Abigail Reynolds - What Would Mr. Darcy Do?

To Rebecca,

even if she does like Shakespeare

better than Jane Austen

Elizabeth had smiled at him.

It had been a different sort of smile from the arch one she had worn so many times before. No, this had been a genuine—dare he say affectionate?—smile, something Darcy had despaired of ever seeing. It was only four months since Elizabeth had emphatically rejected his proposal of marriage. She had done more than just reject him, by Jove; she had said he was the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry! She had accused him of ungentlemanlike behavior, of cheating a childhood friend, of destroying the happiness of her own sister. Her hands had been clenched, her fine eyes had sparkled with fury.

And yesterday she had smiled at him.

He had not seen her between that horrible evening four long, excruciating months ago and two days previously, when he had returned to Pemberley unexpectedly and found her touring the grounds with her aunt and uncle. Once his shock wore off, he realized that providence was providing him with a second chance. This was his opportunity to show her he had changed, that he was a man worthy of her love. He had done his best, inviting her uncle to fish at Pemberley, introducing her to his sister Georgiana, entertaining them with the very best Pemberley had to offer. And she had smiled at him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy urged his horse into a canter and then jumped over the wide hedge. It would have been much easier to follow the road, but he was too impatient for that. He had been awake for hours, waiting for a civilized hour so he could call on Elizabeth. Once he mounted his horse, he could not hold back any longer. He took the very shortest route from Pemberley to the town of Lambton.

He slowed his horse to a walk on the edge of town, making an extra effort to acknowledge the townsfolk on the street. He had not frequented Lambton in the past, and now this was the second time in three days he had ridden up to the inn on High Street. It would forever be Elizabeth’s inn in his mind now. He dismounted and tossed the reins to a lad from the inn. Would Elizabeth smile at him today?

He was greeted by the innkeeper himself. “Mr. Darcy, welcome back to our establishment. It is an honor.”

Darcy inclined his head graciously. “Is Miss Bennet within?”

“Indeed, sir, she’s right in the private parlour reading some letters. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, they walked out to the church a bit ago.”

So Elizabeth was alone! This was better than he could have hoped. Would she smile for him today? He allowed a servant to open the parlour door for him, but followed close on his heels.

She did not smile. Instead, she darted from her seat and cried, “Oh! Where, where is my uncle?” Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to speak, she hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose.”

“Good God! What is the matter?” cried Darcy, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough;—you cannot go yourself.”

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.

On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”

“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavoring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length, she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her friends—has eloped—has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost forever.”

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learned—to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, all too late now.”

“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy, “grieved—shocked. But is it certain, absolutely certain?”

“Oh yes!—They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”

“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”

“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible! When my eyes were opened to Wickham’s real character—Oh! Had I known what I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything must sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She should neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all—soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner, which though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress!—But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley today.”

“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible—I know it cannot be long.”