Page 21 of The Happiness of a Most Beloved Sister (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER TWENTY

A bsently rearranging the wildflowers that made up his hastily collected posy, Darcy rehearsed what he planned to say to Elizabeth when he found her.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, not for the first time, organising his thoughts in the same manner as his intended gift, “I saw these and immediately thought of you. Like you, they are lovely and untamed—no, blast, that makes it sound as if I think her a hoyden. I may as well imply that she makes me sneeze! Fitzwilliam made this sound a great deal less complicated…”

For the past fortnight, Darcy had met Elizabeth on her daily walks by premeditated accident, speaking to her of various subjects with ease.

Only now, when he required the presence of mind to flatter her, did his faculties fail him.

They had conversed at length on Georgiana’s recovery, his purported engagement to Anne—a complete fallacy, as he informed her in the most vehement of terms—and the many responsibilities he faced as master of a great estate.

On her side, she was candid about the conflict she endured because of her family, how she conversely blushed for their behaviour yet loved them for their finer qualities, and her anxieties for the future.

The only topic they studiously avoided was the rift between Bingley and Miss Bennet, for therein lay only shame and heartache.

They also spoke of lighter topics, such as his aunt’s foibles compared to her mother’s—they were remarkably similar, when Darcy stopped to consider the matter; Elizabeth had laughed heartily at the expression upon his face when he had come to this realisation—and the beauties of nature.

Darcy had expounded on the merits of Pemberley all the while secretly longing to take her there so she might see it for herself.

Had he his way, she would arrive in its hallowed halls as the new mistress, but his fumbling attempts at courtship seemed apt to thwart him.

Touching the stone in his waistcoat pocket with the hand that was not holding the posy, Darcy exhaled a harsh breath and did his utmost to remember Fitzwilliam’s advice.

The colonel had pointed out, not unfairly, that Darcy must make an actual effort if he wished to subdue Elizabeth’s heart and claim it for himself, yet he had no inkling of how to do so.

It had ever been Darcy’s belief, based on how sought after he was in the ton , that he need only express an interest in a lady and she would be his.

Elizabeth would not be so easily persuaded, for she was a woman of substance and conviction.

Moreover, he seemed to have done a poor job of conveying said interest to her if her guileless response to his overtures were any indication.

Then there was the knowledge that she had professed a previous dislike for him, which he could only hope was in the past. Would he be able to overcome her last lingering prejudices against him?

Darcy did not know, but he would die in making the attempt.

Unlike Bingley, he was not easily dissuaded from a course of action; he would not desist in his attentions unless Elizabeth herself informed him that they were unwelcome.

He hoped that the battle plan—his cousin’s words—would make his position clear and that Elizabeth would be receptive to his affections.

“You must be bolder with your gestures,” Fitzwilliam had admonished, not without a laugh at Darcy’s expense. “She cannot read your mind, and you must not expect it of her. How will she know of your adoration if you do not show it?”

Various methods had been discussed, and a simple bouquet of wildflowers had been the one settled upon by the scheming cousins.

It was a clear indication of intent to woo yet also spoke to Elizabeth’s particular fascination with the natural world.

Collecting them as he walked towards their grove where he found her every morning had been the easy bit; the more difficult aspect lay in how to present them to her.

“Pay her a compliment,” had been Fitzwilliam’s suggestion. Easier said than done for a man who was more prone to insult a woman than flatter her. His beginnings with Elizabeth were a testament to that.

Rallying himself, Darcy paused on the footpath and held the posy out before him to an Elizabeth who existed only in his mind’s eye. “Miss Elizabeth, although these flowers are lovely, they are nothing to you. I pray you would accept them as a sign of my esteem.”

Yes, that would do. Simple, direct, flattering—it ought to please any lady of sensibility.

With that sorted out, Darcy stepped livelier and proceeded towards the grove of blooming cherry trees that obscured his beloved. Their petals rained down on him in a fragrant snow as he passed beneath their boughs, reminding him greatly of the lady he was on his way to see.

There she was, perched upon her stump with a letter open in her hands. She seemed not to notice him, her eyes trailing slowly down the page as he approached with the flowers out before him. Darcy’s heart thumped harder with each step he advanced.

When Elizabeth looked up, the sheen of tears in her eyes brought him up short and caused his pulse to stutter. She smiled at him as she wiped moisture from her cheek, and although it was genuine, it was intolerably sad.

In a moment, Darcy was cured of his stupor and rushed to her side. He lay the posy in the grass and took up one of her hands between both of his own, pressing his handkerchief into her palm. “Have you received bad news? Is it your family?”

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head, setting the letter aside.

She brought his handkerchief up and began dabbing at her eyes with it.

“More of the same, honestly. My aunt reports that there is still no sign of…” Her words drew to a slow stop, and she shook her head again.

“Forgive me. I know you do not wish to hear of Jane’s troubles.

You have not said so, gentlemanly as you are, but I can see your sympathy for her is limited. Do let us speak of something else.”

Tempted though he was to accept this reprieve, Darcy squeezed her hand and encouraged her to go on. She was correct in that he retained no great pity for Miss Bennet, but his compassion for Elizabeth was deep. “I do not mind, truly. Has anything occurred to cause you this distress?”

“Only that my latest letter to Jane begging her forgiveness has gone unanswered yet again. If I did not have Mrs Gardiner’s reports, I would know nothing of my own sister, the person I am used to sharing all my deepest concerns with!

It is disheartening to be so divided from her. We were so close, and now…”

Darcy made a studied effort to disguise his indignation for Miss Bennet and her inconstancy.

His disgust, too, for that had been a predominant feature of his opinion of the lady ever since making her acquaintance.

He longed to tell Elizabeth that she deserved better, that her awful sister was a cruel, petty tyrant, but he did not wish to pain her further.

She was already upset enough, and he would not add to it.

After putting aside his bitter recriminations, Darcy struggled to offer comfort in their stead. “Your sister must come round eventually, else I shall be forced to abdicate my position as the most implacably resentful person in England.”

A snorting laugh was Darcy’s reward for this quip, and he was glad to see some of her levity return. “That would not do at all, sir. If you abandon your singular flaw, you will be utterly perfect, and then hope is lost for the rest of us. How will anyone compare?”

“I am hardly perfect,” he replied, though he smiled, “but I must have some shade in my character else I shall be rendered a dull fellow indeed. Ladies like a rake, as I understand it.”

Elizabeth laughed openly at that, and Darcy joined her.

They indulged in their mirth for several minutes, gradually quieting until they sat together in mutually comfortable silence.

A spring breeze rustled through the trees, stirring up the fragrance of the blossoms and showering them in a veritable storm of petals.

Throughout it all, Darcy kept his eyes trained on Elizabeth, utterly enchanted at the vision she made in her dusky pink gown, straw bonnet thrown aside, her hair partially demolished by the wind.

He could not conceive of any sight lovelier than her in that moment.

It occurred to him then that there was nothing he would not do to make her happy, nothing he would not sacrifice to make her every wish come true. A handful of wildflowers might make her smile, but it was not the gift she truly wanted. Could he give her the deepest desire of her heart?

He could, though a knot formed in his stomach at the thought. In order to give Elizabeth what she most wanted, he would be forced to do something he had already told himself was out of the question. He would need to reunite Bingley and Miss Bennet.

In doing so, would he be acting against Bingley’s best interests?

Darcy was not sure, but what he was considering was at least on the verge of betrayal, if not wholly entrenched in it.

His opinion of Miss Bennet had not improved—if anything, it had steadily declined as he had witnessed Elizabeth’s deepening melancholy over the past two weeks—and he still doubted whether she had any true feeling for his friend.