Pride and Pursuit: A Pride and Prejudice Variation, page 12
“And you? Are you placid like her, when times are normal?” Darcy could not help but ask the question.
Elizabeth’s smile turned to laughter, bubbling and incandescent in the fresh sunshine. “I, sad to say, have never been accused of being placid! No, my feelings are too strong and my tongue too sharp to be placid. I am made for laughter more than melancholy, but I cannot pretend acceptance or ignore a slight when it is offered.
“What of you, Will?” She turned to him. “I pride myself on sketching characters, but yours perplexes me. You chafe at being thought a farmer, but do not object to eating a foraged meal from a single pot. You steal an entire carriage, but insist upon compensating the kindness offered by strangers with good coin. You are, in turn, proud, cold, and considerate, and I cannot decide which makes up the better part of you.”
“I? Proud and cold?” His voice filled with ice, and for a moment, he was indignant at her accusation. Then he reflected upon what he had just heard himself say and he laughed. Had he ever laughed at himself before? “Yes. Yes, indeed, I suppose I am. You have the measure of me, it seems. Do I often sound like that?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked sidelong at him. “Not infrequently, I am afraid.”
“I see.” He paused for a while. “We spoke of this the other day, but it forms a large part of who I have learned to be. I do not consider myself proud in the way of vanity, but I admit to a well-regulated satisfaction in my accomplishments and my position. I have worked hard to form myself into the sort of man I wish to be, and of that, I am proud indeed. I have maintained my father’s estate and have added to its wealth and the prosperity of my tenants. I have also done my best to provide a good upbringing for my sister. Although there,” he realised with slumping shoulders, “I appear to have failed. I am not proud of that.”
“Young ladies of fifteen summers are seldom the wisest creatures in the world.” She reached over once more and let her hand rest upon his. “You have done your best, which is more than many can say.”
He answered her gentle touch with a squeeze of his own hand and released it.
Elizabeth let the silence reign for only a moment before speaking on.
“I have told you something of Jane. Tell me more of your sister. I know her sad story, but what is she like? What sort of a person is she? What are her likes and her interests?”
Darcy contemplated this for a moment, his heart touched by the question. Nobody had asked about Georgiana in such terms before. Her classmates at school, her companions, the matrons and their daughters who sought her attention in Town, all asked after her lineage, her noble relations, her wealth, and her prospects. Certainly, Wickham had cared little enough for anything other than her thirty thousand pounds. But Elizabeth wanted to know about the girl herself and not the heiress.
“She is a private creature,” he said at last. “Some call her proud, but she is, in truth, extremely shy.”
“Like her brother?”
“I… that is…” He fumbled for the words he wanted. “I have worked at being more comfortable in society, but it is quite against my nature. I prefer smaller gatherings of familiar people, with whom I can be… with whom I do not need to play myself as in a theatrical performance.”
Her eyes caught his again. “Am I such a person?” A trace of a smile tilted her lips. Those soft, pink lips.
Now he returned her smile. “You are, indeed, Elizabeth. I have seldom felt so easy in company. Perhaps it is our… unusual circumstances. I hardly feel the need to perform for others here, on this horse-drawn cart. Without the trappings of society, I can be myself. And you are easy to talk to.”
She beamed back at him. “I will accept that compliment. Thank you, Will. Now, tell me more of your sister.”
He swallowed the grain of disappointment that she did not confess similar comfort with him, but obliged her, nonetheless. He loved his sister and was pleased to talk about her. “She is quiet, as I mentioned, and loves to read. I have tried to guide her reading to the more serious tomes that a lady of good breeding ought to know—the classics, philosophy, moral writings and the like—but I cannot break her of her love of Gothick novels and other sensational works.”
“I can only approve of a young lady who wishes to improve her mind by extensive reading. I, too, find great enjoyment in a good novel.”
“Perhaps when you meet, you may discuss your favourites…” He stopped, realising what he had implied. “Forgive me, Elizabeth. I did not mean…”
“You have no need to apologise. I understood your intent. What else does she enjoy?”
The soft tones of fine music filled his ears. “She is a fine musician and performs on the pianoforte with great skill. She took to it as a young child, listening in on my own music lessons. Soon, Mother relieved our music tutor of having to suffer through my poor scales in favour of my sister’s sensitive and nimble hands. There, I see you smiling again. Do you play, Elizabeth?”
She nodded. “I do, but rather ill. Still, if the music is not too challenging, I can acquit myself without excessive embarrassment.”
“I can scarcely believe that of you. I suppose you sing as well.”
In response, Elizabeth produced a few bars of a popular melody. Her voice was lovely. Not, perhaps, the highly trained voice of a star of the opera stage, but a sweet and pleasing voice that would brighten any musical evening.
“Indeed you do. Do you know this one?”
He hummed a section from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and Elizabeth joined in.
Là ci darem la mano,
Là mi dirai di sì,
Vedi, non è lontano,
Partiam, ben mio, da qui.
Vorrei, e non vorrei,
Mi trema un poco il cor
Felice, è ver, sarei,
Ma può burlami ancor.
Give me thy hand, oh fairest,
Whisper a gentle 'Yes',
Come, if for me thou carest,
With joy my life to bless.
I would, and yet I would not,
I dare not give assent,
Alas! I know I should not…
Too late, I may repent.
Whether they had the proper key, he knew not, but their voices swelled together and his heart soared. Did she know the meaning of the words? Did she think anything of them? For now, he would just rejoice in the music, and in Elizabeth’s sweet company. And with such impromptu musical accompaniment, they continued through the day until it was time to stop once more for a rest.
CHAPTER 12
The Duel
If Jane had hoped the morning’s discomfort with respect to Mr Bingley and the colonel would ameliorate as the journey progressed, she was most disappointed. Rather than matters between the two men easing, they became, rather, even more fraught with each passing mile. Her father was of little help; he seemed to delight in this little drama, as if it were being played out entirely for his amusement, and when it seemed that matters might resolve themselves, he said something to set the two adversaries off again. It was most troublesome.
As Jane feigned first sleep, and then a marked interest in the various crops in the fields that drifted past them outside, she strove to understand what might have occasioned this strange animosity. It seemed to her, inexplicable as it might be, that the two men were both vying for her attention. That she had somehow given each to think of the other as a rival. It was quite unaccountable.
She tried, for a time, to lighten the mood with conversation, but knew not what to say. Lizzy would have known. She had that gift of speaking the right words at the right time to liven the spirits and bring a smile to each face. But this was not Jane’s gift. Oh, she knew how to carry a conversation in a parlour, as every young woman of her class was expected to do, but this was no parlour. These men, both really still strangers despite their enforced proximity, would have no interest in hearing of the village or the latest on-dits from her aunt’s card parties.
Had it been Lizzy across from her, they would have laughed and talked about the children at the village school, or what Charlotte had discovered about the Longs’ new puppy, or about their aunt’s latest letter.
But Mr Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam were not such familiar acquaintances that such topics were suitable, or of any interest, for what could the colonel care about her young cousin’s attempts to write his name? And to gossip about neighbours with Mr Bingley, himself new to the neighbourhood, would be highly inappropriate.
Were this a ball, where one is expected to meet and converse with strangers, the conversation would be different still. There, they might talk about the music, or the crowd in the room, the quality of the band, or one’s favourite dance. But here, crushed together in a rolling, jolting carriage, there was no music, no band, and no room to move one’s feet, let alone dance.
Perhaps she could speak of a book she had read. She opened her mouth to ask if the gentlemen enjoyed poetry or histories, but the colonel was resting his head against the squabs and his eyes were closed.
It would not do to disturb him.
After a while, when he stirred, she thought to try again, but now Mr Bingley was peering at a volume, although he did not seem to be turning any pages. The two men seemed determined not to say an unnecessary word to each other. And so, Jane closed her mouth once more to contemplate her company.
In the midst of these uncomfortable ruminations, the carriage hit a rut along the road, and it jostled, sending Jane sliding against her father’s side. There was no damage, no injury, and the coach driver up on the box might not even have noticed, but all four passengers gasped at the sudden jolt.
“Are you well, Miss Bennet?” Mr Bingley asked in alarm. “That was rather rough. I do hope you are not injured.”
His words broke the strained silence.
“I thank you, sir. I am quite well. My father kept me from any harm.”
“I have my uses,” that man intoned.
But Mr Bingley continued in his expressions of remorse. “This being my carriage, I would feel quite dreadful if anything happened to cause you discomfort. This was recommended to me by my sister’s husband, and until now, it has always offered me the smoothest and most comfortable passage.”
“One cannot blame one’s carriage for the state of the road, sir,” the colonel replied.
Bingley glared at him before returning to Jane. “No, no. Of course not. But, Miss Bennet, if you are in any distress, I shall ask the driver to stop at once—”
“Please, I beg you, do not, Mr Bingley. We are seeking my sister—and your friend—and I believe time is of the essence.”
The young man went an alarming pink, a colour that quite clashed with his sandy hair and light brown eyes. “Oh, dash it all, you are quite correct. How could I think… that is, I am most concerned for your sister, but also for you… that is…” He went redder still. “If you are quite well, we can continue to our next planned stop.”
What was that strange glint in the colonel’s eye? Why, Jane considered, he was trying not to laugh. Irksome man. She forced her accustomed smile onto her lips and agreed, before turning to stare out the window once more to contemplate the passing scenery.
It was not until they stopped to rest in the afternoon that Jane felt she was able to breathe. The colonel took himself off to find Major Hawarden in regard to some matters about their mission, and her father declared that he needed a room to rest until they were ready to continue, leaving Jane and Mr Bingley alone for the first time.
They decided to take a walk around the area of the inn, to stretch their cramped legs and breathe air that was not filled with the dust of the road. The sky was grey and heavy with cloud, but the streets of the small town were nonetheless busy, and Jane was pleased for the distraction.
Out of the confines of the carriage and the looming presence of Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Bingley was excellent company. The happy disposition she had glimpsed in Meryton, even through his concern for Elizabeth, came to the fore, and he proved to be charming and pleased with everything in a way that spoke of a generous nature, so in accord with her own. He humoured Jane’s wish to look in every shop window they passed and bantered with her cheerfully over the wares they saw displayed. At times he agreed with her comments, and at times put forth his own thoughts, all with excellent humour.
“You cannot really like that hat,” he exclaimed upon seeing one flower-encrusted bonnet set out for display. “It has far too many ruffles and frilly bits. I believe I should not know the person under it, and should spend the entire evening sneezing if ever a lady were to wear it in my presence.” He rubbed his nose as if already so afflicted.
“But it is a charming colour,” Jane countered, uncertain whether to tease the young man or let him be.
Mr Bingley peered at the offending item again.
“It is, I suppose, if one likes yellow. A soft yellow rose is charming enough, of course, and a small spot of bright colour can enliven a room, so my sister tells me, but this hat is very… vibrant. Although,” he turned to Jane as he spoke, “with your lovely hair and blue eyes, it would look quite well. Everything would look well on you.”
Jane laughed at him. “You are a flatterer, sir. I was mistaken. It is rather dreadful.”
And Mr Bingley laughed with her.
“What of this one, with the feathers?” He pointed out a headpiece on the far side of the window display.
Jane bit back a laugh. “It is… it is elaborate. Perhaps a bit too much so for me.”
“My sister would like it,” the young man countered, “and has always told me that my tastes are lacking, but I do believe that hat looks about to take flight!”
“And cluck its way out through the door!” Jane returned with a smile.
He let out a gentle chuckle, which sound pleased Jane more than she could have imagined, and she tittered along with him. This set Mr Bingley chuckling more, and then Jane, until both were laughing so hard that passers-by stopped to stare at them.
This, thought Jane as they made their apologies and turned back towards the inn, was much more the sort of companion she preferred to the sullen men in the carriage.
The respite of sunshine was short-lived, and soon after their afternoon rest, the rain started again. Now it became cold, despite the time of year, and heavy clouds blanketed the surrounding mountains. Elizabeth tried not to shiver, but wrapped the blanket tightly around her shoulders and fought to hold the umbrella steady to keep Will as dry as possible.
“It is of no use, Elizabeth,” he sighed at last. “The rain is too heavy, and the very air is wet. Keep yourself dry under the cover. I am already as wet as a drowned rat.”
It was true. His handsome face did not look quite so noble or haughty now, with a heavy shade of beard and rivulets of rain plastering his hair to his forehead. He had removed his hat earlier, explaining that the rain would surely destroy it, and that it was more useful against the sun and as a disguise of sorts. His skin was pale and his knuckles, as he held the reins, were white.
Dobbin, too, was most unhappy, moving steadily onward, but at a slow and halting plod rather than a crisp trot.
“We cannot go much farther. Will there be a village ahead, do you think?” Elizabeth peered into the distance, hoping to conjure up a nice, warm inn. Something tickled the back of her throat and she coughed.
Will turned to her in alarm. “You are not taking ill, I hope! This rain is most unwelcome. I cannot have you become sick.”
Elizabeth tried to smile back. “I am made of stern stuff. And even if it is a trifling cold, I shall be fine. Still…”
“We need to find shelter. I am wet through and will be of no use to anybody if I am laid low as well. Let us see what we can find.”
But no village appeared through the mist, no welcome mile marker pointed to an obliging inn.
The rain grew heavier, and turned to hail.
“There, down by the river? What is that?” A misty shape wavered through the dismal rain, foreboding and dark, but possibly promising some sort of shelter.
Will nodded once and found a track, down which he directed the increasingly recalcitrant Dobbin.
The shape began to take a more definite form as they approached. This was no farmer’s cottage with a bright fire, or convenient hunting shack with a fireplace, but rather, the ruins of an old and crumbling church of some sort. There were three standing walls, the remains of a window casement on the fourth, and a partial roof over one end. It was beautiful.
“It will not give us much protection, but it will shelter us somewhat.” Will’s eyes scanned the structure and led the horse and cart through the missing wall to that blessedly dry area at the far end. There was enough of the roof left to provide a reasonable covering for the cart and some room for Dobbin to move about if he wished. It was more, frankly, than Elizabeth had hoped for.
“This will do well.” She tried to sound cheerful, but the words came out more as a sob.
“Aw, Lizzy, do not cry. We will manage quite nicely. We have food and blankets, and the rain cannot last forever.” Will’s eyes belied his cheerful words, and despite her every effort, Elizabeth burst into tears.
“I am sorry,” she choked out. “I am not a watering pot, nor am I so miserable. These are tears born of exhaustion and not despair, but…” She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to regain control over her leaking eyes.
A tentative touch to her shoulder alerted her to Will’s proximity and when she did not flinch, the touch became firmer, more sure. She leaned into it, and before she knew, he had encircled her with both arms and pulled her close, holding her against his chest. Momentary alarm rippled through her at this unexpected intimacy, but it faded almost at once. This was Will. She could trust him.
