Beginning , Section II

Part Five: Duty and Determination

Posted on Sunday, 17 April 2005

The ride to Longbourn was tense and silent. Darcy had the mien of a cavalry officer galloping towards a cliff. Bingley looked more like a lemming – an openly curious and slightly frightened creature skirting its way along a precipice. Mrs. Bennet’s warm greeting, along with a smile from Jane, restored some measure of his manhood, though Darcy, who was without the benefit of a warm reception, sulked by the window like a lean and terrible owl. Hardly anyone paid him attention, not even Elizabeth, who was the recurring object of his sharp eyes.

“The day is so lovely!” Bingley declared. “Shall we go for a walk?”

No one had the heart to tell him that the sun was nowhere in sight, having been buried all morning beneath a pile of gray clouds. “A walk, yes,” Mrs. Bennet murmured, staring out the window. “Around the garden, perhaps. Close to the house.”

Darcy surprised everyone by muttering his own inclination to go for a walk, even as far as the pretty stretch of wilderness at the garden’s southern end.

“Pretty, do you find it?” piped Mrs. Bennet, narrowing her eyes at him. “Lizzy may go with you. She is always scampering about the country and will not mind showing you every corner of our property.”

Clearly, Elizabeth thought, this was her mother’s revenge for refusing Mr. Collins. Setting aside her book, she turned to Mr. Darcy and inquired, with the coldest formality, if he would do her the honor of escorting her outdoors. Jane promptly requested the same honor from Mr. Bingley, though her voice held much more warmth. A brisk shake of the head from Mrs. Bennet silenced any younger sister who might have expressed a similar eagerness to roam the gardens, and so they remained behind, content to ogle Mr. Bingley’s figure as he departed with Jane. No one cared a fig about Mr. Darcy’s absence; only Mr. Collins, who entered the room a few moments after the gentlemen’s departure, felt a pang of disappointment.

Upon entering the gardens, the two pairs split, and after one last grim, warning glance at Bingley, Darcy handed himself over to Elizabeth. Though her countenance was cool as the weather, he was not intimidated in the least; he strode firmly at her side and fixed his gaze on her face.

A squeaking gate and a patch of unkempt grass marked the entrance to the wilder land. “Here we are,” Elizabeth announced. “Shall we take a tour? This is a tree,” she said, pointing to an elm. “And this,” she continued, singling out an oak, “is another tree.”

“I see that you are warming to a game,” Mr. Darcy replied, leaning towards her. “And though ordinarily I would not dare to curb so fine a wit, our stroll has a far more serious purpose for me.”

She ignored his compliment. “Are you on an expedition then? There are no treasures in this land. Have a try at Rosings Park; my cousin would assure you that under every tree there lies a pot of gold.”

At the sight of her dancing eyes, he nearly blurted out that she was mistaken and that there were treasures nearby. Her loveliness, however, and the sparkle of her gaze invariably reminded him of his original purpose. Flirtation abandoned, he forced himself to speak in brusque tones.

“Miss Bennet, I am not a man who minces words. I shall arrive immediately at my point.” He took a deep breath. “In what manner… in what way…” He sighed. “What I am asking you is… in what manner did that… did he…”

Had Elizabeth been wearing a waistcoat with a watch fob, she would have pointedly checked the time. As it was, she interrupted his interrupted string of questions by saying, “What manner of speech is this?”

He closed his eyes and forced out the words. “In what manner did Mr. Wickham impose himself on you?”

Elizabeth blinked. This was not a question she had expected. She noted the earnestness of his expression, the intent way that he gazed at her, and a flush of discomfort crawled up her cheeks. What right did he have to pose such a forward question? If he was expecting a prompt and ready answer, he would be sorely disappointed.

“Impose himself on me?” she repeated, willfully snapping a twig beneath her foot.

“You consider him a… friend, do you not?”

“What of it? I doubt a man of your nature would ever understand why one would wish to befriend an unfortunate soul, but –”

“Unfortunate!” Darcy cried with such feeling that she fell silent. “He truly has taken you in, I see.” He glanced at the ground. “Forgive me for raising my voice. I shall not censure your conduct, Miss Bennet; you are blameless, to me.”

Alarmed at the note of – was it tenderness? – that had crept into his voice, Elizabeth hugged her elbows and watched him warily.

“Do you wish to hear what I have to say?” he pressed on. “Are you still intent on sketching my character?”

“I have always taken an avid interest in people’s characters. Therefore, I am willing to discover more about yours.” Another twig snapped underfoot. “Particularly if there is any folly to be found in it.”

He did not know whether to be angry or amused. Or whether to be angry at himself for feeling amused. Giving his head a brisk shake, he replied, “If there are any follies in me, I would not have to point them out. You would discover them immediately. Or invent a few, if none were found.” He cleared his throat. “I know not what Wickham told you, although I can very well guess. I should like to inform you of my dealings with him. He has inflicted no small amount of pain on me… and on my sister as well.”

As Darcy embarked upon his account, speaking in stops and starts, a different sort of interlude was taking place in another corner of the property. Free from the watchful eye of his older friend, and the watchful eye of his beloved’s mother, Bingley was strolling with Jane past a row of tall shrubs. He hoped the plants would provide them with enough privacy for a long and uninterrupted talk.

Bingley did not know what to make of his partner. She was silent, but so was he, and though she leaned on his proffered arm, she did not press close to his body. His confidence flagged; a hundred different overtures came to mind, words and gestures that would undo the awkwardness, but he could not find courage enough to speak.

An opening came a few minutes into their walk, when they encountered a bench that was slick with half-melted frost. Bingley pulled out his handkerchief and laid it on the seat. “Would you care to rest?” he inquired.

Though his voice sounded unsteady to his ears, his gallantry earned him a melodious thank you. The bench was for the most part dry, but Jane sat down with great care, as if she truly feared that a misalignment with his kerchief would somehow ruin her dress.

He rubbed his hands on his breeches and stared at her. She met his eyes for a moment before blushing and turning away.

“I…” he began, biting his lip.

“Yes?” she murmured, sitting up a little straighter.

“I go to London tomorrow,” he blurted out.

Her eyes widened and the color faded from her cheeks. “I see,” she whispered, pulling her shawl more tightly around her.

Bingley did not ordinarily take pleasure from another’s discomfort. It was not in his nature. Nevertheless, as he watched his beloved quickly wilt, his heart swelled with hope and his face split into a grin.

This was too much for Jane to bear. With a whispered apology, she rose and turned to walk back to her home. Bingley blinked, wondering what he had done wrong, and realized his error only after the insensitive grin had faded. “Don’t go,” he gasped. “Please stay a while yet. Please do.” He held out his hands. “I feel no rain, not even a drizzle.”

Slowly Jane sat down again, puzzled by his change in mood but pleased that he wished for her to remain. Glimpsing the sweet confusion on her face, Bingley chastised himself; he must learn to be like Darcy, he thought, and remain utterly emotionless regardless of the feeling in his breast.

Bingley ironed out his posture and lowered himself stiffly onto the bench. “You seemed surprised now,” he said, struggling to fix his mouth into a thin, grim line.

“I am,” Jane replied, toying with the fringes of her shawl. “At the ball you said… that the country was much to your liking.”

He slid nearer and whispered, “It is. It is very much to my liking.”

“Is it?” she breathed.

“Yes, very much so. In fact, I love it a great deal.”

She gasped, her mouth forming a delightful little ‘o’. “Then why leave it?”

“I neglected to mention that my plans are not definite,” he said, his voice climbing a few pitches. “At times I am a rather indecisive fellow, and need a trusted soul to give me proper guidance. So please tell me, Miss Bennet, what do you think I should do?”

“Remain in the country,” she declared, with greater vehemence than he had ever seen her display. “I personally prefer it to the town.”

“Do you?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “I find that I am increasingly of the same mind. This time of year it is especially lovely, I think.”

“I agree. Around Michelmas, the neighborhood acquired some… unprecedented charm.”

His breath hitched. Michelmas was when he had taken up residence at Netherfield. Impassivity entirely abandoned, Bingley’s lips spread and spread until a smile of ungainly proportions shone from his face. “Michelmas, do you say? I found the countryside lovely beyond measure about a week past Michelmas. The evening of the first local assembly I attended, to be exact.” Fortified by her blush, he added with a sly look, “Even the rainy days had their beauty.”

Jane brought a hand to her mouth. Of course, he was alluding to when she had ridden on horseback to Netherfield in the rain, and had become an ill but welcome guest at his home.

He watched the movement of her hand, its contact with her lips. How was it, he thought, that each of her gestures unnerved him? He was no better than a marionette, his gaze guided by her slightest, most unconscious movements. Few things and fewer people could capture his attention for any length of time. Even other ladies whom he had once professed to admire had enamored him for an evening or two, but with Jane, he thought it would be an afternoon well-spent just to sit at her side, listening to her speak, observing her eyelids as they twitched like a butterfly’s wings. It was impossible to imagine that he would ever find her less enchanting than she was now.

“Jane.” He uttered her name with reverence. “I must ask you…”

“Yes?” came the breathless reply.

“You do not mind that I call you Jane, do you?”

She blinked. “Not at all.”

“Good, good.” After massaging his throat for a moment, he clasped one of her hands between his own. “I must ask you if… if you would consent to be my wife.”

As she made to respond, he cut her off. “Oh, what a bland proposal that was.” He pressed her fingers to lips that had long gone dry. “Allow me to add that I think you the loveliest, sweetest lady I’ve ever beheld, and that I would be the happiest man alive if I could spend the rest of my days adoring you and doting on you as you deserve. I am not the keenest arrow in the quiver, and not very impressive as gentlemen go, but I will do my best to make you happy. That I can promise.”

“You have already made me happy,” she replied, inexplicably moved by his nervousness. “I was so terribly anxious walking out here with you. You were so silent, I did not know what to think, or if I should even hope.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Of course I shall accept. I am exceedingly fond of you, Mr. Bingley,” she said, with a melodious laugh. “No, even more than that, I love you.”

“As I love you,” Bingley breathed. Glimpsing through his own watery eyes that tears flowed down her cheeks, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, only to recall that she was sitting on it. Never mind… he clasped her face in his hands and kissed each falling tear. When her cheeks grew warm under his ministrations, he drew back a little and settled her head against his shoulder.

For a while they argued lightly over who would have the greater share of contentment in their union, neither willing to concede to the other, and both feeling that this would probably be the most strenuous argument they would ever have. When they finally fell silent, and Bingley snuck a hand around Jane’s waist, it occurred to him that this would be one of the finest moments in his life, a day he would always look back upon with unspeakable happiness. The thought made him a little solemn, and he pressed a reverent kiss to her hair.

If it had been his choice alone, he would have remained on that bench for hours longer, savoring his newfound understanding with Jane. It was as yet a delightful secret, something they could relish in private. The bench was in a quiet corner of the garden; the shrubs screened them from view. Who would discover them now and subject them to scrutiny?

Bingley tensed. A trickle of fright spilled into the treacle that bathed his heart. Like a deer sensing a predator’s approach, his ears perked, straining for the sound of boots and the soft crunch of a Malacca in the grass. Though he heard nothing, his eyes slid over the shrubbery; he was certain that at any moment his friend’s imposing figure would emerge from the leaves… and what a lecture would await him then! To his credit, Bingley did not once consider reneging on his promises to Jane; even as his panic mounted, he did not entertain the idea of breaking both her heart and his own. But the fact that he even felt fear suggested that his mind was not operating in an entirely rational manner, perhaps because love had made him so light-headed. Somehow he was still frightened that Darcy would attempt to undo his decision, his declaration of commitment and love. Bingley understood the magnitude of what he had done, acting of his own volition after years of relying on his friend’s advice.

Jane felt his shoulders stiffen and his arm slip from around her waist. When she saw the stricken look upon his face, she whispered anxiously, “Charles? Charles, what is the matter?”

The quaver in her voice recalled him to her, and when he beheld the fear in her eyes, he wished once again that he could have been like Darcy, able to conceal all manner of thought behind a stony face. Giving her a smile that relaxed her much more than it did him, he said, “Let us get your father’s consent at once, my heart.”

Her relief was evident. “Can we not wait a little longer? I do enjoy sitting here with you… like this.”

Such a comment could not fail to elicit more kisses, and after those were peppered at random upon her face, he almost relented to her wish. But the thought of Darcy was still making knots of his stomach, and he reasoned that once the engagement was formalized with Mr. Bennet, everything would be settled with a reassuring finality, a formality that not even Darcy would attempt to breach. “Forgive me,” he whispered, rising slowly and pulling her up with him. “At times I am a bit impatient, and now… now is one of those times.” He tucked her hand into his arm. “Please let us be off. I promise you that in the coming days, and for all our lives really, we shall have many stolen moments of… complete privacy.”

His subsequent grin, in large part buoyant and in small part nervous, encouraged her to yield to his request. And so Jane found herself on her betrothed’s arm, dashing across the lawn at a madman’s pace.

From where he stood at the entrance to the wilderness, Darcy could see his friend and Miss Bennet fly across the lawn. “Looks as if the devil is chasing them,” he murmured, wondering at their haste. He supposed that Bingley had felt a drop or two of rain and, in his solicitude, was spiriting Jane indoors. Darcy wondered if Elizabeth should also be escorted to the house, though in her case the reason would not be weather-related. A few minutes ago Darcy had finished his account of Mr. Wickham, and now she looked as drained as he felt. She was pale, and she was quiet, and – more alarming yet – he could not look upon her distress without experiencing the impulse to gather her into his arms.

He tried not to stare at her; he watched Bingley and Jane until they disappeared from view. Then he turned to the sky and held out his hand, pretending to check for rain. But one sad sigh, emerging from her lovely throat, was enough to recapture his attention. How distraught she appeared, staring blankly at the gnarled elm that she had earlier pointed out. What mischief had been in her voice then; to his dismay, he began to wish that she would tease him again.

At last she said, “My sympathy to your sister. It must have been terrible for her to have her heart misled in such a way… at such a young age.”

Darcy took a step towards her. “She is feeling better, of that I can assure you… though I do still wonder about the more lasting repercussions.”

“I hope she fully overcomes it,” Elizabeth murmured. She rubbed her arms. “I believe I need to sit down for a moment. To find a bench somewhere.”

Darcy offered her his arm, which she quickly declined, brushing past him and beginning a slow walk across the lawn. He followed, watching her carefully lest she faint. Though he had never known her as anything but strong and vivacious, a lady not prone to flutters and frayed nerves, he saw no harm in keeping an eye on her… just to be certain, he told himself, that her steps were remaining steady.

They arrived at a bench where, much to his confusion, Darcy spotted Bingley’s handkerchief laid out on the seat. He took it up and stuffed it in his pocket. “Do you wish to return indoors?” he inquired, as Elizabeth slowly lowered herself onto the bench. He sat down as well, at a decorous distance from her. “Perhaps you should drink a glass of wine… or take something else for your relief.”

Though something in his eyes suggested genuine concern, to Elizabeth he appeared as aloof and proud as ever; he was, no doubt, gloating over her discomposure and urging her to return home so that he would have no further obligation to remain with her. Then again, she reminded herself, he had been under no obligation to inform her of Wickham either, and yet he had done so at the cost of great discomfort and mortification.

“Why did you tell me?” she asked, not knowing what to make of him.

Darcy’s gaze was unrelenting. “I wished to defend myself against his charges. I wished to aid you in your character sketches.”

Elizabeth winced. “But why trouble yourself? Why do my opinions concern you?”

A few answers – each one alarming – clamored in his head. He settled for the safest reply and quickly mumbled, “I… I am uncertain as to whether or not you are engaged to him.”

Her incredulous look sent waves of relief through him, so much so that his impeccable posture allowed itself a reprieve. Slumping forward, he regarded her with a shadow of a smile.

“Why do you suppose that I am?” she shot back, thinking his smile supremely arrogant. “Are the hearts of men transparent to you? Do you fancy yourself an expert on love, as on everything else?”

He frowned, not merely because her words stung, but because they brought to mind a similar question that Bingley had posed to him the day before, albeit with greater meekness: “But are you certain of Jane’s heart, Darcy? How can you be so certain?”

Darcy swallowed hard and rose to his feet. “I did see,” he bit out, “that you had given him an eye brooch.”

“An eye brooch?” she echoed.

“Was it a token of friendship?” he inquired, discontented with her response. “Let me inform you, Madam, that a gift of that sort indicates something more than simple friendship and that–”

“I did not give Mr. Wickham any brooch!” she cried and then, much to his amazement, began to giggle. Relieved as he was by her declaration, he could not comprehend her mirth. “What amuses you now, Madam?” he whispered, admiring the laughter in her eyes, but wary that he was, yet again, the butt of her joke.

“The last time I saw a painting of my own eye… it was one that my cousin, Mr. Collins, had created.”

“Your cousin…” he murmured, before the image of a sniveling, beet-red face intruded into his mind. “Your cousin paints?” But even as he asked, he recalled Mr. Collins’s strange comment at the ball.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, visited by the memory of that long-winded proposal. She shook her head. “I wonder, though, how Mr. Wickham came to possess it. Could Mr. Collins have… sold it, perhaps? Does he earn money from his art? I think it unlikely, for he is a clergyman by profession, yet I wonder…”

She was speaking more to herself than to Darcy, which was fortunate for the gentleman, for he was too distracted to reply. As he gazed at her knitted brow, her dazzling eyes, her lower lip caught between lovely teeth, a question formed in his mind, and he was unable to shake free of it. He sat down again, and Elizabeth wondered at his troubled expression. He stared at her for a few long moments in his usual direct and disconcerting way, and then quirked his lips a few times, as if deciding whether or not to speak. At last he said, “Miss Bennet, I must ask you…”

“He paints many things, Mr. Darcy; I am certain he does. Please, let us speak of my cousin no longer,” she quickly said.

Darcy blinked. He was not curious in the least about her cousin and now that he was certain of no special attachment between her and Wickham, even the scoundrel no longer occupied his thoughts. There was only that single question, and he wished to ask it no matter how unpleasant or unexpected the reply would be.

“I shall not speak of your cousin at all,” he murmured. “I merely wish to know…”

“Yes?”

“Why did you believe Mr. Wickham so readily?” The words almost failed to leave his mouth; the effort with which it took to utter them made him realize how very much he cared what her opinion was of him. “Why were you so apt to think ill of me?” he murmured, forcing himself to look at her.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and stared at her fingers, which lay interlaced on her lap. She was uncertain of how to proceed; she wished to reply truthfully, but not brutally. It occurred to her that she no longer hated Mr. Darcy. He was still a puzzle, to be sure, and an unpleasant one at that, but after his earlier disclosure, he had stopped inspiring visceral disgust. “Shall I be as forthright with you as you were with me?” she asked.

“I cannot see you as being anything but forthright,” he declared.

She sighed. “Your manners, Mr. Darcy… your manners are…” She gave him a pained smile. “Let me warn you that I intend to be blunt.”

“I would not have it any other way,” he replied, though his frown told her otherwise.

“Very well.” She took a deep breath. “To begin with, you conduct yourself in a cold and imperious manner. You look at others only to criticize and disdain. Heaven defend a man who does not compare to you in wealth or rank, or does not possess the connections that you do. And what can be said of your behavior at balls and public events? The windows receive the brunt of your attention; you do not trouble yourself to converse with anyone. You treat others as if they are beneath your notice, as if it would be undignified to acknowledge them. Your pride, sir, is not under good regulation, regardless of what you think.”

She snuck a look at his pale face and turned away. It took him a minute to find his voice. “Miss Bennet, you cut me!” he cried.

“I warned you that I would be blunt,” was her prim reply.

He rose unsteadily and thundered down at her. “You speak with great confidence for one who has shown an unreliable judgment before.”

Now it was her turn to pale. But rarely one to be intimidated, Elizabeth also rose to her feet and stared him straight in the eye. “How dare you?” she whispered. “You wished to know my opinion; you wished me to be forthright. And why do you care, anyway? What does it matter what I say or think? In your eyes, I am barely tolerable and can be easily dismissed. As such, my thoughts should hold no weight with you.”

His jaw unhinged. “You… overheard me?”

“So it would seem.” She hugged her elbows. “But what good does it do us to stand out here and quarrel? I have given you my opinion of your ungentlemanly manners, and you have disabused me of my notions regarding Mr. Wickham. Nothing else remains to be said between us.”

In the coming weeks, Elizabeth would find herself increasingly haunted by the look that Mr. Darcy gave her – an expression of hurt and confusion, commingled with a strong dash of anger. But at the moment, all she could think of was returning to the house and separating herself from him.

When they arrived at Longbourn it was to the effusions of Mrs. Bennet, who joyously announced the engagement been Jane and Bingley. Darcy, battered as he was from his confrontation with Elizabeth, could hardly muster the energy to feel disappointed. Mr. Collins was also not entirely pleased; he had not yet found a wife for himself, so it rankled him to see a man as fortunate as Mr. Bingley, particularly because he would be privy to Jane’s luxuriant hair. However, one would not have guessed Mr. Collins’s true feelings; his felicitations made up in length what they lacked in sincerity. He exerted himself partly for Charlotte’s benefit. She had arrived at Longbourn a little while after the two pairs had gone for their stroll, and had whiled away the time by lending her patient ear to the clergyman. Now he spewed his unending congratulations in order to impress her with his good will.

Though Darcy wished to depart immediately, Bingley was of a different mind, and having defied his friend once already, he had no qualms about doing it again. It was fortunate that he remained a while longer, because an interesting letter arrived from Caroline expressly to Jane, who tore it open and pored over it with her beloved.

By the letter’s close she was thoroughly confused, though a few urgent whispers from Bingley – which, inadvertently or not, happened to caress her ear – reassured her of his devotion. He also sent a disapproving glance in Darcy’s direction, though he chose to remain silent on the subject until they were riding back to Netherfield.

“Darcy,” Bingley said, as they sat upon their mounts, “did you tell Caroline that I wished to marry your sister?”

Darcy looked surprised. “No… not in those terms exactly. I might have mentioned that an alliance between you and Georgiana would have been to the advantage of you both.”

Bingley softened. “You meant well; your intentions are always honorable. But I am very happy with Jane, I assure you.”

Darcy sighed. “Are you certain you have made a wise decision?”

After a day of so many surprises, Darcy thought that he would be spared any more, yet after watching Bingley’s pleasant countenance transform into a thundercloud (albeit one that was a light shade of gray), he knew that more of the unexpected was in store for him.

“I have made the wisest decision,” Bingley replied with unusual firmness. “I am to marry for love!” He took a deep breath. “As it turns out, Darcy, you did not know her heart.”

Bingley’s words brought Elizabeth to Darcy’s mind – her flashing eyes, her furious indictments – and by the time he arrived at Netherfield, he doubted that he even knew his own.

Part Six: Eye of the Beholder

Posted on Friday, 22 April 2005

Of the two men that Elizabeth Bennet had ripped apart in as many days, the master of Pemberley did not recover quickly, but fled to London the day after the confrontation. Mr. Collins, on the other hand, recovered enough to try his chances with a different lady. True, he was not as confident as he was before his first proposal. In the hours preceding his visit to Lucas Lodge, he sat cross-legged on his bed, hair undone, and stared at the replica of Lady Catherine’s eye. Its unyielding gaze was a tonic for his spirit and nourished him with a pale shadow of her strength. By the time he tucked the last of his gold locks beneath his wig, he was no longer speechless with fright. It would indeed be a tragedy, he thought, for his speech to suffer any impairment.

When he slipped through Longbourn’s front door, he told no one where he went, wishing to make his intentions public only if he were met with success. Along the way he rehearsed some pretty lines, knowing that his proposal had to be flawless in order to succeed. Failure would not be acceptable. Not only did he need a wife, he needed his confidence restored. Ever since Elizabeth had emasculated him, his urge to paint had subsided; he had not been able to wield his brush with any confidence.

Charlotte spotted Mr. Collins from a window on the second floor of her home and hurried down to meet him in the lane. When they encountered one another – the one nervous and the other expectant – Mr. Collins’s rehearsed speech flew from his head and was replaced by a series of clicks that he later realized were his teeth chattering. Inhaling deeply, he reminded himself of her gentle encouragements and began with a grand, “Miss Lucas!”

To which she replied, “Mr. Collins!”

“Given your rare intelligence, I am certain that you can guess at what I wish to tell you.” Before she could speak, he grabbed her wrist and smothered her palm with kisses. Her lack of a reaction did not disturb him; so long as she did not giggle, he remained steadfast, congratulating himself on his demonstration of violent attachment. There had been no physical contact in his first proposal, and perhaps that was why Elizabeth had repeatedly refused him. Mr. Collins would not make the same mistake twice.

“You are gentle and meek, and speak the way a lamb bleats,” he murmured, his eloquence returning. “Eyes the color of a river that I have never before glimpsed, and hair the color of that river’s bottom, rich with mud and silt. Lips like two gates leading to a darkly sweet world; a nose sloping neatly to the seat of reason. And what cannot be said of those nimble fingers and slender wrists? They are–”

“Mr. Collins,” sighed Charlotte, “though I am honored by your heartfelt bombardment, let me tell you that I would much prefer it if you spaced your praise out over time. A little bit each day would suit me better than a lot all at once; if you keep speaking now, I will think that you have exhausted your store and have no further compliments reserved for the future.”

“The future,” he echoed, his eyes moist with hope. “Indeed, your reasoning is sound. Though if I were you, I would not worry about a dearth of compliments. I am a creative man, if I may say so myself, and there is no limit to what my fertile mind can conjure up.”

“Indeed,” Charlotte said, “your mind is as fertile as a river bottom, laden with silt and mud.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I guess at your intentions? I know that there is a reason behind your presence on these lanes, and I doubt it has anything to do with a love of walking.”

“You are perfectly right, Miss Lucas. It is a love of something altogether different that sends me down these paths.”

“Is it?” she replied, and when he swelled his lungs with breath she quickly added, “I am all suspense. Tell me at once and leave me with no further doubt!”

The air flew out of his chest. “It is you!” he cried, sinking upon one knee.

After glancing around to make sure that this spectacle was for her eyes alone, she gave him an indulgent smile. “Mr. Collins, I am honored.”

He was nearly overwhelmed with relief. “Shall you make me the happiest man alive then? Shall you call yourself Mrs. Collins for the rest of your days?”

“For the rest of my days,” she murmured, with somewhat less enthusiasm.

“I have a gift for you, my unparalleled lady,” cried Mr. Collins, wobbling back onto his feet. “I present it to you as a token of my affection and as evidence of my gifts, which I hope you shall always find in plenitude.”

From Elizabeth’s account of her own proposal scene, Charlotte knew to anticipate a brooch. It turned out to be the brooch with his eye, and that alone; he had apparently not had the time to paint one of Charlotte’s or, with his flagging confidence, had thought it best not to invest his efforts in a labor that could prove fruitless yet again. Regardless, she had anticipated the replica of his watery, fish-like eye and so remained straight of face and gracious in her acceptance of it. She did not, however, anticipate his next words.

“My dear Miss Lucas, I should like you to wear it upon your dress every day. Then all the world will know of your attachment to me and of how highly I hold you in my esteem.”

“I see,” Charlotte slowly replied. “I see. Yes, yes, there are certainly merits to that request. However… do you really think it best that the whole world glimpse the full extent of your devotion?”

“Why ever not?” he inquired, confusion written plainly on his face.

“A bond between man and wife, Mr. Collins, must remain private. Before the eyes of the world, we must conduct ourselves with discretion, no matter how strong our regard for each other. Flaunting our affection to everyone would only… diminish its significance, its resonance in our hearts. That which remains private is deepest and most heartfelt.”

By the conclusion of her speech his jaw was hanging open, tempting her to slip her fingers under his chin and press it closed. “My Lord,” he murmured, “you are a paragon of sense! Discretion, of course; privacy, certainly.”

Before he could swoop towards her hand again, she snatched up the brooch and turned away from him. “My thanks to you for understanding,” she said, running her fingers along the silver edge. “Indeed, I shall bury this deep within my jewelry box, as one would a most jealously guarded treasure.”

“Oh,” he cried, “you are a blessing to me! I shall always lend a ready ear to your advice.”

Pleased that the patterns of her future married life were establishing themselves in so advantageous a manner, Charlotte favored him with a sage smile and suggested that he speak with her father at once.

“I shall, within the very hour I shall,” he declared. “However, all this talk of discretion and secrecy has compelled me to show you something that I had initially hesitated to display.”

He drew her behind a conveniently situated oak and was not disappointed by her gasp when, with much nervous fumbling, he removed his wig.

“Shall this be another secret between us?” he inquired.

Taking a deep breath, she reached up to lightly touch his silken strands. He blushed, a bit like a coy damsel who has just been snatched from a dragon’s jaws; it was all Charlotte could do not to call him ‘milady’ and ask for his handkerchief as a token. Certainly he did not behave like the long-haired gentlemen who occasionally cantered through her dreams. But as she studied him from toe to top, from clumsy feet to golden silk, her eyes took on a glimmer of contented resignation; she looked the way a sculptor must when gazing at a statue that could have come out worse, but had instead retained some aesthetic appeal and imperfect charm. And – who knew? – perhaps there would be room for further shaping.

“Without a doubt, this shall be our secret,” she replied. “If you were to go to my father now, like this, I do believe he would keel over from the shock.”

Mr. Collins laughed, a nervous whinny, and made to pin his wig back on. She stayed him with a raised hand. “If you do not mind,” she said, gentling her voice, “and it is not too much trouble for you, I should like to remain here a few minutes more.” She reached up and ran another strand between her thumb and forefinger.

And so they stayed in the woods for a little while longer, Mr. Collins with eyes modestly downcast and a flush fixed with seeming permanence to his face.

Charlotte did not see the point of a long engagement, and though Mr. Collins initially seemed to prefer a lengthy courtship period, where he would ply her with sketches and pretty speech, he was secretly relieved by his beloved’s inclination. He missed his home, as well as Lady Catherine’s company, and he could very well bestow his bountiful gifts on Charlotte once they were settled in Hunsford. He proposed that they marry within a month, enough time for him to make arrangements in his home and acquaint Lady Catherine with the news, and enough time for Charlotte to acquire a trousseau and grow accustomed to the idea of parting from her family.

Their decision to marry in a month proved an inspiration to the other betrothed couple. After a quick discussion, in which they disagreed upon nothing and found delight in everything, Jane and Bingley suggested a double wedding at Meryton’s church. Charlotte was pleased with the idea; it would be lovely to share her wedding day with a good friend. Mr. Collins, flustered and flattered, could think only of what an honor it would be to share a space at the altar with a gentleman. Only Mrs. Bennet made objections; she had envisioned a lavish wedding for her eldest and most beautiful daughter, and one month would not be nearly enough time to make the necessary preparations. It took a few days to persuade her that it would be much better to see Jane quickly settled as mistress of Netherfield.

In the immediate hubbub that followed the announcement of the two engagements, Elizabeth also found that she had much to consider. One immediate concern was the whereabouts of her painted eye. Now that she knew of Wickham’s true character, she was discomfited at the thought of his possessing it. And she was almost certain that her cousin had sold it, if not directly to Wickham than to a public shop where Wickham could have found it. The day after her confrontation with Mr. Darcy, she learned from Jane that Mr. Bingley had discovered a brooch with Jane’s eye at a Meryton bookshop. Not only was Elizabeth torn between mirth and horror at the thought of how quickly Mr. Collins bestowed his preference on women, she was left to wonder why Wickham would wish to purchase her eye, if he had indeed spotted it in the same shop.

Elizabeth would never have the chance of questioning the officer. Three days after Mr. Collins proposed to Charlotte, Mr. Wickham left Meryton, possibly for a different regiment, though no one knew for certain; word spread that he had incurred several debts and was even implicated in a theft. With Wickham gone, Elizabeth thought of speaking to Mr. Collins about the eye, but could find no opportunity. Not only was it still awkward to converse with him, he left for Hunsford a day after Wickham disappeared from Meryton and would remain there, settling his affairs and preparing his home, until a few days before the wedding. As such, Elizabeth had no choice but to let the matter drop.

About Charlotte’s marriage Elizabeth was not sanguine, but for Jane she felt only joy. In Elizabeth’s mind, no one deserved happiness more than Jane, who did not take her good fortune for granted and considered herself undeservedly blessed. Watching Jane as she smiled and blushed and blossomed under Bingley’s attentions, Elizabeth had great confidence in the match; they were well suited in taste and temperament, and Jane’s steadiness of character would certainly influence her indecisive husband for the better.

At times Elizabeth could not help but wonder if one day she would bind herself to a devoted man and discover the delights of mutual love and respect; Mr. Collins’s adoring words comprised the entirety of her romantic history… a rather depressing thought. Oddly enough, in the weeks leading up to the wedding, her mind dwelt increasingly on Mr. Darcy. He had laid aside his towering pride to warn her of Wickham; and after the disclosure, he had displayed sincere concern for her state of mind. She almost regretted having spoken so harshly to him, and knowing that he would attend the wedding, she wondered what their meeting would be like when they crossed paths again.

He arrived at Hertfordshire on the eve of the happy day and appeared at church the following morning in the company of a tall and pretty girl that, based on prior rumors, Elizabeth identified as his sister. From a distance the girl seemed as proud and aloof as her brother, but Elizabeth did not give her more than a quick appraisal. Her attention turned to the ceremony, and she watched through teary eyes as Charlotte, her dearest friend, and Jane, her most beloved sister, were sanctified as wives and bound until death to their husbands.

It was only at the wedding breakfast that Elizabeth’s opinion of both Darcy siblings was irrevocably altered. Less than ten minutes into the meal, Mr. Darcy materialized at her side and introduced his sister. Elizabeth was immediately struck by how much friendlier he sounded, and, not insensible to the compliment she was being given, she strove to be as amiable as possible to the girl. As a conversation fell underway, from which Darcy gradually withdrew, Elizabeth realized that what had initially impressed her as Miss Darcy’s pride was actually an endearing shyness that masked a sweet heart and a fluid mind. Here was further proof that Wickham had lied, and once again she felt relief that he had departed from Hertfordshire.

As she spoke with Miss Darcy, Elizabeth’s eyes occasionally flew to Darcy, who, much to her surprise, was working his way around the room, inquiring after people’s health and murmuring gracious replies to their nosy questions. Partly because of the strain around his lips, and partly because he kept glancing at windows and doors, Elizabeth could tell that he was not always enjoying the interactions; nevertheless, the effort was there, and she had to wonder at his motives.

Was it for her benefit? She did not presume it was, but only took increasing delight in his behavior, especially when he acquainted himself with her Uncle and Aunt Gardiner, who lived in Cheapside and earned their living through trade. He seemed genuinely interested in their remarks, his attentiveness unforced. His jaw relaxed, he smiled – a sight that made Elizabeth doubt the soundness of her vision.

She hardly had any time to contemplate his transformation, when he appeared at her side again and requested her hand for the first two sets. She quickly gave him her assent and picked at the food on her plate afterwards, thinking only of what they would say to one another once they were dancing.

Initially their talk consisted of a few pleasantries, polite but heartfelt remarks about the radiant Mrs. Bingley and her ever-grinning groom… and the other couple, of course, though much less was said of them. As Elizabeth and Darcy wended down the length of the room, hands merging and melting apart, feet nearly touching in their graceful turns, Elizabeth said, “It was a pleasure to speak with your sister. She is as fine a young lady as I have ever seen.”

Darcy’s response was to beam with pride, a good sort of pride however, and not the sneering hauteur he had long made himself famous for. “She has nothing but praise for you,” he replied, a tempting twinkle in his eye. “I believe,” he added, a little more shyly, “that she would very much wish to be your friend.”

“Would she?” Elizabeth cried, clearly delighted. “Has she received permission from her brother?”

Darcy colored. “Why would she not?”

“The lady whom she wishes to befriend is known to have, at times, a sharp tongue and a jaundiced eye.”

He shook his head. “She whets her tongue on folly and turns it loose on those who most deserve her reproofs. As for her eye, it is not at all jaundiced, but rather… but rather it is very fine. A very fine eye, in my opinion.”

Her cheeks burning, Elizabeth managed to say, “You are too generous, sir. Or perhaps your memory is merely impaired.”

It took him a moment to chuckle at her remark; her impertinence would take some getting used to. “Not at all. I spent a good deal of time this past month exercising my memory and reviewing the course of my life. I have come to a few conclusions, as a result.”

“Do you wish to share them?”

“Well,” he began, “one was the realization that a gentleman cannot change in all ways. As such, I find that I am still not inclined to converse while dancing, and do so only to please my partner.”

“I see,” she murmured, regarding him beneath arched brows.

“However,” he continued, “I am more amenable than I was in the past to continuing a conversation after the dancing is done.”

When she professed a similar inclination, Darcy dazzled her with his smile. She was loath to wipe it off his face with her next comment. “Mr. Darcy, I feel I must bring something to your attention. You most likely do not wish to hear this person mentioned, for last time we danced together I spoke a great deal about him, but I must put your mind – and Miss Darcy’s mind – at ease.” She almost winced when he grew serious again. “Mr. Wickham is no longer in Meryton. He has been gone these past few weeks. I thought you might like to know that, given that your sister is here.”

He regarded her warmly. “I wish you never to be uneasy when speaking with me,” he murmured, before adding in a steadier voice, “I am thankful for your concern, but I have already learned of his departure.”

Elizabeth frowned. “How did you get wind of it?”

“Ten days ago I dispatched a trusted manservant to discover that very thing; I wished to know for certain if I would have to prepare my sister. That, and… and I wished to know if I could get the brooch from him.”

When Elizabeth gasped, he glanced at the floor, looking uncharacteristically ashamed. “I should have seen to it before I left for London, but…” He broke off, unwilling to tell her of his anger and confusion at the time.

She seemed to understand though, and pressed his hand more firmly. “It does not matter if he still has it,” she said. “It is the only thing connected to me that he will ever have.”

As soon as the dance ended, Darcy led her from the floor to a set of double doors that opened to a terrace. To their surprise they discovered Mr. Collins standing there, seemingly lost in thought.

“My dear cousin,” he murmured when spotting Elizabeth. The last time he had used that appellation had been during his failed proposal, and Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. She was distracted by the bow he bestowed on Darcy, so low his torso was nearly parallel to the floor. “Mr. Darcy, it is ever an honor!” he declared.

Some moments of silence followed, shockingly empty of further flattery or eloquent speech. Mr. Collins was biting his lip and staring at the ground. “I have been meaning to speak with you,” he said at last, turning to Elizabeth. “There is a matter of…” He looked at Mr. Darcy, who showed no inclination of leaving. “Miss Elizabeth, you recall that I once… painted your eye, do you not?”

Elizabeth briefly closed her eyes, but not before spying the avid interest on Darcy’s face. She hoped that her cousin would remain discreet. “Yes? Yes, I do recall.”

“Indeed… it was a memorable occasion.” Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “I never told you what happened to it afterwards, and I do believe I have been remiss on that account.”

“You have my full attention,” Elizabeth breathed.

“The day that I had… shown it to you – immediately afterwards, actually – I lost it in the woods.” When she made to speak, he raised his hand and bowed his head. “I know… such carelessness cannot be easily pardoned. But please lend your ear to my troubling story. When I discovered that I had lost the brooch, I doubted that I would ever see it again. I could not have retraced my steps into the forest, for I had not gone there with any particular destination in mind, only to… to be alone for a while.” He paused. ”Then, two days after I won my darling Charlotte’s hand, I went to a shop in Meryton to purchase a gift for her. You see, being ever attentive to my responsibilities, she recommended that I spend our engagement at Hunsford, where I would be able to see to my duties and to the preparations for her arrival at our home. She bore my absence so well; truly, I have been blessed with a wife of great fortitude.” He smiled. “To make our parting sweet, I sought a gift for her – wedding preparations leave one with so little time to paint! – and in that shop I stumbled across the replica I made of your eye, Miss Elizabeth. I immediately demanded to know how the shopkeeper had acquired it, and he informed me that an officer had sold it to him just the day before.” Mr. Collins took a deep breath. “Suffice it to say, I persuaded him that it was mine. After all, I am a clergyman, a man of religion and truth… and he also happened to recall an earlier transaction that I had made…” but here he trailed off, turning an unattractive shade of red.

Elizabeth, who knew that he was referring to Jane’s eye, nodded briskly and urged him to proceed. “In short,” he went on, tugging at his cravat, “it appears that Mr. Wickham had discovered it in the woods. He must have a great love of nature, I suppose, and –”

Darcy coughed a few times but declined Mr. Collins’s offer to run off and fetch a drink. “Pray, continue,” was his rather stiff enjoinder.

“Certainly, my dear sir. Both the shopkeeper and I informed Colonel Forster of Wickham’s dealings in this matter, and – as he did not have the money to repay me, and as other debts of his were subsequently discovered – he was disciplined, relegated to another regiment.” He lowered his voice. “To a lower rank I believe.”

Elizabeth eyed him with astonishment. “So you were behind Mr. Wickham’s departure from Hertfordshire?”

“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a broad smile. He placed a hand on his breast. “A clergyman should not find another’s fall felicitous… but I never did like that officer. In any case,” he continued, “I have had the brooch these many days, and… I was not certain of what I should do with it. While at Hunsford I even considered selling it… but I did not. I have it here.” He produced it from his pocket. “My dear cousin, I made it for you as a gift, and your gift it still remains. You may do with it as you wish – keep it or bestow it upon a worthy gentleman one day. It is yours.”

Elizabeth was amazed. Not only had Mr. Collins shown better judgment than she in regards to Mr. Wickham, he was now making an honorable gesture of reconciliation, burying once and for all any unpleasantness that might have lingered between them. “I thank you, sir,” she whispered, accepting the brooch from him. “I truly wish you happiness and the best of luck, on this day and on every day to follow.”

When Darcy also murmured some well wishes, she blushed, thinking that a worthy gentleman was nearer at hand than she could ever have imagined. Mr. Collins was, of course, oblivious to her thoughts and to the warm manner in which Mr. Darcy gazed upon her. He accepted their kind words with a beatific smile and said, “I am certain that wedded bliss awaits me. Now if you would excuse me, I must not neglect my dear Charlotte any longer.”

He left his cousin and Mr. Darcy on the terrace, and almost immediately ran into his bride. “Ah! The wellspring of my joy!” he declared, and stooped to kiss her hand.

Despite herself, Charlotte was not entirely unmoved. At great risk to her toes, she requested that he dance the next set with her, and when they moved onto the floor she inquired, “What were you speaking of to Eliza and Mr. Darcy?”

Mr. Collins bit his lip, unwilling to disclose the entirety of the conversation yet unable to refuse his wife an answer. At last he settled upon the most savory portion of the truth. “My dear Mrs. Collins,” he replied, “I told them something of great import, something worth repeating for the rest of my life.”

“And what is this terribly important disclosure?” she said in half-teasing tones.

He smiled softly and gazed into her eyes. “That I am very fortunate in my choice of wife.”

THE END