Page 20 of The Fire at Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

On the Road to Netherfield.

It was a lovely day, mild, with bright sun warming the fallow brown fields. A few brave birds chirped and hopped and played hide-and-seek among the whispering brown grasses at the side of the road.

The glories of the day were entirely lost on Darcy, sunk deep in gloomy thought as Phoenix clopped alongside Bingley’s bay gelding.

He could scarce believe that Bingley had indeed offered for Miss Bennet without breathing a word of it beforehand.

Did he value Darcy’s opinion so little as his advisor?

… or as his confidant? For they were friends, were they not?

So why had Darcy no inkling of what his friend intended?

Unless … perhaps Bingley had not had a choice. Miss Bennet appeared perfectly amiable at all times, but might she, under that agreeable exterior, have a sharp, conniving mind? Had Bingley been compromised and thus duty-bound to make an offer?

It did not seem likely, he admitted to himself.

Such behavior was far more in line with the schemes of one such as Miss Bingley.

Darcy suppressed a groan at the thought of her.

If he was upset at Bingley’s rashly impulsive decision, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would be livid and loudly unpleasant about it.

His mouth pursed slightly at the thought.

He had no desire to stay in a house filled with acrimony and dissension.

He disliked Town at this time of year, but much less than he would dislike staying in a house with Miss Bingley in a permanent pet.

“I suppose you are wondering why I did not tell you of my intent to ask Miss Bennet’s hand in marriage?” said Bingley as the two horseman left behind the last buildings in Meryton.

“I am confused, yes,” Darcy replied stiffly. “Of course, you have every right to keep your own counsel, but I thought…”

He trailed off and Bingley finished, “That I would confide in you before taking such a step? You had reason to expect me to discuss the matter with you, but I cannot regret what I did today. The truth is that I knew you would disapprove and likely try to talk me out of offering for Jane, and I am entirely certain of my decision. In truth, I have never been so confident of anything in my life. Yet I knew what you would say, that her connections are poor, as well as her family, so I decided to present you and my sisters with an irreversible act. I am well aware that as a gentleman, I am now committed to marrying Miss Bennet.”

This was true enough, and Darcy was not a cruel man.

There was no reason to express his distress.

Bingley would probably realize his folly in time, but perhaps not.

Miss Bennet was indeed a lovely woman with excellent manners.

Given that Bingley had expressed a disinclination to rise high in society – perhaps, Jane Bennet would be a good wife.

“Congratulations, Bingley,” Darcy said at last. “As you said, you are inviolably pledged now to marry Miss Bennet. She is a wonderful lady, and I hope you will be happy.”

“But you do not think I will be,” Bingley said with a chuckle.

“Do not worry, my friend. Jane and I are in love, and we are blessed with very similar dispositions. Indeed, part of the reason I am certain that we will be happy together is that Jane has such a joyful, positive temperament. She has shown such courage, such good cheer, in the midst of the Bennets’ struggle after the fire. ”

Darcy only nodded in return, and the horses trotted on with their riders deep in thought.

“Darcy?” Bingley said a few minutes later.

“Yes?”

“My sisters will not be pleased about my decision, and I suspect they will be far more open about their unhappiness than you have been.”

Darcy struggled to control a full body shudder, and the slightest taste of bile appeared as if called by the mere thought of Miss Bingley’s likely response. Miss Bingley was going to be furious .

“You may be right,” he agreed in a noncommittal tone.

“Oh, I am right,” Bingley agreed, and an exultant smile filled his countenance. “I do not care in the least. Nonetheless, I know you will be uncomfortable, so I suggest that you retire to your room after dinner and miss out on the fireworks.”

“As you wish,” Darcy said, thoroughly relieved.

/

The Pig in the Poke Tavern

Meryton

Wickham eagerly took a bite of eggs and toast, taking pleasure in breaking his fast. It was past noon, but he had been up late the previous night, gambling and drinking with his fellow officers, along with keeping his ear to the ground in hopes of hearing of some wealthy heiress.

It seemed unlikely that he would find such a woman in this provincial little backwater, but he could not dismiss the possibility entirely.

And for good cause, he thought, as he took another bite of ham.

The military officers’ conversation had touched briefly on wealthy old Mr. King, whose sole remaining family was his granddaughter, who dwelt with him.

She would be his only heiress when he died, and talk put her inheritance at anywhere between five thousand and twenty thousand pounds.

What made this of the greatest interest, however, was the news swirling around that Mr. King’s health was failing at last.

With Darcy sniffing around, Wickham decided it behooved him to meet these Kings and attempt to win a wealthy wife as soon as possible.

He drained his coffee and stood, leaving the meal to be put on credit.

If all went according to plan – and he had no reason to think it would not – he would soon have a well-dowered heiress to pay for it.

He drifted down the street, trying to recall if he had seen Miss King at any of the card-parties or dinner-parties he had attended.

He vaguely remembered hearing her name spoken, but he had been agreeably occupied with more charming women and thus had been uninterested in an introduction at the time.

But he thought he remembered the girl, a thin freckled creature, in company with a dumpy, dowdy older cousin who acted as Miss King’s companion.

Wickham glanced at his reflection in the apothecary’s window, checking to ensure he looked as handsome as always, before lounging near the door. If Mr. King’s health was failing, it was likely some servant would be sent along sooner or later to fetch some tonic or other.

It appeared he was in luck, as fifteen minutes later, Miss King’s unfashionable companion hurried along the sidewalk towards him.

He straightened and stepped forward with one of his most charming smiles to open the door for the woman.

The companion flushed and tittered and smiled back most vacuously before passing inside. Wickham followed.

He occupied himself browsing the bottles as the woman and the apothecary spoke. “Good morning, Mr. Jones, oh good morning,” the woman exclaimed, “at least I wish it were a good morning, but it’s a better morning than it could be, is it not?”

“Indeed it is, Miss Dodd,” Mr. Jones agreed gravely. “Is it the gout again?”

“But of course it is!” she cried. “We tell him he must mind what he eats, but there it is, he tries, he does, but he is so disinterested in anything else that we always relent and tell Cook to fix his favorites again! What are we to do, pray tell, with the poor man being that thin, he’s a shadow of himself I declare!

And better he eat than not eat, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Jones? ”

“Indubitably,” he agreed serenely, measuring a vile-smelling potion into a large bottle.

“Oh Mr. Jones, we would not know what to do without you,” she said fervently, reaching into her reticule for payment. “You are a perfect angel. A ministering angel.”

“I am very glad to be of assistance,” he said calmly, beginning to wrap the bottle.

Wickham selected a small peppermint tonic and stepped up to the other end of the counter, waiting respectfully.

Miss Dodd glanced his way, and he favored her with another brilliant smile.

Mr. Jones peered at him and said, “Ah, Mr. Wickham, I shall be with you shortly. Miss Dodd, Lieutenant Wickham of the militia. Mr. Wickham, Miss Abigail Dodd.”

Wickham favored the lady with one of his best bows, and she dropped a tittering and ungainly curtsy.

“A pleasure, madam,” he said gallantly, and he nodded to the clunky package sitting on the counter before her. “I would be honored if you would permit me to carry your burden for you.”

“Oh, but how kind of you!” Miss Dodd cried. “How very generous of you, Lieutenant Wickham! I would be delighted to accept your magnanimous offer!”

Wickham smiled smoothly as he scooped up both his peppermint – “Just put it to my account” – and her tonic. “It is my pleasure, Miss Dodd,” he declared, holding the door open for the spinster to pass out.

They proceeded down the dusty street together, Miss Dodd chattering about anything and nothing, and Wickham listening attentively.

The house, Wickham was relieved to find, was in town, and while not ostentatiously wealthy and grand like one would find in London, it was built of perfectly respectable brick, and it was well-maintained.

He handed the package off to the dull maid at the door with another charming smile and a half-bow.

“Will you not come in, Lieutenant Wickham?” Miss Dodd fluttered at the door.

“I could not be so forward,” he assured her dramatically. “It has been my utmost pleasure, Miss Dodd.”

He smiled and bowed and strode away, well knowing what a fine figure he cut in his smart red coat.

/

The Hunting Lodge

Netherfield

“Lady Lucas, Maria, come in, come in,” Mrs. Bennet cried hospitably.

She was thankful for a warm, dry place to live and excellent food to eat, but she was rather bored given that her leg still pained her, and she did not have regular visitors out here at the hunting lodge.

“Kitty, Kitty, do have Cook make us some tea!”

Kitty smiled happily at Maria and rushed off toward the kitchen, while Lady Lucas glanced around with admiration.

Mrs. Bennet’s expert touch was very apparent in the formerly spartan space.

Formerly bare corners now had blanket-draped chairs, and side-tables were artistically covered in knickknacks which Lady Lucas recognized as coming from Longbourn.

Several wax candles were set about, though they were kept carefully away from all textiles and anything flammable.

The fire in the fireplace leapt and crackled and bathed the room in a homelike glow.

“My dear Mrs. Bennet, how is your ankle today?” her visitor inquired, taking a seat across from her hostess, while her younger daughter settled down next to her.

“Oh, it pains me still, but Mr. Jones says it is improving. I still need to be very careful with it, you know.”

“And how are you feeling, Mary?” Lady Lucas continued, turning her attention on the third Bennet daughter, who was lying, well wrapped in shawls and blankets, on a settee near the fire.

“I am improving, Madam,” Mary said in a soft but steady voice. “My head aches less than it did, and my arm is mending.”

“Praise God for that,” her visitor said, and then, having dispensed with the required social niceties, came to the point. “Oh, Mrs. Bennet, I have such marvelous news. Charlotte is engaged to be married!”

Mrs. Bennet goggled incredulously at her friend and rival, and she gasped, “Engaged? To whom?”

“To Mr. Collins, to be sure!” Lady Lucas replied, and watched with mingled triumph and concern as Mrs. Bennet fell back against her chair, her face pale.

“No, no, that is impossible!” the mistress of Longbourn finally managed. “He was to marry one of our girls! Indeed, he as good as said that he would marry Lizzy! It is quite impossible!”

“I assure you that it is quite true,” Lady Lucas said in a pleased tone.

Her friend did not seem in danger of falling into an apoplexy, so she felt herself free to express her own satisfaction at the match.

“I fear that Mr. Collins was quite distressed by the news that Miss Lydia was responsible for burning down part of Longbourn, and thus was no longer inclined to unite himself in marriage to such a family. I do think he and Charlotte will be very happy!”

Mrs. Bennet was now plum-colored where she had been pale, and she could only express herself in a mixture of disjointed sentences, which included such phrases as “quite impossible” and “how could Lydia do this to me?” and “I will never forgive her!”

Mary was thankful that her headache had improved, because it fell to her to respond to Lady Lucas’s words with courtesy as Maria and Kitty murmured and giggled between them.

Kitty had been surprisingly helpful to Mary and her mother as the two ladies recovered from their injuries, but naturally she missed the opportunity to chatter with a girl closer to her own age.

“I have no doubt that Charlotte will be an excellent parson’s wife,” Mary said soothingly. “She is a sensible, intelligent young woman.”

“Indeed she is, Miss Mary,” Lady Lucas said brightly. “I have always said that the way to a man’s heart lies through his stomach, and my Charlotte prepared the most delectable apple pie for Mr. Collins only a few days ago. He was…”

The door to the room opened, and one of the Bennets’ manservants entered with a letter clutched in his right hand.

“It is a note from Longbourn, Madam,” he said respectfully, holding the letter out to his mistress.

Mrs. Bennet stared at it and then exclaimed, “I have no doubt that it is more bad news, and I cannot bear evil tidings right now. Throw it in the fire!”

“No, Mamma!” Kitty cried out, leaping to her feet. “Give it to me, Rawlings.”

The man did so with relief; he had no desire to enrage his master by obeying his mistress in this matter.

Kitty pulled a hairpin from her hair, broke the wafer, spread the letter open and walked over to the window, where the sun shone her bright rays on the cream colored paper.

“I do not want to know, Kitty!” Mrs. Bennet declared. “If your father wishes me to do something, you will need to manage it, or Hill, or…”

“It is from Lizzy, and she writes that Mr. Bingley asked Jane to marry him, and she accepted!” Kitty squealed.

Mrs. Bennet, who had been lying back in an attitude of dramatic sorrow, lurched to her feet as if stung by a hornet. “What?! Let me see that, Kitty!”

She wrested it from her daughter’s hands, read the note, and then turned, face transformed, toward the rest of the inhabitants of the room.

“It is true! My Jane is engaged to Mr. Bingley. Lady Lucas, my apologies! It is indeed wonderful that Charlotte and Mr. Collins are to be wed, even if Mr. Collins is merely a clergyman, and even after he inherits, he will only earn two thousand pounds a year! I suppose they will be happy together, though naturally not as much as Jane and Mr. Bingley. Oh, Mrs. Bingley, how well it sounds!”