Astonished in Derbyshire, Part One, Chapter Two

  Chapter 2

On the third morning of their stay in Lambton, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner decided to walk to down to the old church, the same one where Mrs. Gardiner was baptized as a baby, and where some of her family were buried. It was, she assured Elizabeth, a very pretty building, and the three of them prepared to depart together. When they reached the lobby of the inn, though, Elizabeth quite literally ran into Mr. Darcy. He appeared to be heading towards the stairs they had just exited, and the two nearly collided.

“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth hardly even felt surprise this time.

“Miss Bennet, I, uh… were you going out?”

“Yes, we were just about to walk down to the church.”

“The old one at the end of Windemere Lane, you mean?”

“Well yes, I suppose so. I don’t really know—it is my aunt who is familiar with Lambton.” Elizabeth nodded toward her relatives, but once again he favored them with a mere glance. Irritation at his incivility rose—if nothing else, she had remembered that aspect of his character correctly.

“Perhaps I might accompany you.” He nodded toward the door.

She looked at him uncertainly. “Did you not have some business here, that you were going to do?”

“Ah—nothing of significance, I assure you.”

“And your party at Pemberley? Are they so sanguine at having their host disappear for a portion of each day?”

“They have sufficient occupation.” He offered his arm. “Shall we go?”

She did not take it. “Mr. Darcy, I am here with my aunt and uncle—Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.” As she spoke she moved backward until she stood next to them. “Perhaps I might introduce them to you?”

He colored a little, whether in anger or belated recognition of his rudeness, she didn’t know. “Of course.”

She made the introduction, and he managed to speak civilly, if briefly, to them, before turning back to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet?”

It seemed she had no choice but to take his arm and endure his company yet again. Elizabeth felt strange, walking out with him like this, as if they were actually friends, and with her new knowledge of him—or lack of knowledge, rather. She had thought she understood him very well, but instead he was an unreadable cipher, and she hardly knew what to think. As the master of Pemberley, he commanded great respect. His past behavior was deplorable, his current behavior inexplicable, and his dealings with Mr. Wickham increasingly murky and uncertain. How was she to understand such differing evidence? What was she to make of him?

They made their way down the street. Elizabeth caught the occasional amazed glance directed their way, with doffed hats and hasty bows. Mr. Darcy merely nodded in response. He was silent today, without the determined questions of yesterday, and she wondered why he had bothered to come.

“My aunt grew up in Lambton,” she said at last, suddenly unable to bear the silence.

“Did she?”

“Yes. She was christened at this church.”

“Hmm.”

“It was she who suggested we visit Pemberley.”                       

“Did you not wish to visit it yourself?”

“I did not wish to intrude.”

“You were not intruding.”

“Still… you know, Mr. Darcy, we knew each other very slightly so many months ago. I would not presume to call myself more than the merest acquaintance, and perhaps barely that.”

He looked thoughtful at that. “When do you depart?”

“Tomorrow is the plan.”

“Is that because you imagined you would not wish to stay longer, or because you are expected elsewhere?”

“Lambton is our longest planned stay in any town, sir. My uncle must return to his business soon, and there is much more of Derbyshire to see.”

“Of course,” he murmured, and was promptly silent for the rest of the walk. When they reached the church he surprised her by volunteering information about the windows’ age and design, but otherwise said little as the group explored the sanctuary and grounds outside.

As they were on their way back he unexpectedly took up their former subject. “Do you plan to remain in London for a time, or will you travel directly to Longbourn?”

“I will stay about a week with the Gardiners.” She wondered to what his question tended.

“And your uncle—he lives in Cheapside, is that right?” He winced a bit as he said the name.

“Near Cheapside, Mr. Darcy,” she answered drily. “Gracechurch Street. I daresay that it is unfashionable, but not quite a back alley, either.”

“No, no, your aunt and uncle appear very genteel.”

“They are very genteel.”

Whether he heard the edge on her voice or not, he lapsed back into the same irritating introspection. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at the Gardiners walking behind; her aunt raised her eyebrows with a questioning look, and she gave her a bewildered look back.

When they had come back into the center of town, the lead couple found themselves unexpectedly hailed from the street, where an open carriage sat, containing—of all people!—Mr. and Miss Bingley. “Here you are, Darcy, we were all wondering—” Mr. Bingley stopped abruptly upon recognizing his companion, and sat with his mouth hanging open a full inch.

“Mr. Darcy, do show me about this charming town!” Miss Bingley, her face an alarming shade of red, scrambled out of the carriage and took his free arm possessively. “Well, if it isn’t little Miss Eliza,” she added with a nervous laugh. “What a surprise to see you here!”

It was now obvious to Elizabeth that Darcy had not only failed to mention the Bingleys’ presence at Pemberley to her, but also her presence in Lambton to them. This apparent double concealment—which she could not but believe deliberate—enraged her. Swiftly she drew her hand out of Darcy’s arm. “It is a surprise to see you too, Miss Bingley,” she said.

“I say, Miss Elizabeth!” Regaining his self-possession, Mr. Bingley now practically vaulted out of the carriage into the street before her. “What a pleasure this is! To think of finding you in Lambton, of all places—and walking with Darcy! Did you just meet?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy has known of my presence here for the last three days, ever since I encountered him while touring the grounds at Pemberley. But do not tell me that he did not inform you of it!” She opened her eyes very wide. Darcy shifted beside her.

Bingley looked taken aback, but covered it quickly with inquiries after her health and her family. She answered him briefly and said. “Mr. Bingley, please allow me to present to you my aunt and uncle Gardiner.”

“Of course, I shall be delighted.” They came forward, and the introductions were made.

“But Miss Bingley, you already know Mrs. Gardiner, of course! You met her when you called on Jane at their home, I believe. January, wasn’t it? No, I am wrong, that was when she called on you. You returned the call in February.”

Miss Bingley looked furious, Mr. Bingley beautifully astonished, and Mr. Darcy—when she did finally defiantly meet his eyes—distinctly uncomfortable. Then Elizabeth saw her aunt’s face, and felt briefly ashamed. She had put her on the spot most ungraciously.

“How do you do, Mrs. Gardiner?” asked Miss Bingley through her teeth.

Mrs. Gardiner murmured something in reply, and an excruciatingly awkward silence followed. Mr. Gardiner was the one to finally break it, asking the gentlemen about what kind of sport they were enjoying. After a brief conversation they parted ways, Elizabeth being sure to firmly attach herself to her relatives. Mr. Darcy stayed with his friends.

~%~

“I am sorry, Aunt Gardiner. I should not have said it—only I could not help it. Miss Bingley’s treatment of Jane was infamous, and Mr. Darcy was clearly conspiring to keep Mr. Bingley from knowing I was in the country. It just made me so angry.”

Aunt Gardiner sighed. “I did not love you very much at that moment, Lizzy, but I do understand. It seems at least that Mr. Bingley knew nothing of Jane’s visits with his sister—if his countenance was anything to go by.”

“He did look terribly surprised, didn’t he? I wonder if he ever knew she was in town—or if it will make any difference that he knows now. Either he never loved her enough to marry her, or he is far too easily led by others, and neither condition can be cured simply by knowing she called.”

Later  in the afternoon when Mrs. Gardiner had retired to her room for a nap, Mr. Gardiner put down his book, and looked at his niece in a serious fashion. “Lizzy,” he said, “Will you be offended if I ask you about the nature of your prior relationship with Mr. Darcy?”

She blinked in surprise. “There was no prior relationship, uncle. He stayed with Mr. Bingley at Netherfield for a few weeks, and we were sometimes in company together, that is all. We have always disliked each other amazingly.”

“He is not behaving as if he dislikes you.”

She colored. “He has been behaving very strangely since we met again. I do not know how to explain it.”

“Is today the first day you have seen him, since your unexpected meeting at Pemberley?”

“No,” she admitted. “I encountered him when walking around the town yesterday too.”

“I see. And it does not seem a remarkable coincidence to you, that he should appear in the same place as you, two mornings in a row? He was going upstairs in the inn until he saw you. Did it occur to you that he might have come to town expressly to call on you?”

“Oh, do not talk so!” she begged him, distressed. “Why, it is absurd. He was the most disagreeable man I ever met, when he was in Hertfordshire. We argued several times, and I haven’t seen him since—not for more than eight months!”

“Even so, he has repeatedly sought your company ever since he knew you were here.”

“It is unaccountable, I freely admit that, but I truly cannot think that it means anything. How could it? Please let us speak no more of it!”

He agreed, and they each took up a book. After a few minutes Mr. Gardiner began to nod off and finally declared his intention of joining his wife in her slumber. Elizabeth, who was still feeling discomposed, was glad to cast aside her book and the pretension of reading it.

It had all been so astonishing, so mystifying, so disconcerting! What was she to think? How was she to feel? And yet they would be gone soon. Surely, whatever Mr. Darcy’s reasons for coming to town—perhaps he was merely evading Miss Bingley’s attentions, she thought hopefully—they would not matter two days hence.

Just as Elizabeth was settling with herself that she had exaggerated the significance of what had occurred, a servant opened the door and Mr. Darcy himself strode in.

“Mr. Darcy!” She rose to her feet and smoothed her skirt, wondering what on earth was to transpire next.

“Miss Bennet.” He looked around the room. “You are alone? Your aunt and uncle—”

“They have retired to their chambers for a time.”

“Good. That is to say, I wish to speak to you privately.” He ran a hand over the back of his head.

“I cannot imagine what about, Mr. Darcy.”

“I—” He hesitated, and took a few restless steps around the room. “I was extremely surprised when I saw you at Pemberley.”

“I am sure you were.”

“The sight of you, standing there, where I had often—” He checked. “But first—we should speak of Bingley.”

“Yes, Mr. Bingley. How strange that you should have never happened to mention that there were people I knew among your party!”

“It was for his sake, you understand.”

“Oh, his sake?”

“Yes. It seemed possible that seeing you might cause him some unhappiness, and I did not wish for that.”

“I see.” Her mouth drew into a tight light. “And what of my sister’s unhappiness, Mr. Darcy?”

“Your sister?” He looked startled.

“It is obvious to me, although you will not admit it, that you want nothing more than to keep our entire apparently poisonous family away from him, just from fear that he might somehow remember the sweet and lovely woman he abandoned last November!”

“You speak as if there were an understanding between them, which you know there was not!”

“But there would have been, had he remained any longer!”

He opened his mouth and shut it again, looking frustrated. “This is not what I came here to speak to you about.”

“You brought it up.”

“A mistake, clearly.”

“I think your mistake, Mr. Darcy, was in coming here this afternoon. Perhaps it would be best if you left.”

“I have not yet said what I came here to say.”

“Whatever it is, I cannot imagine that I would wish to hear it.”

He stared at her, his color very high. “Perhaps you would not say that if you knew what it was.”

She stared back defiantly. “Or perhaps I would.”

He picked up the hat and gloves he had discarded on a side table and gave her a quick, stiff, very slight bow before turning away. Just as his hand turned the handle of the door, though, he paused, and looking back said, “I should thank you, actually. You have saved me from a very foolish action, madam.”

The bite in his tone penetrated even her anger, and she wondered at his words. But then he was gone, shutting the door with pointed force behind him.

Astonished in Derbyshire

 

Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find... they soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.

With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.              -P&P, ch. 44

 

                                                                                                                                         (image from http://alpenstrasse.tumblr.com/post/47787158165)
   

PART ONE: DERBYSHIRE

Chapter 1

When Mr. Bingley left Hertfordshire with his two proud sisters and even prouder friend, Elizabeth Bennet regretted only Mr. Bingley, and only on behalf of her sister. She was incensed at the way Jane had been abandoned by a man so lately paying her pointed attentions, and bitterly blamed his companions for influencing him, but did not think much on those companions themselves. She didn’t actually think of Mr. Darcy at all, except in connection with Mr. Bingley, and sometimes in connection with her friend Mr. Wickham, who liked to tell tales of growing up on the Darcy estate.

They almost met when she went to visit her friend Charlotte Collins in Kent; she learned soon after her arrival that the Lady Catherine de Bough was expecting a visit from her nephews Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Two days before their scheduled arrival, however, Mr. Collins returned from Rosings in great distress to report that Mr. Darcy’s sister had fallen unexpectedly ill and he did not feel able to leave her. Elizabeth was surprised that Darcy should have so much brotherly feeling, and felt a combination of relief at not meeting the unpleasant man again, and disappointment that there would be no addition to the company or entertainment Hunsford and Rosings had so far provided.

She had to admit that Lady Catherine seemed genuinely anxious over the wellbeing of her niece, and Elizabeth was mildly pleased when word arrived that Miss Darcy was out of danger and recovering nicely. The gentlemen’s visit was rescheduled for a fortnight following her own departure from the area, so she returned home without having seen either of them.

She did not think of Mr. Darcy over the following months, until she came into Derbyshire with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, and her Aunt Gardiner expressed a wish to visit his estate, Pemberley. It seemed odd to visit the home of someone she had actually met, but Elizabeth found herself curious to view the place which Miss Bingley had so praised, and decide for herself if it was worthy of such accolades. She fully expected to find it much like Rosings, ornate and pretentious, and once the maid at the inn had told them that the family was away for the summer, she set out in the best of spirits, fully prepared to mock so much prideful munificence.

~%~

It was a very bemused Elizabeth who returned to the inn that afternoon. The day had not gone at all like she expected. First, she had been astonished at the real beauty and elegance of Pemberley. Indeed, as they walked its halls and viewed its grounds, she had to admit that it truly was, as Miss Bingley had said, the most delightful place in the world, and even that the man who owned it might have some cause for pride. She was quick to remind herself that Mr. Darcy had not built it, he merely inherited it, but even she had to concede that the current state of the house and grounds, and the tastefulness of the furnishings, reflected well on its owner.

Still more astonishing had been the account which Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, had given them as she led them about the public rooms. She had been filled with extravagant praise of her master, had named him the best master, best landlord, kindest, fairest, sweetest tempered—! Her tribute went on until Elizabeth’s head was reeling. Undoubtedly she was an extremely partial old family retainer, but still! She, Elizabeth, would never have believed him capable of inspiring such loyalty in those under him.

They had seen a miniature of Mr. Wickham at one point, and she had eagerly asked about him, hoping and expecting to hear some praise at least equal to that lavished on Mr. Darcy, but received only a, “He turned out very wild, I am afraid.” It was as if Pemberley was some sort of upside-down place, where things she believed inviolable were turned topsy-turvy—where Mr. Darcy was honorable and affable, and Mr. Wickham only wild.

He was a handsome man, she thought, as she looked at his portrait in the gallery. Handsome and certainly far richer and grander than she had fully appreciated before. It appeared he had at least some good qualities—he took care of his estate, and treated his servants well. His arrogance would not appear so out of place here as it did in the Meryton Assembly room—but still, she could not like him, or approve of his treatment of Mr. Wickham.

But the most startling part of the day happened when they were lingering on the lawn, admiring the view of the house from there, and Mr. Darcy himself walked around the corner. Any discomfort Elizabeth might have felt was completely lost in amazement at his reaction to the sight of her. Instead of looking displeased and offering a distant acknowledgement—or instead of not recognizing her at all, which would not have surprised her—he positively started. His mouth opened and then closed, and a deep blush suffused his cheeks. “Miss Bennet!” he said.

She gave him a small curtsy. “Mr. Darcy. Forgive us, we were told that you were from home.”

“I was.” But he didn’t seem to be paying attention to what he said; instead, his eyes were fixed earnestly on her face. He came closer.

“We just enjoyed a tour of your house,” she said helpfully, wondering at his attitude.

“Did you like it?” He came closer again, still intent on her face.

“Of course.” She smiled. “It is everything Miss Bingley said.”

The other woman’s name seemed to recall him to a sense of himself. He blinked and stepped backward. “I trust you are well, Miss Bennet? How is your family?”

The return to normal civilities relieved her. “I am very well, thank you, and so are my family. I am here with my aunt and uncle.”

“Ah.” He glanced toward the couple standing in the background.

“We are touring Derbyshire.”

“Of course.”

They stood awkwardly for a few moments. “If I may inquire, how is your sister, Mr. Darcy? I understand she was ill in the spring.”

“You had that from Lady Catherine, I imagine.”

“Yes.”

“She is entirely recovered, thank you. It was a surprise to me to learn, when I arrived at Rosings, that you had so recently been there.”

“Really?” Elizabeth had now run out of remarks and had nothing to say.

“I had wondered whether it was possible that we might meet each other there at some time, knowing your friendship with Mrs. Collins, but I could not have reasonably supposed that it would happen so soon—as indeed it did not, but if Miss Darcy had not been unwell, we would certainly have been in each other’s company.”

For the life of her, Elizabeth could not imagine why he was making so much of it. He seemed different, in an odd way—or rather, it was he who was odd. Certainly her perceptions of him had been softened by the preceding hour, but she was sure that he had never looked or spoken in just that way before. “I am glad she is better.” She waited, and when he made no further reply, but just continued to look at her, she made a motion as if to leave. “I am keeping you, I believe…”

“Not at all,” he said, then seemed to realize that he was still standing in his riding coat, windblown and dirty. “Forgive me, I should go inside.”

She curtsied and turned, but before she had gone more than two steps he called her back. “Miss Bennet!”

She turned slowly. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”

“If I may inquire, where are you staying?”

“At the Red Lion, in Lambton.”

He nodded. “I know it. Perhaps…” he paused. “Perhaps we will run into each other again.”

She smiled thinly. “Perhaps so. Good day.”

“Good day.”

She walked the distance back to where her aunt and uncle stood, feeling his eyes the entire time.

~%~

“So that was Mr. Darcy, Lizzy!” said her aunt. “He is very handsome, isn’t he?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“What were you talking of so long?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“He did not seem to want to let you leave, from what I could see.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth slowly. “It was almost like that—but of course, it must have been something else. Only he was behaving so very strangely!”

“These great men often do take queer starts,” observed her uncle. “Perhaps it is only that he liked the look of you, Lizzy.”

She laughed at that. “No, uncle, I am certain that was not the reason! I have it on the best possible authority that Mr. Darcy has never admired me.”

“Why, whose authority do you mean?”

“His own, of course!” She smiled cheekily at their surprise and led the way further on. But inwardly, she felt very oddly herself. Pemberley was not what she expected, Mr. Darcy was not what she expected… what had happened?

~%~

The next day her aunt and uncle went to pay calls on some old friends, and Elizabeth was left to herself. The Red Lion was situated in the middle of town so she decided to walk about a little bit and look at the shops. In a country town like this she thought little of going out alone.

Out of the corner of her eye, as she crossed the street, she caught a glimpse of a tall figure who reminded her instantly of Darcy—but when she turned her head, he was not there. Nevertheless, not ten minutes later as she was lingering before a tiny milliner shop, the man himself appeared behind her shoulder. She saw his reflection in the glass, and wondered that her stomach jumped so. “Mr. Darcy!”

He tipped his hat. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. I said we might meet again, did I not?”

She gaped just a little. “But—I understood your party was to arrive this morning. Was I in error?”

“No.” He looked a bit uncomfortable. “They are expected, but I had some business that brought me into town. Miss Darcy will act as hostess.” He gestured toward the window. “Do you like hats?”

Did she like hats? “No more than reason,” she replied flippantly.

He smiled. “My sister frequently attempts to convince me of the same thing. In fact,” he went on rather quickly, “I intend to purchase one for her this morning, as… a gift. Would you be so kind as to come inside with me, and give me your opinion?”

This request left Elizabeth more astonished than ever; firstly, that a man like Mr. Darcy would choose his younger sister’s hats; secondly, that he would purchase them here instead of in London; and thirdly, that he should care at all for her opinion. She was too astonished to demur, and they went into the store together.

It was, in truth, little more than an enclosed booth, with hats and bonnets hanging all over the walls and even suspended from the ceiling. She was quite certain that Mr. Darcy had never been in there before, as he eyed the small space with unrestrained wonder. The lady who emerged from the rear of the store clearly recognized him; she turned quite pink, and her bosom swelled  to see the great man standing in her establishment. Elizabeth was hard pressed not to burst out laughing.

“Mr. Darcy,” the proprietess breathed. “Sir, I am honored by your patronage.”

He looked down at her as if he had heard such sentiments a thousand times. “I want a hat.”

“Yes, sir! Might it be for Miss Darcy, or—” she glanced at Elizabeth.

“It is for Miss Darcy. Miss Bennet, however, will chose it.”

“Mr. Darcy!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “I cannot take such an office on myself. All I promised was my opinion; it is you who will have to make the choice.”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell me what you like.”

Suddenly unaccountably blushing, Elizabeth began to look about, scanning her eyes over the rows and rows of millinery creations. It appeared that the lady had a taste for flamboyance and color; there was really little among the feathers and artificial flowers to interest. Still, she made a show of looking diligently, and eventually she came across a hat that was plainer than the others, made of blonde straw, with a wide, apple green ribbon that tied under the chin. She thought it charming, primarily because of its lack of adornment. “This would be appropriate for a young girl,” she told him.

Mr. Darcy regarded it with one corner of his mouth just slightly upturned. “Would you wear such a hat?”

“In the summer time? Certainly.”

He looked at the lady behind the counter. “Box it up.”

He was heading out the door when Elizabeth stopped him. “Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes?”

“Did you travel in your carriage today?”

He looked surprised. “No, I rode. Why?”

“It’s just that…” she couldn’t suppress a smile. “You might find it rather awkward carrying that hatbox on your horse.”

He looked down at the round box in his hands and colored a little. “You are right, of course.” He placed the box on the counter. “Have that delivered to Pemberley.”

The lady assured him it would be done, and Darcy and Elizabeth exited the shop together. Once on the sidewalk Elizabeth prepared to part, but he suddenly asked, “Have you been enjoying your tour of Derbyshire?”

“Very much,” she replied. “It is a beautiful country.”

“But not as beautiful as your native Hertfordshire, to your eyes. I do not suppose you would find any place as appealing as your home.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she answered slowly, once again surprised and unnerved. “I have a great fondness for the country around Longbourn, it is true, but it does not make me unable to appreciate such wonders as the Peak District offers.”

“Did you visit Dove Dale?”

She was obliged to answer again, and in that way the usually silent Mr. Darcy somehow drew Elizabeth into conversation, so that she soon found herself strolling down the street with him, discussing Chatsworth, Matlock all the sights of the county. When they had circled around and came to the front of the Red Lion, she  finally managed to extract herself. He looked oddly nonplussed to see the inn, but bowed politely, bid her a crisp good day, and strode away even before she went inside.

~%~

Elizabeth found herself mysteriously reluctant to speak of Mr. Darcy to her aunt and uncle, so instead she asked them questions about their visits. After describing the events of the morning, Mrs. Gardiner said, “There is something else I thought I ought to mention to you, Lizzy, although I am afraid you will not like it.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“When I was speaking with Mrs. Grayson I happened to mention that I had met Mr. George Wickham, who was also from this area, and asked her if she knew him.”

“Did she?”

“No, but she had heard of him. I am sorry to say this, but it seems his reputation here is very bad.”

Elizabeth felt her heart thud heavily. “In what way?”

“According to her, he was here on an extended stay some two or three years ago, and when he left, he left behind numerous debts with all the shopkeepers, amounting up to several hundred pounds or more.”

“Surely not!”

“I’m afraid it is true. Amelia is a very honest, kind woman and would not repeat mere unkind gossip. It was not only one man—the whole town was speaking of their losses to him.”  She looked at her niece for a moment. “When it became clear that he would not be returning, some of the shopkeepers wrote a letter to Mr. Darcy. They knew of Wickham’s association with him and asked his help in locating him. Mr. Darcy replied very promptly, she said, and told them that he did not know Mr. Wickham’s location, as all intercourse between them had long been at an end, but if they would send him a list of debts he owed, he, Mr. Darcy, would pay them.”

“Mr. Darcy paid Mr. Wickham’s debts?” repeated Elizabeth.

“In full.”  She paused for a moment for that to sink in. “Well, naturally after that I had to ask her more about Mr. Darcy and his reputation, because the report you gave of his character is not at all like what his housekeeper described, and seems rather at odds with such generosity. She said that the Darcys are felt to be proud, but only because they do not visit in Lambton. Mr. Darcy himself is known to be just and honest in all his dealings, and to do a great deal of good among the poor.”

"What about the living? Did you ask her about that?"

"Well, yes, but she could not tell me anything of the matter—except that the current rector at Kympton is a fine, God-fearing man, who tends diligently to the people. It was her opinion that Mr. Wickham would have made a very poor rector indeed, and Mr. Darcy must have known that."

Elizabeth sat there for a long time after that, absently twisting her hands in her lap. Her mind immediately leapt to give any explanation which would exonerate her own judgment. She supposed that Mr. Darcy had only paid the debts because he felt guilty over denying Mr. Wickham the living—that Mr. Wickham perhaps had only spent such sums in anticipation of receiving it, and being denied it, felt he had no recourse but to flee—and yet her suppositions no longer had any conviction behind them. Mr. Darcy's word she might doubt, even the word of his friends, but the words of a respectable elderly citizen of Lambton?

For the first time in a long time her mind went clearly back to that original interview with Wickham, the one that had left her so certain of his truthfulness. Even he had admitted that Darcy claimed he lacked the character to be a clergyman—extravagance and imprudence, didn't he say? At the very least, that was true. And Wickham had admitted to Darcy's good character, too, though he attributed it all to pride. He had called him generous, and hospitable, a kind brother and good to the poor. The words rose to her consciousness, as if from a great depth. Just, sincere, honorable... at the time she had thought such characterization proof of Wickham's fair mindedness and charity, but now she could only wonder why she had believed a pride which produced such results to be so abhorrent.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I'm back! I know I've neglected this for a few weeks; I can only blame it on the end of school-year craziness. Of course, now we've entered the summer holidays craziness (as in, three children who require activity and entertainment), but here is one of my favorites.

I began this after watching the musical Annie Get Your Gun for the first time. I really think it's an example of the way that fan fiction writers see every plotline as potential fan fiction. It took me quite a while to finish it (as it always takes me quite a while to finish things), but it was a concept I enjoyed working out. Along the way, a few eighties song lyrics crept in. What can I say? It's my story.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

“I hope, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley over breakfast at Netherfield, “that you mean to give us a display of your splendid marksmanship.”

Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrows slightly. “I wasn’t aware that accomplished women took an interest in shooting, Miss Bingley.”

She preened slightly. “Accomplished women admire accomplished men, sir, and none shall deny, I hope, that marksmanship is a fine gentleman’s accomplishment.” She looked around the table almost challengingly, but no one showed any inclination to contradict her.

“I say, Caroline, that’s a capital idea!” declared Mr. Bingley. “I haven’t seen Darcy shoot in an age.”

“On the contrary, you saw me shoot only yesterday.”

“Oh, hunting! That’s not at all the same.”

“Yes, shooting at birds in flight is much easier than shooting wafers,” murmured Miss Bennet, who had been listening with interest.

Mr. Darcy, who had somehow ended up sitting near her at the breakfast table, caught her words and his lips twitched. “Quite,” he replied in a low tone, surprising her, then addressed the table. “I hardly think very many members of our party would be interested in watching me show off, Bingley.”

“Well of course we would,” protested Mrs. Hurst on behalf of her sister. “I know I can speak for Mr. Hurst in this and as for Caroline and I, I don’t think anything delights us more than a true demonstration of skill.”

Mr. Hurst actually roused himself enough to voice his support and Miss Bingley, of course, was all flattery. Mr. Bingley seemed ready to send for servants to set it up immediately. Mr. Darcy, however, did not appear satisfied. He had noticed the amused serenity of Miss Bennet in all of this. “I do not believe Miss Bennet, for one, has any interest in such a display,” he said. “You think it a great folly, I daresay.”

She met his eyes and smiled her maddening smile. “That depends, Mr. Darcy, on how fine of a marksman you actually are.”

“My dear Eliza,” exclaimed Miss Bingley, “Mr. Darcy is one of the first marksmen in all of England! Why, he’s renowned for it! Isn’t that right, Charles?”

“Perfectly right,” he agreed. “He carried off all the honors in school, and even now he’s often asked to give a demonstration at house parties. You could say, in fact,” he smirked, “that Darcy’s part of the in house entertainment.”

“In that case,” replied Elizabeth, “I should very much enjoy observing. I do so appreciate a little good entertainment.”

~%~

Accordingly, later that morning, all guests of the house except Miss Jane Bennet assembled on the south lawn, the side most protected from any wind. Fortunately it was a very still day, perfect for shooting. A table had been set up with an array of weapons spread out on it, from pistols to rifles. Instead of pasteboard wafers as targets, the servants had set up a wooden disk on a pole, marked with a center point. A small boy was employed to run up to the target and point out the latest bullet mark after each shot.

Miss Bennet’s last mocking remark had put Mr. Darcy on his mettle. He was not, contrary to the opinions of some young ladies, a vain man, and usually downplayed his personal accomplishments, but it could not be denied that her presence at the demonstration may have added to his other inducements to do well.

For about a quarter of an hour he shot the various guns, each by turn, at increasing distances, until the target was set some twenty paces away. He cut a rather fine figure in his tailored clothes, tall and straight, aiming each gun precisely, and, true to Miss Bingley’s word, he never missed. The ladies (except Elizabeth), clapped at every successful shot while the gentlemen observed him with an eye that suggested they were attempting to discern his secrets. Darcy endured both with perfect composure and indifference, but it could have been noticed by the observant that he glanced rather often at Miss Bennet, who watched everything with great interest but without appearing unduly impressed.

Presently he stopped to take a break and refresh himself with a glass of lemonade while the servants reloaded and replaced the now bullet-ridden target. While the others crowded around Darcy, Elizabeth strolled over to the table and began to inspect the weapons. One in particular attracted her, a medium sized, pearl handled pistol made by Joseph Manton. She picked it up, studying it closely.

Miss Bingley saw what she was doing, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Miss Elizabeth!” she cried, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Darcy glanced over sharply and began to stride in her direction.

Elizabeth glanced up. “It’s perfectly all right, Mr. Darcy,” she said calmly. “I know how to handle a gun.”

He halted a few feet from her, looking at her dubiously and obviously ready to lunge for the weapon at any moment. “It is loaded, you know.”

“Yes, I assumed as much.” She smiled innocently, continuing to finger it.

“Don’t be absurd, Eliza!” said Miss Bingley sharply. “Shooting guns is for men only! No lady could possibly do it properly!”

“Do you agree?” Elizabeth asked Mr. Darcy.

He hesitated. “I have known some women who could shoot a pistol reasonably well. The force of the recoil is more than most females are strong enough to control, though, and the noise overpowering. I have seen women break down into tears after attempting it. If you wish to shoot, Miss Bennet, I would suggest something smaller.”

She looked at him consideringly. “You think me so faint of heart, Mr. Darcy?”

“Not at all, but you will allow that I have some advantage of experience over you, and that is not a lady’s weapon—”

Something about the autocratic way he spoke the words you will allow made up Elizabeth’s mind. Casting only one swift, sharp glance at the target (which lay not only twenty paces back, but a few feet to her left), she raised her arm and fired.

Miss Bingley shrieked and Darcy jumped and cursed, leaping to wrest the gun from her hand. “Miss Bennet!” he said sharply, clearly very angry, “This is not a game, madam! This is a dangerous weapon, not a toy. To fire like that, carelessly, when there are so many people about is an act of almost unprecedented foolishness which I would never have believed that you, of all women, would be capable—”

“Uh, Darcy?” said Mr. Bingley.

But Darcy ignored him. “What point were you trying to prove?” he continued furiously, laying the gun down on the table before turning back to her. “Did you really think you could win an argument by behaving like a willful child? I thought you had too much sense to—”

“Darcy!” said Bingley again, more forcibly.

Darcy looked at him impatiently. “Well? What is it?”

He grinned. “Look.” He gestured. Following his gaze, Darcy saw that a servant had brought up the new target and to his utter astonishment he further followed the man’s pointing finger to a bullet buried neatly in the exact center. For a moment he just stared at it, his mouth slightly agape, and then the color began to rise in his face. Speechless, he looked from it to the woman in front of him, and back to it.

Elizabeth, who had remained perfectly calm during his tirade, just smirked slightly and, moving past him to the table, ran a last, caressing hand over the pistol. “It’s a beautiful weapon,” she said serenely. “I only wish I had one as fine myself.” Then she pulled her shawl a bit more securely around her shoulders and walked back to the spectators, perfectly satisfied in having achieved her point and lowered his pride.

But Mr. Bingley was not about to let either of them get off so easily. “Why didn’t you tell us you were a marksman too?” he demanded delightedly. “I’ve never seen a woman who could shoot like that before, and I would love to see you do it some more! Why don’t you join Darcy?”

“Oh, no, I assure you I have no intention—”

“Don’t be a fool, Bingley!” said Darcy tersely, channeling his embarrassment into anger. “It was a one time, lucky shot! I doubt she could make such a shot again if her life depended on it!”

The woman who had been just about to modestly decline Bingley’s invitation, having no real desire at all to shoot further, stiffened, and her eyes flashed. “Would you care to wager on that, Mr. Darcy?”

“First shooting guns and now laying bets?” Miss Bingley sneered. “Why, Eliza, you are becoming positively mannish.”

“I do not make wagers with women,” he replied irritably, “and since nothing could prevail upon me to take your money, I see no reason to make an exception in this case.”

“Your answer presupposes that you will win. But since I am much more familiar with my shooting abilities than you are familiar with my shooting abilities, reason lies on my side. No, Mr. Darcy, you will not have to take my money.”

A sudden feeling of being out of his depth overtook Darcy, with a, despite himself, curiosity to see what she could do. “You do not seriously mean to say that you shoot guns on a regular basis.”

“Why not? My father has no sons, and being an expert marksman himself, it is not unnatural that he felt the need to pass his skills on to someone else. Of all his daughters, I am the most like him—in every way.”

“Well I don’t care what Darcy says, I want to see you shoot again!” declared Mr. Bingley. “I think it’s fabulous that you have such a skill.”

“Come, Darcy, let the girl shoot,” expostulated Mr. Hurst, aroused to unaccustomed animation.

“Fine,” he said in a clipped tone, “but Miss Bennet will pardon me if I refuse to bet on the outcome.”

“I’ll bet on it,” said Bingley cheerfully. “I’ll bet ten pounds that Miss Elizabeth repeats her shot and more. Who’ll take it? Hurst?”

“Not I.” He shook his head.

“I’ll take it, Charles!” proclaimed his sister suddenly, leaping with admirable promptitude to her idol’s defense. “I bet she fails with the first attempt.”

“Far be it from me to instruct you on how you should spend your money, Miss Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “but I would reconsider if I were you.” Receiving nothing but a disdainful look for her trouble, she sauntered back over to the gun table. “Shall you like to go first, Mr. Darcy? To show me how it’s done?”

Irritated, wary and excited all at once, Darcy stalked up silently, selected a small pistol, walked back to stand opposite the target, jerked his arm up, took rapid aim, and fired. The shot went true. “That I can duplicate,” he said, but then to her surprise he himself reloaded the weapon and handed it to her.

Offering him a small curtsey, she moved into the spot he had just occupied, and without any apparent effort to take aim, hit her mark. “You lose, Miss Bingley,” she said lightly, handing the still smoking weapon to the footman. That woman scowled.

“My, she’s very fast, isn’t she, Darcy?” exclaimed Mr. Bingley. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you shoot so quickly!”

“That’s because I’ve never regarded marksmanship as a race,” said Darcy tightly. “Since we are neither fighting a battle nor killing live birds, haste is both unnecessary and undesirable. Precision is the desirable characteristic of an expert marksman, not speed.”

“I don’t think Miss Bennet lacks precision!” chortled Mr. Hurst.

“Would you feel better if I shot more slowly?” asked Elizabeth sweetly. “I can fiddle with my gown perhaps, or squint at the target as if I had difficulty seeing it properly. Would that please you, if I did that?”

His only response was to scowl at her and take up another small firearm, a particularly elegant dueling pistol. “Move the target back another five paces!” he barked.

Bingley gaped a bit. “I say, that’s a bit far, isn’t it? It’s not actually possible to be accurate at that distance, and certainly not outside.”

“So they say,” agreed Darcy suavely, as he took up his stance. His aim was steady, his arm very straight and firm, and when the sound of the shot died down the boy gladly pointed out his hit, located not far from the center of the target. The group broke into applause.

“Now that, Eliza,” called Miss Bingley, “is what they call superior marksmanship.”

“Indeed,” agreed Elizabeth calmly. “May I, sir?”

“Do you believe you can?”

“Certainly.”

She was handed, in this case, that pistol’s matching partner. Darcy moved to the side and watched her closely, his heart beating with an unexpected excitement to see how she would do. He did not want Miss Bennet to beat him at his own game—but he had to admit, if only to himself, that he would be a little disappointed if she failed now.

She did not fail. She took, admittedly, a little more time to line up her shot, and to his amusement gripped the larger gun in both hands instead of one this time, but it was still only a moment before it jumped and barked. Her mark, when it was revealed, was even closer to the center than his.

Elizabeth turned to Darcy, a triumphant tilt to her brow. She expected to see him even angrier than before, but he seemed to have regained his customary infuriating composure. “I will concede that you shoot remarkably well for a woman,” he said.

“Remarkably well for a woman?” she repeated incredulously.

“Come now, Darcy, that’s ungenerous and you know it,” called Bingley.

“You mistake, Mr. Bingley,” replied Elizabeth quickly, “I have no need of Mr. Darcy’s generosity. I simply resent the implication that, just because I am a woman, my skills are necessarily inferior to his, regardless of whose bullet hit closer to the mark.”

“Miss Bennet,” he said, “your skill with a pistol, though surprising, is certainly impressive. However, to truly match me, as you appear to wish to do, you would need to have equal skill with hunting guns such as shotguns and rifles, which are hardly a woman’s weapons.” He smiled smugly as he spoke.

Her eyes moved to the rifle lying on the table behind him, and she smiled. “Who says I do not?”

His smile vanished. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why ever not? Why, Mr. Darcy, only a few minutes ago you were exclaiming on how impossible it was that I should manage to hit that target twice—and yet I have done so, three times in a row now, and at an even greater distance. Do you not think you ought to temper your assertions before you make them?”

“A rifle is far too large and powerful for a woman to control,” he spoke with conviction, “especially one of your stature. You would injure yourself in the attempt, and I cannot allow it.”

“Cannot allow?” She lifted one eyebrow. “Mr. Bingley,” she called, “may I try out your rifle?”

“Yes, of course!” he exclaimed, coming happily towards them rubbing his hands together, like an eager schoolboy.

“Bingley, this is madness!” protested Darcy, frowning heavily as admiration for Elizabeth warred with genuine concern. “Do you want to have a second sister put up in your rooms, with the doctor called? What will you tell her father to explain how you came to allow her to do such a thing?”

“Mr. Bingley, if my father was here he would assure you that I am as competent with a hunting gun as I am with a pistol—a point which I mean to prove to Mr. Darcy, if you will but let me.”

Bingley hesitated, obviously torn between following his friend’s advice and doing what he really wanted, which was to see Elizabeth shoot some more.

“Mr. Darcy,” interposed Elizabeth, “since you are opposed to wagers, how about a  competition? The first person to miss a shot retires. If, as you expect, I miss on the first attempt, then I will retire without further complaint and concede that women should not attempt to shoot anything larger than a pistol. My parents will in no wise blame you, I promise,” she added. “They know my stubbornness as well as anyone.”

Once again Darcy found himself drawn in by her. What power was it in her eyes, that they always made him act against his better judgment?

Caroline Bingley, more than a little dissatisfied with the results of the shooting display so far, and jealous over the conversation that was taking place, had drawn near enough to hear Elizabeth’s last comment. “I’m surprised your mother hasn’t warned you that men don’t like stubborn women,” she said. “If you ever marry I’m sure I shall pity your husband.”

Darcy, whose feelings towards Elizabeth’s future unknown husband did not include pity, found himself strongly suppressing the urge to defend her. “Surely there can be no harm in a little friendly competition, Darcy,” said Bingley easily.

“Hear, hear!” cried Hurst.

“Miss Elizabeth will tell us if it becomes too much for her, won’t you?”

“Indeed I shall.”

“And you’ve shot rifles like this before?”

“Many times—although none quite so finely made.”

“Have you ever injured yourself in past?”

“Not for many years, I assure you.”

“There now, Darcy, what further objection could you have? You wouldn’t want it to be said that you shrank from competing with a woman, would you?”

“Yes, would you, Mr. Darcy?” echoed Elizabeth tauntingly.

“The only one to say that would be you, Bingley,” muttered Darcy.

“Perhaps you think it beneath your dignity to trade shots with a woman at all. Very well, perhaps that may be your prize if you win. None of us here shall ever mention it happening again, will we, gentlemen?” Hurst and Bingley agreed. “And I am sure we can count on Miss Bingley’s and Mrs. Hurst’s discretion.”

He pursed his lips and raised his own eyebrow at Elizabeth. “And what do you propose as your own prize, Miss Bennet?”

“Ah, so you concede there is a chance I might win.”

“Not at all, I am merely curious as to your ultimate goal in provoking me to this.”

Her smile broadened. “Nothing but satisfaction, Mr. Darcy. Nothing but satisfaction.”

“Do you envision yourself bragging to all your acquaintances of how you bested me?”

She shook her head. “I fear my mother would not approve. No, you are safe from me, regardless of the outcome.”

“If that’s so then the prize you offered me is hardly a prize at all. What incentive do I have to engage you in this so-called competition?”

“Besides avoiding Mr. Bingley’s teasing? I’m afraid I cannot tell you. I would offer you the opportunity to choose your own prize, but I doubt there’s anything I could give you that you might want.”

Ignoring the attractiveness of several obvious but inappropriate options, Darcy looked at her thoughtfully. He had every confidence of prevailing in the match to come. “You forget that you have not yet named what you wish from me, should you prevail. Then perhaps I might better understand what sort of prizes we are contending for in the first place.”

Elizabeth looked at him speculatively, the mischievous gleam in her eye increasing by the moment. “How  certain are you that you shall win?”

“Very.”

“Then I might name any forfeit without objection from you.”

“Provided it is within the bounds of propriety, yes.”

“Oh do not fear for that! Mr. Bingley, are not you planning on holding a ball soon?”

“Without question, Miss Bennet.”

“Then this is what I chose for my prize. If I should win this contest against one of the foremost marksman in England, then at Mr. Bingley’s ball you shall dance—how many sets do you think, Mr. Bingley?”

“Oh, four at least, Miss Bennet,” he answered, grinning widely.

“Four sets, and with partners of my choosing.”

Darcy compressed his lips together; she thought at first he was going to be angry, but then he also looked as if he might laugh for a moment. “A hefty forfeit indeed, Miss Bennet,” he replied gravely, at the last. “I rather doubt my ability to ask anything comparable of you—while remaining a gentleman, of course.”

“By all means let’s keep you a gentleman, Mr. Darcy.”

His thoughtful aspect increased, making him look rather severe. He looked at her face, at the tip of one boot, and at her face again. “Miss Bennet,” he said in a very even voice, “if I win against you, regardless of the level of skill you exhibit, you will give me your word to never shoot a rifle or other hunting weapon again, unless out of some terrible necessity, such as to save your own life.”

Whatever Elizabeth had been expecting, it was not this. She stared at him in blank astonishment. “I don’t understand.”

“Hunting weapons are dangerous, madam, regardless of who handles them. While recent advances have improved them somewhat, the fact remains that the size and strength of the weapon and the unreliability of gunpowder pose significant dangers. They can misfire. They can explode in your face, causing burns and scarring, even blindness. I’ve seen it happen before. I should hate to see it happen to you.”

Elizabeth blinked a few times, tried to feel offended, and failed. His gaze was so earnest, his voice so solemn. “Is not horse riding also a dangerous past time?” she ventured. “Horses are at least as unpredictable as gunpowder, and surely far more people are injured in falls than explosions. Yet if I had a love for riding horses you would not ask me to give that up, surely.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, “but riding has additional benefits to it—healthy exercise, the ability to travel to areas that carriages cannot reach. Since you do not hunt, you have no real reason to fire a hunting gun other than to demonstrate your skill, which I believe you are amply able to do with pistols. You notice that I did not ask you to give up shooting altogether, though pistols can be dangerous too. Their smaller size reflects a proportionally smaller danger however, and I realize I have no right to request you completely set aside something you do so well.”

“No sir, you do not.” She eyed him in a perplexed fashion. “I am sure that this is simply a ploy to make me refuse.”

“You may perceive it so if you chose, but the fact remains that I will not engage to shoot against you in a contest on any other terms.”

She frowned now, weighing her own assurance against his decidedly presumptuous demand. What had begun as a game to tease and humble him had turned unexpectedly serious, and she could not understand what he was about. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “I have a stubbornness in me which always rises at every attempt to intimidate me. But what if I should marry in a few years, and my husband wishes to encourage my talent and resents my adhering to a promise made to another man?”

He bowed. “In that case, I would consider you released.”

“I also think that a lifelong vow deserves at the very least an entire evening in exchange. I will agree to your terms, but in return I shall expect you to dance every dance at Mr. Bingley’s ball, and you shall have no power to refuse any partner I point out to you. Moreover you shall be required to make conversation with all of them, tolerable or not.”

A slight smile touched his lips. “Will you allow me two dances to choose my own partner?”

“If you wish.”

“Excellent!” cried Bingley. “I declare, I can’t remember the last time I was so entertained. If only Miss Bennet were well enough to join us, I would think the day quite perfect.”

“Oh, my sister!” said Elizabeth. “You must excuse me for a few minutes that I may go check on her. If she is well enough, I will return immediately.”

This request was immediately agreed to. While she was away, the three gentlemen, with great animation, selected two rifles they all declared well matched, and discussed the specifics of the proposed contest. Miss Bingley, finding herself vastly bored by conversation in which she had no part, and more than a little irked at Miss Bennet’s unique ability to monopolize Mr. Darcy’s attention, sidled up to that gentleman.

“What do you think of country manners now, Mr. Darcy?” she asked him. “Myself, I have never been so excessively shocked in my life than at Miss Eliza’s conduct. Surely you can’t find her eyes fine when they appear over the barrel of a smoking gun.”

“Miss Bennet is… unusual,” he replied carefully.

“You are always so kind in your opinions. Of course, I know what you must be feeling. Imagine finding yourself forced to endure the indignity of a contest with her, as if she was a man!”

“She does not make me think of a man.”

“No, for she lacks the strength, the abilities, the dignity and skill a man might have, and in its place has only that abominably impertinent confidence, coupled with a total lack of ladylike modesty. She has the virtues of neither sex, and the vices of both!”

“Miss Bingley!” he said rather sharply. “I would hardly call the ability to fire a gun with accuracy a vice. Whatever else Miss Elizabeth may be, her virtue and respectability are not in question.”

“I did not mean to imply that they are,” she said hastily. “But don’t tell me you didn’t think her earlier display—the display to come—absolutely appalling!”

“If her marksmanship had not proved to be as superior as it is,” he admitted, “then I might have. But as it is, I can only admire her skill.”

It was at the moment that Elizabeth immerged from the house, putting an end to further conversation.

~%~

                “Well, Darcy,” said Charles in a sympathetic tone that did little to conceal his glee, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to resign yourself to dancing.”

“Nonsense!” he snapped. “This competition is far from over yet.”

“Yes, but… well, look at her.”

Darcy was looking. He had been looking on, in consternation and increasing amazement, as she coolly fired off round after round with unfailing accuracy. She was so small, her slender form and light muslin gown a striking contrast to the large rifle she handled with such ease. She had wrapped her shawl around her shoulder as padding, but he still winced every time he saw her take the force of the recoil against it. He wondered how much his own performance had been affected by her distracting presence, by the curls trailing down her neck and the delicacy of her profile as she focused on her target. Then she would walk by him, casting him a merry, mocking glance that just made him want to prove himself further before her.

The target had been moved a staggering thirty paces off now, and he knew he was at the limit of what he could achieve himself. He was still hitting it, but barely, while Elizabeth’s shots were as consistently center as ever. Unless a miracle took place, it was only a matter of time before she would be declared the victor. Bingley really would never let him live this down.

The undisguised joy with which Hurst and Bingley had watched the whole affair did little to placate his feelings. Miss Bingley had sullenly retreated to the house some ten minutes or so ago, apparently receiving little satisfaction in watching all the men watch Miss Bennet, who disobligingly failed to make a fool of herself. “My dear Mr. Darcy,” said Mrs. Hurst to him at one point, “I can only imagine your feelings. To think of the impudence of that girl, attempting to put you to shame so!”

“Would you suggest she let me win on purpose?” he asked irritably. “I assure you I would not wish it!”

What would he wish? He would wish to beat her, fairly and honestly, earning her respect and admiration as she had earned his. He would wish she was as rich in connections as she was in abilities. He would wish to take her in his arms and kiss her with force and passion.

But none of that translated to reality. He could not kiss her, she had no connections, and he was increasingly certain that he could not beat her either. Frustrated beyond words, he scowled as he took up his stance, peering at the distant target.

A rustle next to him distracted him. Elizabeth had moved near to watch. When he turned his head he met her eyes, warm and deep and brilliant, her face disturbingly close, so close he could see the light freckles dappling her cheeks, and the way the hairs in her right eyebrow grew to give it that distinctive arch….

“Hit me with your best shot.”

As if fighting his way out of a daze he blinked rapidly and shook his head.

Taking that to mean he had not understood her, she stepped a little closer. “I said,” she murmured, her lips puckering in the most provocative fashion, “why don’t you hit me with your best shot?”

Speechless, wound tight as a bow string, he turned back, tried in vain to focus, and fired before he was ready. The shot went wide.

Darcy lowered his gun and pressed his lips together, fighting to compose himself. His strongest immediate emotion was anger. She had done it on purpose. He was sure that she had deliberately used her charms—used his own attraction to her, of which he was sure she must be aware—to distract and befuddle him. It was entirely her fault. This would never have happened if she was a man.

Elizabeth, who in all innocence had no notion of the effect her teasing words had had on him, wondered what had happened to rattle him so. One glance at his grim profile made her decide not to taunt him about it; rather, she stood back as he moved to the table, almost throwing his rifle down.

Bingley, likewise, cleared his throat and tried to look serious, although he couldn’t forebear to send Elizabeth a smirk behind his friend’s back. Hurst laughed outright, earning a glare that would have silenced more sensible men. Mrs. Hurst was smart enough to remain silent.

Mr. Bingley brought her her rifle. “One more shot to win, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her in a low voice. “I am certain you can do it.”

She was certain too, but had the uneasy feeling that she would be winning by some mischance on Darcy’s part. She would have liked to have offered him the chance take his shot again, but knew he would not accept it. Slowly, she turned toward the target.

Just then a distinctive voice floated across the lawn. “Mr. Bingley… oh Mr. Bingley!” The entire party turned to see a group of three women hurrying across the grass, the front most one fluttering a handkerchief as she came.

Elizabeth groaned. Mother! All at once she felt like hiding behind the gun table. What she did do was thrust the rifle rapidly behind her back.

“Oh, Mr. Bingley,” said Mrs. Bennet breathlessly as they arrived on the scene, “such a fine house as this is, don’t you think! I can’t imagine you’d find a finer one, no matter how hard you look.”

“It is very pleasing, ma’am,” he answered good naturedly.

“The butler told us that you were out here having a bit of sport, and so we thought we would come out too, for surely we couldn’t be so rude as to visit without seeing you and thanking you in person for your kindness to my poor, dear, sweet Jane.”

“Not at all. I’m delighted to have been allowed to help her in some way.”

While they were talking Lydia had looked around with interest at the setting. She noted the presence of the table, and then its contents, and then Elizabeth’s proximity to it. She saw how her hands were behind her, moved a little forward, and… Lydia’s eyes widened and sparkled. “Mama!” she exclaimed. Mrs. Bennet did not answer, being too caught up in speaking to Mr. Bingley. “Mama!” she said again, more loudly this time.

Mrs. Bennet paused and looked at her irritably. “Well what is it, Lydia?”

“Mama, Lizzy’s got a gun!”

“… And her whole world’s come undone,” muttered Lizzy. Darcy, overhearing, glanced curiously at her.

“What?!” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened in horror and she clasped her hand to her heart. “Lizzy, you bad girl, what are you doing?”

“Nothing, mother.”

“How can you say nothing? You’ve been shooting guns again, haven’t you? Oh, I always knew you hated me! Do you mean to ruin us? What must Mr. Bingley think of you now?”

“I think she’s a fantastic shot, Mrs. Bennet,” he hastened to reassure her. “We are all admiration for her abilities.”

“Oh Mr. Bingley, you are too kind, but you needn’t make excuses for her. Miss Lizzy knows I have never approved of that dreadful habit of hers. When she came out I made it a point to put a stop to all such nonsense, I can tell you. What man wants to marry a girl who shoots a gun better than he does? If I’ve said it to her once I’ve said it a hundred times!”

“Lizzy beat all the local boys at shooting contests by the time she was thirteen,” related Lydia to the world at large. “Mama made her promise to stop, but she and papa still go out and practice in the north field nearly every week.”

Elizabeth wondered if it  was possible for one’s face to actually catch on fire from blushing so hard. She was painfully aware of Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her, an sardonic glint in them. Sighing, she abandoned pretense and handed the weapon to him. “Mama, do come in the house. You must see Jane for yourself, to decide how she gets on. Mr. Darcy, please excuse me.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes how Jane is doing when you are so determined to destroy all her hopes!” she wailed as Elizabeth led her away.

The gentleman watched their retreat. “Well, Darcy,” said Bingley, “I believe you owe Mrs. Bennet your gratitude.”

Mr. Hurst snickered. “She saved your hide, no doubt about it!”

“If you think I mean to take advantage her appearance to renege on any agreement I made with Miss Bennet—!”

“I think you’d prefer to forget the whole thing ever happened,” said Bingley frankly. “However, I know you too well to think that’s what you’ll do—no matter how much you hate dancing! Your blasted pride wouldn’t let you.”

Yes, his blasted pride. It was his pride that got him into this in the first place… that and his weakness for a certain fine pair of eyes. Well, he was smarting for it now. And yet… when he thought back over the morning, Darcy knew that if he had a chance to erase the experience, he wouldn’t do it. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was undoubtedly the most infuriating, challenging, stimulating woman he would ever know, and that image of her, rifle cradled against her slim shoulder, eyes so clear and unafraid, that image would stay with him for the rest of his life.

~%~

                “Miss Bennet.” Elizabeth turned from seeing her mother off to find Darcy behind her. The gentlemen, it seemed, had returned to the house.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“As it was perfectly obvious to everyone present that you would have made that last shot had we not been interrupted,” he began in the tone of one reciting an unpleasant lesson, “it only seems fair and sporting of me to offer to fulfill the conditions of our agreement, even though the competition was never officially concluded.”

“That is very magnanimous of you, sir,” she replied after a moment, her voice very dry. “However, I should not like you to think me eager to claim a victory I didn’t earn. When last I checked, we each had completed the same number of successful shots.”

“But yours were closer to the mark than Darcy’s,” contributed Mr. Bingley helpfully, earning himself a glare from his friend and a smothered laugh from Elizabeth.

“True, but those were not the terms of the competition,” she reminded him. “To earn a successful point we only had to hit the target.”

“Are you suggesting, then, that we abandon the competition and agree to a draw?” asked Darcy, whose very fervent desire to not have to dance at the ball was warring with his gentlemanly sense of honor.

But again she surprised him. “By no means. I am suggesting that we finish it.”

“Miss Elizabeth,” said Bingley, “I’m afraid that the conditions changed since you left the field. The wind has picked up and there’s no possible way you could be expected to shoot accurately outside any more.”

“Have they packed everything up already then?”

“Not yet, but they were just about to start.”

“We could delay it until tomorrow,” offered Darcy in a voice of longsuffering.

“Wait a whole day for a single shot? No, gentlemen, not when it was I who left the field today.  I think that would hardly be fair and sporting of me.” She cast Darcy one of her typically mocking looks. “I will  take my shot now, if you have no objection.”

“In the wind?” repeated Bingley.

“In the wind.”

Darcy looked at her uncertainly. Was she attempting to throw the competition on purpose? “I do object.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

“Because we agreed to shoot under equal conditions, and this would not be an equal condition.”

“Yet you cannot guarantee the weather for me tomorrow, not to mention the fact that I would be fresh instead of tired.” Seeing the obstinacy on his face she sighed. High-handed, immovable man! “I truly have no desire to draw this out, sir. Please let me do this now.”

He could not civilly object further. Relief fought with pique and won out. Mr. Hurst, who had been about to lapse into a daze on the sofa, jumped to his feet again at the news, and Miss Bennet made her way back out to the makeshift shooting range with the three men trailing after her.

The wind had grown stronger. Elizabeth stood for a moment, her eyes shut, feeling it. It was very, very difficult to shoot well in the wind, but she and her father had often done so, and she had slowly learned how to gauge it; how to compensate for it. She could not say quite how she did it, any more, except that it had become something of an instinct, as all aiming was instinctual for her. She could tell, almost without conscious thought, how this wind would tug at the ball, the direction it would push it, and how quickly. She opened her eyes, focused for a moment on the target, memorizing its position, then, to the utter astonishment of every person present, closed her eyes again, lifted the rifle, and fired.

~%~

                “I can hardly believe it!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Darcy, dancing with my Mary!”

“He danced with Charlotte first,” pointed out Lady Lucas.

“He’s dancing every dance, and with the plainest girls in the room,” marveled Mrs. Long. If either lady noticed how unflattering that remark was to their daughters, they did not say so.

“There, there now,” said Sir William, coming up just in time to hear, “did I not tell you that he must be more amiable than he appeared? I’m sure it was just that he felt strange, that first night—or perhaps he tired, or unwell.”

“Perhaps he had a headache,” suggested his wife. “That would certainly account for it; nothing is more aggravating to a headache than movement.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Bennet, “is why he keeps going back to Lizzy between every dance, and yet never asks her! He can hardly claim she’s not handsome enough tonight, after all the other girls he’s led out. Why, compared to them she’s a positive beauty! It must be her behavior that has created such a determined dislike in him.”

Mrs. Bennet was mistaken in this instance, though. Mr. Darcy felt no determined dislike for Miss Elizabeth, and had every intention of asking her to dance. When Elizabeth had allowed him the supper set as the one where he would be free to choose his partner, she had no idea that she would be his choice.

“Me?” she repeated in surprise, looking at his outstretched hand. “I would think I was the last woman in this room you would wish to voluntarily dance with tonight!”

“Then you would be mistaken,” he said simply.

Eyes wide, she took the hand, and he led her out to the floor. They danced for a few minutes in silence, Elizabeth casting curious glances at him while he continued in apparently perfect calm.

“Do you hate me for subjecting you to this?” she finally asked, when she could bear the silence no longer.

“Not at all.”

“But you despise dancing with strange woman, and I’ve made you do it all night.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, a bit of a wry smile disturbing the impassivity of his face. “But it was, after all, my forfeit.”

“A mischievous one.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged again, the smile growing just slightly.

“I should never have baited you.” She really didn’t know why she was suddenly apologizing and explaining.

His eyes met hers. “I should never have insulted you.” Then his gaze shifted. After a moment Elizabeth realized it was resting on her shoulder and, glancing down, saw that her lace had slipped a bit and was exposing the very edge of a fading bruise. She blushed and her hand moved up involuntarily to adjust it.

“Was it worth it?” he asked her softly.

She met his eyes fearlessly again. “To see you dance with my sister who, like you, rarely indulges in the past time? Absolutely.”

They moved through some figures and when they came back again he said, “You, Miss Bennet, are an enigma.”

“I would have said the same of you, Mr. Darcy.”

More figures.

“I think I may have mercy on you, sir.”

“By releasing me from any further obligation?”

She bit back a laugh at the sudden eagerness in his voice. “Not quite, I fear. But after supper I give you leave to dance with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who you are particularly acquainted with, and also my sister Jane, who in addition to being the only handsome woman in the room, will make you a good conversation partner. That is, if you can persuade your friend to relinquish her.”

“And once I am finished with them?” He made no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice this time.

Her smile grew. “Then you will report back to me, of course. I am sure I shall have further use for you by that time.” He bowed stiffly as the music came to an end and she curtsied to him. “I’ve never had a man at my disposal before, you know, and I’m afraid that your apology, such as it was, was simply not handsome enough to tempt me.” Then she leaned forward slightly, whispering. “Don’t look so thunderous, Mr. Darcy.  From your expression anyone would think that that it was you I shot, instead of merely a wooden target.” And then she swished away, leaving him gaping yet again.

“Shot me?” he muttered at last. “Yes, though the heart. Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame! You give love a bad name!”

 

 

Annie Oakley, who was the inspiration for the musical Annie Get Your Gun, which was in turn the inspiration for this bit of nonsense, could shoot a dime tossed in the air at ninety feet. Also at ninety feet, she could hit the edge of a playing card laid flat, and then put five or six holes in it before it reached the ground. Although I realize that she was using later model rifles that were more accurate than those available in 1811, knowing that gave me the boldness to give Lizzy a similar target distance, if not quite such spectacular targets.