In Darcy's Dreams Page 2

  “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” The look he was giving her made her feel most discomfited.

  She felt color rush to her cheeks. “How much worse it would be not to even have the chance of uprooting yourself to explore other places.”

  “Ah,” said he, “but a tree, however rooted, has freedoms that a man does not.”

  Unbidden, the sound of Mr. Darcy’s laughter, wild in the rain, rose up in Elizabeth’s memory, and she was forced to bite the inside of her cheek. She knew not a tree in England so free as that sound. But she somehow knew he would not appreciate knowing that she had heard him.

  “I have always had a fondness for fine trees,” he went on. “This one reminds me of a yew in the woods near my home. Indeed, there are several trees on the grounds at Pemberley that I look upon as old friends, and I would be most distressed if they perished.”

  His words were very pretty, but Elizabeth knew better. “Such a pity your kind thoughts extend only to the plants of your home, and not to the people.”

  He looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  She should not have spoken! “It is only that you do not seem to care for the society of a country neighborhood.”

  He appeared quite affronted, and she was relieved she had not been more explicit. “There is a distinction, I believe, between a place in which one is a stranger and a place one calls one’s home. Pemberley is my home. I must always be at peace there.”

  Easy enough to say, when he was likely as good as a lord in that country. Elizabeth had heard enough of the grandeur of Pemberley to believe it. But no better angel stopped her tongue. “How pleasant it must be, then, to see the arrival of old friends from home into such an unfamiliar and hostile place as this.”

  An expression of such darkness crossed his countenance that Elizabeth immediately regretted her words. She supposed that what Mr. Wickham said must have been true. It was not mere disinterest that had inspired Mr. Darcy’s actions towards his father’s godson. It was hatred.

  “You speak, I suppose, of the militia’s newest officer?” Mr. Darcy shook his head. “Mr. Wickham possesses such happy manners as may ensure his making friends. Whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain.”

  “He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

  It might be impossible now to mistake the man who stood before her for the one she had just seen laughing in the field. His countenance was stormier than the clouds above their heads.

  Elizabeth had stolen his peace from him.

  “Mr. Darcy—” she began, and stood, an apology already on her lips.

  “It does not surprise me that you find a favorite in such a person,” he said now, stiffly, and she remembered what Mr. Wickham had said of Mr. Darcy’s old jealousies.

  “And it does not surprise me that you should so disfavor him.”

  He was silent for a moment, and then he tightened his hand on his horse’s reins. “I believe the rain is letting up—”

  It was doing nothing of the kind.

  “I—” he hesitated.

  Somehow, they had drifted closer, there beneath the sheltering boughs of the yew. She stood very near to him now. Near enough to see the way his heartbeat trembled in the hollow of his throat, the tension in his jaw as he spoke of his old companion. She could not properly comprehend what might have caused such a deep enmity.

  Finally, he finished. “I know not in what manner Mr. Wickham may have imposed upon you, but I tell you now that his acquaintance is not one that I would advise.”

  Of course he would not. “Upon what grounds?”

  “Many years of experience,” he snapped, his tone clipped.

  Elizabeth knew not what to think. The space beneath the yew began to feel very small, indeed.

  “Do you know,” she said at last, “I believe you are right. The rain has lessened.”

  It still had not.

  “I should return to Longbourn before anyone becomes worried for me.”

  “You must allow me to escort you home,” he said at once. “You may ride Peaseblossom.”

  The substance of his offer was immediately forgotten as Elizabeth marveled at such a name. “Your horse…?” This massive black beast? “…is named…Peaseblossom?”

  Mr. Darcy grimaced. “Yes, to my mortification. It was a fancy of my sister’s.”

  How very odd. Indeed, Elizabeth had heard much about young Georgiana Darcy during her stay at Netherfield and afterward. So beautiful, so accomplished, according to Miss Bingley. So proud, according to Mr. Wickham. Under such careful degree of care by her guardian brother, according to all. Elizabeth had been given to conclude the girl was very refined and likely very disagreeable as well. She had pictured her with all the arrogance of her brother and the conceit of the Bingley sisters—in short, all the most unpleasant traits that a young girl with a large fortune, many flatterers, and no parental guidance might develop.

  And yet—Peaseblossom! Either there existed in Georgiana Darcy a great well of foolishness, or a hidden reservoir of humor, to have bestowed such a moniker on her brother’s fine mount.

  At once, nothing about this moment seemed real. The downpour, shutting them off in their little bower. The man standing before her, who was such a mystery, whom she had never, ever liked—but also whose character, in some strange way, she had never quite been able to make out.

  “Perhaps we have reached a passage to fairyland,” she whispered.

  “Miss Bennet?” He whispered back. How had he grown so close?

  She caught herself. “I thank you for your offer, sir, but I must decline. I do not believe, in weather such as this, it is safe for me to ride. My seat is not a good one on the best of days, and your horse—your horse has already slipped once.”

  His eyes widened slightly at the realization that she must have seen him fall. And perhaps everything else.

  “—I judge by the state of the mud on his flanks, and your clothes,” she said quickly, though her tone was by no means assured enough to convince either of them.

  “Neither of us are at our best at the moment, I am afraid,” he replied. “But nevertheless, I cannot, as a gentleman, allow you to see yourself home in such a storm.”

  “I assure you, I am quite all right,” she responded. And, if she was not mistaken, the rain was slowing. She should escape while she had a chance. “I’ve known these woods and fields all my life and could better offer you an escort to Netherfield than the other way around.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and bowed.

  Elizabeth thought it best to depart quickly, so even though it had not quite stopped raining, she emerged from beneath the boughs of the yew and set a swift pace toward Longbourn.

  Her mind, however, raced all the more quickly, as she turned over the words that had been exchanged, and she tried to reconcile Mr. Darcy’s vehemence with what she understood of both men.

  She could think of reasons—ungenerous, hateful reasons—for Mr. Darcy to warn her off continuing her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham. A man who would stoop so low as to deprive an old family friend of his inheritance and profession would have no scruples about abusing him to all of society. Given what Mr. Wickham had relayed to her of their history, it should come as no surprise that Mr. Darcy would continue his attempts to ruin Wickham’s good name in Hertfordshire, as he no doubt had in Derbyshire.

  She was struck, too, by the way the two men had shared their stories. Mr. Wickham had told her everything—names, particulars—while Mr. Darcy had remained circumspect and defensive. Mr. Wickham’s nature was everything amiable and charming, while Mr. Darcy’s was everything other than those qualities.

  She is tolerable, I suppose.

  Laughter in the rain and idle talk about fairy passages aside, he was the most disagreeable man she had ever met, and everything he said about Mr. Wickham only seconded the officer’s own assessment
of Darcy’s prejudice. She would venture to think of them both as she did before.

  Fearing the rain would begin again, Elizabeth made all haste through the main street of Meryton, whose mud-trampled avenue seemed so far removed from the strange, still moment beneath the yew that she wondered if it might, in fact, have been a moment in fairyland. She kept her eyes on the slippery street before her, and the rim of her bonnet was turned so low she almost didn’t see the figure standing beneath the eaves in front of the public house, where the post carriage was being loaded.

  “Miss Bennet!” A flash of red. She looked up, and there before her, the very object of her thoughts, crossing the lane to meet her. He looked fresh and dry and more handsome than ever, and she felt rather bedraggled, due to her ramble in the mud and rain. Still, it could not be helped.

  “Mr. Wickham!” She looked from him to the post carriage. “You are not leaving Meryton! Are you not attending the Netherfield ball? My sister has had it on good authority that all of the officers have been invited to attend.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Wickham. “But I began to feel that I ought not attend. So I go away to London, and shall be merry there for a few days, and leave the Bingleys and their charming neighbors to enjoy such a pleasant ball without me.”

  Elizabeth was quite taken aback. She had counted on his presence to help her recover from the indignity of dancing the first two dances with Mr. Collins. And it was no mystery to her what might have driven such a decision on his part. “Oh dear. I do hope that this decision does not derive from the likelihood of being thrust into the company of those you had rather not see.”

  “I cannot lie to you, Miss Bennet,” he replied frankly. “It is the very same. I have come to believe I had better not meet Mr. Darcy. To be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, after all that has passed between us…” he sighed. “It might be more than I could bear.”

  She felt foolish even for considering Mr. Darcy’s words. Anyone with eyes could see that Mr. Wickham only sought peace and comfort in a world arrayed against him. Would not a dishonorable man seek to cause trouble? But no, Mr. Wickham was the opposite.

  “But with so many other friends about!” Elizabeth said. “Surely, in such a crowd, we can be certain that you are surrounded only by those who know your true value.”

  “It is uncommonly kind for you to believe so,” Mr. Wickham said now, his tone warm, his countenance all smiles. “But it is on account of these friendships I have formed in Meryton that I dare not risk it. Mr. Darcy’s temper, you know, is terrible.”

  The memory of the gentleman’s laughter stirred in her mind then. How strange it was that he should be kind to a horse, and not to his fellow man. What a curious creature Mr. Darcy was!

  But then, had not Mr. Wickham told her of how his abominable pride might also be turned to virtue, when it suited? He could be generous with the less fortunate, as long as it served his own vanity. Perhaps, then, it was nothing more than the humor that comes from no one seeing you make a fool of yourself. Elizabeth was very lucky he had never discovered that she had seen him fall.

  Mr. Wickham was still speaking. “Scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself. Though I shall sorely miss your company, as well as an opportunity to dance with you. Were I to have attended, I should have asked for the very great honor of being your partner for the first two dances.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “Alas, I should have been forced to decline, though you might have claimed any other dance of the evening. My cousin Mr. Collins has already secured the first two.”

  “And why not?” said Mr. Wickham. “I’m sure he is able to foresee, as well as I can, how popular your company might be. Well, I shall rest easy knowing that you will enjoy the ball at any rate, and never lack for dancing partners.”

  “Oh no,” said Elizabeth, “though I confess, I should much rather dance with you. It is to your credit that you put the serenity of your hosts above all others. I suppose they cannot know the truth about their friend.”

  “Or they do not care. The very rich are given to overlook all manner of faults and vices, when it comes to the behavior of their own set, which they find unpardonable in those they believe to be beneath them.”

  Elizabeth was forced to admit this to be so. But how very tiresome! The only thing she still anticipated about the Netherfield ball was the hope of Mr. Wickham’s presence. And now, to be denied even that, to know the night might produce nothing more than the chattering and no doubt lackluster dancing of a Mr. Collins, and a display which might cement—if in no mind other than his and her mother’s—the suitability of their match. “I cannot be other than disappointed at this turn of events. Are you sure there is nothing that might persuade you to reconsider?”

  He stood looking down at her for a long moment, his expression curious. “The inducement would have to be a strong one, indeed.”

  Elizabeth brightened. “I cannot offer you the first two dances, but be assured that anything else remains within my power.”

  “Does it?”

  “We may scandalize all of Meryton, perhaps, with our dancing of sets and sitting down together.”

  His smile returned. “I should not want to cause a scandal, Miss Bennet. But your offer may be too tempting to resist.”

  “Do consider it,” she pressed. “At the very least, it will save you from a most uncomfortable carriage ride. In this weather? Oh, do anything but go to London. I do not even know if it is safe.” Finer horses than the old nags pulling the post carriage had fallen already today.

  He gave her a gallant bow. “As you will.”

  There! At least she would have one thing to look forward to at the Netherfield ball. Elizabeth took off for home, her feet light as air, despite the sucking mud.

  Chapter 3

  Netherfield was an absolute riot of silk dresses and beeswax candles, and as the Bennets entered the ballroom that night, Elizabeth wondered if perhaps this place, rather than the hollow under the yew, was the true doorway into fairyland. Rarely had she seen anything so stunning. As much as she might hesitate to admit it, Miss Bingley had excellent taste.

  Elizabeth had taken more than the usual care with her dress that evening, and even her hair was carefully ornamented with pins and a silk ribbon she had borrowed from Jane. Her spirits were high. Despite her promise of the first two dances to Mr. Collins, she expected to spend the bulk of the evening deepening her acquaintance with the delightful Mr. Wickham. She already felt triumphant over her ability to convince him to attend the ball, despite his scruples. Such a decision must be a tribute to her power over him; if nothing else, she knew that he attended only for her, and so felt quite comfortable imagining that she attended only for him.

  But she circled the assembly once, and then twice, and though she saw many young men in their red coats, Mr. Wickham did not appear to be among them. Elizabeth watched her sister Jane enjoying herself already with Mr. Bingley and felt a little pang of jealousy. Mr. Wickham had promised so faithfully to attend, regardless of the presence of Mr. Darcy. She hoped that he had not in some way been disinvited.

  Soon enough, the music began, and her cousin came to claim her for his first dances. Mr. Collins was as poor a dancer as she had anticipated, and spent their time together apologizing instead of attending, moving wrong without being aware of it, and in general creating all the awkwardness and mortification that a disagreeable partner might ensure. Elizabeth shared weak smiles with her fellow dancers and waited miserably for their time together to be at an end.

  When the dance was over, however, Mr. Collins showed no interest in letting her find her escape and instead insisted on accompanying her first to the ratafia and then later to Charlotte when she spotted her friend in the crowd.

  “Oh, there is my friend Miss Lucas,” Elizabeth said, nearly desperate. “I must say hello.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Collins, and offered her his arm. Elizabeth had no choice but to approach her friend at his si
de. She felt as if too many eyes in the room were on her in that moment, each owner doing their own calculation as to Mr. Collins’s unwavering attentions to her that night. Indeed, she could see Mr. Darcy watching her from the corner of the room, looking as tall and imposing as a column, his keen eyes not missing a single detail of their figures, and appearing to focus particularly on her gloved hand resting atop her cousin’s sleeve.

  “Lizzie!” cried Charlotte in greeting. “Good evening. And good evening to you, too, Mr. Collins.”

  “Miss Lucas.” Mr. Collins nodded his head.

  “I saw you dancing,” Charlotte said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  Elizabeth widened her eyes at her friend. How could she think so? She had seen them dancing, had she not?”

  “Oh, very well, indeed!” said Mr. Collins. “And how could I not, with such a charming partner as my dear cousin Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth cast her eyes about the room again, as if Mr. Wickham might suddenly appear and rescue her. He was nowhere to be seen, however, and so she looked back at their little group, only to discover that they it had grown by one while her attention had been elsewhere.

  Mr. Darcy stood before them. Her hand dropped immediately from Mr. Collins’s arm. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Pardon me, Miss Bennet,” he said with a curt nod. “If you are not engaged for the next two dances, would you do me the honor of being my partner?”

  Elizabeth knew not what to say. His appearance was so sudden, his application delivered with such a decided lack of preamble.

  “Thank you, sir,” she blurted. “I am not engaged.”

  And, just as quickly, he was gone.

  “And who, dear cousin, was that gentleman?” Mr. Collins asked.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she managed. How had she agreed to dance with him? For so long, she had sworn she would do no such thing. For what if Mr. Wickham arrived at the ball to such a display? He must count it as a decided betrayal to see her cavorting with someone who had hurt him so severely.