Unequal Affections Vignette--The Wedding Day

A vignette featuring the Darcy and Elizabeth of Unequal Affections.

Unequal Affections Vignette—The Wedding Day

After knocking, Colonel Fitzwilliam entered the room where Darcy stood before a mirror in his shirtsleeves, meticulously perfecting the folds of his cravat. “Well, old man?” he said. “Are you nervous?”

Darcy shook his head, smiling slightly.

The colonel laughed. “You always were the coldest fish in the sea.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. “Cold is not how I feel,” said Darcy simply.

Just then Mr. Bingley appeared, all eager excitement. “The carriage will be round in half an hour, Darcy! You’ve just time to drink a cup of coffee and eat something if you wish.”

“I would not count on eating a great deal during the wedding breakfast,” advised the other man.

Darcy nodded. “I will eat.” His valet approached and helped him into his coat. He smoothed the lapels, tugged on the sleeves and bottom edge, then walked over to the writing desk. Although nearly all his things were packed up and ready to be sent ahead as soon as he left for the church, he had a box sitting out which contained his correspondence, important papers and a few valuables. Reaching inside, he produced a small leather jeweller’s box.

“Is that the ring?” asked Bingley.

He nodded again, opening it to study its contents for a moment. Fitzwilliam walked over to stand at his shoulder. “That was Lady Anne’s ring, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” It comprised a rare yellow diamond, surrounded by small white diamonds on a golden band.

“Has she seen it yet?”

“No.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “She never even asked me what sort of ring I intended to give her. I do not believe she cares.”

“Well, she will not be disappointed with that.”

Darcy did not reply, but he had a singularly satisfied look in his eyes as he removed the ring and slipped it into an inner pocket. 

They proceeded downstairs, where Darcy ate his breakfast with remarkable composure while his cousin and friend continued to watch him closely, as if expecting him to give way to nerves at any moment. When word came that the carriage was waiting he wiped his mouth, stood, checked his appearance in a nearby mirror one last time, and strode purposely across the floor, out the door and down the steps, his companions trailing behind.

~%~%~%~%~%~

“What do you think, Georgiana?” asked Elizabeth of her newest sister, who had been permitted, along with Jane, to watch her dress. Georgiana blushed at having her opinion sought, but offered it timidly.

“I think the flowers would be prettiest if you placed them here.” She moved the spray in question to a slightly different location.

Elizabeth studied her reflection. “Yes, I think you are right.”

“It does not matter what you do, Lizzy,” said Jane. “You are beautiful regardless.”

She looked at herself, eyes full of wonder and happiness and a new bashfulness. “Do you think he will feel so?”

“Of course he will!” exclaimed both ladies at once.

The door opened to admit Mrs. Bennet, looking resplendent in her own garb. “Well, Lizzy, let me look at you,” she said, and commenced an inspection, tweaking and tugging and making little sounds of approval or disapproval as she did. Elizabeth looked with laughing eyes at the others.

“I suppose you will do,” was the verdict eventually. “You will never be Jane but you are far prettier than any other girl in Hertfordshire, and I’m sure Mr. Darcy knows it.”

“Yes, Mama, I am sure he does,” she answered, suppressing a laugh. “Even if I cannot be Jane.”

Mrs. Bennet nodded her agreement before bustling off to check on her younger daughters. The three women left behind looked and each other and burst out laughing. “Dear Mama!” said Elizabeth. “I believe I may actually miss her.”

“Of course you will miss her,” said Jane. “Just as we will all miss you.”

“Ah, but we will be returning soon enough,” she twinkled back. “When a certain other expected event  takes place.”

Jane smiled happily at this reference to her wedding.

In a few more minutes Jane and Georgiana went to put the finishing touches on their own toilettes, leaving Elizabeth alone for a few minutes. She cast a lingering glance around her chamber, knowing that when she came back there, it would not be as the maiden who had slept in that bed and dreamt girlish dreams for so many years. She would be a married woman, and if she ever slept here again, her husband would be with her. Smiling a whimsical smile, running a last, caressing hand over her old dresser, she left the room—and her girlhood—behind forever.

When Elizabeth came walking softly down the stairs in her bridal array, she found everyone but Lydia, Kitty and Mrs. Bennet gathered there. Her father looked at her with suspiciously misty eyes and pressed her hand.

Mr. Darcy had sent an extra carriage from Netherfield, but even so the first carriage was slightly cramped as Lydia, Kitty and Mary squeezed into one seat while Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Annesley occupied the other one. In the second carriage, Mr. Bennet, Georgiana and Jane rode with Lizzy.

The gentlemen were all waiting outside the church when they arrived, making conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. Mrs. Bennet’s coach disembarked first, and everyone made their greetings politely. It was on the other carriage that all eyes focused. Mr. Bennet climbed out first, and turned to assist Miss Darcy, who went immediately to her brother’s side. He took her hand and squeezed it, his eyes still fixed on the carriage door. Next, Miss Jane Bennet was helped down by her betrothed, and finally, leaning on her father’s hand, his Elizabeth, all in white, with a veil draped over her bonnet. Their eyes met across the distance and held.

Colonel Fitzwilliam tugged at his arm. “Come, Darcy we must go inside,” he whispered. “You should not be out here at all.”

Darcy shook him off. “I am hardly superstitious.” He crossed the small distance to her.

Elizabeth smiled shyly, endearingly at him, and offered him one gloved hand. The other held a small bouquet of flowers and fragrant herbs. He raised it to his lips, caressing it lightly. “My love.”

Elizabeth’s mouth deepened at the corners. “My love.”

Darcy’s throat constricted and he looked way momentarily. It had not been enough days since she first spoke that title for him to have yet grown accustomed to it.

Mr. Bennet’s presence distracted them. “Shall we go inside?”

There were not enough people to be worth filling the pews. The entire community had been invited to the celebratory breakfast afterward, but here in the church it was only family and the dearest of friends. The Phillipses sat with Mrs. Annesley, but the others just filled up the front of the sanctuary, Elizabeth’s sisters grouped behind her, Darcy’s sister and cousin together on his side, while the maid of honour and best man took the nearest positions. Mr. Bennet gave his most beloved daughter away to the man who had fairly earned her love, and even Lydia remained quiet and respectful during the short, solemn ceremony. Elizabeth hardly even blinked when he slipped the sparkling ring on her finger; there was no ring at all that mattered compared to the man standing opposite her.

When they came out they found that some local children had gathered outside, and there, too, was Sir William, with John and Maria and all the younger Lucases and even Charlotte with them, all laughing as they threw flowers and rice over the married couple.

Elizabeth had asked if they could walk home from the church, walk home as she had walked home nearly every Sunday for so much of her life. Mrs. Bennet had thought the request terribly eccentric, but Mr. Darcy had smiled as he granted it; he was not sorry for the extra minutes alone with his bride. While the others went on by carriage they strolled quietly through the sunshine, saying very little but walking very close, and when some sheltering trees provided sanctuary, who could blame them if they tarried a while, whispering and kissing, utterly happy with the world and themselves in it? It was a rosy cheeked Elizabeth and a bright-eyed Darcy who finally arrived at their wedding breakfast.

It was a loud, jolly, bustling party. Elizabeth talked with one person after another, sparkling more brightly than her wedding ring, while Darcy watched her. When Colonel Fitzwilliam, at long last extracting himself from Lydia’s clutches, appeared beside him, he spared him only a flickering glance and slight smile.

“It is good to see you so happy,” said the colonel quietly.

“It is good to be so happy.”

“I never imagined it, when we first arrived at Rosings in March.”

Darcy just shook his head.

“She will be a lot more fun at Christmas than that lady Edward married.”

Darcy gave a short bark of laughter. “Where is Georgiana?”

“Bingley and Miss Bennet have her safe. Even her shyness cannot combat their combined good will and amiability.”

He nodded. “You’ll take care of her?”

“Of course I will. Go and enjoy your wife.”

“My wife,” he murmured, and set off across the room. The crowds seemed to part almost miraculously before his tall figure; in only a few moments he had arrived at her side.

Elizabeth, flushed from heat and exertion and happiness, took his arm and smiled brilliantly at him. “You want to go.”

“I don’t wish to rush you.”

She shook her head. “I think I have talked to every person I ever knew now. The only person I have not spoken enough to is you.”

He led her towards her eldest sister. “We are ready to leave, Jane,” said Lizzy.

“Of course you are. I will go and tell my parents.” She slipped away.

“Is there anything else you need?” Darcy asked.

“I don’t think so.” She gripped his arm more firmly. “I have everything right here.”

The family goodbyes were meant to be private, but word spread quickly that the bride and groom were leaving, and by the time the carriage came around the house had disgorged its every soul onto the front porch and steps, servants included. Mr. Bennet gripped Darcy’s hand. “I could not have parted with her for anyone less worthy.”

Darcy returned his gaze without any of the old arrogance. “Thank you.”

Then it was up into the shiny new carriage, a lurch and they were moving, Longbourn’s treed drive, the shops of Meryton and the hills of Hertfordshire, all slipping, slipping past. She felt her husband’s hand pressing against hers, and his finger brushing down the side of her cheek. “You will come back again.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Her eyes moved from the window to his dear face. “I love it all, but I love you more.” His arm went around her and with a deep sigh, she settled back against him. “Take me home, Fitzwilliam.”

Burying his face against her neck he whispered, “As you wish, Mrs. Darcy.”

Dissuading Bingley

I'm back posting again finally. In honor of the release of Unequal Affections I will be posting some excerpts, and then the follow-up vignette I wrote.

This is the prologue, but it also forms a complete vignette in itself, as it represents what I think the conversation that Bingley and Darcy had about Jane would have been like. I actually wrote this (all but about the last paragraph) long before I ever began Unequal Affections, and it just worked out that it formed a good prologue for it.

Dissuading Bingley

November 1811

“Darcy, if you try to tell me that Miss Bennet is unworthy of me, I’ll—I’ll—!” Mr. Bingley’s hand clinched. “I’ll do something!”

They were in London, three days after the Netherfield ball. Mr. Bingley had been surprised to discover that the guests he had left behind on his country estate had followed him to town, and upon being now told the reason, he was anything but pleased.

“She is not unworthy of you, but her family is,” Darcy replied evenly. “And unfortunately, she cannot be separated from her family.” Bingley was not to know how he felt the force of that statement himself. “Think, Bingley! It is not only that Mrs. Bennet’s family connections would diminish the status your family has worked so hard to attain; beyond that, can you really imagine introducing that woman—those sisters—to your acquaintance with pride? Do you think you can bear with complacency their vulgarities and intrusiveness, for the rest of your life? What marriage could survive that? And you may be sure that the very amiableness of Miss Bennet’s temper will prevent her from ever setting them at a distance. Not only will you have to bear with them, but the whole of your acquaintance will have to bear with them too. Consider your friends for a moment—consider your sisters! You may be willing to mortify your own consequence, but what of theirs? Miss Bingley is not yet married; you cannot think it will recommend her to any future husband, that he must take on himself such connections as Mrs. Bennet and the younger Bennet girls!”

Mr. Bingley had grown a little pale, and was clearly struggling. “But they are all very good natured—” he protested weakly. “They are not so bad as you say, I am sure.”

“Yes, they are,” returned his friend sternly. “You did not observe them as I did, for you saw no one but Miss Bennet. Mrs. Bennet is a vulgar, shallow, scheming woman who had no compunction in boasting of your wealth, even before you made an offer. Miss Mary Bennet lacks sense and taste, and as for the two younger girls—mark my words, Bingley, one day one of them will disgrace her family by her foolish behavior. They are spoiled, vain and silly, with no sense of propriety, and hardly even of common decency. Their mother positively encourages them, while their father has the sense to know better, yet chooses to mock them rather than make any attempt to restrain them.”

Bingley quailed under this merciless description of the Bennet family and turned away in utmost agitation. Darcy saw him grasp the mantelpiece until his knuckles turned white. The moment his friend ceased speaking, he burst out, “But I love her, Darcy!”

“I know,” replied Darcy quietly.

“And I daresay you may say I have been in love before, but never like this!” He began to pace the room. “There’s no woman in England like her! She’s an angel! I don’t—I don’t think I could ever be happy without her!”

“You were happy before her.”

“But that was before I knew her—that I knew such a creature existed.” He paused, and Darcy waited. “No,” he said finally. “No, you cannot ask it of me.”

Darcy frowned. “But—”

“I’m a man of honor, Darcy!” he cried. “So are you! Would you have me behave so infamously—to pay her such attentions, raise such expectations and feelings, and then desert her? You would never behave so yourself, surely!”

“Do you believe she loves you, then?”

“Yes! Well—” he flushed, “not as much as I love her, perhaps, but sincerely, I am convinced of it. She does return my regard.”

“I disagree,” said Darcy coolly.

Bingley turned a shade paler. “What?”     

This task was turning out to be even more unpleasant than he had anticipated, but he steeled himself to continue without flinching. “I took the opportunity to observe her carefully on the night of the ball. Her countenance was ever serene and smiling, indicating a general complaisance, but no discernible depth of feeling. She received your attentions with pleasure, it’s true, but no differently than she received any other young man’s attentions.” He waited a moment while this information sank into his unhappy friend’s mind. “She likes you, Bingley, but I do not think she loves you. I acquit her of scheming—that is her mother’s part—but if you proposed she would certainly accept you; how could she do otherwise, in her situation? You will give her no other choice. Family duty, prudence, will all compel her to accept you regardless of her feelings. If you do not propose, you will certainly disappoint Mrs. Bennet’s hopes, but not necessarily Miss Bennet’s. She will not be heartbroken. In fact, she may even be slightly relieved.” 

During this whole speech Bingley had sat with his head in his hands. When Darcy finished there was a long silence before he finally looked up, his face haggard. “I—I was sure she cared about me,” he whispered.

“I’m sure that she does, as a friend. I simply do not believe she is in love with you.”

“Do not believe?” He searched his friend’s face almost desperately. “But are you sure, Darcy?”

“I am not omniscient, if that is what you are asking. But based upon my own observation, I am completely convinced within myself that her heart has not been touched.”

That Darcy’s conviction weighed heavily on the other was clear. He passed a shaky hand through his hair, and unshed tears shone in his eyes. “There’s no reason she should love me,” he said huskily. “There is nothing outstanding about me. I’m not especially handsome or especially clever or especially good. I did think, but…” he jumped up and walked around the room in a disjointed fashion. Darcy simply waited in silence. “You are right, you know,” he said at last in a low voice. “I have been trying to think of any particular look or word—anything that might have indicated a clear preference on her part; anything that would prove she loves me. But there was none. It was just her general sweetness, her kindness.” He sighed deeply.

“Charles,” Mr. Darcy spoke gently, “I know this is painful for you, but you must consider before you truly have gone too far to draw back. Is it really worth the humiliation of such a family, such low connections, to acquire a wife who, however sweet and kind, cannot even return your affection? Can you really rate your own happiness above your obligation to your sister? Would you even be happy in such a marriage? You love her, but is just having her enough? Is having her, but not having her heart—giving up so much, putting up with so much without even an equal return of regard, sufficient? Could it be sufficient for any man?”

Another long silence, then Charles said, “No. No, it is not sufficient. I could not be content to love but not be loved in return. If she had loved me, Darcy…” he sighed brokenly. “If she had loved me then I would have given anything for her. But I cannot make her love me, can I?” He looked over at his friend.

“No,” Darcy agreed. “No, you cannot.”     

Nothing to Be Gained

“Well, Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet looked up smilingly from his book. “Have you come to share my solitude for an hour or so?”

Elizabeth came slowly into the library. “I wish to ask your opinion, Father.” It was odd this, seeking his advice. She hadn’t done so for years, but it was just so very hard to know what to do, and Jane had been little help.

“My opinion?” He set down the book, and looked her over closely. “This is a new start. What matter troubles you so much that you should seek my opinion on it, eh?”

She twisted her fingers together. “Father, if you had knowledge that some… some person of your acquaintance was not of good character, but that person was soon to depart from the area in any case, would you feel it your duty to share your knowledge with society generally?”

Mr. Bennet frowned. “And is this person’s, er, ill character, of the sort likely to inflict itself on others?”

Elizabeth thought of Mr. Darcy’s young sister. “Perhaps. Yes. Not always.”

“Not always? Are we speaking of Mrs. Long’s tendency to collect other people’s silver spoons, or something more sinister?”

She smiled a little. “More sinister, without a doubt.”

“But he is to leave the area soon?”

“Yes, very soon.”

For several moments his shrewd gaze studied her face. “Has someone been telling you stories about the officers, Lizzy?”

She jumped a little at his quickness. “Only one.”

“Ah, well…” he squirmed a bit. “I do not like to tell you this, but it is a fact that perfectly respectable men may sometimes engage in behavior which would sound shocking to a girl such as yourself. I advise you not to listen to such talk, or to put a great deal of stock in it.”

“Father, no!” She blushed furiously. “It was not that sort of story. There was no titillating gossip. My source was very reliable, I assure you, and the charge very serious. It involved a gentlewoman.”

His brows rose. “One we know?”

“No, and I could on no account reveal her identity—or tell the whole story, even. It was told me in the strictest confidence, and to even name the person who related it to me would be a betrayal of trust. But as for him—the officer—is it right that he should continue in good society without anyone understanding his true character?”

“Perhaps not right, but inevitable, I’m afraid, if you’re unable to say any more. Ruin a man’s reputation because a person you cannot name accused him of offenses you cannot name against a lady you cannot name? Really, Lizzy, you must do better than that.”

She sighed miserably and twisted her fingers more tightly. “His general habits were described as vicious and profligate.”

“Not so uncommon among officers, I am afraid.”

“He slandered an innocent man.”

Again his gaze grew penetrating. “Is that man likely to suffer from it?”

Instantly, she saw again his face as she had berated him for misusing Wickham. “I think he has already suffered from it,” she said in a low voice. “But I do not know that the continued ill opinion of the populace here is likely to disturb him.”

“Then I do not see the benefit that could come from exposing this officer who is, as you say, leaving the neighborhood in a mere fortnight. Particularly if he is an, um, well liked fellow, you’ll appear more like a spiteful gossip than anything else, telling everyone that he is a drunkard and a seducer, yet without any specifics.”

“Yes… yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am. I honor your conscience, my love, but really, there is little to be done in most of these cases, and so long as he does not pose an immediate threat anyone’s daughters, little purpose in attempting it. And you wouldn’t want to appear merely disappointed in love now, eh?”

So he had guessed right again. She smiled wryly. “I am not disappointed, or in love.”

“Perhaps, but that makes you a less interesting subject, does it not? No, Lizzy, I think if you were to decry his character at just this time, the resulting gossip would be more likely to center on you than him.”

Elizabeth doubted the veracity of her father’s argument, but felt his point was correct: there was nothing to be gained from attempting to expose Mr. Wickham now. She was relieved. It would not have been a pleasant task. Yes, she thought as she left the library, remaining silent was undoubtedly the best course of action. Soon enough he would be gone out of all their lives forever.

The Dubious Satisfaction of Telling the Truth

Ever since Miss Bingley had told him about Miss Bennet being in town, Darcy had been mulling over the best course of action. He had agreed with her, initially, that it would be better if Bingley did not meet the lady. The fellow had never entirely gotten over her; although he was cheerful most of the time, Darcy could see the difference.

Yet… it did not sit well with him. He hated disguise; he had always said it proudly. He hated arts and deceptions and conniving. In honesty lay clarity and honor. That did not mean that it was incumbent on him to always say everything that could be said, to expose his own private dealings to the world, or to share his inner most thoughts and feelings with those who had done nothing to earn such a confidence. He did not even always confide in his best friends, not when it came to most delicate parts of himself. Darcy did, after all, have his natural pride and reserve to guard him. However, this was not such a case. This was  a case, rather, of deliberately keeping information from a friend, of avoiding the subject at the very least, and it might require outright prevarication. He did not like it. He did not like it at all.

By the time that Bingley returned to the house that evening, Darcy had made up his mind. It was a basic matter of respect, and of honoring the trust that Bingley placed in him. The man deserved to know, and that was that.

He went out into the hallway and invited his friend to come into his study for a drink before retiring. Bingley was happy to do so. They shared a brandy before the fire, sipping at it and chatting idly about the people Bingley had seen while he was out. Darcy had spent the time dining with his sister.

“Bingley,” said Darcy at last, “I thought you ought to know. Miss Jane Bennet is in town.”

Bingley took a rather larger gulp of the liquor than he had intended, and choked a bit as it went down. “Jane—ah, Miss Bennet? What is she doing in London? And how,” he added with sudden surprise, “did you learn of it?”

“I believe she is staying with the family of her uncle, her mother’s brother who resides near Cheapside and is in trade.” Darcy emphasized the family’s situation slightly. “Miss Bingley told me of it.”

“Caroline told you?” he repeated. “She said nothing to me about it.”

“Well, you could hardly expect her to, after everything that happened. Of course she would be concerned that such knowledge would only pain you.”

“Well what in blazes was she doing confiding in you about it?”

“She wanted my advice on how she should proceed,” said Darcy tactfully. “I had not much to give her at the time—I did share her concerns—but I have been thinking about it and I have reached the conclusion that you ought to know.”

“Well of course I ought to know,” Bingley muttered, staring down at his warm liquid. “How long did you say she’s been here?”

“I am not precisely certain, but I believe about two weeks.”

There was silence for some time after that. Darcy leaned back in his chair, content to let his friend process the new information, glad that he could be there to help temper whatever reaction he might have.

“I ought to call on her,” said Bingley at last.

“You are not obliged to do that.”

“Well, but… for my sisters to know about her being here, she must have written to them, or called on them.”

Darcy did not feel it wise to answer that.

“She clearly still considers herself a friend of our family, and why should she not? Louisa and Caroline both liked her very much. And I hope…” his voice trailed off momentarily, “I hope that she still considers me her friend. It would look excessively rude if I didn’t call on her.”

“Or perhaps excessively pointed if you did.”

“Oh, hang it all, Darcy, I can call on an acquaintance without offering marriage, can’t I?”

Darcy looked at him skeptically. “Ordinarily, yes, but Miss Bennet is not just any common acquaintance. When you left Hertfordshire there was a general expectation in the neighborhood that you would offer for her before long; the very reason you could not return was to squelch it before it affected your reputation or hers. If you call on her now, in London, it will appear as exactly the sort of particular attentions which you most need to avoid.”

Bingley frowned. It was an unusual expression, for him; it made it him look older. “You were reluctant to me the truth about her location because you were afraid that I would simply run off after her like a lost puppy, weren’t you?”

“Ah—” Darcy was taken aback.

“There’s no need to deny it. I know I’ve not been the most constant of fellows where my affections and purposes were concerned. Yet it’s not the same, this time.” He stood up suddenly. “She’s not the same, this time. I really love her, Darcy. I’ve thought about her constantly, ever since I left Netherfield. It’s like… it’s like an ache inside of me that can never quite be healed. I know that she doesn’t love me, but if there was the slightest chance that I could make her love me, that I could win her, fairly, like a man—“ he stopped and drew a deep breath.

“A man like you should not have to win a woman like Miss Bennet,” said Darcy testily, his alarm overriding his tact. “If she cannot see the man that you are—if she was not capable of appreciating your merits and loving you from the first, then she does not deserve your devotion.”

“But Darcy, any good woman is worth winning!”

“Come now, Bingley, let’s be realistic. As charming and handsome as Miss Bennet undoubtedly is, she is simply not the warm, loving type of woman. She has no passion, no spark, no fervor! I daresay you may engage her affections as far as they can be engaged, but what is that, compared to the feelings you carry for her? She is a poor match for you in every way, and you are far and away superior to any match she has a right to expect! She will never be able to deserve you!”

Bingley stared at his friend in shock, his face reddening. “You’re wrong,” he said at last, slowly, as if the words were strange. “Miss Bennet is not what you  say she is… and the fact that you think that makes me believe that you have never understood her at all.”

“Bingley—”

“No, no! You shall not convince me otherwise. I have always trusted your judgment, Darcy, but this time you are simply wrong. Miss Bennet is tender-hearted and devoted and caring. She does feel things deeply, I know it.”

“I observed her most carefully and—”

“Yes, yes, I know what you observed! And perhaps you are right that she cares nothing for me especially, although now I doubt that too. But she is worthy of me—more than worthy! It is I who am not worthy of her, of such excellence and goodness and beauty and sweetness—and yes, tenderness. Tenderness such as she showed to all her family, her sister Elizabeth most especially, but also to her mother and her father and her other sisters, no matter what they were. If she loves them so much,” he began to pace in his excitement and agitation, “even though they are everything that you said they are, even though none of them are anything like her at all, if she loves them with such devotion, why should she not love me? Her heart is ready, eager to love, Darcy! She thinks well of everyone, and truly means it. She is attached, most sincerely attached to all her family and friends. I have a chance—I am sure that I must have a chance to win her love, and if were so fortunate to do so, I should never repine, Darcy!”

“Her family—”

“I don’t care about her family! Don’t you understand that?”

“Your sister—”

“Will not suffer unduly if I marry Miss Bennet. After all, who are we? Our family fortune was acquired in manufacturing and trade. And she likes Jane, of course she does.”

Darcy groaned inwardly, wishing that he hadn’t said anything after all. “You must consider before you act, Bingley.”

“I’ve done nothing but consider for the last two months!”

“You cannot throw yourself away on a—”

“No more, I pray you!” He patted his coat down hastily, as if checking it, and ran his hands through his hair. “Potter! I must call Potter to bring my hat and my gloves! What street did you say?”

“You can’t go tonight!”

“What? Yes, I suppose you’re right, it’s too late. I’ll go in the morning then. First thing. Potter!” He went out into the hall. “Potter, you’ll have all my things ready for the morning, won’t you?”

Darcy sunk his head into his hands. What had he done?

Conversations Which Never Happened: The Awkward Business of the Shrubbery

I have a great fondness for writing all kinds of variant scenes of Pride and Prejudice, without always wanting to write an entire story around them. So I will be posting and collecting some of these scenes under the title "Conversations Which Never Happened." Each one represents an individual variation, and are not conneted to each other.


The Awkward Business of the Shrubbery

“… the expression, certainly, would be difficult to capture, but their color and shape, and the lashes, so remarkably fine, might be—”

Darcy’s words came to an abrupt halt as he and Miss Bingley rounded a corner of the hedge and ran smack into Mrs. Hurst and Miss Elizabeth Bennet herself, standing with her lovely eyes wide open and a look of shock on her face that left no doubt that she had heard him. He shut his eyes for a moment, feeling the blood flood his cheeks, but on opening them, happened to see Miss Bingley’s countenance, which bore such an expression of chagrin that he wanted to laugh.

“Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Hurst moved quickly to intercede, taking his free arm. “Were you walking this way? Do let me join you!”

She steered them toward another walk, but his head turned to watch Elizabeth, now standing alone and still looking adorably confused. It was unconscionably rude for them to walk off and leave her there, and he wanted to invite her along, to suggest they go into the avenue, but his composure wasn’t strong enough. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, then she turned and almost ran back towards the house.

Darcy spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what he should do. It all depended, he finally decided, on how much of his conversation with Miss Bingley she had overheard. If she had caught only the last few lines and somehow managed to deduce that they were about her, then he rather thought the best thing would be to say nothing. It was not so terrible if she knew that he admired her eyes; really, he had no wish to deny it.

 

But Darcy was very concerned about raising false expectations, and he had certainly been paying her a great deal of attention lately. If Elizabeth had overheard enough of the conversation to know that Miss Bingley was teasing him about the idea of marrying her, then it was quite possible that she had gotten entirely the wrong idea. For while Darcy was attracted to Elizabeth, while he admired her and enjoyed her company and was at times positively bewitched by her, and while the idea of marrying her was undeniably delightful and appealing, it was impossible. He did not have, could not have, any serious designs on her. It would be dashed awkward, but the best, kindest thing in that circumstance would be to tell her the truth.

He went to Mrs. Hurst to discover the crucial information. This lady looked astonished and uncomfortable at the question, but finally admitted that they had heard quite enough to have gotten the gist of the conversation. “I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “You were coming straight towards us, and she was quite frozen with astonishment. I would have hurried her away if I could have.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said shortly.

It was his fault. It was his fault for being so unguarded in his speech to Miss Bingley, and so obvious in his admiration. He could only imagine that Elizabeth was even now planning her wedding clothes, and while a part of him was sorry to disoblige her, it had to be done.

“Miss Bennet.” He came across her in the hallway. “I wonder if I might have a word with you?” He nodded toward the library.

She hesitated but entered, and he came after her. “What is this about, Mr. Darcy?” For the first time he had ever seen her, she seemed shy around him, and would not look him directly in the eye.

“Miss Bennet, forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I have never liked disguise, and it would serve me ill now. I know that you overheard Miss Bingley and I when we were discussing you.”

She flushed. “I did not eavesdrop by design!”

“I am not suggesting that you did. I only wish to make my position clear, lest you misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand?”

“Yes, I…” he was finding this more difficult than anticipated, and shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t wish you to take from Miss Bingley’s teasing… to suppose that her fanciful jests are reflections of my stated—or implied!—intentions—or to form any expectations because I—”

“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bennet was beet red by now. “I assure you, nothing was further from my mind! I would never… and you especially!”

“Oh. Oh, well then… I am relieved to know that,” he said, feeling terribly disappointed.

“Now, if you would excuse me…” she moved hastily towards the door.

“Miss Bennet!” he found himself calling her.

She paused reluctantly. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”

“Miss Bennet, in one respect the conversation you overheard was entirely accurate. You have remarkably fine eyes.”

Those eyes widened, and for several moments blinked at him, before shifting rather longingly to the doorway. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good afternoon.”

He continued to stare at the door even after she had exited through it. A sudden thought occurred to him. Him especially, she had said. Why him especially!?

How I came to write Jane Austen Fan Fiction

I first read Pride and Prejudice as a teenager, but was rather disappointed at the lack of kissing in it. I was big into Georgette Heyer in those days, and Austen's subtler humor and more restrained passion just didn't do it for me. I'm fairly certain I also read Emma at one point too. I didn't read Austen as an adult until I became part of a very brief book club in my church. We only met once, but Pride and Prejudice was the first book we read. After that, I went on and read all of Austen's complete novels, enjoying all of them, and loving each one the best as I was reading it. The only I had trouble with was Northanger Abbey, because the Thorpes were so irritating I just couldn't stand it. I did eventually come back and finish that too, though.

Somehow, I don't remember how any more, I became aware that my local library had several books wherein various people tried to retell Pride and Prejudice from Darcy's viewpoint. (This, I believe, is the root of all JAFF--a fascination with Darcy.) I picked the one which sounded like it was the most faithful to the original. It was a very early attempt and I wasn't impressed with it and, inevitably thought, "I could do better than that!" After which I promptly sat down wrote out the scene at the Mertyon Assembly from Darcy's point of view. Not too terribly long after I discovered JAFF on the Internet, first the Bits of Ivory archive at The Republic of Pemberley, which I steadily read my way through, and then at the Derbyshire Writer's Guild. The more I read, the more I wanted to write my own, and so I did, and three years or so later, I still do. After a lifetime of thinking of myself as a writer and wanting to write but not finding any ideas which could hold my interest, I owe a great debt to the world of Jane Austen fanfiction for givng me a subject and a forum that would, at last, turn me, not into someone who can write, but someone who does.

And in thanks for reading that small history, I now give you the very first piece of Jane Austen fanfiction I ever wrote (never before seen by anyone):

The Assembly Ball

            It was a very boring ball. Of course, he always found balls boring—crowded, hot, noisy affairs that they were, full of far too many people, most of whom invariably seemed shallow, silly or boring—gossipy matrons, simpering maidens, awkward young swains—people, moreover, who he did not know and did not understand.

            This ball, being a country ball—and a public one, at that—was by far a greater evil still. Here he stood surrounded by not even half a dozen people of his acquaintance, amidst a crush of outmoded fashions and sweating bodies, and everywhere he went he knew people were watching, whispering, speculating, pushing forward their blushing daughters precipitously, and expecting him to receive it all as a high treat. Not that he cared for their opinion, but it offended his sense of propriety, and his fastidious taste, and the loud music and unmodulated voices invariably grated on his nerves. For a moment he thought longingly of the quiet halls of Pemberley.

            For Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, future lover of Elizabeth Bennet, possessor of £10,000 a year, a beautiful Derbyshire estate, and a very proud name and family tree—Mr. Darcy, a just, honest, scrupulous, clever and high-minded man of the world if ever there was one—was in his heart a lover of quiet and intimacy. Even as a boy he had hated to leave Pemberley his home, and all the servants that knew and loved him. Going away to school had been difficult for him, but of course he had not let it show—oh, no, that would not have been befitting a Darcy. He knew, even then, what a great name he had inherited. His parents had instilled that in him, from infancy up—that pride in his heritage, that deep sense of what was due it, and that faint, ineffable sense of superiority that sprang from knowing what a rare and special thing it was to belong to such. So he concealed his shyness beneath cool, silent composure, and as for those who thought him overly proud—he shrugged. What of them?

            So this habit remained and increased into adulthood. Add to it the habit of command from an early age, refined tastes and high standards, and a cynicism borne of the continual courting that rich and handsome well-connected young men generally receive (especially by the fairer sex and their mamas), and you have the Mr. Darcy who was currently disdainfully surveying the milieu before him.

            Charles of course, was having a roaring good time—but then, he always did. It was Charles’s chief gift in life, and one Darcy did occasionally sincerely envy him. For one fleeting moment now, he felt so, as he observed his friend’s complete contentment—but it was very fleeting indeed, as he saw a particularly voluble woman lead up her—good heavens, was it five daughters? Really it was ridiculous, he thought impatiently. He was sure these were good enough people in their own sphere—perhaps really fine people, some of them—but what had they in common with him, or vise versa? Thank heaven his own reserve protected him from the worst of these importunities.

            He danced with each of Bingley’s sisters, as he knew he must, but he did not really care much for dancing anyway, and so took refuge in his own thoughts on the side of the room. Not by one flicker of an eyelash did he betray any consciousness of the general dislike that was rising around him due to his indifference, and he would have thought it beneath him to care if he did. He had come to please Charles, not a room full of strangers.

            His friendship with Charles Bingley was something of a surprise to many who knew them both, but was nonetheless genuine for all that. Mr. Bingley had endeared himself to him with the same sweetness and transparency of temper that won him love everywhere. He had, furthermore, good naturedly refused to be offended by the older man’s aloof manner, until Darcy had finally laughed, unbent, and made himself as pleasant as he knew how to do when his esteem was fairly won. Darcy disdained artificial friendliness, but in Bingley he saw only genuine benevolence, and liked him for it.

            In visiting him he had, of course, seen much of his two sisters, especially the younger, and accepted them as friends for his sake. Caroline Bingley did not attract him much as a woman, but at least she had breeding, and taste, and wit enough to be sometimes amusing. She was moreover very kind to his sister—and Darcy’s sister was the dearest thing to him on earth.

            When Bingley, bright-faced from so much exercise, came over to enjoin him to dance, Darcy replied in the strong negative. If dancing with friends did not much attract him, now much less with a stranger?

            "I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom!” cried his dauntless friend. “Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty."

            "You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” he replied depressingly, looking at the, admittedly, very pretty and elegant young woman he had partnered with.

            "Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."

            Really, why must Charles press him so? “Which do you mean?” he asked to appease him, and glanced indifferently at the young lady indicated. No, she was not her sister’s equal—that was all he really noted before, catching her gaze, he withdrew his own. “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me,” he said firmly and rather coldly. He did not see the martial light that kindled in the dark eyes behind him then, or he might of looked twice at their owner’s face. As it was, he presently went his way without any consciousness of having met his fate—or slighted her.