Elizabeth’s Futures (Who is Elizabeth Bennet? #5)

Chapter 1

Hertfordshire

Fitzwilliam Darcy was thinking of running.

Escaping. Defecting. Admittedly, he would be deserting his friend Charles Bingley, but Bingley wasn’t in the firing line of his sister, Miss Caroline Bingley.

It was strange, he thought, that he used military metaphors, for he had never served in the militia or the army—unlike his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.

But he was in a battle—perhaps skirmish would be more appropriate—for Miss Bingley was apt to ambush him at every opportunity.

The only time he had to himself was early in the day, before breakfast was served to the house.

A long ride through the woods—Netherfield possessed an extensive park—then, perhaps, up Oakham Mount to enjoy the sunrise and the sweeping view across the Hertfordshire countryside.

But, of course, he couldn’t do that either—at least, ascend Oakham Mount—for she was bound to be there.

She of the sparkling wit and fine eyes and chestnut curls, and… No! Definitely not Oakham Mount.

He felt all the irony of the predicament in which he found himself.

Miss Bingley was a handsome woman, not deficient in good humour when she was pleased, agreeable when she chose it, and possessing a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.

Altogether, an admirable assemblage of attributes for any woman to possess when seeking a husband of some lesser social standing—but certainly not that of the nephew of an earl, such as himself.

Perhaps a member of the minor gentry in need of funds—like Mr. Hurst, the husband of her sister, Mrs. Louisa Hurst. Darcy prided himself on his lack of prejudice: that Bingley, being from trade, was a valued friend, and he did not, in the least, disdain his origins.

But to marry his sister? Impossible! Not only would she be scorned in the first circles, but her conversation was banal, her knowledge of literature non-existent, and her accomplishments—apart from a certain technical superiority at the piano-forte—inconsequential.

He had never seen her draw, and her knowledge of French and Italian was mediocre, to say the least.

And she, whom he dared not acknowledge. Could there be a greater contrast between the two women?

Her dowry, some eight hundred pounds on her mother’s decease, was insignificant; her relations vulgar, particularly her aunt, Mrs. Philips, the wife of the local attorney; another uncle in trade living near Cheapside; the breaches of propriety from her three younger sisters, her mother, even (on occasion) her father…

He paused in his thoughts—but she, and her older sister, were everything proper, everything graceful.

He recalled her dancing at the assembly: so light on her feet, her smile as bright as a thousand candles.

Yet always, there was some reserve in her manner.

Her neighbours treated her with such deference—she, the second daughter of an insignificant squire.

Perhaps not so inconsequential in this backwater, but otherwise, in London—of the circles he inhabited—of no consequence whatsoever.

Yes, it would be best to flee this dangerous infatuation, and escape Miss Bingley’s manipulations and sycophantic flattery.

Should he tell Bingley that he would leave, as soon as his valet had packed his bags; that there was urgent business in Town that called him away so precipitously; that he would, unfortunately, be unable to attend Bingley’s ball that evening?

But disguise of every sort was his abhorrence—besides, no letters from London had been delivered, his deceit would be immediately known.

Perhaps it would be best to take breakfast, then plan his escape; tell Bingley that he had no wish to attend the ball and would, rather than merely absenting himself by staying in his room, depart early in the afternoon.

Yes, he would not dissemble—such disguise was beneath him.

He had scarcely descended the stairs from his room, freshly sponged off and changed from his riding clothes and boots, when Miss Bingley swept up and took his arm, clinging to him as they walked to the breakfast parlour.

“You look quite distinguished this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she purred, her voice carefully modulated to her most alluring. “Riding of a morning certainly becomes you.”

He avoided glancing at her. She would be fluttering her eyelashes—so seductively executed that she must, most assuredly, practice every day before the mirror at her dressing table.

He muttered inconsequentially, entering the room where Bingley was already seated.

Darcy sat opposite, there being nothing he could do to prevent Miss Bingley from taking the seat beside him.

The best of it, he supposed, was that she could not batter those very same eyelashes across the table.

“Darcy! You seem vexed. Why so?” declared Bingley.

“A bad night? I must say that the ragout at dinner was over-spiced for my taste. I don’t see how Hurst managed two servings!

” He turned to his sister. “Caroline, perhaps a word with the cook to go easy with the seasonings. Wouldn’t want Darcy to miss the ball, would we? ”

Dash it. How could he run now? Bingley was eyeing him with a sly look—had his friend realised that Darcy was thinking of excusing himself, absconding for London?

“Charles, really, that woman!” said Miss Bingley. “She knows that we prefer less rich food. I shall speak to her immediately after breakfast. Mr. Darcy, I shall have some mint water made up; nothing is more efficacious for a delicate digestion.”

“It is of no matter, Miss Bingley,” he replied, attempting to steer the conversation away from a discussion of ailments of the gut.

“I observed the ragout was over-spiced and did not partake. But the pheasant was done to perfection—you should compliment the cook, not rebuke her. As to the ragout, Hurst had requested that it be so flavoured—did you not request that the kitchen attend to it?”

He had overheard the conversation the day before, and knew that Miss Bingley had hurried to the kitchen to ensure the ragout be made piquant, assuming that heavily spiced dishes, often served in London, were also to his taste.

Did she not see that he always partook of them sparingly, preferring the simple fare of country cooking?

But her knowledge was restricted to such society as she encountered in Town.

She had no experience as the mistress of an estate.

Of course, his mind wandered to her—she whom he had encountered, more than once, carrying baskets to the poorer cottagers on both her home estate, Longbourn, and neighbouring estates such as Netherfield.

Never once had Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst deigned to acquaint themselves with the wives of the leaseholders or cottagers—yet such was their responsibility with Bingley now master of Netherfield.

* * *

Elizabeth Bennet wanted to scream. Instead, she pulled on her half-Hessians, exited the house, and ran along the lane towards Oakham Mount.

She thought of fleeing to London and staying with her aunt and uncle at Gracechurch Street near Cheapside.

But there was no chance of that on the day of the ball.

Her mother would insist she attend, and be at home for the inevitable visits afterwards.

Fortunately, perhaps, the previous four days had been wet, so there had been no callers—in particular, the officers of the militia regiment, nor Mr. Bingley and his guest Mr. Darcy, nor Charlotte and her brother John Lucas.

She would have enjoyed Charlotte’s company, but John’s attentions she could do without.

Her mother, always eager to secure husbands for her daughters, could not resist pushing her towards him, whilst simultaneously suggesting to Mr. Collins, Mr. Bennet’s distant cousin—the heir to Longbourn—that he was her preference. The Fates forbid it!

Mr. Collins had accepted Mr. Bingley’s invitation to the ball, declaring that it was by no means unacceptable for a clergyman to attend a ball given by a young man of character to respectable people. Unfortunately, his acceptance went further than she had anticipated.

“I take this opportunity of soliciting your hand, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,” he said, bowing to her with affected gallantry. “A preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”

As if he had ever had a preference for Jane, apart from those first few minutes before she, Elizabeth, had been introduced to him.

Oh, why, she lamented, do men become so easily affected, thinking themselves in love when it was nothing more than a passing infatuation—transient until they met their true life companion; or familiarity, and her lack of reciprocation, diminished their regard until their affection ceased.

Briefly, she recalled, when only fifteen, there was a gentleman at her uncle Gardiner’s in Town, so much in love with her, that she had hidden herself in her room until the man finally left, but not before leaving her some ill-rhymed verses.

Soon after, she returned to Longbourn. Indeed, the pressure of so many people in Town made such visits a trial rather than the diversion she had hoped for.

“Miss Bennet, what a pleasant surprise.” Oh dear, Mr. Denny and Mr. Chamberlayne of the militia.

She curtseyed, but did not stay her walk along the lane.

“What luck,” Mr. Denny continued, “we are taking the same way. It’s such a relief to take the air, after the inclement weather of the past few days. ”

It is a pity, thought Elizabeth, that Lieutenant Denny was incapable of rendering such a dull topic interesting, for his speech was ponderous; though, perhaps, more easily understood than Ensign Chamberlayne’s stuttering.

The latter was so young he had no need to shave—dressed in women’s clothing, she mused, with his curls and rosy tinted cheek, he could easily be mistaken for a girl.

Oh, the poor boy. She must endeavour to be kind to him, at least for her youngest sister, Lydia’s sake, who had taken quite a liking to him.

Much better than her flirting with that far-too-handsome Mr. Wickham—at least twice her age—who had decided that joining the militia was not for him and left Meryton scarcely a week after his arrival.

Coincidentally, he had left behind debts with the bootmaker, the linen-draper, and each of Meryton’s three inns.

Perhaps, she thought, she could gain some intelligence of the man, for his sudden departure disturbed her more than she knew why, especially his thoughts of a young woman, likely no older than Lydia.

Had he mentioned her name? She could not recall it, but the image she had was of someone gazing adorably at him, walking along a tree-lined avenue, clutching his arm.

Yet, his feelings were all disdain: the young girl was nothing to him.

“Mr. Denny,” said Elizabeth, slowing slightly for the officers to come alongside, but keeping her hands clasped behind her—she had no wish for him to offer his arm.

“My apologies, but I was wanting some intelligence of Mr. Wickham. Mrs. Arnold, the baker’s wife, said he owed her one shilling and threepence. Is he likely to return?”

“Ah, Wickham. Would that I had never met him in London and suggested he join us. No, I know nothing further than he left for Town and said not when he would return, if ever. Indeed, he owes me a guinea over cards.”

“A-And… me too,” spoke up Mr. Chamberlayne, “H-He… I have his vowel for five shillings.”

“Did he say why he left?” Elizabeth said. “I have an uncle in Town. Perchance he could locate the fellow; at least have him pay his debts.”

“It was very strange,” replied Mr. Denny.

“He seemed quite settled here; the officers’ quarters in Meryton are excellent accommodation and the society is exceedingly welcoming.

” He looked at her rather intensely, and were she not to know his attention was but an infatuation which, hopefully, would soon pass, she would have felt herself quite discomfited.

“Indeed, he claimed a prior acquaintance with Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley’s friend, and said that they would get on quite well together. ”

Very strange, she thought, for when conversing with Mr. Wickham at her aunt Mrs. Phillips’s card party, he had stated that Mr. Darcy was an ill-tempered man and had done himself, Mr. Wickham, a great ill.

“It was after he heard that Darcy was to stay in the neighbourhood for several months, assisting Mr. Bingley with management of the estate, that Wickham seemed to think his opportunities here were too limited. That he had a far greater chance of making his fortune elsewhere.” Mr. Denny was quiet for a moment.

“Indeed, I heard him muttering that ‘thirty thousand pounds, she for the plucking—and with Darcy gone…’”

Elizabeth’s heart stilled. Was she the young fair-haired girl on his arm?

“W-Wick… Wickham spoke of finding a rich heiress,” said Mr. Chamberlayne.

“W-w… we laughed, for all of us wish for such good fortune.” A blush travelled up his neck, the tips of his ears pinking adorably—Elizabeth understood Lydia’s attraction.

Poor boy, just that moment realising his faux pas, speaking of heiresses when accompanying a lady for whom he held a strong affection.

No! she could not solve all the problems of the world. Surely, the girl had a guardian, a companion who would protect her from predators such as Mr. Wickham. Particularly, if her fortune was thirty thousand pounds—no one would leave such a young woman vulnerable and without adequate protection.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “I must turn and return home. Enjoy the remainder of your walk.”

Elizabeth hurried away. The chaos of Longbourn awaited her—particularly, Mrs. Bennet’s shrill voice as she attempted to force her daughters into some semblance of elegance, if not prettiness, for the evening’s entertainment.

* * *