Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 3 Read online

  ‘It was kind of Mr Bingley to bring it,’ said Charlotte, to forestall any more stupidity on her husband’s part.

  ‘What will a lover not do for his beloved?’ asked Mr Collins, putting his cup down in his saucer with a self-satisfied smile.

  ‘A lover?’ enquired Elizabeth, the colour rising in her cheeks.

  She could not hear Mr Bingley mentioned without thinking of her beloved sister, Jane, whose heart had been broken when Mr Bingley left the Meryton. And to hear him described as the lover of Miss Darcy was too much for her to bear. It was Jane that Mr Bingley loved, not Miss Darcy.

  ‘It is well known that Mr Darcy intends his friend to marry his sister,’ said Mr Collins. ‘I am sure there will be an engagement there before long.’

  A sensitive man would have noticed Charlotte’s meaningful looks, which were intended to silence him, and he would have seen how unhappy his conversation was making Elizabeth. But Mr Collins was not a sensitive man. Alas for Charlotte, he was a fool. And so he blundered on, without realising the subject was not welcome to the ladies.

  At last Elizabeth could bear it no longer.

  ‘And what of Mr Bingley?’ she demanded. ‘Does he have no say in the matter? Is he to marry Miss Darcy just because Mr Darcy wants it?’

  ‘My Bingley is honoured to be thought worthy of Miss Darcy,’ said Mr Collins smugly.

  ‘And is love to have no place in the arrangement?’ asked Elizabeth hotly.

  ‘Who could fail to love Miss Darcy? She is everything that is exquisite and good,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Why, I have heard Lady Catherine say that Miss Darcy has no equal. She is the most accomplished pianist, the most gifted artist and she has the sweetest disposition . . . ’

  Elizabeth could listen to no more. She rose swiftly and said that she must beg to be excused, for she had a headache.

  Then she left the room.

  It was too painful for her to hear Miss Darcy praised, when her own beloved sister, Jane, was just as sweet and lovely.

  ‘If only I could have seen Mr Bingley! If only I had noticed his carriage, or known of his visit sooner, before he went on his way,’ she said under her breath as she ran upstairs. ‘Then I could have spoken to him and reminded him of all his happy days in Meryton, for I am sure that he loves Jane. A few minutes would have done it, I am sure.’

  She went into her bedroom and closed the door. Then she went over to the washstand and bathed her temples in lavender-scented water. She was angry with Mr Bingley for quitting Netherfield and leaving her sister heartbroken. She was disgusted with Miss Bingley for humiliating Jane in London by refusing to return her letters, and then returning her call in such a rude manner that Jane had been forced to realise all friendship was at an end. And she hated – yes, she positively hated – Mr Darcy, for the part he had played in her sister’s unhappiness.

  She sank down on the bed. Oh, if only she could see her sister! If only she could spend an hour in her company, how happy that would make her. But her sister was in London and Elizabeth was in Kent, where she was bound to stay for the next few weeks.

  She had not intended to visit so soon, in fact she had not intended to visit until Easter, but when Charlotte had caught measles, Elizabeth had offered to nurse her because she had already had the disease. In truth, it had been no sacrifice for Elizabeth because her home had not been agreeable to her. Jane, her favourite sister, had gone to London to visit their aunt, leaving Elizabeth with the rest of her irritating family. Mrs Bennet complained constantly of her nerves, Mary spent all day hammering away at the pianoforte in an unmusical manner or singing out of tune, while Kitty and Lydia argued over bonnets and officers.

  Hunsford parsonage was peaceful by comparison, and once Charlotte had recovered, Elizabeth had started to enjoy herself. To be sure, there had been some vexations to be endured. Charlotte’s husband, Mr Collins, was a pompous, silly man and his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was arrogant and conceited. But Mr Collins was out for most of the time, visiting his parishioners, and they did not see Lady Catherine every day.

  But then Mr Darcy had arrived.

  She could see him now, in her mind’s eye, with his dark hair and aristocratic looks and his fine figure. If Mr Darcy’s inside had matched his outside, then he would have been desirable indeed! But his handsome exterior hid a proud and arrogant man who was disdainful of the feelings of others, and who had caused a great deal of unhappiness to the person Elizabeth loved best in the world, her dearest Jane.

  He had done it by encouraging his friend, Mr Bingley, to leave the neighbourhood just as Jane and Mr Bingley were falling in love.

  As if that was not enough, he had also gone back on his father’s promise to give Mr Wickham a valuable living. As a result, Mr Wickham was penniless, when he should have had a comfortable income and a comfortable home. This was particularly depressing to Elizabeth as she liked Mr Wickham very much and he had paid her marked attention. If he had had the living that rightfully belonged to him, then Mr Wickham could have afforded to propose. But as they were both poor, there was no chance of a marriage between them.

  Nevertheless, she still thought of Mr Wickham as her model of perfection, and Mr Darcy was her model of a proud, arrogant and unjust man.

  Mr Bingley’s visit had stirred up all her resentment against Mr Darcy and she did not feel she could sit down to dinner with him. If she was forced to see him, she feared she would be rude. And so, gathering her wits, she went downstairs.

  ‘Miss Elizabeth, you are not dressed for dinner!’ said Mr Collins, shocked.

  He really looked most comical, standing there with his mouth open, and if Elizabeth had not been so unhappy she would have been tempted to laugh. As it was, she could not even muster a smile.

  ‘You will have to hurry,’ Mr Collins continued with an anxious air and a glance at the grandfather clock. ‘We are due at Rosings in less than an hour.’

  Elizabeth said she was sorry, but her headache was worse and that she would rather not go.

  Mr Collins was very put out.

  ‘But my dear Miss Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘You would not wish to disappoint Lady Catherine after she has shown you so much kind condescension?’

  ‘Indeed, I would be no use to her at present,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Lady Catherine likes to play cards after dinner and I would not be able to concentrate.’

  ‘If that is so,’ said Mr Collins with a frown, ‘then perhaps you had better remain here. It would not do to disappoint her ladyship by playing badly.’

  Charlotte cast an apologetic look in Elizabeth’s direction. Mr Collins’s reply had been extremely rude. He had not expressed any sympathy with Elizabeth’s headache. His only thought was for Lady Catherine.

  However, Charlotte echoed her husband’s words, though for a far more sensible and sympathetic reason.

  ‘If you are not well, of course you must remain here,’ said Charlotte. ‘Would you like me to give you a powder?’

  ‘No, thank you. I will just spend the evening quietly and hope it passes.’

  Charlotte and Mr Collins were already in their evening dress and they soon departed, leaving Elizabeth to have her supper on a tray in front of the fire.

  As she stared miserably into the flames, she thought the day could get no worse.

  But she was wrong.

  Mr Darcy was not enjoying his dinner. He had been dreading seeing Elizabeth, but when the Collinses had arrived without her he had experienced a sinking feeling, and his disappointment had intensified during the meal. The evening without her was dull and dreary. Mr Collins’s obsequious nonsense grated on his ears. His aunt’s pronouncements irritated him. Anne’s timidity bored him, and Mrs Collins’s presence was a continual reminder of Elizabeth, whose wit and beauty should have been enlivening the evening.

  Elizabeth had a headache, so Mrs Collins said.

  A headache was nothing. Ladies always had headaches. And yet he could not help being concerned for her health.

  He had
tried to fight his feelings for her. He had tried to forget her. But it had all been in vain. He felt the pressure mounting inside him as the meal drew to a close and he knew he must do something about it. When the ladies withdrew, he told Mr Collins he had some letters to write.

  ‘Stay here and enjoy my aunt’s fine port,’ he said. ‘I will rejoin you shortly.’

  Mr Collins was always willing to do what Mr Darcy told him to do, and he helped himself to a large glass of port. Mr Darcy went along to the library, but instead of settling down to write any letters he opened the French window and stepped out onto the terrace.

  A sharp blast of cold air hit him but he did not feel it. Closing the door behind him, he strode towards the parsonage. His one thought was to find Elizabeth and make sure she was not too ill; to offer his services and ask if there was anything he could do for her; and to claim her for his own.

  Elizabeth ate little of her supper, for she was not hungry. When she had finished, the maid took the tray and she settled herself on the sofa with a book. The fire was crackling in a friendly fashion and its warm glow would, on any other day, have cheered her. But today it could not warm her sadness.

  She tried to concentrate on her book but it was no good. She kept thinking of her dearly beloved sister, who had been made so unhappy by Mr Bingley’s departure. She thought in vexation of her missed opportunity to speak to him that very morning. And she thought of the pain and suffering that had been caused by the arrogant Mr Darcy.

  She was roused from her thoughts by the sound of the front door opening. She thought it must be Charlotte, returning for something she had forgotten. But to her astonishment, when the door of the sitting-room opened a moment later, it revealed Mr Darcy!

  He was not dressed for a cold night in February. He wore no coat over his cream breeches, black tailcoat and frilled white shirt. His hair was damp from the light rain. What could have brought him out in such a hurry and in such weather?

  Well, whatever it was, she was not going to help him. Mr Darcy was the last man in the world she was inclined to help. She had risen in surprise on his entrance, but now she sat down again and looked at him with hostility. But her hostility soon gave way to curiosity. He seemed to be in a state of some agitation and he paced the room before asking after her health.

  ‘Mrs Collins told me you had a headache,’ he explained, as he stopped pacing and turned towards her.

  That he should come to the parsonage in the middle of dinner to ask about her headache was very surprising, but nevertheless she was determined to be polite, for Charlotte’s sake, and so she answered him with cold civility and expected him then to leave.

  However, he started pacing up and down again, as if trying to make up his mind about something, before turning to face her and saying, ‘In vain have I struggled. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in astonishment. She could not believe what she was hearing! Mr Darcy admired her? Mr Darcy loved her? Oh, no, it could not be. It must be a jest. But if so, it was in very poor taste.

  But, watching him running his hand through his hair, she had to admit it did not seem likely, since he was looking anguished instead of amused.

  She could not understand it. She had come to know him when he had stayed in her own neighbourhood before Christmas and, more recently, they had met often at Rosings. And yet nothing she had seen or heard of him had prepared her for this declaration. She would have said, if asked, that Mr Darcy looked down on her, and disliked her as much as she disliked him. Indeed, he looked like a man who was in torment, not a man who was confessing himself bewitched by her.

  And yet his words were starting to sink in. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of gratitude, for she could not be insensible to the compliment he was paying her. Mr Darcy, who was pursued wherever he went by matchmaking mamas and their equally matchmaking daughters . . . Mr Darcy, who could not walk into a room without drawing the eye of every female . . . Mr Darcy, who had ten thousand a year and owned the Pemberley estate and he was asking her to marry him!

  She felt a tug of compassion for him, and for the disappointment he was about to receive when she rejected him. It would cause him pain, and she was sorry for it. Because Elizabeth was a lady, and she would never willingly inflict hurt on another person.

  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.