Beginning, Section II

Chapter Five

Posted on Thursday, 26 October 2006

Elizabeth’s head whirled as she stared at him. She noticed everything about that moment -- an erstwhile curl fallen onto her shoulder, a smudge of dust on her knee, the sunlight pouring through the window, Darcy’s dark sober clothes, the high colour on his cheek and the animation with which he spoke -- except his words. She was so astonished, so overwhelmed, that for a long moment she heard nothing, simply stared at his lips moving.

It was only when he paused, as if reconsidering something, that she managed to regain her senses, and really began to hear him. “These things, however, are of no consequence,” he said. She blinked. “They are nothing to my affection for you. I . . . I have been sadly inconsistent, I fear, in my manner towards you. I meant to guard against expressing my partiality, I am very careful about not raising expectations, usually, but . . . as I became more acquainted with you, I realised my feelings came not only from your kindness to my poor sister, although they certainly began with that, but from your wit, your intelligence, your liveliness, your beauty, your compassionate nature, the warmth with which you treat everyone, not only myself, and your confident, well-bred ways. And . . . there are other things, which I cannot put into words . . . but suffice it to say, I love you, and I hope my affections will be rewarded with your acceptance of my hand in marriage.”

He stood very still and upright, the sunlight illuminating him, so that with his pale skin and flawlessly regular features, he looked rather like an angel. Elizabeth became aware of hot scalding tears running down her cheeks. She had never dreamed, not even when she had stopped insisting on her indifference to him, that this moment might ever come. She had been determined to be happy even with the misery of unrequited love. And now!--not only was it not unrequited, but he had stepped over that gulf her father declared impassable, he did not care, he loved and admired and respected her, everything that she had ever dreamed of and more than she had ever expected.

“Miss Bennet?” Darcy took one step forward, out of the shaft of light, and the fair unearthly creature vanished, and became himself once more, the tall, handsome, aristocratic gentleman who had walked into her life that day at Ramsgate. With the first hint of uncertainty that she had seen thus far, he said, “Georgiana says that sometimes women cry because they are happy. I hope this is one of those occasions?”

Elizabeth laughed, and wiped her tears away. “Yes, it is. I -- I wish I had thought of something clever and profound to say on such an occasion, but I confess, I had not.” She lifted her eyes and could not keep herself from smiling unrestrainedly and holding out her hands to him. Darcy wasted no time in eliminating the proper space between them and taking them both in his own and then kissing them passionately. Every sense seemed sharpened, so that she could feel the slightest shift in the pressure of his smooth fingers enveloping hers, the friction of his lips, which were a little dry, she could see his pupils dilating a little, that his dark eyes were actually blue shot through with gold, his lashes dropping against his flushed cheek as he pressed his lips against her palm --

She stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, “If you are still wondering, sir, I gladly accept your proposal.”

She could feel his laughter against her chest, they were so close together. Darcy seemed to recall himself then, and though not relinquishing her hand, took several steps backward. “Other men have claimed to be the happiest in the world, but none with such justice,” he said, kissing her wrist. “No one but you makes me laugh.”

That, somehow, was better than the most eloquent and romantic proposal could have been.

“Glory to God, glory to God in the highest, and peace on Earth. Glory to God, glory to God, glory to God in the highest . . . good will, good will, good will . . . la la la . . . towards men.” Elizabeth hummed past the difficult spots and sang out, “Glory to God!”

“Lizzy?” Jane peered around the stand of trees. “Are you feeling well?”

“I feel wonderful,” she said happily. It had been over a week since they had returned from Netherfield, much to her father’s relief. She and Darcy had agreed that since, to all appearances, their acquaintance was so short, it would be better to keep their attachment quiet for a few more weeks. She didn’t mind; in fact her sense of humour was agreeably engaged by the situation. Her disposition was a naturally cheerful one, but never had her spirits been so elated. Even Lydia had noticed.

“I had . . . apprehended that much,” said Jane, walking towards her. Elizabeth felt a twinge of guilt as she saw Jane’s slightly strained expression. Bingley had inquired after her only the day after their return, and frequently since then -- which was perfectly proper and to be expected. Nevertheless Mrs Bennet’s effusions had nearly made Jane cross, which said a great deal about how upset she was. “Lizzy, you are horrible at keeping secrets, you always have been. What has happened to you?”

She could not keep a smile off her face. “Oh, Jane. I should have known you would guess. I am the happiest creature in the world.”

Jane was not the cleverest young lady, but she had plenty of good sense. “Mr Darcy? Has he asked to court you?”

Elizabeth laughed. “No, dearest.” She wrapped her arms around herself, and hummed again. “And his name shall be called wonderful . . . oh mighty God, the everlasting power, the Prince of Peace . . . unto us, a son is given . . .”

Abruptly, the words brought the idea of a rather different child’s birth into her mind. At this time next year, perhaps --

“If it is not Mr Darcy, then . . . it can’t be anyone else. You love him.” Jane’s brow furrowed.

“Yes, I do,” Elizabeth said easily, pulling a leaf off the nearest tree and twirling it in her hands.

“Elizabeth!” Jane cried. “Will you please explain yourself?”

“Very well.” Elizabeth could hardly keep herself from spinning around. She silently blessed Lydia for the impertinence that had led to the date of Bingley’s ball being set. “Mr Darcy did not ask if he could court me, he asked if he could marry me.”

“What?” Jane stared. “You . . . you are engaged? To be married?” Then a smile lit up her face. “You are going to marry Mr Darcy. Oh, Lizzy, I am so happy for you.” She embraced her. “You will be very happy, I am sure of it.”

“So am I. We are just going to wait a few weeks, until our acquaintance is longer, then he is to ask Papa for his consent.”

“Is it a secret?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Not really. He meant to write Miss Darcy and Lady Anne right away, and he always does what he means to do. And I just told you. But Papa has been so strange about him -- I am very surprised he has been so cold. Not that he is usually friendly, but it seemed they would get on well, and Fitzwilliam has been friendly enough . . .”

“Fitzwilliam?” Jane held one hand to her head. “Lady Anne?”

Elizabeth coloured. “That’s his name -- it was his mother’s, before she married his father. The Lady Anne is his mother.” She laughed nervously. “I know hardly anything about her, except that she encouraged him a little in pursuing me, and he loves her dearly. I mean to, if I can. It’s a little frightening. Papa exaggerates, but in some ways I really will be moving into a different world. But I am so happy. He loved me all along, can you believe it?”

“Of course I can believe it! There is nobody more deserving of happiness than you, Lizzy.” She hugged her again. “It is a pity you cannot tell Mr Collins.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “That odious creature.”

“That odious creature is the reason I came out, actually. We are walking to Meryton -- we are Lydia, Kitty, Mr Collins, and I -- and, of course, you must come along.”

Elizabeth sighed. “There is no need for our sisters to go to Meryton every day.”

“Mr Bingley means to call on me to-day, and Mr Darcy always comes with him. We might happen across them,” Jane said slyly.

“You are very wicked, Jane . . . even Mr Collins, I suppose, is worth enduring for that.”

By the time they got to the town, however, she was thinking the pleasure dearly-bought. Elizabeth was far too much in the clouds to pay much attention to what transpired, until--

“-- Wickham.”

She started, almost cried What? Then she turned her head. She had never, of course, seen the man, until this moment. For a moment she gazed at him steadily, undoubtedly encouraging his vanity.

He was not tall, but he was dark and handsome; the only man she had seen as handsome as Darcy. He had gentle, agreeable manners, a sweetness of demeanour and generally delightful address. Even Mary blushed at his attentions. Elizabeth could understand how he had managed to sway Georgiana, but the very fact that he had done so would have rendered her impervious to his charms, even had she never laid eyes on her brother.

Kitty flirted shamelessly, Jane, of course, knew no better and seemed to like him well enough, Mary was deeply touched by the first display of interest she had ever received from a young man, not to mention one as personable as Mr Wickham, and Elizabeth was in transports of anxiety. She had quite forgotten the temptation that had brought her here in the first place until it came to pass. Darcy was just determining to not look at Elizabeth when he set eyes on Wickham; she saw it happen, and felt his pain and fury almost as acutely as he could do himself. She was vindictively pleased to see Wickham turn white with fear; an angry flush rose to Darcy’s cheeks, and he was barely capable of returning Wickham’s greeting.

Then he met Elizabeth’s eyes. She hardly knew how to look; she felt the danger of simply being in the other man’s presence, as any thinking person might feel before a dangerous, uncaged animal, and she wanted the reassurance of his company and protection, but at least as ardently she wanted to spare him the distress of this meeting. Elizabeth glanced at Lydia, who was uncharacteristically silent; she eyed Wickham as if he were caged, some curiosity displayed for the entertainment of the masses.

Darcy got off his horse, to Elizabeth’s chagrin, relief, and astonishment, almost immediately followed by Bingley. Jane addressed the former warmly.

“It is a pleasure, sir -- and Mr Bingley,” she added. He was not at all distressed and beamed at her.

“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said. “Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, Miss Catherine, Miss Lydia.”

“Mr Darcy, Captain Denny was just introducing us to his friend,” Lydia said, with an innocent look. “Wouldn’t you like to meet him?”

Two pairs of dark eyes met; beneath the veneers of composure, Wickham looked frightened, and Darcy livid. Elizabeth went to his side as soon as she could with any discretion. Lydia smiled, impressed with her own cleverness.

“I did not trust him, not for a moment,” she whispered. He smiled faintly.

“I did not doubt you.”

Bingley, overhearing the murmured conversation, blinked, then turned to Wickham with his most engaging smile and began polite inquiries. Jane gave him a grateful look. As soon as it could be managed, they left the officers to their own devices and walked back to Longbourn together, Bingley with Jane and Elizabeth with Darcy, as was their established habit by now. Jane’s joy at seeing Elizabeth’s happiness made her less reserved with her own admirer than she had yet been, while Lydia was pleased to know more than Kitty did for once.

“I am glad you stopped,” Elizabeth said. “I hardly knew what to do.”

“I could not allow your sisters to fall prey to such a man,” he replied, a bitterness in his voice that she had never heard before, and which struck her as very unlike him.

“There is a very real danger,” Elizabeth told him, “we have each been left to follow whatever influences we would, encouraged to do nothing but catch husbands.”

His brow furrowed as he looked from Mary, to Kitty, to Lydia, to Jane.

“I do not know what will happen when Jane and I are not here to watch them. My mother -- well, she is no example, and my father does as little as any father could do.”

“Do you think,” he asked carefully, “that Miss Bennet is likely to leave soon?”

“No,” she said flatly, “at least -- I cannot break a confidence, but with all my heart I hope she does not. But if she were forced into a decision, I do not know what her final resolution would be.”

“Bingley possesses a great natural modesty,” observed Darcy, “with a greater dependence on my judgment than his own. I confess, I have often seen him in love before. I would not wish to see your sister injured by his want of resolution.”

“Yours is an unusual friendship,” she said with a smile; “you have all the resolve and he all the appearance of it.”

He glanced down, startled. “The appearance of it?”

“Oh yes. He prides himself on the alacrity with which he makes decisions and acts on them; you must have noticed.”

“I would not call that resolve.”

She laughed. “Not all men have your steadiness. My father has been warning me against you for weeks now, since the night of the assembly.”

“I am sorry he has such a poor opinion of me.”

“I do not think he has any opinion at all of you, he scarcely knows you; but he has very firm opinions about those in your sphere of life. I understand that there was an imprudent attachment many years ago, before he married my mother, and the lady’s friends separated them.”

“A very common story, I fear; my own mother could not marry where she wished and has been warning me against the dangers of ‘imprudent attachments’ for years.”

“I am surprised she encouraged you in your courtship of me, then,” Elizabeth said, in as lively a tone as she could muster.

“Well -- she has thought highly of you since Georgiana told her about your -- acquaintance at Ramsgate. My mother has very decided opinions, but she has always wanted to see me happy in marriage.”

“And if my father were not, despite everything, a gentleman?”

Darcy looked away. “Then her opinion would be very different.”

As would mine, he thought.

Chapter Six

Posted on Wednesday, 8 November 2006

Mr Bennet poured the young man in front of him another drink.

“Is that so?” he said.

“Yes . . . should have been mine,” Wickham added. “All of it. Pemberley. He loved my mother, you know.”

Mr Bennet blinked. “How . . . interesting.”

It was impossible not to detect the growing attachment between Darcy and Elizabeth. Mr Bennet had done all that he could to his discourage it; but in this as in so much else, Elizabeth had gone her own way. Wickham’s arrival was a positive godsend. Even without the benefit of the considerable amount of alcohol he had consumed by now, he was more than eager to talk about his childhood companion. In fact, he seemed to think of nothing else. He seemed a distinctly queer young man.

Mr Bennet found Wickham’s tales frequently contradictory and certainly preposterous, but that did not exclude the possibility that his intimacy with that family might provide something useful.

“Then Fitz . . . that’s Darcy . . . hated being called that, he always did . . . then he should have taken care of her. Mr Darcy promised . . . he promised we’d be taken care of. He loved her, and I’m her only son . . . it should have gone to me.”

Mr Bennet smiled to himself. “Did you inform young Mr Darcy of your opinion on the subject?”

“Bah!” Wickham gulped down the entire glass and wiped his mouth. “I told him, yes, I told him. Selfish . . . self-righteous prig, he said . . . do you know what he did?”

“I cannot imagine,” Mr Bennet murmured, deeply amused.

“He agreed with me. Said his father had loved my mother. Course he did. We both knew it. And then he said, he said his father may have loved my mother, but he’d married his. Bastard.”

Mr Bennet forebore to remind the sot that any illegitimacy was likely to be his. “What did Mrs Darcy think of this?”

Wickham snorted. “She’d have given you a look to freeze you dead if you’d ever caller her that. She never let anyone forget for a moment that she was the Lady Anne, thank you very much. But she, she and her lot, they always doted on her precious Fitzwilliam.” He held his glass out. Mr Bennet’s hand shook as he obligingly filled it again.

He sat up very straight, watching the younger man, every trace of warmth leaving his body. “Fitzwilliam?” he said carefully.

“Darcy’s name. Bloody ridiculous one too, but oh, she was so proud of being a Fitzwilliam and earl’s daughter. Him too.”

Mr Bennet’s thoughts chased each other round and round. Of course there were more than enough Fitzwilliams in the world . . . and Anne was a common enough name. But Mr Fitzwilliam had inherited the earldom. And there were not more than enough earls surnamed Fitzwilliam with daughters named Anne.

Of course she had become the Lady Anne. Of course she had gone and married the most respectable man who would have her. A Darcy of Pemberley must have suited their ambitions admirably.

Mr Bennet took out another glass.

“Only need one at a time,” mumbled Wickham.

“I think I’ll join you,” said Mr Bennet, and gladly fell into the oblivion glass after glass of wine finally afforded him.

Mr Bennet’s head was pounding. He cherished distinctly unkind thoughts towards Wickham, never mind that he’d intoxicated him on purpose.

It had bad enough to think of his Lizzy taken in by a random aristocrat, repeating his old error. All the warnings in the world could not have stopped her. What she saw in him . . . who knew? He was nothing like the sort of young men she usually liked. He was reserved, cold, haughty. Not what Mr Bennet would wish for Lizzy at all. But clever, as the others had never been. Clever enough, and proud enough, that he had no fear of intelligence in a woman. If he had been a comfortable squire, Mr Bennet would have been happy for her.

Her son. Mr Bennet shut his eyes tightly and rocked back. He had missed it. How had he missed it? She had been fair, of course, her hair fine, pale gold. But the look -- that hauteur that had so amused him at the time, for in her it had been coupled with a carefully hidden sweetness of temper -- the strong patrician features -- they were hers, well enough. But even the young girl had been set in her ways, her fiery temper crystallizing into an icily obstinate one. She was a Fitzwilliam, the family was always first. Before herself, before him.

And now her child was trifling with the affections of his. The long buried, long forgotten, bitterness surged up in him again.

And somebody knocked on the door.

“What is it?” Mr Bennet called crossly. There was a moment of hesitation.

“It is Mr Darcy, sir.”

Damn. He set down his glass. “Come in,” he said.

“He said what?” Elizabeth stared at Darcy.

“He said, and I quote, ‘You are the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to accept as a son,’ ” he replied, with very little more than the appearance of his usual sedateness.

“I don’t understand,” she said blankly. “He has been constantly warning me against you, but -- but from before he had ever laid eyes on you, when he knew nothing of you except your name! I don’t understand why he should take such a dislike, when he has put himself to such little effort to get acquainted.”

“He thinks you are infatuated with either me or my ‘circumstances,’ or possibly both,” Darcy added. “I told him you had not yet returned home from your walk -- I wanted to warn you before you had to face . . . that.”

“Let us walk a little more,” Elizabeth said, holding tightly to Darcy’s arm. How could he think so, of her? Had their camaraderie all these years been nothing more -- she an entertaining, sometimes useful, companion to a man worn down by the lack of intelligent, or even sensible, conversation? Had he no respect for her, his own child?

In that moment, she felt more sympathy towards her mother’s complaint than at any other.

She shut her eyes and gathered her composure. She scarcely dared look at Darcy. He was silent at her side, but she knew how offended he must be -- he, who could have almost anyone he chose, and who had chosen her. He must be thinking of a way to extricate himself from this disastrous union. Her mother and sisters were nothing to it, nothing at all.

She went on tormenting herself for several minutes before Darcy finally spoke.

“When is your birthday?”

Elizabeth started. “I beg your pardon?”

He almost visibly withdrew. “Forgive me, I did not mean -- I would not wish you to do anything you did not like -- ”

Her mind felt slow and muddled. “I don’t understand. My birthday?”

“You will be of age on your birthday, will you not?”

“Oh.” The immense relief she felt told her instantly of Darcy’s importance in her life -- that she would rather anything, even a quiet marriage, against her father’s wishes, with none of her family, than an estrangement from him. They had had such a short amount of time together, and yet-- she sighed. “I will not be one and twenty until the first of May.”

“That is problematic,” he said. “You must speak with your father, of course, but I confess I doubt anyone will sway him.”

“I -- I think you are right,” she said, flushing. “Then what is to be done?”

“I see three options,” Darcy replied briskly. “There is compliance with his demand, which I think can be dismissed out of hand.”

“Oh yes,” she said, and he smiled for the first time that day. She just managed one in return, feeling foolish, insipid, one of the milksop heroines that she had always detested, but above all bitterly ashamed.

“There is -- Scotland” -- he looked deeply uncomfortable here -- “or there is waiting until you are of age and then marrying without his consent.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I -- I shall talk to my father first. I must make myself clear to him, I have not spoken of -- of this at all, to anyone but Jane.”

“Miss Bennet knows?” His expression altered, to one that was part curiosity and part apprehension.

“Oh yes. She thinks very highly of you.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He frowned, looked down, clearly wanted to speak but did not dare.

“What is it?”

“It is . . . I would not ask you to betray a confidence. But I am . . . concerned, now more than ever, about Bingley and your sister.”

“Concerned?” She glanced up.

“He . . . Bingley is not -- he is a fine man,” he said hurriedly, “but he is not -- steady. His present feelings for your sister may last, or they may not. Given what I know of his character, the latter seems the more likely. Beyond that, I have watched Miss Bennet. Her looks and manners are open, cheerful, engaging, but without any symptom of peculiar regard.” He hesitated. “You must have a superior knowledge of your sister, Elizabeth. You have already said --”

Elizabeth eagerly seized on the opportunity. “Yes, I -- oh, I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear such an account of Mr Bingley’s feelings. I have talked to Jane, and she says I may -- I may confide in you, that she would even be grateful. She is fond of him, she likes him, but she is -- we do not know if she will ever do more than like him. She -- I can see that she feels a partiality for him, beyond what I have ever witnessed in her -- but nothing more, and she is such a romantic that she cannot be easy with so little.”

“She seems a most amiable young woman, but my impression is that her heart is not easily touched.”

“That is quite true. She is not very like Bingley at all,” Elizabeth told him. “She is so serene and sedate, it gives quite the wrong impression of her heart, I think. Her feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them; they are steady and deep, but slow to arise and slow to change.” Elizabeth stopped, a little breathless. “She has a calm temper but her feelings, though little displayed, are fervent. I have heard people say that nothing affects her, even that she is cold and proud beneath her amiable appearance, but it is not so.”

“Then I have the deepest sympathy with her,” Darcy said quietly. Elizabeth looked up at him, realising what she had said.

“Oh, I-- ”

“Elizabeth.” Both turned at the harsh voice speaking from a nearby stand of trees. Her father, his face set, stood there. “I would have expected such behaviour of your sisters, but not you. You will return to Longbourn this instant.”

She was suddenly overwhelmed by fury, as much for Darcy’s sake as her own, and longed to resist his authority, to show that she would not be so easily constrained, she knew her own mind.

“Bingley is leaving on business tomorrow,” Darcy said, paying her father no mind.

“Yes, you told me.” Her brows knit together. “You still must go with him?”

“I think so. I . . . I must advise him, away from . . . here, on -- the matter we were just speaking of -- I will not tell him what you said, of course, only give my own opinion. We will back in time for the ball.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Mr Bennet, both astonished and outraged, walked towards them. Elizabeth lifted her chin, holding on to Darcy’s arm.

“There is no need to alienate him further, and I must go; you might as well return home with him,” Darcy said clearly, making no attempt to avoid being heard.

“Your sense of propriety is truly a thing of wonder,” Mr Bennet said dryly. “Come, Elizabeth.”

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes, Father.” She turned to her betrothed and kissed him, her lips lingering only a moment before she whirled and walked towards her father.

Darcy, deciding that he had greatly underestimated the virtues of defiance, bowed courteously to Elizabeth and met Mr Bennet’s gaze with a triumphant look and a smile.

“What have I done that is improper?” Elizabeth demanded. “What has he done to so turn you again him? You do not know him, and I am starting to think you do not know me.”

Mr Bennet’s expression briefly gentled. “I know you better than you know yourself, Lizzy; if you will not guard yourself from heartbreak, then --”

“Heartbreak! And so you refuse to allow me to marry the man I love? You have a very strange method of showing it, sir.” Later, she would scarcely believe herself capable of such behaviour; at the moment, she was so alight with fury that she could scarcely think of anything else.

“Love,” Mr Bennet said dismissively. “This sort of romantic infatuation passes soon enough.”

“I do not doubt that you know all about infatuation,” Elizabeth told him, “I have seen the effects daily all my life. No man who felt anything deeper, who was capable of anything deeper, would expose his wife to the ridicule of her own children! And that tells me that you know nothing of what it is to properly love a woman. I would far prefer advice from my uncle, who cares for his wife and children and treats them all with the respect and affection they deserve.”

He looked stricken, and she felt pity and the beginnings of self-recrimination for a moment. “You have said quite enough, Lizzy. I had thought you more sensible than your sisters, but clearly I was mistaken. You are under my authority; I will not permit this engagement to persist. You may only leave the house in Jane’s company. There will be no correspondence with that man. If you dance once with him, you will only be allowed to stand up with your sisters until you have proved you can spend ten minutes in a sensible manner. Do you understand me?”

She flung her head back, her face overcome by a cold hauteur as she said, “Perfectly, sir.”

Mr Bennet was forced to actually lock himself in his study. The matter did not end with his talk with Elizabeth, nor then with Jane when he explained her duties to her sister. Elizabeth instantly went to her mother and told all, that Mr Darcy had made her an honourable proposal of marriage, which she had accepted (“Oh, my precious Lizzy!”), but her father would not give his consent. From then on Mrs Bennet was never silent. All of Elizabeth's sisters were horrified at the situation and had no reserve in expressing their outrage to Mr Bennet -- except Lydia, who thought it the most romantic thing in the world and had no compunctions about writing of the whole affair to Miss Darcy, whom she had not exchanged a word with since that day at Ramsgate. Only Mr Collins managed anything like civility, and his approval was nearly as bad as the combined disapproval of everyone else.

Of course they could not understand. Mr Bennet knew how the matter would develop. Mr Darcy could have no honourable intentions; he knew the type well enough. There would only be small liberties at first, but they would grow by degrees until he had taken her honour, and vanished. And nobody would be much surprised.

And his poor Lizzy -- Mr Bennet’s chest ached at the mere thought.

He was glad to be alone, the curtains shut and the room dim, alone to nurse his torment. She would understand -- someday.

Mr Bennet sighed, and as he finished his wine, walked to the window. He could not read without more light. He pushed the curtains aside, and saw a grand carriage there. He easily recognized the arms.

Darcy. Did the man never give up?

Mr Bennet, filled with righteous anger, got to his feet, and unlocked the door. Then he blinked. Molly stood there, appearing terrified (as did most of the servants these days). At her side was a tall woman, about his age, with golden hair liberally streaked with silver, clear dark blue eyes, and the sort of fine aristocratic features that would ensure her the description of “a handsome woman” until the day she died. She seemed vaguely familiar; he looked quizzically at the maid.

“Lady Anne Darcy to see you, sir,” Molly squeaked.

Chapter Seven

Posted on Monday, 19 November 2007

Sluggishly, Mr Bennet dismissed the servant and managed to seat himself before he succumbed to the sort of nerves that would make his wife stare. ‘What an unexpected pleasure, your ladyship,’ he said.

‘Unexpected I daresay,’ she replied. She had changed a great deal; there was no trace of the girlish prettiness that had first captivated him, nor of the sweet delicacy he remembered with an incomprehensible mix of resentment and fondness. But the blazing blue eyes were the same.

Whatever superficial resemblance had once existed between his wife and one-time lover was gone, however. His own eyes hardened.

‘Whether it is truly a pleasure is yet to be determined.’

She flung her head back. ‘Indeed. May I enquire after your daughter Elizabeth?’

So — battle, then. ‘Elizabeth? Well, I had assumed that you did not come to seek forgiveness. It is always pleasant to be proved correct; this is a very promising beginning.’

‘Forgiveness?’ The fire in her eyes instantly froze. ‘The events of thirty-five years ago have nothing to do with my present actions. I am not so mean as to resent the past. I am here only out of concern for my son, and your daughter.’

‘Concern for my daughter? I suppose I should thank you for your gracious condescension in concerning yourself in my family’s affairs.’

‘Your daughter will be mine in a very short period of time,’ Lady Anne said. ‘Why should I not feel concern for her?’

Mr Bennet laughed. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that you and yours will permit your son to marry my daughter? She is no better off than I was.’

‘My son is his own master. He will marry whomever he chooses — and since he has irrevocably attached himself to a girl so far beneath him — ’

‘Beneath him? In what respect?’ Perversely, he said, ‘I am as much a gentleman as your son.’

‘Oh, I rather think not. And though you are a gentleman, in name, at least, who is your wife? Who are her brothers and sisters? You cannot imagine me ignorant of their condition, so decidedly beneath my — my son’s. Why should he take any pleasure in the prospect of a connection to them? Yet he has made your daughter an honourable offer of marriage, one that a man of half his consequence would not have lowered himself to.’

‘I suppose I should express a sense of obligation that your son is so willing to lower himself — that my daughter wishes, at least, to connect herself to a family so full of pride and conceit — ’

‘You are hardly one to speak of conceit, Mr Bennet. You, who have unjustly and ungenerously been the means of dividing two young people, of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of my most beloved child — for no other reason than your arrogant gratification of useless and blameable distrust! What do you know of my son?’

‘And what do you know of my daughter?’

Lady Anne lifted her chin. ‘I know that she enjoys long walks — Shakespeare’s comedies — dancing — whims and inconsistencies. I know that she is clever, and kind, and particularly devoted to Miss Bennet, and I know that she met my son over three months ago at Ramsgate, that they renewed their acquaintance when they met here, and that she told none of this to you, her own father.’ She could not resist adding, ‘It must be a great trial to have children with no confidence in you.’

Coldly, he said, ‘I fail to see how any of these accusations are relevant to the subject at hand. I have no intentions of allowing this farce of a courtship to continue. Strange though it may seem to you, I would prefer that my daughter’s honour be left intact, that she not be involved in misery of the acutest kind.’

‘Farce of a courtship? I suppose you would know,’ replied Lady Anne. ‘A respectable gentleman’s wish to marry a girl of intelligence and integrity must be quite beyond your understanding. I suppose I should have expected no better, after all that I know of you — of your vanity, your conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. I had thought that your affection for your daughter would tempt you to think beyond yourself — to allow them to try and prove their affection, even if you will not countenance a regular engagement — but then, I have been wrong before.’

‘I see,’ said Mr Bennet, ‘that your son has not confided in you all of his interactions with my daughter, his intentions for her.’

Her blue eyes opened wide. ‘My son has some sense of decorum and discretion,’ she said coldly. ‘Why, were it not for your youngest daughter’s letter, I might only have known the bare bones of their acquaintance, of your daughter’s virtues and your refusal of consent.’

Neither knew what might have been said next, though it might be reasonably assumed that the conversation could only decline from there. Instead, Mrs Bennet whirled into the room with a broad smile.

‘It is such a pleasure, your ladyship,’ she cried. ‘You are dear Mr Darcy’s mother, I understand? What an honour. I am sure you understand that this little inconvenience can be smoothed over in no time. Such a charming young man! So handsome! So tall! He is certainly a credit to you, madam.’

Lady Anne smiled at this. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bennet.’

The other woman ploughed on, ‘I cannot understand how there could be the slightest objection to his marrying our sweetest Lizzy. I am sure it is some great misunderstanding and they will be married very soon.’

‘I was just telling your husband,’ said Lady Anne, ‘that if he has so little faith in their attachment, perhaps they might be permitted to prove themselves with a long engagement.’

‘A long engagement?’ Mrs Bennet wilted, then brightened. ‘That would give us plenty of time in which to plan the wedding. It will be the finest thing Meryton has ever seen!’

‘I am certain that it shall.’

Mr Bennet, considering for the first time the damage to Elizabeth’s reputation if any of this came out, and, given the two mothers, the certainty that it would, cleared his throat. ‘Not a day under a twelvemonth,’ he said, comfortably assured that Darcy would never consent.

‘A twelvemonth!’

‘I should think six months more than adequate,’ Lady Anne intervened, ‘particularly since they may not be inclined to wait for very long beyond Miss Elizabeth’s birthday. It is the first of May, is it not?’

‘That is very sensible, your ladyship,’ said Mrs Bennet, much relieved.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bennet. I am only glad to see this dreadful affair settled so peaceably.’

Mrs Bennet nodded happily. ‘As are we all, I am sure. Would you care to stay for dinner? My other girls would be simply delighted to meet you, and I know that my daughter Lydia is great friends with Miss Darcy.’

Lady Anne, who knew perfectly well that Lydia and Georgiana’s acquaintance consisted of one very peculiar conversation and the former’s gossipy letter, smiled and said, ‘I would be honoured, Mrs Bennet.’

‘Miss Elizabeth,’ said Lady Anne, ‘there seemed to be a pretty kind of wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.’

‘Go, my dear,’ cried her mother, ‘and show her ladyship about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.’

Elizabeth, who had spent the last hour in an agony of curiosity and distraction, longing for intelligence of her betrothed, and certain that his mother would possess it, sprang up almost immediately. Thankfully, Lady Anne showed no interest whatsoever in the hermitage.

‘Miss Bennet,’ she began coldly, ‘you may not comprehend what has brought me hither, and I must beg your leave for the liberty I take.’ There was not the slightest trace of apology or uncertainty in her face. Elizabeth inclined her head, her fingers tightening slightly around the handle of her parasol.

‘You are quite right, madam,’ she said. ‘I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here.’

Lady Anne walked a short distance, then turned to face her once more. ‘I have heard a most remarkable report,’ she announced. ‘It seems that you, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, are shortly to be united in marriage with my son.’

Elizabeth looked directly into the lady’s face. Her expression was set, her dark blue eyes icy; and while Elizabeth had originally been struck by the resemblance to Mr Darcy, at this moment she could scarcely see any of it. The young man who had so frequently smiled and bantered with her was nothing like the severe autocratic woman staring fiercely down at her.

‘Your son has made me an offer of marriage, which I have accepted,’ she said, with all the dignity at her command.

‘I see.’ Lady Anne gazed at something over Elizabeth’s left shoulder. ‘Tell me, Miss Bennet, how could you have caused my son to so take leave of his senses? What remarkable qualities do you possess that could have so ensnared him?’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ cried Elizabeth, standing very erect, ‘but I do not believe Mr Darcy has taken leave of his senses. Nor am I prepared to sing my own praises, even to you. I am very sincerely attached to him, I assure you.’

The lady studied her face for a moment far shorter than it seemed. Then her harsh features softened a little. ‘I am delighted to hear it, Miss Bennet. I would hate to humble myself to your father.’

‘You have seen my father?’ Elizabeth’s eyes darted upwards. ‘What did he say? That is — I am sorry, I did not mean, but — ’

‘He has consented to a long engagement,’ Lady Anne replied.

‘He has?’ A radiant smile lit up her face. ‘Why, how— your ladyship, I scarcely know what to say. I do not know what you said, but it must have been — thank you. Thank you very much. Is Mr Dar — ’ Elizabeth swallowed the desperate question.

‘Fitzwilliam was not aware of my coming,’ Lady Anne said, not without sympathy. ‘I am sure he will be very angry when he discovers it.’

‘Angry?’

‘He was forming a plan to win your father’s consent. It was very complex.’

Elizabeth burst out laughing. ‘Forgive me — but that is so — yes, it would be, wouldn’t it?—I am sorry, he is well?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ his mother said, ‘and his health is excellent. It usually is. He has not been ill since he went to Eton.’

‘Oh, really? I did not know where he went to school — he, he never said.’

Only then did Elizabeth realise that despite everything, however well-acquainted she might be with the essentials of his character, there seemed to be a great deal he never said.