Where the Waters Agree: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

Chapter 1

Where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give.

— MRS ELTON, EMMA

Evermore on Sea, Kent, July 1812

The brisk, steady breeze blowing inland from the sea stirred the curls at the nape of Elizabeth Bennet’s neck, providing a respite from an unseasonably warm summer’s day. Her mother, who had begged her husband to take his family to the seaside for the summer, had grown dissatisfied with the cliffs and the sand and the waves and declared that a morning spent patronising the local shops would be just the thing to raise her spirits. With varying degrees of enthusiasm, Elizabeth’s three younger sisters consented to the scheme, but Elizabeth, craving fresh air and exercise, begged leave to walk along the beach instead. For two days a heavy, persistent rain had kept her indoors. Today’s weather was much the opposite. Gone were the dark clouds and oppressive dampness. Gone were the low, resonant rumblings of thunder. In their stead, a rich swath of blue sky stretched for miles while the sun shone like a beacon within it, glinting off the water with a brilliance that required her to shield her eyes with her hand.

On clear days, the coast of France was rumoured to be visible in the distance. As she had done nearly every day since her arrival two weeks prior, Elizabeth stood at the water’s edge, endeavouring to see beyond the swells that rose and dipped where the English Channel met the mouth of the North Sea, but she could discern no land, only a vast body of water without end. She spied a small armada of fishing boats instead and several British frigates, whose taut sails reminded her of bedsheets that had been hung out to dry in the wind. Satisfied that the French Imperial Navy was not poised to importune her on her walk, she continued onwards, inhaling the fresh, salty scent of the sea.

Evermore on Sea was a charming place, and very different from Hertfordshire. The seaside, covered in sand and littered with pebbles, sustained no crops of barley or wheat. There were no rolling hills within an easy distance. No wooded paths carpeted with fragrant needles and leaves. Oakham Mount, resplendent with stately oaks, evergreens, and sycamores, was far behind her.

Also far behind her was her father’s estate, Longbourn. The handsome sandstone manor house that the Bennet family called home stood proudly at the centre of it, surrounded by a modest park with a hermitage and lilac trees and a large, formal garden brimming with roses and lilies.

Although the little coastal village in southeast Kent had no grand houses of which to boast, it did have a bustling high street, quaint timbre buildings, and wide, windswept bluffs. It had a cosy stone church, a confectioner’s shop, and a maze of narrow footpaths that wound along the coast. Unlike the dense, wooded paths of Hertfordshire, the sandy footpaths of the shore were fully exposed to the elements. More than once, Elizabeth had snagged her pretty hems on rushes and tufts of spikey marram grass. More than once, she had cast off her bonnet and returned home with her hair in disarray and her cheeks pink from the sun. The peaceful strands and grassy bluffs ladened with bell heather and scarlet pimpernel appealed to her adventuresome spirit like nothing else—especially as the sun sank lower, and the shadows lengthened, and the daylight began to wane.

It was at sunset that the landscape softened, and the sky, painted with purples and pinks and reds, took on a burnished, almost magical cast. At sunset, the sea appeared to settle and slow. There was something awe-inspiring—nay, something humbling—when afternoon faded and evening descended and the sun, in its brilliance, swelled to an immense proportion before it was swallowed whole by the sea.

The crown jewel was the sea itself. The cool, briny water; the constant ebb and flow of the tide; the mysteries concealed within its vast, inky depths—Elizabeth adored it all. It was summertime, and the weather was pleasant and fair, but she wondered what would happen in the winter months when the days grew shorter and the nights became longer. Would the coastal winds blow more harshly? Would the smooth, rolling swells—so hypnotic and soothing to observe—grow choppy and severe under a weighted winter sky? Or would the waves slowly freeze solid, as the River Thames had done on occasion when London turned so cold the entire world had ground to a stop?

A sudden, forceful gust caused Elizabeth’s gown to billow, then cling to her legs with stubborn determination. While the little terns scurrying along the water’s edge paid her no mind as she attempted to bring her skirts under regulation, she was by no means immune to scrutiny. Halfway down the beach, a group of gentlemen were making their way along the shore. Their camaraderie and rumbustious laughter as they clutched their hats to their heads carried to her in fits and bursts on the wind. They were likely harmless, but Elizabeth deemed it more prudent to avoid them and turned back the way she had come.

Upon spying a rudimentary staircase carved into the side of the cliff, she smiled and quickened her pace. There were no handrails running along the length of it—there was nothing but the cliff face to grasp for support—but Elizabeth, feeling bold, refused to dwell on the perils of undertaking such a climb; she thought only of the reward that awaited her once she reached the top: the wide, picturesque bluff crowned with wildflowers that offered a spellbinding view of the coast. Nevertheless, she was mindful to lift her skirts above her ankles to avoid tangling her feet in her hem. Twisting an ankle or fracturing a limb would ensure that her daily explorations would cease. Being confined to the house or worse—to her bed—was a prospect that held no appeal, as was being the object of her mother’s vexation.

“Mama…” Elizabeth expelled an exasperated breath as she thought of her well-meaning, often frustrating mother. Mrs Bennet’s zeal for matchmaking had not lessened since Elizabeth’s eldest sister Jane had become Mrs Bingley in June. If anything, their mother had become more determined to see her four remaining daughters equally well settled. Mrs Bennet adhered to the adage that ‘one wedding will beget another’ and repeated it daily, usually while keeping alert for potential husbands. Elizabeth had met the handsome—albeit dull—Mr Drummond at an assembly the very evening they arrived. Since then, he had called four times. Should all of her mother’s efforts to see Elizabeth married to him come to nothing, there would be no peace at Longbourn for many months to come.

It would not be the first time.

With vivid detail, she recalled the ill-fated suitors her mother had procured for her in years past: Mr Gilbert, a second son with a legacy and a habit of attempting liberties that were neither encouraged nor welcomed; Mr Humphrey, a man of three-and-thirty who, while perfectly amiable, had shown more interest in his dogs than in courtship; Mr Talbot, a prosperous country attorney who looked so often at Jane that Elizabeth could not account for his calling upon her. The Reverend William Collins, Mr Bennet’s cousin and heir, whose head was as thick as his middle, had preferred Jane as well. He settled for Elizabeth at her mother’s urging, but when Elizabeth declined his offer of marriage, he transferred his affections to her good friend Charlotte Lucas instead.

Now, her mother wanted Elizabeth to marry Mr Drummond, who had an estate in Surrey, three thousand pounds a year, and a plump Persian cat named Augusta. What he did not have was the talent to converse on any subject that did not pertain to his own concerns. He talked almost exclusively of his mother, to whom he had given carte blanche in the management of his household; of his estate, which his mother believed was the finest in all of England; and of Augusta, who was named for his mother but whom he referred to as Her Highness to avoid causing confusion amongst their intimate friends.

Rolling her eyes at Mr Drummond’s absurdity, Elizabeth placed her hand upon the rockface to steady herself as she reached the top. Instantly, a sense of serenity settled in her veins and Mr Drummond, his unassailable mother, and his pampered cat faded into nothingness. The view that stretched before her stole her breath—the whisps of white clouds; the lovely cerulean sky; the smooth, rhythmic motion of the sea. The wind had not ceased, but neither had it grown fiercer. If anything, it seemed to have settled into a brisk, even breeze, much the same as it was when she had left the house.

Despite her lovely bird’s eye view of the coast, she was impatient to embrace the wild, grassy expanse of the bluff, where the heady fragrance of sea thrift mingled with the briny scent of the sea. Her fingers itched to remove her bonnet so she could feel the full effect of the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. If not for the necessity of maintaining propriety, she would cast off her half-boots and stockings, raise her skirts to her knees, and run barefooted through the grass. Instead, she bid a silent adieu to the sea as she loosened her bonnet’s wide, satin ribbons and hastened onto the grass, where she came to an abrupt and immediate halt.

Before her stood the very last gentleman with whom she had ever expected to meet at a bucolic little seaside retreat—a gentleman who had once done an even poorer job of paying court to her than Mr Gilbert, Mr Humphrey, Mr Talbot, and Mr Collins combined: Mr Darcy of Pemberley.

Judging by the astonished expression on Mr Darcy’s face, Elizabeth was certain she must be the last person in the world he had expected to meet with as well.

“Miss Bennet,” he stammered.

“Mr Darcy,” she replied in a similar tone.

And then there was silence.

Elizabeth had been acquainted with him for nearly a year. The limited society and gracious hospitality of her Hertfordshire neighbours ensured they were thrown together often—they had even danced together at Mr Bingley’s ball last November—but their acquaintance had never evolved into friendship. Mr Darcy had slighted her at a public assembly the evening they were introduced, he had denied the winsome Mr Wickham a living, and he had taken it upon himself to separate Mr Bingley from Jane. He had been high-handed and proud and had behaved as though he was above his company at every turn.

Of course, Elizabeth had done a fine job of provoking him as well. She had teased him, argued with him, and avoided him whenever she could. To her consternation, such affronts had not dissuaded him from staring at her whenever they happened to be in company together, or listening to her conversations with others, or seeking her out on her morning walks through the countryside, especially when she had visited Mr and Mrs Collins, whose parsonage was separated from Rosings Park, the home of Mr Darcy’s illustrious aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by a single lane.

So vehemently had Elizabeth disliked him, she had convinced herself that he looked at her only to find fault. In truth, the situation was not at all what she had come to believe. Mr Darcy had loved her—ardently loved her. He had told her so in April, when he called upon her at the parsonage and asked her to become his wife. Had he refrained from insulting her family while he did so, perhaps Elizabeth would have been kinder in her refusal of his hand. But he had not been kind, and what followed was a vitriolic avowal of all that she had long felt about him.

Now, standing opposite the gentleman atop a deserted bluff, Elizabeth felt all the mortification and awkwardness of their past interactions anew. Since learning the truth of his history with Mr Wickham, her resentment towards Mr Darcy had waned. Mr Wickham had turned out to be an opportunistic libertine and a liar. Mr Bingley had returned to Hertfordshire in May—at Mr Darcy’s urging—and he and Jane were happily married. As for Mr Darcy’s objections to her family…what had he said of them that Elizabeth had not thought herself on countless occasions before? Her younger sisters were indecorous and self-centred; her mother, who was often silly and imprudent herself, indulged them to excess; and her father, who delighted in anything ridiculous, was disinclined to rouse himself from his book-room to rein them in. Mr Darcy was not some country squire of middling consequence; he was the grandson of an earl and master of a vast estate worth ten thousand pounds a year! Elizabeth had no noble connexions, no formal education, and no dowry to speak of; that he had paid her any attention at all, never mind wanted to marry her, was incredible! More incredible still was his deigning to acknowledge her now, after she had abused him so abominably to his face in Mr Collins’s parlour.

And then—with perfect civility, if not perfect composure—he acknowledged her again.

“I hope, Miss Bennet, that I find you well?”

“You find me very well, sir,” she replied sedately, striving to appear calm and collected when she felt much the opposite.

“And your parents,” he enquired, “and all of your sisters? Are they also in good health?”

“They are all in excellent health.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Wordlessly, Mr Darcy regarded her for several moments before averting his eyes to the ground, where a jaunty patch of sea campion danced with the breeze. He nudged one flower with the toe of his boot, cleared his throat, and glanced at the sky. “The weather is quite fine today.”

“Indeed.”

“And very different from yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“The roads, especially those along the coast, were terrible.”

“Considering the rain we have lately seen, I imagine they were.”

Mr Darcy shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and looked towards the coast, all the while twisting his signet ring around and around his finger.

Elizabeth had seen him toy with his ring on several occasions before. Curious, she observed him—his posture, his stance, and his expression—all the while expecting to see irritation, or resentment, or disinterest. Instead, she was astonished to see he appeared to be nervous.

With dawning comprehension, she recalled a conversation in which he proclaimed he had not the talent to converse easily with strangers. They had been in his aunt’s drawing room at the time, and Elizabeth had thought he was merely being flippant in order to entice her to argue with him. She certainly had not taken his words to heart.

He had attended Cambridge.

He moved in society’s first circles.

Thousands of people—servants and tenants alike—were in his employ.

And for the duration of their exchange in Lady Catherine’s drawing room, he had toyed with his ring in the same manner as he was doing now.

Mr Darcy cleared his throat and Elizabeth’s attention shifted from his hands to his face, where she saw his eyes were fixed upon her with the same steady intensity with which she had seen him regard her on countless occasions before.

“Have you been long at Evermore on Sea, Miss Bennet?”

Elizabeth felt a flush of heat bloom upon her cheeks. He had been beyond civil to her from the moment she had set foot on the bluff. He had exerted himself to enquire after her health and that of her family. She, on the other hand, had given only perfunctory answers to his questions and had asked him nothing in return, not even whether he was well. Resolved to show him that she, too, was capable of the same civility he had shown her, Elizabeth prepared to speak, but the brisk breeze that had been stirring the flowers suddenly became a powerful gust and her pretty straw bonnet was unceremoniously ripped from her head.

“Oh!” she cried in dismay, making a valiant attempt to catch her wayward bonnet. The wind was strong; despite her efforts, her bonnet was soon beyond her reach, and she watched, agitated and helpless, as it struck Mr Darcy squarely in his face.

With an utterance that sounded decidedly ungentlemanly, he staggered backwards, crushing countless blooms beneath his boots in his effort to remain upright.

Horrified, Elizabeth rushed forwards, then stopped short and simply stared at the scene unfolding before her, at a loss as to what if anything she ought to do to assist him.

As it turned out, there was nothing to be done that Mr Darcy did not do himself. Having found his footing and regained his balance, he paused, straightened, and tugged at his coat before stooping to retrieve Elizabeth’s bonnet from the ground. A flush of colour appeared high upon his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he returned it to her with a stiff, perfunctory bow.

A mangled campion and at least a dozen blades of tall grass now adorned the brim. Elizabeth stared at it for a long moment. The grass, wedged within the tight, intricate weave of blonde straw, brought to mind the fashionable, feather-adorned bonnets that Mr Bingley’s sisters favoured. The coarse grass of the bluff was a poor substitute for pheasant feathers, however; a detail the superior Miss Bingley would have taken immense pleasure in pointing out. Disheartened, Elizabeth looked from her ruined bonnet to Mr Darcy’s face, where she espied a smudge of blood upon his left cheek.

“You are injured,” she said with some distress, indicating the corresponding spot on her own cheek.

Mr Darcy touched his cheek and winced.

From her spencer pocket, Elizabeth withdrew an embroidered handkerchief edged with lace and offered it to him as she silently chastised herself for being so careless as to fail to secure her bonnet on a blustery day. “Pray forgive me, sir. The fault is mine.”

“Unless your myriad accomplishments include commanding the wind, Miss Bennet, you are not at fault. This is barely a scratch. Rest assured I have suffered far worse injuries in my lifetime.”

Elizabeth had no doubt that was true. She had injured him grievously in April with her intemperate words and her misguided prejudice and her unwarranted defence of a man who had wronged him repeatedly, a man he had once considered his friend. “Nevertheless,” she told him quietly but firmly, “I would never forgive myself if your wound were to fester.”

Forcing the handkerchief into his hand, she left him to tend to his injury while she removed the trampled campion from her bonnet and discarded a ridiculous amount of grass. She was contemplating an unfortunate dent on the side of it, wondering whether it might be possible to repair it, when Mr Darcy spoke two words that made her pause:

“I would.”

The gentle but insistent tone of his voice surprised her, as did the almost wistful expression he wore as he regarded her—closely regarded her. While she had been busy tidying her bonnet, he had taken the liberty of moving closer. He was so close in fact that Elizabeth could see tiny flecks of amber and jade in his brown eyes; she could smell his scent: musk and leather and horse. Startled and unnerved in equal measure, she took a step backwards, increasing the distance between them to one infinitely more proper.

Mr Darcy said nothing further; he only continued to gaze at her. In months past, such a look from him would have incited her irritation. Now, she felt an odd fluttering sensation within her belly; a strange sort of tightness that was entirely new but no less disconcerting.

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. It seemed impossible that he should admire her still, especially after all that had passed between them, but the look he was presently directing at her spoke volumes; it was a far cry from indifference and dislike. She licked her lips, which felt dry and parched from the wind, and willed her racing heart to calm. Long strands of hair tangled in her eyelashes as the wind picked up. Several more clung to her lips. Impatiently, she brushed them aside with her hand and tucked them as best she could behind her ear. “I am afraid I do not take your meaning, Mr Darcy. You said, ‘I would’. Pray tell me, sir, what is it that you would do?”

“I would forgive you,” he told her. “Whether you desired my forgiveness or not, know that you will always have it.”

Elizabeth blinked.

She had maligned him, insulted him, wrongly accused him, and refused to marryhim, yet here he stood professing he would forgive it all. Had he forgiven it all? Could Mr Darcy, who had once described his temper as being unyielding—even resentful—truly be so generous and good?

Elizabeth’s mind raced as she thought of his fifteen-year-old sister, who had been ill used by Mr Wickham for her fortune of thirty thousand pounds. She thought of his father, to whom Mr Wickham had endeared himself to such an extent that Old Mr Darcy had supported him financially for most of his dissipated life. Lastly, she thought of Mr Darcy himself, only to have her head flooded with past remembrances that did little to restore her equilibrium.

Mr Darcy, slighting her at the Meryton Assembly before they were introduced.

Mr Darcy, dancing with her—and her alone—at the Netherfield ball.

Mr Darcy, pacing the length of Mr Collins’s parlour in agitation before declaring he loved her and asking her to become his wife.

Mr Darcy, standing in a dew-kissed grove shortly after sunrise, his shoulders hunched, holding a letter bearing her name in his firm, decisive hand.

“Miss Bennet, are you unwell? Have I upset you?” His voice was incredibly soft, almost tender.

Seeing real concern written upon his face, Elizabeth endeavoured to compose herself. “Pray forgive me, sir. I am perfectly well, only tired. After enduring two days of rain, I was eager to be out of doors and away from the house. Perhaps I have walked too far today.” She offered him an apologetic but sincere smile and steered the conversation back to a subject she felt equal to discussing. “I believe you enquired whether I have been long at Evermore on Sea. We—my mother, my sisters, and I—arrived two weeks ago.”

If Mr Darcy was disappointed that she had nothing to say on the subject of forgiveness, he was too much of a gentleman to show it. Returning her smile, he said only how delighted he was for her to visit and asked her where she was staying and for how long.

“On White Street,” Elizabeth replied. “My father has taken a house for us within an easy distance of the beach. We will reside there for a month complete. But what of you, sir? When did you arrive? I hope you did not travel yesterday, when the weather was so disagreeable and wet.”

To her chagrin, Mr Darcy appeared momentarily surprised by her question, perhaps because she had finally condescended to ask him anything at all about himself. “I arrived an hour ago.” He paused, then went on to say, “White Street is a charming neighbourhood. My uncle Darcy lived on Wall Street, which is nearer to the village than it is to the beach. I used to visit him there every summer when I was a boy.”

The idea that anyone might have had the opportunity to visit the seaside each summer as a child delighted her. “I confess I am rather envious. My own father has never been fond of travelling, which is why he did not choose to accompany us here. All of our summers were passed at home.”

“Until now.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “Until now.”

“And what is your impression of it? Do you approve of it?”

“Very much. In fact, I have found that the seaside, with its scenic charms, its mysteries, and its delights, has quite exceeded my expectations.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Mr Darcy replied, “but hardly surprised. Your preference for nature and simplicity over adornment and excess is an estimable quality, one I have long admired.”

His voice was warm, as warm as the manner in which he regarded her. So warm in fact that Elizabeth struggled to form a sensible reply.

Mr Darcy, it seemed, did not require a response, nor did he comment on her lack of one. He merely cleared his throat, withdrew his watch from his waistcoat pocket, and glanced at it. “Will you grant me the honour of escorting you to White Street, Miss Bennet? If your mother is at home, I should very much like to call upon her. I am long overdue in paying my respects.”

Elizabeth’s bonnet slipped from her hand and onto the ground.

This time, it had nothing to do with the wind.