Game Play
With the tale of Wickham, Darcy realised something important.
He was actually in love with a vague shadow of Elizabeth Bennet, but the real-live Elizabeth was even more fascinating and lovely by orders of magnitude.
If even a quarter of her statements were true, she would be like a Valkyrie, but he had not the slightest doubt that it was all true; as well as a sense she was toying with him for her own amusement.
Darcy also realised he was walking a high-wire with a gaping chasm on both sides, which meant he needed to either proceed carefully or throw caution to the winds.
His proposal he had been ever-so proud of was a shambles, and he was not at all certain he could salvage it, or even retain enough of an acquaintance to start over and court her properly. To buy time, he gathered more details.
“You clearly do not have a headache, so would it be untoward for me to ask the real reason you did not come to tea?”
“To be honest, it is just too tedious. We cannot get anybody within fifty miles to wager about Lady Catherine or Colonel Fitzwilliam because they are entirely too predictable. Mrs Jackson threatened to poison us if we took advantage of the relative inexperience of any of the maids—not that any of us would do such a thing—but we were happy to see her taking charge of her flock as is proper. Charlotte does her gaming while Lady Catherine blathers on, but I have to do mine while walking, so I decided to do some work.”
Once again quite over his head, he started more or less babbling. “Gaming? Work? Walking? Mrs Jackson?”
“Do I need to make Lady Lucas even more insufferable by admitting I was off on tangents yet again? You must be the judge.”
“I believe none of those require chicken scratches.”
“Mrs Jackson is the cook at Rosings, and as you well know the power of the housekeeper is as nothing to the cook. Nobody will wager with her because she almost never loses, and she watches her flock like a mother hawk! She is quite formidable.”
Darcy once again nodded, almost as if he understood.
Elizabeth continued with her instruction.
“By gaming, I meant the games we play with gentlemen.
We of course cannot do so directly… you know, propriety and all that.
We either do the games through the post, or we have a few trusted intermediaries—fathers and husbands and the like—that will go into town and do our bidding.
Men tend to be foolish, so we feel a bit guilty about fleecing them, but we usually get over it.
What did I leave out? Oh yes, gaming. You do not really believe I idly wander around the woods for no reason to you?
That is when I work on my chess games. Charlotte does the same in the parlour, as Lady Catherine's speech patterns are very restful and conducive to deep thought, and there is the added benefit of removing any slight chance her husband will disturb her concentration. I think that about covers it.”
“Chess? You play chess?”
“We do that through the post. It is a little tedious, but it gives our victims more time to think so we abide the inconvenience. Of course, we use the money from the newspaper to supplement our training fund for younger girls, and keep the winnings for our own fortune or spread it among our protégés.”
“The newspaper?”
“Charlotte publishes in the Courier, and I am in the Post. We try to limit our games to a dozen at a time, as we still have our ladies’ pursuits to take care of—tedious as they may be.”
Darcy for the first time in the conversation found himself chuckling, much as his lady love had done at the beginning of the affair, it worked up to a snort, and to full laughter which ultimately threatened to leave his breeches in a quite unsuitable condition, before he was finally able to get himself back in order, wiping tears from his eyes and slapping the table just like Elizabeth had done.
He finally said, “So you are the mysterious EB? I am one of the players in the Post, so I have played several games with you. I do not suppose I could have my ￡500 back?”
She said quite intently, “I think not, Mr FD! You should really learn to use your knights better, and I can reel you in with a queen sacrifice eight times out of ten. Besides that, if I give you back your ￡500, it would reduce my personal fortune under ￡30,000 and I cannot abide that!”
Darcy sat in stunned silence at the enormity of how badly overmatched he was. He had an estate with a park ten miles around and hundreds of tenants, and it would still take him years to amass a fortune like that.
He sputtered and stammered, quite unable to form a coherent thought, and finally asked, “You did not explain your work?”
Elizabeth went back over to the desk and removed one large paper, more complex than the rest, unrolled it, and put paperweights on the corners.
She explained, “This is a fairly complex wager. There are enough different people with different outcomes and odds we have to keep track of it in writing. This is the outcome of the Bingley Bet, so I was noting down all the winners and losers. Naturally, Charlotte will check my work when she returns to the parsonage.”
“The Bingley Bet?”
“I see your cousin did not inform you. He verified this morning that you were the principal agent in trying to separate Mr Bingley from my sister, Jane. I really should thank you, as I made a tidy sum. Everyone fell for the obvious, thinking it would only be his sisters.”
Darcy paled. “You know?”
“Of course we know, but you did not think we would allow it, did you?
Jane gave Mr Bingley these months to learn the workings of his own heart, as she was not certain she wanted a man that easily led.
She has been these three months in town increasing her fortune with our uncle as intermediary, although I must say our aunt is growing tired of her presence, as he usually performs the service only for her.
Jane ultimately decided in Mr Bingley's favour due to his many other fine attributes—particularly since she is the one who will do the leading—so they are engaged. I only waited for Colonel Fitzwilliam to tell us about your scheme as we wanted independent confirmation.”
Darcy sat in stunned silence, and then the enormity of the entire debacle finally came crashing down on him, and he came to the startling realisation that he had just been humbled in a most thorough manner.
He might never again be able to hold his head high anywhere in England.
This was the most mortifying moment of his life, and as far as he could tell, probably the last time he would ever really be able to talk to Elizabeth Bennet.
He had started the evening thinking he was the one to elevate her to his level, but now realised that was akin to a worm trying to elevate a hawk.
She was his superior in every conceivable way.
With the greatest feeling of despondency, Fitzwilliam Darcy looked at Elizabeth Bennet in complete and utter defeat.
His soul shrank up into a ball like a frightened child, and he had not the slightest idea of what to do next, except slink away in shame and try to put together some way to live some kind of shadow existence for the rest of his life.
He now had a firsthand, precise, and detailed map of exactly how much his arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain for others outweighed his consequence.
Perhaps he was a man who needed to be humbled, but he was not in the least certain he would survive the experience.
He was startled out of his reverie by the lady, who started speaking quietly.
“Do I have your absolute, complete, and undivided attention now, Fitzwilliam?”
He stared at her and nodded sheepishly, perfectly willing to agree to anything to extend his time in her company, because she was sitting there like a goddess, the perfect complement to him, the perfect companion of his life, the perfect mother for his children; and he had allowed his insufferable pride and arrogance to strip away all hope of happiness.
She locked her eyes on him, and he found he could not look away. He felt like she was reading his thoughts down to his very soul—perhaps measuring his worthiness—and he could not help but feel such a woman must find him wanting.
When she had him locked down and staring at her in absolute rapt attention, she started speaking.
“Jane is not the only Bennet lady waiting for the man she loves to learn his own heart.
I apologise for making this so very difficult, but it was necessary.
As you must have surmised by now, I did it deliberately.
I knew perfectly well you did not wager on a proposal.
The man I love would not do that; but I am also not willing to be anybody's second-best, or second-chance, or second-choice, or second-anything. You are a good man; perhaps the best of men. You care for hundreds with the most diligence of any man I have ever known. You came into your responsibility when you should have still been at Cambridge, and any error on your part can cost lives and fortunes. Every servant and tenant in Pemberley, and every tradesman within a dozen miles gives you a glowing recommendation. You only lack manners and a bit of humility to be the perfect man for me. I know about your sister and can forgive your carelessness in dealing with Wickham, as I would do far worse than that to protect one of my sisters. I know I am a woman, but I am not inferior and will allow no man alive to think otherwise. No man will claim me as anything except an equal. Am I your equal, Fitzwilliam? If I am, you may say what you came here to say, but try to do a better job of it.”
The last was said with a smile that removed some of the sting, and Fitzwilliam Darcy felt like a man who had dropped through the trapdoor on the gallows only to have the rope break at the very last second.
Perhaps he was wholly unworthy, but he had been given a reprieve and would make the most of it if it killed him.
He fell to his knees and took her hand. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Perhaps one day I will consider myself your equal, but not today. Today you are my superior, and I will brook no opposition. It has taken the most humbling experience of my life to teach me what it means to be a man worthy of the love of a woman like you, and I beg you with every bit of my heart, which you already hold in your hand, to give me the chance to earn that trust. I know it is a long and difficult road, but I do believe I can come up to scratch in five or six decades. Elizabeth Bennet, love of my life, will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife, for I assure you, I shall have no other and I will pursue you like a madman until you either accept me or demonstrate those defensive strategies?”
The look of heartfelt delight was all the answer he needed, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was shocked to find himself flat on his back on the floor being kissed with a passion that he was certain would leave his intended a widow if she did not relent.
At least, he would have thought that if he could think at all.
For some time though, thought was as far away from his capabilities as flying.
Eventually they determined they must bank their passion, or the raging inferno of their feelings would cause actions they would repent (maybe).
Elizabeth, ever the more sensible, with the greatest reluctance disengaged from the man her heart had picked out in Meryton six months earlier, to lie beside him on the floor.
She was sensible enough to realise the impossibility of her head arguing with her heart.
The two were as overmatched as if she made wagers with a five-year-old.
No, her heart would have its way, regardless of her head, but she was quite comfortable that both were in complete accord.
As they lay there in perfect contentment, and perfect assurance that all in the world was as it should be, Elizabeth bestirred herself to make an odd remark. “Kitty is going to kill me.”
“Why, my love?”
Elizabeth laughed. “She thinks I do not know, but she bet Lydia it would take at least until the summer to secure you. She thought I would have to ambush you at Pemberley when I go to Lambton in the summer. Of course, Mama told her she was being foolish, but nobody ever listens to Mama, even though she is nearly always right. They all are taken in by her screeching, silly, mercenary act, and she takes ruthless advantage.”