requirements that she assist in entertaining Mr Collins, she could not stay more than a few minutes each time. Mr Darcy did not appear, both to her anxiety and relief.

If he did not come, it might be because he had believed the worst of her. Yes, he had initiated their kiss, but she had failed to act as she knew was right—indeed, what she had done in the past on the two occasions when a man had overstepped the proper boundaries of good behaviour. She had not firmly rejected him; she had delivered neither slap nor cutting retort. No, she had thrown herself into his arms as if he were a living well of water and she was dying of thirst. He had been the one to stop, to apologise. To walk away.

Worst of all, she was not even sorry. It had been, it seemed, her one chance to feel real passion, her heart’s truest desire. Guilty, certainly; ashamed, that she had kissed the man who might have been her sister’s intended, absolutely. She was also confused, embarrassed, even angry at Fate…but not regretful. Not yet.

Later that evening at Mrs Philips’s home, Mr Wickham came immediately to sit beside Elizabeth. She was conscious of the compliment, for all the young ladies thought him superior to any other officer in looks and address. She could agree with that much; however, Mr Darcy’s obvious and evident disapproval of him meant a great deal in her mind. What could the lieutenant have possibly done to earn such a poor opinion?

She cared little about Mr Wickham’s offences or failings, but her interest in the small details of Mr Darcy’s life had grown with every hour since she departed Netherfield.

I must not dwell upon it, she counselled herself . I certainly shall not ask.

Mr Wickham, however, brought up the subject himself, enquiring how long Mr Darcy had been in the area, to which she gave a vague reply; she found she could not resist adding a hint of her interest. “I understand he has a very large property in Derbyshire.”

“Yes,” replied Mr Wickham. “His estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy. His father was, in fact, my own godfather.”

Elizabeth nearly fell out of her chair in her astonishment. It could not be so, that this man could be Miss Darcy’s false hero. How many godsons might old Mr Darcy have had? Of all the men, in all the towns, how could such a villain turn up here? Had she not seen Mr Darcy’s hatred of Mr Wickham for herself, the notion would seem almost impossible.

“You may well be surprised at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably did, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr Darcy?”

His question seemed innocent enough; however, with the evidence of his possible villainy, albeit uncorroborated, she could not help wondering what else such a man might do to hurt or embarrass the young girl who, unbeknownst to him, currently resided but a few miles away. If Elizabeth revealed her sympathies, he certainly would not speak to her of his. On the other hand, she felt a need to confirm whether this man, with all his charm, could truly be the treacherous godson.

“I recently spent a few days in his company at the estate of a neighbour. I find him very provoking; indeed, and I could tell you such things as may shock you to hear,” she said lightly.

Elizabeth saw it then—the calculation in his gaze, the sharpened interest, meant to remain hidden beneath an appealing smile. Oh, yes—this man hates Mr Darcy every bit as much as he is hated, whatever he claims aloud.

“Pray, let me hear what you have of which to accuse him,” Mr Wickham said, still smiling. “I should like to know how he behaves amongst those who do not know him as well as I do.”

“Prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He hardly danced at all! I am sorry to pain you—but so it was. This, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady—including myself—was sitting down in want of a partner.”

He laughed, as she had meant him to, but she heard his impatience in it—it was hardly the condemnation he had hoped for. It was enough, however, for him to assume she would welcome his friendship and despise Mr Darcy’s.

“Most would be afraid to criticise him, even for so mild an infraction as that,” he asserted, injecting into his tone a note of warning.

“Afraid? Surely not.”

“He has ruined men for speaking ill of him—and he has the power to do it.”

She let her disbelief show. “You are dramatic.”

“Indeed, I am one of them. I do not wonder that he came here for the sole purpose of driving me away,” he declared solemnly.

“You believe…he followed you here? That he learnt where you would reside and took up with his friend who happens to live in the neighbourhood in order to urge you out of it?” She could not help the incredulity she responded with—but of course, she was in possession of more facts, and knew it was Mr Darcy who had arranged the lease of Netherfield long before Mr Wickham could possibly have formed his plans with Mr Denny.

“You may well be amazed. Few dare to speak aloud of the side of him I know best. But of course, I earned his enmity when we were yet lads. His father was the best, truest friend I ever had. I would never criticise him, and even now, I would not besmirch his son’s name for his sake. As an adult I can understand Darcy’s jealousy; he was an ill-tempered, sullen lad, and it could not have been easy for him, failing to earn the love so effortlessly bestowed upon his father’s godson.”

Mr Wickham delivered this slur coolly, with just the right note of despondency, and Elizabeth was astonished at its effectiveness. It was so simple to paste the face of the ‘ill-tempered, sullen’ Mr Darcy of that first assembly upon this picture of a sour young Mr Darcy of yesteryear.

This must be the man who sought to ruin Miss Darcy’s future! “But to drive you away from any home you might make for yourself, however temporary, for the sake of childhood squabbles?”

“To you and to me, they were but petty, meaningless disagreements; to him, they represent the evidence of a lifetime of paternal rejection. I was raised for the church, and in his will, his late father bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it. But when the living fell, it was given elsewhere. I was pushed out,” he said with a baleful expression. “I cannot emphasise Darcy’s hatred of me enough. I must be very careful.”

“Good heavens!” Elizabeth exclaimed, much astonished—even Lydia, as consumed as she was with making bets and calling after prizes, glanced at her curiously before returning her attention to the ongoing game. “How could this be? Why did you not seek legal redress?” He accuses Mr Darcy of cruel, even inhuman treatment! All while swearing he would protect him for his father’s sake!

Mr Wickham, after urging her to lower her tones and displaying every sign of a man being forced to reveal information against his will, explained that the gift had been framed with an informality that gave him no hope of the law, and that only Mr Darcy’s lack of honour stood between him and the life he ought to have had.

It was a cartload of lies heaped upon Mr Darcy, and then even upon his young sister, all in tones of grief and indefensible, insufficient rationale and false regard, pretending allegiance to the Darcys while at the same moment degrading them both.

Elizabeth felt caught between two possibilities. On the one hand, with all her heart, she wished to present a defence which would shut the man up. On the other, should she not discover the extent of his deceit, that she might better inform others of his dishonesty? The rogue could empty his entire arsenal upon her, and she would never repeat a word of it. She could not say the same for anyone else in the room.

Neighbourhood opinion on Mr Darcy was mixed—he was thought to be very proud and generally unfriendly, and only his few dances with Jane showed any sort of respect for one of their own. Most had landed upon the side of awe for his status and respect for his highborn relations, but there were many who would be glad to repeat such heresy as Mr Wickham proclaimed. Occupying his attention was probably best, no matter how repulsive; thus she pretended to act agreeable, if not actually to agree with anything he uttered.

“Fate has been very unkind to you, Mr Wickham,” Elizabeth said finally, in a commiserating tone. “How awful that your own family was unable to provide for you, and that your alliance to another was concluded no more fruitfully.”

He looked at her then with slight suspicion, as if he were unsure whether she had extended compassion or veiled critique. With some effort she kept her expression and comments open and friendly, until any misgivings Mr Wickham might have had towards her were forgotten. He chattered on, and on, and on.