A Different Account (Different Account is a short)

Chapter I

Tranquility, beauty, peace, rest from her tumultuous thoughts—these were all benefits Elizabeth Bennet expected from a walk in the woods of Rosings Park.

What she had not anticipated was to find the detestable Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man whose astonishing proposal she had rejected only the day before.

Elizabeth had supposed the previous day would be the last she would ever see of the man.

Mr. Darcy’s insulting proposal, enumerating the deficiencies in her situation as he saw them in one breath and then claiming ardent love in the next, was not what a young lady expected from a gentleman.

Then again, she had always thought she would know something of the gentleman’s intentions in advance.

Mr. Darcy had revealed nothing, had expected her to fall at his feet and proclaim her undying gratitude for his condescension, as if his position and wealth were sufficient to secure a favorable reply.

The sight of Mr. Darcy brought Elizabeth to a halt, recalling the previous night’s—and, indeed, the last several months’—events back to her mind.

It seemed receiving unwanted and objectionable proposals from men she could not respect was her cross to bear.

First was Mr. Collins, he of the simpering nothings and imaginary regard, his inability to believe her refusal in earnest the crowning absurdity of it all.

Then Mr. Darcy followed with his brooding silences, his contempt, and his utter disdain for her feelings.

Was there no man worth her time in all the world who would see her as the rational creature she was?

“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy, striding toward her as Elizabeth considered the benefits of a hasty retreat. “I have been walking in the grove for some time, hoping to meet you. Please do me the honor of reading this letter.”

Elizabeth looked down at the folded paper he thrust into her hands, wondering at his audacity.

The impropriety of writing her a letter when they were not engaged was a boundary she had not thought even he would have the temerity to cross.

The gentleman bowed and was about to retreat, but something in Elizabeth rebelled at allowing him to go without giving him another piece of her mind.

“What do you mean by this, Mr. Darcy?” demanded she. “Do you not know how improper it is for you to write me a letter?”

Mr. Darcy straightened mid-bow, his eyes piercing her in a way that was most disconcerting. “I apologize, Miss Bennet, but I thought it essential to refute your charges against me, and this appeared the most inoffensive way to do it.”

“Oh, so you believe you have some means of explaining away your behavior?” Elizabeth crossed her arms and glared at this poor excuse for a gentleman, her foot tapping an impatient rhythm on the turf beneath her. “If you felt you could excuse yourself, why did you not tell me last night?”

“Because,” said Mr. Darcy, his tone suggesting he thought himself reasonable, “last night I was not the master of my emotions. I did not wish to say something I ought not.”

“So you decided to risk my reputation instead.” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you wished to create a situation where I would have no choice but to accept you or become the focus of ridicule.”

Mr. Darcy appeared bone weary, but his eyes flashed in displeasure, though he forced it down with effort. “What I thought, Miss Bennet,” whispered he, “was to make amends and explain something of your misconceptions.”

“Oh, then I am wrong?”

“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy, appearing at the end of his patience, “I have no other purpose than to acquaint you with some information you lacked. You may do what you wish, of course, for I cannot force you to read what I have written. However, at the very least, I urge you to take care in your dealings with George Wickham, for he is not at all what he portrays himself to be.”

“Oh? And how is that?”

Mr. Darcy gestured to her hand. “Everything is in the letter. I will offer no more information than what I have already written.

“Now, if you will excuse me.”

The gentleman completed his bow this time, then turned to walk away.

Elizabeth did not know why she spoke again, for she knew it was best to allow Mr. Darcy to leave, return to Hunsford and burn the letter so it would not fall into the wrong hands, and discount whatever explanation he thought he could make.

Before she could consider the wisdom of speaking again, the words left her lips.

“If you truly mean to make amends, you should inform Mr. Bingley of your error and allow him to follow his heart.”

Mr. Darcy stopped in the act of walking away, though he did not turn to face her again.

“Was I in error?”

“You were. Jane does not show her heart, but her feelings are deep and true, nonetheless. Your estimation of her is faulty, Mr. Darcy, for Jane would no more accept a man she did not favor than I accepted Mr. Collins.”

Mr. Darcy turned, his face unreadable. “Mr. Collins proposed to you?”

“He did,” replied Elizabeth. “The day after the ball. I will not marry a man on so short an acquaintance, and I neither love nor respect him, so I refused. Jane and I have always determined to marry a man for love—since we do not possess those things that society deems so essential, our hearts are all we can give.”

From the way he regarded her, Elizabeth was certain he was attempting to discern the extent of her sincerity. He need not have bothered—Elizabeth had long seen the discord between her parents and determined she would allow nothing but pure inclination to induce her into matrimony.

At length, Mr. Darcy sketched another bow and strode away.

HAD MISS ELIZABETH Bennet understood the impact of her words on Darcy, she would have celebrated.

Even now, the day after receiving a devastating rejection from the woman he had admired for months, Darcy could not fathom how all had gone so awry.

He was beginning, however, to understand her reasons, and even to perceive something of the deficiencies of his pretensions.

“I declare, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam, “you are often uncommunicative, but I do not think I have seen you so reflective. I might almost call you morose.”

When Darcy did not respond, Fitzwilliam’s grin grew. “We have escaped Lady Catherine unscathed, Darcy—is that not a reason for cheer?”

Darcy grunted, not wishing to engage in idle banter.

“Or perhaps your demeanor is due to the separation from Miss Bennet? If so, I cannot say your taste is flawed, Darcy, for she is an excellent woman.”

Perhaps he should have restrained himself, but Fitzwilliam’s mention of Miss Bennet did not please him. “What do you know of Miss Bennet?”

“Less than you do, I will warrant.” Fitzwilliam shrugged with his usual insouciance.

“I do know that she is a gem, and I suspect you admire her. It is fortunate that Lady Catherine is blind, otherwise she would even now be knocking down Collins’s door in her fury, and you know he cannot protect her. ”

It was something Darcy had not considered.

“What I do not understand,” continued Fitzwilliam, “is why you have not acted on your inclination. It is not as if you are bound to some colorless lady of society—you have wealth and prestige enough to ignore such things if you wish.”

Fitzwilliam paused to consider, then he added in a thoughtful tone: “Then again, I wonder if she would accept you if you offered for her.”

“What do you mean?” asked Darcy, fearing he already understood the answer.

“I cannot say with certainty,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Several times I sensed she was not pleased with your acquaintance, and yesterday, when I saw her on the estate, that impression increased tenfold.”

Was he the only one who had not seen her antipathy for him?

Darcy supposed he should be grateful, for even Lady Catherine, who watched other ladies like a bird of prey, had seen nothing, for Miss Elizabeth had given no indication she even liked Darcy.

This business of Fitzwilliam meeting her on the estate was something of which he had known nothing, the mention of it filling him with dread.

“What happened yesterday?”

Fitzwilliam scratched his chin. “When we met, she appeared as lively as she ever was, but she grew quiet and claimed a headache after a time. I escorted her back to the parsonage, but I thought her more discomposed than ill.”

Darcy considered him. “When was this?”

“The afternoon, some hours before the absurd parson was to come to Rosings for tea. I thought Miss Bennet stayed behind because of her indisposition, but now I wonder if she was ill at all.”

“Of what did you speak? Was it something that upset her?”

“I would never say something to upset her, Darcy,” chided Fitzwilliam. “It was nothing more than the amusing anecdote you told me about saving Bingley from a predatory female.”

It was obvious from Fitzwilliam’s expression that he saw the ice that had formed around Darcy’s heart, though he did not speak.

For several moments, Darcy endeavored to master himself, while his cousin waited.

Though the mystery of how she had learned of Darcy’s part in that affair was now clear, he suspected her dislike was formed long before Fitzwilliam’s confession.

“That was not well done, Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy at length. “The lady in question is Miss Bennet’s elder sister, Miss Jane Bennet.”

Stricken, Fitzwilliam gaped. “I had no notion, Darcy.”

“Of course, you did not,” said Darcy, pushing away his concern. “I was not explicit, though I am surprised you remembered my passing comment on the subject.”

Fitzwilliam shrugged, still embarrassed. “It was the knowledge you had been with Bingley, coupled with my understanding of his behavior with the ladies. That Miss Bennet might know the lady in question never occurred to me.”

“I have been the cause of my own misfortune,” replied Darcy, feeling bone weary. “It is not your fault.”