Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 3 (3 page)

If she could have accepted him, she would have done so. But it was impossible. Despite the compliment he was paying her, and despite every advantage he was offering her, she never wavered. She never for one instant thought of accepting him because a marriage with him was out of the question. She did not love him. In fact, she often hated him.

Even so, she felt sorry for him. She knew he would find it humiliating to be rejected.

But her compassionate feelings started to disappear when the tone of his conversation changed. He had told her how much he ardently loved and admired her, but now he was saying things that were less pleasant to hear. In fact, most unpleasant.

For the second time that evening she wondered if she could be hearing properly. Because, having stunned her by proposing he now equally shocked her be telling her it would be a degradation for him to marry her. He was criticising her family – “Your father has no control over your sisters, who are hardened flirts, and your mother makes herself ridiculous every time she opens her mouth. Your aunt Phillips is a gossip and your other aunt lives in Cheapside. Cheapside!’ he said in disgust.

He went on to say they were all beneath him and, indeed, he looked more disdainful than she had ever seen him.

As he continued to talk, her indignation grew. He spoke of the injury it would do to his own family if he married her, and he dwelt at length on every possible objection to the match - and then he concluded by saying that he hoped she would now reward him by accepting his offer!

She had never been so astonished– or so insulted - in her life.

All her earlier feelings of compassion had been swept away by his subsequent remarks.

She told him that, if she could have felt gratitude, she would have thanked him.

‘But I cannot,’ she said.

She made it clear she had never sought his good opinion, and could not help remarking that he had obviously bestowed it most unwillingly. She acknowledged that she was sorry to have caused him pain, but remarked, ‘It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration.’

After all, she pointed out, the feelings that had stopped him speaking of his admiration before would surely overcome his pain before long.

It was then Mr Darcy’s turn to be astonished and she realised he had never for one moment doubted that she could accept him. He went pale, and for a moment he could not speak. The silence was dreadful to Elizabeth.

At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he asked if that was all the reply he was to have the honour of expecting?

‘I might, perhaps, wish to be informed, why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected,’ he said coldly.

His arrogance made her angry and, as he had made no effort to be polite, she felt justified in speaking plainly. Indeed, she was now so angry she would not have been able to do anything else even if she had wanted.

And so she told him frankly that she would never look kindly on a man who had ruined the happiness of her beloved sister, or destroyed the prospects of a charming young man.

Mr Darcy coloured at her words, but remained as arrogant as ever. Instead of apologising, he argued with her until she felt she could stand it no longer. He said that her sister was not in love with Mr Bingley – the conceit of the man, to assume he could see into Jane’s heart! – and he said that Mr Bingley would be glad of the separation when he had come to his senses.

Elizabeth was seething.

And then he attempted to justify himself where Mr Wickham was concerned, hinting that Elizabeth did not know everything.

She was not in a mood to listen to him.

At last he accepted that she was determined to reject him and that nothing would change her mind, and so he stormed out of the parsonage. She heard him slam the front door behind him.

Elizabeth sat down, with her legs trembling. Her headache was now worse than ever.

After a few minutes she gathered her thoughts and retired to her room, since she knew the Collinses would soon be home and she could not face them. She was agitated after the scene she had just passed through and she knew she would not be able to hide the fact that something had happened. She could not face Charlotte’s sympathetic enquiries or Mr Collins’s stupid remarks.

Once in her room, she bathed her temples with fresh lavender water. When she felt calmer, she sat down by the fire to contemplate the scene which had just taken place, and to muse on the astonishing fact that Mr Darcy had just asked her to be his wife.

Mr Darcy strode back to Rosings Park feeling angry with himself for succumbing to temptation and proposing to Elizabeth, and he felt even more angry with her for rejecting him. He did not feel the cold night air or the drizzle that was falling. The raindrops fell unheeded on his head and he did not feel the sharp breeze.

How could she do it? he asked himself. Did she not know that any other woman would consider herself lucky to be loved by him? Did she not know that any other woman would have said yes straight away?

As he returned to the house and made his way to the dining-room he thought of the charge Elizabeth had laid against him: that he had deprived Mr Wickham of a valuable living.

Did she really think he would be capable of doing such a thing unless there was a very good reason?

He paused by the dining-room door. The last thing he wanted to do was to make conversation with Mr Collins, but it had to be done. And so, steeling himself, he went in.

‘Did you finish your letters?’ asked Mr Collins, who was drinking his second glass of port.

‘Yes,’ he said curtly.

‘I believe Lady Catherine needs us to make up a table at cards,’ ventured Mr Collins hesitantly.

Mr Darcy nodded, and the two men went through to the drawing-room.

They were welcomed by Lady Catherine saying, in a disapproving voice, ‘There you are at last.’

Mr Collins hastened to her side with some fulsome compliments, and at last the haughty look left her face. She gave instructions that the card table was to be set up and Anne’s companion arranged it.

Lady Catherine, Mr Darcy, Mr Collins and Charlotte sat down to play cards, whilst Anne went over to the pianoforte and rather languidly looked at some music. Her companion went with her and encouraged her to provide them with some music.

Mr Darcy dealt the cards, but as he did so, his mind was elsewhere. It was in the parsonage, with Elizabeth Bennet, and he was now thinking of everything he should have said to her not half an hour ago.

He could not allow her to go on thinking so badly of him. He must let her know that she was wrong about him. His pride demanded it.

He thought the evening would never end. But at last Lady Catherine grew bored and ordered the carriage for the Collinses. There was some desultory conversation until it arrived. Then the goodnights were said and the front door was closed and he was free to retire to his room.

Once there he did what he had been itching to do for hours. He went over to his writing desk and pulled a sheet of paper towards him. He mended his pen then dipped it in the ink and began to write. He wrote quickly, composing a long and detailed letter that showed Elizabeth Bennet he was in fact an honourable man who had acted wisely in all cases.

How wrong Elizabeth had been to reject him! She had not only accused him of behaving unjustly to Wickham, she had accused him of ruining her sister’s happiness. It was all nonsense. Jane Bennet was not in love with Mr Bingley, and Mr Bingley was certainly not in love with Jane Bennet.

Why, he had seen Bingley only that morning and Bingley had been as cheerful as usual.

But even as he thought it, a doubt began to creep in.

Mr Bingley had spoken of Miss Bennet and it was obvious he had not forgotten her.

He did not like such thoughts so he finished his letter quickly then threw down his pen. He was tired. He began to undress slowly. He shrugged himself out of his coat and loosened his cravat, then he untied it and put it with his coat. He pulled his shirt over his head, then he went over to the washstand and sluiced water over himself in an effort to wash away all the frustrations of the day.

What a mess I have made of everything
, he thought, in an unusual mood of self-doubt.

He wished now that he had not gone to see Miss Elizabeth in the parsonage, and he fervently wished that he had not proposed. In fact, as the clock began to strike midnight, he wanted to live the day all over again, so that he could do everything differently.

His eye fell on the newspaper which lay on the writing desk and the date seemed to haunt him. It was February 13 and as soon as the last stroke of midnight died away it would be February 14
th
: St Valentine’s Day.

I wish that St Valentine’s Day would never come. I have no use for it
, he thought bitterly. Adding,
unless Elizabeth Bennet were to fall in love with me
.

He heard a strange sound behind him, almost like a chuckle. How very odd. Where had it come from?

He looked round, but he could see nothing except a few ornaments on the mantelpiece. There was a vase, a candelabra and a pair of cupids. The chuckle had come from the direction of the cupids.

‘What right have you to laugh at me?’ he said to the cupids. ‘You, who are so happy together.’ For the little cupids were kissing.

There was no further chuckle. Of course not! It had been a crackle of the fire, or a rush of wind down the chimney, or a shifting of the coals in the grate, not a chuckle at all. He was so tired he was imagining things!

He finished undressing and then, pulling on his nightshirt, he climbed into bed. As he blew out the candle, the flickering flame shone for a moment on the cupids and he thought he saw one of them laughing, but he dismissed it as a trick of the light.

The candle flame went out, leaving a trail of smoke behind it, and Mr Darcy settled down for the night.

Mr Darcy did not wake until late the next morning. He sprang out of bed, annoyed with himself for oversleeping, because he wanted to meet Elizabeth in the park and put his letter into her hands.

He washed and dressed in his shirt and breeches, then he went over to his writing desk so that he could read the letter through again before sealing it. But the letter was not there. How odd. There was nothing on the desk except yesterday’s newspaper and it took him only a moment to make sure he had not pushed the letter inside, or under, the paper by accident.

Then where was it?

He rang his bell and his valet entered the room.

‘Where is the letter I left on my desk last night?’ he demanded.

‘Letter, Sir?’ asked the valet in surprise. He looked at the writing desk and then back at Mr Darcy. ‘I am sure I do not know, Sir.’

‘What have you done with it?’ asked Mr Darcy.

‘I assure you I have not touched any letters,’ said the valet, drawing himself up indignantly. He was a very dignified man and he looked shocked. ‘I would never touch anything of yours, Sir, without your approval.’

‘Then where is it?’ demanded Mr Darcy, glaring at the man.

His valet looked at him helplessly.

‘Who has been in here this morning?’ asked Mr Darcy.

‘No one, Sir, only the scullery maid to tend to the fire,’ said the valet. ‘But she would not dream of moving any of your things, Sir.’

‘Someone must have taken it, and if she is the only person who has been in here then it must have been her. Send her to me at once. And while you’re about it, fetch me this morning’s paper. This is yesterday’s.’

He handed it to the valet.

The valet took it, apologizing, and then stopped in mid-apology. Puzzled, he said, ‘But this is today’s paper, Sir.’

‘It is nothing of the kind,’ said Mr Darcy, taking it out of his hand and examining the date. ‘It is yesterday’s. See. February 13
th
.’

‘But it
is
February 13
th
, Sir,’ said his valet, giving him an odd look.

‘Do you think I do not know what day it is?’ demanded Mr Darcy. ‘Yesterday was the 13
th
and today is the 14
th
.’

‘No, Sir,’ said his valet, a little apprehensively, as if afraid of drawing a rebuke down on his head. ‘Today is the 13
th
.’

‘You have been drinking,’ said Mr Darcy in disgust. ‘Either that, or you are not well, for it is definitely the 14
th
today. But let it pass. Fetch me the scullery maid. I must know what has happened to my letter.’

‘Very good, Sir,’ said the valet, bowing and withdrawing.

But he gave Mr Darcy a strange look as he did so.

Once he had gone, Mr Darcy searched the room again but his letter was nowhere to be found. There came a respectful knock at the door and, expecting the scullery maid, he called out, ‘Come in.’

But it was not the scullery maid who stood there. It was one of his aunt’s splendid liveried footmen.

‘Her ladyship’s compliments, Sir, and would you join her in the drawing-room. Mr Bingley has arrived.’

‘Bingley?’ asked Mr Darcy in surprise. ‘What is he doing here? I thought he was on his way to see friends. Did he forget something?’

‘Forget, Sir?’ asked the footman, looking mystified.

‘Yes. Did he leave something behind when he visited yesterday?’

‘I am afraid I cannot say, Sir. I was not aware that Mr Bingley had visited yesterday.’

‘What?’ asked Mr Darcy. ‘But you opened the door for me whilst I carried the painting into the house, and Mr Bingley was next to me.’

The footman looked surprised.

‘I, Sir?’

‘Yes, you. Do not tell me you have forgotten!’

‘Begging your pardon, Sir, but I did not see you carrying a painting inside yesterday. It must have been one of the other footmen.’

‘There are not two footmen with your height at Rosings,’ said Mr Darcy. ‘But I suppose you did not know it was a painting, since it was wrapped in brown paper.’

The footman seemed about to speak, but then decided against it. He bowed and withdrew.

There is no help for it
, thought Mr Darcy.
I suppose I must go down. I will have to solve the puzzle of my letter to Miss Elizabeth later and give it to her this afternoon instead
.

He did not as yet know how he was going to do it, but that was a problem for later. In fact, it might perhaps be a good thing he had not given it to her yet, after all. Her words about her sister and Mr Bingley had taken root. She had seemed very certain he had blighted her sister’s happiness, and she could not have any reason for saying so unless it were true.

He found himself wondering if he had been wrong to act in the way he had, separating Mr Bingley and Miss Jane Bennet. Perhaps he ought to question his friend and find out the truth about Mr Bingley’s feelings, and then reconsider his own actions. He had meant them for the best but perhaps – just perhaps – he had been wrong.

He finished dressing, tying his cravat rapidly and fastening it with a diamond tie pin before buttoning his waistcoat and shrugging himself into his tailcoat. Then, shaking out the frills of his shirt at the cuffs, he went downstairs.

He went into the library. Mr Bingley rose when he went into the room and the two gentlemen exchanged remarks about the journey – the state of the roads, the performance of the horses and the comfort of the carriage.

Then they sat down.

Mr Darcy was just about to ask Mr Bingley what had brought him back to Rosings again so soon, when his attention was caught by a package wrapped in brown paper. It had been hidden behind Mr Bingley, but now that Mr Bingley was sitting down it was revealed. It was balanced carefully on one of the sofas and it had a disturbingly familiar look to it.

Mr Bingley followed Mr Darcy’s gaze.

‘You are wondering what is in the parcel,’ Mr Bingley said. ‘I saw your sister in London yesterday and when I told her I was going to visit friends in Dover she asked if I would bring this painting to Lady Catherine, since Rosings was only a short detour for me. Upon my honour, Darcy, I think it is one of the prettiest things she has ever done.’ He went over to the parcel and began to unwrap it as he spoke, revealing the very same picture he had delivered on the previous day.

Mr Darcy started up in horror and he visibly blanched. It could not be. How could it? And yet there was the picture, as large as life.

Mr Bingley broke off suddenly and said, ‘My dear Darcy, are you feeling well? You have gone very pale. Upon my honour I have never seen you looking so white. You look as if you are going to faint.’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ said Mr Darcy.

He quickly gathered his wits. There was something strange going on, but he could not for the life of him think what it could be.

‘I say, Darcy, are you sure you are all right?’ asked Mr Bingley, looking at him closely.

‘No, I am not sure. I am not sure of anything,’ said Mr Darcy. He went over to the decanter and was about to pour himself a drink when he thought better of it and returned the stopper. He needed to keep a clear head if he was to get to the bottom of the strange events. He paused for a moment to order his thoughts. To cover his silence he went over to the fireplace and planted himself in front of it. He felt better when he had done it, for he was standing firmly on the rug with his legs set apart in a strong stance and his hands clasped behind his back. Then he turned to Mr Bingley and said, ‘Did you, or did you not, come to Rosings yesterday?’

Mr Bingley looked at him in surprise but he shook his head.

‘No. Why?’

Mr Darcy took a deep breath.

‘I have something to tell you. This is going to sound strange, Bingley, very strange. In fact, you will probably think I have run mad. Nevertheless, I must speak. I think I have lived today before.’

Mr Bingley looked at him incredulously.

‘Is this some kind of a joke, Darcy? For this kind of trick is better played on April Fool’s Day, you know, and we are only now in February.’

‘No. No joke. Last night, I wrote a letter in my room. When I woke this morning, it was not there. My valet swears no one has touched the letter. I complained that he had left yesterday’s newspaper for me to read, but he looked at the date – February 13
th
– and said it was today’s date.’

‘And so it is,’ said Mr Bingley.

Mr Darcy went even paler.

‘Bingley, yesterday was February 13
th
, at least for me. But for some reason, I am living it over again.’

Mr Bingley gave an incredulous laugh and then he said, ‘Were you foxed last night, Darcy?’

‘No. I had very little to drink.’

‘Then you must be ill.’

‘No, I am as healthy as you are,’ said Mr Darcy firmly.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Mr Bingley. ‘You are very pale. It sounds as if you are coming down with something. Is there any illness in the neighbourhood?’

‘No.’ But then he stopped as something occurred to him. Some glimmer of hope. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘There has been illness in the neighbourhood. Mrs Collins has just recovered from the measles.’

Mr Bingley’s face cleared.

‘Then depend upon it, you are coming down with the illness yourself and your strange fancy is a product of delirium. I suggest you go to bed at once.’

Mr Darcy seized on the explanation with gratitude. It was a relief to know he was not going mad, he was simply feverish.

‘Thank you, Bingley,’ he said fervently. ‘I will take your advice. I hope I have not endangered your health by mixing with you.’

‘Upon my honour, there is nothing to fear in that direction. I had the measles as a child. But I will not detain you. I think I will leave before Lady Catherine decides to invite me to luncheon. She was talking of singing when I arrived and I have the idea she will force me to perform if I stay. I only managed to escape because, as you were not yet downstairs, I said I would wait for you in the library. Will you give her my compliments? Please tell her I had to leave since I am expected at my friend’s house by four o’clock.’

‘Yes, I will give her your excuses.’

Mr Bingley rose and walked towards the door.

‘Bingley. Before you go, satisfy me on one thing. Do you still think of Miss Bennet?’

Mr Bingley coloured in embarrassment but said boldly, like a man, ‘Yes. I do. If I thought I had any chance of winning her affections I would return to Netherfield at once, but Caroline assures me that Miss Bennet sees me as a friend and nothing more. I do not wish to embarrass her – or myself – by offering my love where it is not wanted, and so I have decided not to return to Netherfield.’

‘Love?’ queried Mr Darcy.

Mr Bingley coloured further, but stood his ground and said, ‘Yes. Love.’

Mr Darcy considered for a moment and then he said, ‘I think your sister might be mistaken, Bingley.’

‘Oh?’ asked Mr Bingley.

He tried to make it sound nonchalant, but Mr Darcy could tell how much it meant to him.

‘Miss Bennet’s sister is here at the moment, visiting Mrs Collins, and from something she said, I think Miss Bennet might look kindly on your suit.’

‘Do you mean it, Darcy?’ asked Mr Bingley hopefully.

‘Yes, Bingley, I do.’

‘I can scarcely bring myself to believe it. But if there is any hope, any hope at all, then I know what I must do. I must go to her at once.’

‘Today?’

‘This minute,’ said Mr Bingley, rushing towards the door. ‘Stay,’ he said, stopping for a moment. ‘Would you do me the favour of sending a footman to my friend’s house, saying that I have been unavoidably detained?’

‘With pleasure,’ said Mr Darcy.

‘I had better send a note,’ said Mr Bingley, going over to the desk and writing a hurried message. ‘Fortunately, he knows me well enough to understand, and as he is a bachelor his wife will not be inconvenienced by my absence. Will you see that this is delivered?’

‘I will,’ said Mr Darcy.

Mr Bingley once more walked over to the door.

‘Are you well enough to send for the physician?’ asked Mr Bingley, with his hand on the door.

‘There is no need. He calls every morning to attend on my cousin Anne, and he will be here soon. I will ask him for an interview once he has seen my cousin.’

‘Then I will bid you farewell,’ said Mr Bingley.

‘No, it is not the measles,’ said the physician less than an hour later. ‘In fact, I can find nothing wrong with you. But I should not worry about it. From what you describe, I think you had a vivid dream, that is all. What did you eat last night? Any baked cheese?’

Mr Darcy thought.

‘There was a cheese soufflé at dinner,’ he admitted.

‘Then I think you need look no further. You have not described everything you experienced on your extra day, but did the events seem likely?’