(2021)
Pride and Prejudice
After thinking it over, Mr. Darcy decides that his guarded warning to Miss Elizabeth Bennet about Mr. Wickham is insufficient.
*WIP*
Chapter 1
“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.”
—Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 18
Mister Fitzwilliam Darcy watched in silence as Miss Elizabeth Bennet walked away from him at the end of their dance. He thought with dissatisfaction of the subjects they had discussed in general—and with disgust of one subject in particular.
If any man was capable of causing upheaval in the life of Fitzwilliam Darcy, that man was George Wickham. Nearly eloping with Georgiana was somehow not enough mischief for one year. Wickham had to add to the insult by finding his way to Meryton and spinning his sorry tales in the hearing of one of the most intriguing women Darcy had ever met.
He pressed his hand to his face for a moment and peered through his splayed fingers at the reveling crowd. He felt tired now; he often did at large gatherings. Perhaps he ought to have gone to bed before the start of the ball, as Bingley had joked days ago. There were several dances remaining, along with supper and likely some musical entertainment from a few of the young ladies, but by standing up with Elizabeth, Darcy had already experienced all the enjoyment he had hoped to glean from the evening. Unfortunately, that same activity had delivered as much disappointment as delight.
Darcy walked counter-clockwise along the ballroom's perimeter and allowed his thoughts to wind backwards through the last several minutes: the sight of Elizabeth turning from him without having offered so much as a 'thank you' for their dance (not that he had thanked her either, his conscience reminded him); her unsuccessful sketch of his character; her refusal to canvass books or some other topic of his choice (he had the impression she had been too distracted by her own thoughts or possibly even uninterested in his thoughts); Sir William's accidental information regarding the expectation of a Bingley-Bennet wedding; and the blighted prospects of a certain mutual acquaintance.
Of course everything had gone wrong at the mention of Wickham. That was hardly surprising.
What was he going to do about it?
Darcy stopped walking.
Ought he to do anything about it?
He had done something. He had warned her.
But was it enough?
He considered her points of enquiry. She had questioned his judgement, of all things. Impertinent woman! She had insinuated that he was prejudiced. She had used his own words against him to make him seem unreasonably unforgiving.
Rather than discuss literature, or remark on the fortuitous cessation of rain, or enjoy a reprieve from meaningless chatter, Elizabeth had chosen to challenge him. She had dared to upbraid him regarding his treatment of Wickham, as if she could know anything of the matter! She, who danced well and showed no disinclination for the activity, she, who tended to smile even while delivering set-downs, used an occasion that should have been an honour and a treat to glare at him and...and scold him, as if she had the right!
She would rather scold than flatter him, glare than ogle him, vex than placate him. He marvelled, but he could not reason away the evidence.
It occurred to him that she had declined every other time he had asked her to dance. He could only assume she would have preferred to have done so tonight as well, but he supposed she had not had a ready excuse, and in any case she would not have wished to forfeit other opportunities to dance so early in the evening.
He reluctantly concluded that Elizabeth Bennet, to all appearances, did not like him.
She did, however, appear to like George Wickham very much.
Darcy had seen it before, countless times, and in every case but his father's, it had ended badly for the other person. Father had been blind to George's failings of character. Others were not so fortunate. Others could not afford the luxury of blindness.
He certainly could not afford the luxury, and it had been an age since he had considered George a friend. The thousand pounds set aside for the bequest along with the cost of schooling and occasional presents for his godson had hardly drained the elder Mr. Darcy's coffers, but Darcy himself had spent more on matters pertaining to George Wickham in the last four years than his father had laid out for the boy in the preceding ten.
Friendship with Wickham would end badly for Elizabeth, too, and she would have to recover from the rogue's toxic charm without the support of a brother or father. The likelihood of Mr. Bennet's bestirring himself to protect his daughter's reputation or her heart appeared low to non-existent.
Darcy was going to have to do something more.
He needed to think. The noise in the room was not helping. An idea began to form, and he walked to the doorway, carefully peering around, as he often did in town, for any who might be tempted to follow so as to avoid their notice. With a start, he realised the only woman here who fit that description was Miss Bingley.
He picked up his pace. He considered going to his room but thought better of it and opted for the library. How apt a choice, for this was the room where he had spent a half hour alone with Elizabeth near the end of her stay at Netherfield, though they did not speak. This was the room where he had paced mere hours ago and debated with himself over whether he would ask her to dance tonight, whether he would risk undoing all the work of that silent half hour when he had hoped to crush any expectations she might have had of him.
There was not much warmth left from the earlier fire, but the coolness would keep him alert and efficient. He laid out the writing materials, considered his approach, and began his letter.
The endeavour took much longer than he expected. So much for efficiency! He preferred thoroughness in any case. He brought the fire back to life in a small way so that he could burn his blotted first attempts after using them to prepare a clean and orderly version of what he wished to communicate.
As he was turning the first newly copied page over, he heard whispers near the door.
“Oh, it is that tall, proud man, the one who hates to dance!”
“'Twould be a lark if one of us was to lock herself in here with that one.”
There was giggling.
“I should not dare. Aunt says he is so prim and unpleasant! He might be more inclined to march a girl back to the ball, scolding her all the way, than to kiss her.”
“I most certainly would,” Darcy said in a loud voice without turning around or ceasing his activity. He was pleased to hear two distinct gasps, the closing of the door, and footsteps rushing away from the room. He was not disturbed again.
By the time Darcy had completed his task, the ball was over. He hurried towards the front of the house only to find he need not have rushed. He watched as guest after guest left and the Bennets somehow remained. Mrs. Bennet seemed rather pleased with each departure. Had she manoeuvred to delay her carriage?
Darcy kept out of sight of Miss Bingley and her sister, and in doing so, found himself near Bingley and Miss Bennet. The two were conversing as if there were no one else about. Miss Bennet sounded more animated and happy than he had ever heard her. She even laughed and sighed. Earlier, after Sir William had interrupted his dance with Elizabeth, Darcy recalled thinking he had never noticed any sign of peculiar regard from Miss Bennet for Bingley. Now, he could see why Miss Bennet's friends, not just the people of Meryton in general, might cherish expectations of a match.
The eldest Miss Bennet could not long hold Darcy's attention, and his eyes soon found their true object. Miss Elizabeth was near the door, shifting in her seat and looking ready to bolt whenever Mr. Collins turned in her direction. Aside from Bingley's quiet tête-à-tête with Miss Bennet, almost every word of conversation was spoken by Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet. The former spoke of a plethora of trivialities while making frequent mention of Lady Catherine, Rosings, and a parsonage house, and it soon became clear to Darcy that his aunt must have granted Mr. Collins the living at Hunsford. The others paid little heed to the talkers and for the most part looked down or smothered their yawns. No one was looking at him.
At last, the Bennets' carriage was ready. Darcy wended his way through the gathering until he was next to Miss Elizabeth. Doing his best to be discreet, he grasped her hand and closed it around the letter he held. As she made a sound of surprise, he said, “Pardon me,” and stared at her intently. He saw her transfer the letter to her other hand, stare back at him with a mixture of irritation and curiosity, and then nod.
He managed to slip away just as Mr. Collins noticed his presence among them. He was grateful the man appeared unaware of his connection to the inmates of Rosings. Mr. Collins seemed just the type to finagle his way past Miss Bingley, who was stood in such a manner as to block the path back into the house, in order to pay his respects to anyone connected with the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
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