Page 20 of The Happiness of a Most Beloved Sister (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T o say Darcy was shocked by Elizabeth’s application would have been a vast understatement.

Less so due to the impropriety of it—though it certainly was improper—and more because of the way she had grasped his hand.

He had touched her before—once when he had arrested her stumble, then again when he had led her into a dance—but those glancing blows had lacked the fervency she now displayed.

He knew he ought to feel appalled at her presumption, but he was far more inclined to tighten his grip around hers and tug her fully into his arms instead.

Before he could be foolish enough to do any such thing, or form an answer to her entreaty, it seemed that Elizabeth came back to herself.

With a grimace, she slipped her hand from his and took a step back, head bowed in contrition.

“I beg your pardon, sir, that was badly done of me. It is not your duty to mend what I have torn asunder, and it was wrong of me to even think of it, much less actually ask it of you. I hope you will do me the favour of forgetting I said anything on the subject.”

Swallowing to rewet his dry throat, Darcy croaked out as intelligible a response as he could manage. “Of…of course, madam. I should not dream of holding it against you.”

“I thank you.”

Dispirited, Elizabeth wandered farther from him and plopped herself back upon the stump where he had found her. She propped her chin on her palm and stared glumly into the trees beyond him.

Approaching slowly, Darcy took a seat next to her on the grass, bending his knees so as to comfortably rest his arms upon them. He knew not how to reassure her but desperately wished to try; seeing the bright and lovely Elizabeth Bennet so despondent was a torment.

Oh, how he despised that horrid sister of hers!

If it were not bad enough that she treated Elizabeth as a servant, Miss Bennet also had the temerity to lay all the blame of her failed courtship with Bingley at her feet.

He longed to tell Elizabeth every particular of his conversation with Bingley and how the greatest portion of responsibility actually lay with Miss Bennet and her mother, but he knew not how without insulting her family—or reminding her of his own involvement, a point he did not care to belabour.

Had Miss Bennet shown any symptom of genuine feeling for his friend, Darcy might have let the matter lie, but between her calculated smiles and Mrs Bennet’s egregious matchmaking his hands were tied.

That Miss Bennet could accuse Elizabeth of what was primarily her own fault was disgusting to him, especially given the facts of the case.

Whether Miss Bennet actually fancied herself in love with Bingley, Darcy could not say, but she had known his friend for less than two months.

Were her matrimonial aspirations more sacrosanct to her than the affections of a devoted sister ?

Her heart is at least as fickle as Bingley’s.

“May I ask you a question, sir?”

Darcy’s head snapped in Elizabeth’s direction at this softly spoken query. She was watching him with her verdant eyes, though that effervescent sparkle was absent. He knew immediately that he would tell her anything. “Of course.”

“Jane has been in town these three months, hoping to become reacquainted with Mr Bingley. I think that , if nothing else, speaks to the depths of her feelings for him.”

Darcy could not agree but nodded at her to go on.

“What I wish to ask is whether you have seen him and whether he appears to be similarly distraught by their separation?”

“I have seen him,” he replied haltingly, “and he was somewhat melancholy at first. Nevertheless, I shall say that he showed no enduring sign of grief when I saw him last, about a month ago. I am sorry.”

Elizabeth sighed and sat straighter, folding her hands in her lap.

“It is as I feared, then. He is inconstant. I wish I could say that makes me feel better for interfering, but it does not change the fact that my sister’s heart is fixed on him.

If anything, I am more disappointed on her behalf than ever. ”

“Much as I like my friend and would wish to defend him, I cannot say you are wrong about how he conducts his flirtations. I have oft warned him of raising expectations in young ladies that he cannot fulfil, but Bingley is enamoured of female attention. I shall say, in his defence, that he never means any harm by it. ”

“He might not mean harm, but he certainly inflicts it all the same.”

“He does.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

Darcy hesitated, knowing that his previous answer had given her little solace, but nodded for her to proceed.

“Has Mr Bingley found a new lady to admire yet?”

“Not that I am aware of, but again, I have not seen him in a month complete. It is possible that he has found another ‘angel’.”

Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, Elizabeth persisted, “Your sister, perhaps? I understand that Miss Bingley spoke out of turn, but were her assertions founded upon a kernel of truth?”

Darcy scoffed. “ There I can assure you that my friend dares not tread. Even were she old enough, I would not allow Bingley, or any man, to trifle with my sister’s feelings. Especially not since…” His sentence dissolved into nothingness as he scowled.

After several heartbeats, Elizabeth pressed, “Since…?”

Although he had vowed to himself, as well as Georgiana and Fitzwilliam, that he would never breathe a word of his sister’s folly from the previous summer to anyone unless absolutely necessary, Darcy found himself wishing to confide in Elizabeth.

It occurred to him that admitting to his own failure as a brother might ease the burden on her conscience for her imagined transgressions. But could he trust her discretion?

Observing her closely, Darcy came to the same conclusion he had in the autumn: Elizabeth was as genuine a person as they come. She would no sooner expose Georgiana’s misadventure than that of one of her own sisters; of that he was certain.

“Last summer, I took my sister from school and set her up in her own establishment. She was keen to visit the seaside, so I arranged for her to travel to Ramsgate with her companion, in whose character I was unhappily deceived…”

Once Darcy had mustered the courage to begin, the tale of Georgiana’s near-seduction flowed from him like a river whose dam had collapsed.

He spoke of Wickham’s treachery, her na?veté, and Mrs Younge’s wicked guiding hand.

When it came time to admit his own faults, his terrible neglect, Darcy stumbled yet forced himself to bare all for Elizabeth’s sake.

She deserved to see that she was not alone in her regrets and that the most devoted kin sometimes made irreparable blunders.

He hoped, since she would not see that Miss Bennet was culpable for her own misfortunes, this might ease her conscience.

“…I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.”

“How terrible,” said Elizabeth with a sad shake of her head. “May I ask what happened to the man who preyed upon Miss Darcy?”

“I had him thrown in Newgate,” was Darcy’s gruff reply. “I had collected enough of his debts to see it done some years ago but had refrained out of respect for my father’s memory. Wickham—that was the lout’s name—was a favourite of his, you see, however little the preference was deserved.”

“At least he did not get away with his misdeeds. You protected your sister in the end.”

His responding sigh was weighted by regret.

“Too little, too late, I am afraid. Georgiana is still not fully recovered, though it is nearly a year later. There has been improvement, of course, but the experience has shaped her—a consequence that can be laid at my feet. Had I done more to protect her, had I but only informed her of the reasons I disassociated myself from my erstwhile friend, she might never have been preyed upon.”

Elizabeth placed her hand upon his forearm and fixed his gaze with her own.

“I am sorry for what Miss Darcy has suffered, but I do wish you would not blame yourself unduly for what happened. Speaking of such things is difficult at the best of times, but especially with someone so young. You ought not to take so much upon your shoulders.”

Darcy, though he trembled with indecision and longing, placed his hand atop hers.

Returning her regard with the same steadiness, he gently replied, “And you ought to take your own advice. You might have made a mistake, but I tell you now that the burden is not yours. Other parties are culpable, not you, for how things turned out.”

“I suppose you must be right, for your opinion mirrors that of Charlotte and my aunt. I ought to listen to the lot of you, however much I feel responsible.”

Elizabeth’s face came closer to his, though Darcy could not say which of them was moving. Perhaps they both were drawn together by an invisible force.

His next words, whispered softly, rustled a curl that rested against her cheek. “I am glad to hear it.”

The church bell ringing thrice in the distance caused Elizabeth to jolt away from him, skin pink and countenance distracted.

“Oh dear, I had not realised how late it had become. I am meant to be back at the parsonage by now.” So saying, she scrambled to her feet and put several steps of distance between them.

“Allow me to escort you back?—”

“I thank you, no!” Elizabeth called over her shoulder, already disappearing down the footpath leading to the lane. She waved to him, then was gone in a whirlwind of flower petals.

Darcy’s feet itched to follow her, but of course he could not chase her down like a fox hunting a rabbit. To relieve his frustration, he kicked at the ground, sending several pebbles scattering about the clearing.

One of them, a rather large specimen, bounced off the stump Elizabeth had used as a seat and drew his idle attention.

It was purely white and oddly formed, so he bent to pick it up for a more thorough inspection.

Closer observation revealed that it had a greater depth of colour than he had supposed, with streaks of glittering black and silver spreading throughout.

More remarkably, it was configured into almost the exact shape of a flower, as if it had dropped from the tree canopy above.

Darcy rubbed his thumb over the roughened surface of the stone, considering the strange coincidence of finding something that so naturally blended with its environs yet did not quite meet his expectations.

It reminded him of Elizabeth in that way—a lady whom, upon first encountering her, he had easily dismissed as another savage country maid but who had surprised him with her wit, intelligence, and compassion.

She might be pretty like a flower, but she was made of sterner stuff.

Tucking the stone into his waistcoat pocket, Darcy sighed and began his lonely tramp back to Rosings. He would return on the morrow in the hope of finding Elizabeth again.