A Most Unsuitable Arrangement (An Heiress in Hertfordshire: Pride & Prejudice Collection)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Elizabeth Bennet quitted the assembly in a state of vexation.

The name of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy had first come to her notice only a few days earlier in a letter from her grandfather who had mentioned the gentleman by way of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, second son of the Earl of Matlock and cousin to Mr Darcy.

The colonel, so her grandfather had written, had hinted at a trying summer for his cousins, including a much younger sister of Mr Darcy’s.

Her grandfather had apparently drawn from him the barest allusion to a betrayal at the hands of a former friend—an admission the colonel had scarcely intended to make, but one which her grandfather’s uncommon talent for drawing confidences had nevertheless secured.

No particulars were supplied in the letter; yet enough had been said to awaken Elizabeth’s interest. The account, carefully disguised, disposed her to regard the gentleman with a degree of charitable curiosity.

She had therefore expected reserve from the gentleman, even a degree of gravity; she had not expected disdain, nor the insult she had so distinctly overheard.

With this recollection in mind, she resolved not to give voice to her vexation during the carriage ride back to Longbourn.

Every impulse that evening urged her either to confront Mr Darcy for his intolerable rudeness or to let his insult fly through the village where it would surely diminish his consequence.

Even as her anger burned, she recalled how her grandfather had often admonished her in previous letters:

It is easy to judge another by what is seen or heard while forgetting what burdens may lie unseen. Kindness and patience will serve you better than censure.

Elizabeth folded her hands more tightly in her lap and said nothing.

After hearing the gentleman declare her tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him, and express his unwillingness to give consequence to those slighted by other men, she had turned her head and allowed her gaze to rest upon him for no more than a moment, yet long enough that he might have perceived her look.

Although she could not be entirely certain, she thought a faint colour had risen along his cheek beneath her steady gaze.

There had been the slightest alteration in his expression as though he had spoken with more haste than conviction.

He offered no acknowledgement of her notice.

Any embarrassment he felt was swiftly mastered and concealed behind his accustomed hauteur.

Whether he realised he had been overheard, she could not determine.

Indeed, so far as she could judge, he had addressed no one beyond his own party for the remainder of the evening.

Her curiosity, once charitable towards the gentleman, had sharpened into something less forgiving. It was possible he had been in an ill humour, and time might restore his civility; or perhaps she should never see him again after the assembly. The latter possibility did not wholly satisfy her.

Beyond Mrs Bennet’s exultation over Jane’s success, little of substance had been said during the ride home.

When the carriage drew up at Longbourn, she and Lydia hurried down before the others, and Mrs Bennet immediately proclaimed Jane’s triumph to the housekeeper and any servant within earshot, delighting in Mr Bingley’s marked attention and the distinction of two dances.

The rest followed more sedately, entering the house slowly.

Jane and Elizabeth were the last two up the stairs, having paused to say goodnight to Mr Bennet.

Instead of retiring to their individual rooms, they both entered Jane’s and assisted each other in undressing.

Sally, the maid who attended the Bennet ladies, had already laid Elizabeth’s robe neatly across the foot of the bed.

After late nights, she and Jane generally dispensed with assistance, leaving Sally free to attend to Mrs Bennet and the younger girls.

“What did you think of Mr Bingley?” Elizabeth asked.

“I liked him very well,” Jane replied, smoothing the ribbons of her dressing gown as though the motion might steady her thoughts.

“He is handsome, and he appeared both kind and attentive. I should wish to know more of him; yet I cannot but fear that Mama’s exuberance will frighten him away.

” She offered a faint, apologetic smile.

“Although I have never had a serious suitor—never one I would consider for marriage—I have often thought that, should I meet a gentleman here in Meryton, Mama might drive him off before he had time to form any true regard for me.”

Elizabeth reached across and pressed her hand.

“If a man deserves you, Jane, not even exuberance will frighten him away. And if he is so easily discouraged, he is not worthy of you.” Her expression softened before a familiar spark returned to her eyes.

“As to Mr Bingley—well, Charlotte would advise you to ‘secure’ him before you are fully acquainted with his character.”

Jane laughed quietly.

“For myself,” Elizabeth continued, settling back in her seat, “I would rather you take your time and learn all you can about the gentleman before coming to a decision. It is a difficult balance. We are expected to remain demure, to reveal nothing of our own inclinations, and yet rely entirely upon the gentleman to declare his once he has resolved upon it.” She gave a slight shake of her head.

“A perfectly irrational method of choosing a partner with whom one is expected to spend a lifetime—particularly when women are left so unprotected and so dependent upon male relations for security.”

“Mama would not like to hear that you have taken to reading Mary Wollstonecraft,” Jane replied with a small smile.

“She already calls you a bluestocking and fears you will never find a husband. She cannot comprehend why Papa indulges you—allowing you to read the newspaper from front to back instead of only the gossip columns, as she does, or welcoming you into his study to debate matters with him as if you were a son. Last evening, she was particularly distressed when he called you into his study to play chess. She has been even more agitated of late.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Well, if my upbringing is to be thought peculiar, I suppose I would rather be thought peculiar with sense than commonplace. Besides, Grandpapa says that if I argue long enough, I may yet persuade even him to do things my way—and that, I think, is far more interesting than catching a husband.”

Jane laughed and shook her head. “It will take a very special man to win you, my dear Lizzy. Mama will always be troubled by your unwillingness to conform to what she believes is the proper role for women. To her mind, you are far too bold; yet, while she finds fault, I cannot. I think you lively and engaging; your fondness for what Mama decries as ‘gentlemanly pursuits’ unsettles Mama, because she cannot understand them. Still, I believe there is a gentleman in the world who will value you precisely as you are and will think your wit and spirit the very things that make you most desirable.”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth laughed as she finished unbuttoning Jane’s gown.

“I shall ever be a trial in her mind. She cannot abide how Grandpapa has encouraged me towards more intellectual pursuits. I daresay she is happiest when I am away—whether in London or on those rare occasions I am at his estate.”

“When will he visit again?” Jane asked softly, sensitive to the shadow of unease Elizabeth always carried when speaking of her grandfather’s absence.

Elizabeth’s smile faltered, and she released a soft sigh.

“In his most recent letter, he hinted it may be some time before he can return. I miss him more than I can say. He has ever been my champion, and when he is away, I feel the want of his counsel most keenly.” She drew in a steadying breath.

“I must write a reply to his last letter tonight. If you will excuse me, dearest, I will go to my room and compose it now.”

“Of course, Lizzy,” Jane said with a smile, seemingly unaware of the storm of longing and unease that stirred within Elizabeth’s heart as a result of that evening.

Once settled in her room, Elizabeth lit a candle and drew out her quill and paper, determined to set down her impressions of the evening while they were fresh.

She noted the new leaseholder of Netherfield Park and recorded her first observations of the man and his two sisters, but the greater part of her letter was devoted to their guest, Mr Darcy.

For the first time, she related in full all that she had seen and heard from that gentleman, mingled with her own reflections upon him.

Her pen struck more forcefully across the page as she wrote—

If this be the behaviour of one who is counted among the ‘best of men,’ Grandpapa, then I would far rather be thought impertinent than polite.

He spoke of me as though I were beneath his notice, as though my very presence at the ball were a blemish upon his evening.

Such conceit deserved to be exposed. Still, I remembered your words about the gentleman, and so I held my tongue.

I could not bring myself to ruin him utterly in our small society—even if his own words, had they been overheard by any other, would surely have done so.

Mayhap it is just as well; I daresay Hertfordshire may not be large enough to contain both his pride and my temper.

Only as she laid down her pen did her grandfather’s counsel return to her—the reminder that harsh judgments may conceal deeper wounds. Her words softened somewhat in the closing lines, even as the embers of her indignation still smouldered.

I could more easily forgive his pride, had he not mortified mine in the process.

Still, she finished with a lighter hand, half in jest: she would grant the gentleman another opportunity—if only to allow him the chance of proving himself every bit as hateful as he had seemed that night, or, on the rarest possibility, of surprising her by appearing more amiable at their next meeting.

It was early in the morning, her candle nearly spent, before she finally sanded her letter, folded it, and addressed it to the last location her grandfather had written from.

He had been gone for many months on this particular occasion, having spent much of the winter in the Americas consulting with British representatives there and later travelling on to Lisbon upon business connected with the war.

Elizabeth missed his company—and his counsel—more keenly than she liked to admit.

Mr Bennet was, in certain respects, not unlike her grandfather. He was content enough to let her read what she pleased and rarely interfered with how she chose to occupy her mind.

The resemblance ended there. His indulgence stemmed from a kind of amused complacency, a belief that her pursuits were harmless diversions at best.

Her grandfather was entirely different.

He was a steady, guiding influence, one who pushed her to think deeply and from every angle.

He questioned her assumptions, challenged her reasoning, and expected her not merely to hold an opinion but to understand why she held it.

When he engaged her in discussion, it was not to humour her—it was because he valued her mind.

That, she reflected as she sealed the letter, was something she had sorely missed in his absence.