The Houseguest A Pride and Prejudice Vagary (6 page)

“As it happened, we did make it clear, only to have him dismount and chase us around
the stable yard, screaming profanities and hurling rocks at us. Richard and I
were laughing so hard at the sight of him, we could hardly dodge the rocks.
Eventually, one of the stable hands fetched my father and he came to the yard
to put an end to things. He marched us all into his study and gave us a stern
talking to, then dragged us back to the stables and whipped us soundly. Cyril
was eighteen and didn’t care for it, but father was determined. We never raced
again; well, at least not with Cyril.”
His broad smile was contagious, and Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh softly.
“Forgive me sir, but it is a most entertaining story. I can just picture you
and the Colonel, running around a stable yard, dodging rocks from a half mad,
nude cousin. It really is too much!” She laughed in earnest now, partly from
the story, and partly because she just admitted that she was picturing a nude
man. A blush spread over her cheeks and she laughed even harder, embarrassed
that he must realize her embarrassment. Darcy joined her with his mild chuckle,
but mostly he just beamed at her while she blushed and laughed, enjoying the
companionship.
They walked a few more feet before Elizabeth spoke. “I believe you are right,
sir. That story is not at all appropriate for young ladies. I am glad Colonel
Fitzwilliam was unsuccessful in telling it in front of Georgiana. While it is
terribly funny, I don’t know how quickly she would recover from the shock. And
I’m sure the Colonel’s version is even less circumspect than yours.”
“I fear you are right, Miss Bennet. Richard has a flair for storytelling. The
facts are not always accurate, but you will not become bored.” 
Elizabeth was having such an enjoyable time, she almost forgot she was with Mr.
Darcy.
“Mr. Darcy, I’m afraid I am in your debt.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I feel the cost of my escort was not equal to your rather illuminating
story. I fear the balance now weighs heavily on your side.” 
“Does it now? Well, we shall have to even the score then.” He smiled at her
playfully. 
“What do you have in mind, Mr. Darcy?” She smiled back, with a trace of a
challenge in her eyes. 
“I believe I have some rather tedious meetings scheduled for this week.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I am sure that afterward, I will be in need of fresh air to shake off the
business of the day.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, quite. And I shall be too tired to read, but will want entertainment.”
“Entertainment?”
“Yes.”
“And who shall provide this entertainment?”
“Why you, Miss Bennet.”
“Me?” He nodded. “And what form of entertainment shall you require? Shall I
tell you a story? Or would you rather I sing to you?” she asked archly.
“Ah, Miss Bennet, you forget that you sing to me almost every night already,
quite to my delight. I think I would like a story.”
“And what kind of story would suit your fancy, sir?”
“One where at least one of the Misses Bennet is behaving rather badly and gets
properly punished, preferably you.”
“Mr. Darcy!”
His devilish grin was the only reply she was to have.
“Very well, then. I shall do my best,” she said with more calm than she felt.
By now they had circled the park and were coming upon the gates. 
“Are you ready to return, Miss Bennet?” His voice was serious again.
“Yes, it is rather cold. It’s probably best we get back before my fingers lose all
feeling!” she joked.
“Are your hands cold?” he asked solicitously.
“A bit. But it is not far now, I shall be fine.”
Before she could protest, he took up the hand that rested on his arm and began
to rub it vigorously between his own. When he had gone on for a few moments, he
gently laid it back on his arm and held out his palm for her other hand. She
looked at him questioningly, and then cautiously laid her hand in his larger
one. He followed the same procedure, rubbing it between his large, sturdy hands
while she self-consciously watched his movement. 
When he had finished, he released her hand and asked softly, “Better?”
“Yes, quite, I thank you,” she replied quietly.
They walked the remaining block in silence, stepped into the house, and with a
shy smile, she went upstairs to prepare for dinner.

Chapter 4

Elizabeth
sighed and laid her head back on the soft towel rolled up across the back of
the enormous tub. Since arriving in London, Elizabeth had enjoyed daily baths,
something she had done only thrice weekly at Longbourn. But here, with so fewer
people to fetch water for and so many more servants to accommodate, it was a
luxury she was quickly becoming accustomed to. She had even entertained the
thought of one in the morning and another at night, but dismissed it as being
too greedy.
As the steam rose around her, curling her hair and plastering the short
tendrils to her forehead, she closed her eyes and relived the events of the
day. Her walk with Mr. Darcy had been most enlightening. She wouldn’t have
thought he had such a devilish sense of humor, and she definitely wouldn’t have
thought that she would have enjoyed it as much as she had. 
Perhaps there was something to what Aunt Gardiner had said; maybe she should
give him a chance to tell his side of the story. But hadn’t she done that? At
the Netherfield Ball, she told him she had heard differing accounts of him.
What was his response? 
‘I can readily
believe that reports may vary greatly with respect to me.’
 Why
would he say that? How many reports were there? All she had heard was from
Wickham, and their reaction to each other seemed to confirm some animosity
between them. 
Of course Mr. Bingley certainly seemed to think rather highly of him - now
there was an odd relationship. But she didn’t have time to think about that
now.
Focus, Elizabeth.
 While
they were dancing, what else did he say? 
‘I
could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the
present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect
no credit on either.’
 No credit on either? If she sketched him
according to Wickham, it did reflect badly on Mr. Darcy, but why would it
reflect badly on her? 
Thinking back, Elizabeth tried to remember everything Mr. Wickham had said
about Darcy. That he was proud and disagreeable she remembered, and then the
whole story about his father being a generous man and leaving Wickham a living
she remembered quite clearly. He had asked if she was acquainted with Miss
Darcy, and when she told him they had recently become friends, Wickham said she
was a sweet girl and quickly went back to speaking about Mr. Darcy.
A memory was niggling at the back of Elizabeth’s mind, but she could not pull
it out. She dipped her arms back into the water and drew circles with her
fingertips along the surface. Old Mr. Darcy had been an excellent man, yes, she
remembered that clearly enough. What else had he said about him? That the
father had loved him dearly and remembered him in his will, and Wickham had
great respect for him. Yes, yes, there was something else… Yes! Wickham had
said that he could not disparage the son out of respect for the father. That
was it! Yet he didn’t follow that course, did he? After Netherfield was closed
and its inhabitants gone back to town, Wickham had freely and loudly told his
sorry tale to anyone who would listen. Was that not disparaging the son? 
A sinking feeling began to work its way into Elizabeth’s stomach. Did Darcy
know Wickham was telling tales about him? Is that why he had said it would not
be a credit to her to believe what she heard; because what she had heard wasn’t
true?
But she had disliked him long before she heard Wickham’s story. In fact, she
had as much as told Wickham this in their first meeting. Suddenly realization
dawned. That was why he had told her about Mr. Darcy. He assumed she would
believe him because she disliked him as well. When her aunt had asked her why
Wickham would divulge such private information to a relative stranger, she had
thought nothing of it. But now it was becoming clearer. Mr. Wickham thought he
had found an ally.
He had promised to come to the ball at Netherfield, saying he would not be run
off by Mr. Darcy, and then he had left, saying he didn’t want to cause a scene
in Mr. Bingley’s home. At the time she had accepted it as a reasonable and even
gracious answer, but now she viewed it with suspicion. Could he simply have
wanted to avoid Mr. Darcy? It did not seem likely that he would make a scene.
Mr. Darcy did not attract attention to himself. 
No, his position does it for him,
 she
thought ruefully.
There had to be more to this story than what appeared on the surface. She must
find out what really happened between Wickham and Darcy, for the more she
thought about it, the more she was sure it wasn’t exactly as Wickham had
portrayed it. But how would she ever get Mr. Darcy to tell her? 

~

This was getting complicated. What had just happened? Darcy was pacing in his
study, back and forth in front of the fire, occasionally stopping to stare out
of the large window. 
Clearly, his plan to forget Elizabeth wasn’t working. He had spent a month in
town after quitting Netherfield, celebrating Christmas with his sister, and
Elizabeth had been on his mind constantly. He would distract himself with work
or family matters, only to have Georgiana bring her up and what she’d said in
her latest letter, or worse, he would imagine Elizabeth with him.
He imagined what she would say when he was having dinner with his aunt and
uncle, sure that her conversation would brighten the otherwise dull event. When
he went shopping for Georgiana’s Christmas gifts, he had wondered what she
would like, and thought about all the things he would like to give her. In a
particularly weak moment, he had even bought her a gift. Believing she would
like the small volume of poetry, he had stupidly purchased it and placed it in
a drawer of his desk where he would see the bloody thing almost daily,
reminding him of his folly. He’d tried to move it once, but ended up putting it
back, unable to put her completely away from him. 
When he’d opened his gifts from Georgiana Christmas morning, he’d wondered what
Elizabeth would have gotten him, had she been his wife. Would she embroider his
initials on a new handkerchief? Buy him a new timepiece with a loving
inscription? Or would she give him something else altogether, to be enjoyed in
the privacy of their chambers? He had to stop himself from envisioning
Elizabeth in a large red bow and little else.
After that, he knew he had let it go too far, so he had gone to his aunt’s in
Somerset. His father’s sister’s home had always been a haven for him. She was
so like his father; generous, kind, wise, and understood him completely. He did
not have to pretend to be comfortable where he was not and was not asked to do
that which he found repulsive. His cousin Harold, though four years younger
than he, had long been a friend and was a good sort of fellow, though a touch
on the silly side.
With them, Darcy could relax and be himself; he found conversation easier and
laughed more readily, though still not often. He had thought that a month away
from everything that had ever reminded him of Elizabeth would help erase her
from his mind, but it had not worked.
Every time he read something interesting in a new book, he wished to discuss it
with Elizabeth. When his cousin said something ridiculous, he smiled behind his
glass, thinking how funny Elizabeth would find it all. No, he could not escape
her. She was everywhere, even in his sleep where he dreamt of her; sometimes
the dreams were so real he would awaken calling her name. 
There was one particular dream that had made Darcy awaken more than once,
soaked in perspiration, his bedclothes tangled about him from his thrashing.
Elizabeth was in the drawing room at Netherfield Hall, sitting in a small
chair, reading a book with a gentle smile on her face. He would enter the room
and she would look up at him, her eyes lighting up and her smile brightening.
She would hold out her hand to him, beckoning him to come closer, but when he
began to step towards her, his arm would be grabbed by Miss Bingley. She would
begin chattering and talking about nothing, leading him out of the drawing
room. 
When he tried to turn back, his Aunt Catherine would appear on his other side,
a stern look on her face, and again try to lead him from the room. He looked
over his shoulder at Elizabeth who was still holding out her hand to him, but
seemed to be getting further and further away. He would struggle and try to get
away, but his aunt and Miss Bingley’s arms would only tighten their hold, and
his uncle Lord Matlock and Cousin Cyril would appear behind him, blocking his
view of Elizabeth, a serious expression on their faces. He couldn’t hear or
understand anything they were saying, but the message was clear. 
You cannot have her; you must come with us now.
He would catch a glimpse of Elizabeth as she faded away, the hand that was held
out to welcome him, now waving farewell. 
That was when he would call out her name and sit up suddenly in bed. Once, he
had thrashed so hard he had actually ended up on the floor. Thankfully, his
valet was the soul of discretion, or Darcy would have been seriously
embarrassed.
He had left Somerset after a fortnight; his cousin was managing the estate
admirably and everything was in hand. He knew he was terrible company and the
all-knowing eyes of his aunt had begun to disconcert him. She knew something
was wrong, but she respected his privacy too much to ask; she would wait for
him to open up to her. 
She would be waiting forever. Darcy could not tell. He knew that to say it
aloud would make it all the more real, and his overly romantic aunt would not
give counsel he could stomach at the moment.
So he had decided to come back to London and spend time with Georgiana. At
least she didn’t see into him like Aunt Preston. He hoped her sweetness would
comfort his soul and her presence would serve as a distraction to release him
from his self-imposed imprisonment. 
The last thing he had expected was to find Elizabeth at his home. It was as if
one of his dreams had come to life and was walking about his house. Living with
Elizabeth the last few days had opened Darcy’s eyes to what could be. Before he
had only dreamt about life with her, with only the few days she spent at
Netherfield as a guide. In rational moments he had told himself that no woman
could be so wonderful in real life. 
Surely, once he lived with her, he would find that she was irritable in the
mornings, or that she did not wish to be inconvenienced with playing all the
time and would withhold herself and her talents from him. Perhaps she had bouts
of ill temper or would be cruel to the servants. Even as he told himself these
things, he knew they likely weren’t true, but he had to hold on to something or
he would never be able to put her behind him.
Now, confronted with the living, breathing Elizabeth, he was more drawn to her
than ever. She had done wonders for Georgiana, who was laughing more than he
could ever remember, and opening up in a whole new way. The servants clearly
adored her. She’d been there less than a week and already knew nearly all their
names and always thanked and acknowledged them. She had been nothing but
pleasant in the mornings, and had played and sung for him every evening, never
complaining of fatigue and willing to try anything, even the songs he knew were
too difficult, but Georgiana desperately wanted to play with her. 
She was gracious to him, smiling and teasing, and she seemed to enjoy his
company, even though she wasn’t holding out her hand to him and welcoming him
to her bed as in his dreams, which she obviously couldn’t do in reality. Not
unless he made her his wife. 
My wife.
Darcy looked out the window, his hands behind his back, not seeing the London
streets in front of him. Elizabeth as his wife; it was a pretty picture. He
wanted her; that was clear. He’d wanted her for months now, ever since he’d
seen her muddy petticoats that morning at Netherfield. 
Or was it before then? It seemed like he’d wanted her for as long as he could
remember. She had worked her way into all his memories, even from his childhood
when he had not known her to exist. He imagined her there alongside him; he
watched for her reaction and imagined what secret things he would tell her. He
could barely remember a time without her in his thoughts, even when he was
desperately trying to remove her from them. She had pervaded every inch of his
life. He knew this was more than attraction. It had stood the test of time; a
passing infatuation would have come and gone long ago. 
It was time to make a decision. 
He could not continue like this. It was clear he’d never get past her. Wasn’t
his behavior today proof of that? She had disarmed him completely and made him
feel freer than he had in years. Their comfort with each other had only
continued into dinner, and when he had requested she play and sing the same
song she had at Lucas Lodge last October, she acquiesced readily.
If this was how he behaved only five days into her visit, what would happen by
the end of three weeks? He certainly couldn’t trifle with her; she deserved
better than that. He either needed to leave her alone and revert to civilities,
or pursue the honorable course and court her properly. He knew in an instant
which he preferred. If only there weren’t so many obstacles!
What good was ten thousand a year, and position, and clout, if one had no right
to personal choices and to live life as one desired? He was the master of
Pemberley after all. Hadn’t he a right to make his own decisions? Wasn’t that
why half the women who were after him made chase? He was the head of his small
family and the choice was his and his alone. He had resisted out of respect for
the opinions of his aunts and uncles, though his Aunt Preston and possibly even
Lady Matlock wouldn’t be too difficult, but now he had to decide what
he
really wanted. The answer came
immediately.
He wanted Elizabeth.