Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

THE OPPORTUNITY TO thrust Jane into Mr. Wickham's path came quite soon, for the Bennet sisters and Mr. Collins were invited to dine at their aunt's and uncle's house, the Philips. Mr. Wickham was there when they arrived, and the evening stretched out to include games of whist.

Everyone wished to speak to Mr. Wickham, for he truly was handsome and polite and all things pleasing. But he seated himself next to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth nudged him in the direction of Jane.

"My sister is the favorite of Mr. Darcy, you know," she said, which was a lie, but only barely a lie, she decided. "I wonder if you know any reason why she should be wary of such a man."

Mr. Wickham gave a her a shrewd look. "You are an observant one, aren't you, then?"

She shrugged. "Besides, I saw the way you looked at my sister when we met."

Mr. Wickham gazed steadily at her. "Not as observant as all that, then."

"Whatever does that mean?"

He chuckled, turning to stare across the room at Jane. "Just that I was looking at you, of course."

Elizabeth was reeling from that as Mr. Wickham got up, casual as you please, and went to stand near Jane.

Jane spoke to him, and he to her, and then he joined her table, and the two sat there together, with none else, engaged in conversation for quite some time. Several times, Elizabeth determined that she would simply go over and join them, and several times, she talked herself out of the activity.

When they got home, she was bursting to know what it had all been about. She stood in front of the mirror in the bedchamber she shared with Jane and examined her face and turned to look at her sister and then back at herself.

She was not pretty.

Her mother had always told her she was not pretty.

And Elizabeth could see that there was something about her features that wasn't quite right, that her eyes were too big for her face and her chin too sharp. She was not the pretty one in this family, and she knew it.

"…make heads or tails of it, because it doesn't seem possible!" Jane was saying.

Elizabeth wrenched her gaze away from the mirror, scolding herself. She did want to know what Mr. Wickham had said, and here she was, indulging her vanity instead of listening.

"I can't understand it," said Jane. "But Mr. Wickham seemed so sincere, and I can hardly think of his lying. He doesn't seem like the type to tell a falsehood."

"Yes, he is so… handsome, isn't he?" said Elizabeth. "Not that being handsome is a reason that a man wouldn't lie."

"I thought you took a dim view of handsome men," said Jane.

"True," muttered Elizabeth. "It's only that Mr. Wickham isn't like that. He seems so trustworthy and sincere, as you say." And he also fed your vanity, which Mr. Darcy never did do, did he? Not with that comment of his about her tolerability. But she couldn't be quite so shallow, could she? "Well, out with it. What has he said?"

"He said that Mr. Darcy has willfully deprived him of an inheritance."

"What?" Elizabeth sat down on the bed. "How so? Why hasn't he pursued legal means of rectifying it? "

"It wasn't set down in writing, apparently," said Jane.

"Well, then, we have only Mr. Wickham's word that it was ever meant for him to have it!"

"True, I suppose," said Jane. "But then we come back to the idea that he is lying, don't we?"

"Right," said Elizabeth. "Who was to give him the money?"

"Mr. Darcy's late father," said Jane. "And not just money. A position, a living in Derbyshire as the parson there."

"Well," said Elizabeth, hand to her chest, "can you imagine him at a pulpit?"

Jane shrugged a bit. "He is ever so… isn't he?"

"Yes," said Elizabeth, staring off dreamily into space.

At once, both women shook themselves.

"Oh, but anyway, Mr. Darcy prevented it, and sent him packing, penniless. He could not even afford to buy his own commission for the regiment. He had to take over for someone else who could not serve, I understand," said Jane.

"There's more to it than that," said Elizabeth. "Mr. Darcy's face when he looked at Mr. Wickham, it told a tale, and it wasn't one of guilt. Whatever Mr. Darcy has done to this man, he feels quite justified."

"Well, Mr. Darcy is not a bad man."

"We don't know that!" protested Elizabeth. "He might be a bad man. He was rather rude to Miss Bingley, wasn't he?"

"He is not perhaps gifted with a way with words," admitted Jane. "But I am quite sure that he means well."

"You would say that about everyone, however." Elizabeth chewed on her lower lip.

"And you are determined to hate all sorts of people," said Jane. "You dislike Mr. Darcy for no reason, you are severe on Mr. Collins, and you seem to be overly harsh on Mr. Bingley and his sisters, even as Mr. Bingley is falling head over heels for you—"

"Oh, I don't mean it," said Elizabeth. "It's difficult, you see. My good opinion, once lost, is really very difficult to get back, it seems. I know I must not be so choosy and so harsh, I know it, Jane, but— "

"Your pride," said Jane.

Elizabeth sighed heavily. "Mr. Bingley is quite a perfectly adequate gentleman. A woman could ask for nothing better than what he offers. I am positively disgusted with myself for being the least bit disappointed, but I can't seem to change it."

"Well," said Jane. "Try."

And that night, Elizabeth dreamt dreams of Mr. Wickham, ever so many dreams of Mr. Wickham, quite shocking and improper dreams, dreams in which his breath was hot on the back of her neck as he breathed, I was looking at you .

IN ALL THAT had transpired, a discussion with Mary regarding Mr. Collins had yet to materialize, even though there was ample time for one before the Netherfield Ball, which was to be held the following Tuesday. There was ample time, for there was a succession of rain, which prevented any walking to Meryton or anymore socializing with any of the officers, including Mr. Wickham.

Mrs. Bennet must have found time to speak to Mr. Collins, for Mary's first inkling of the man's designs on her were when he claimed the first two dances on her dance card for the ball.

Mary was so startled that she could hardly speak. She stammered out a reply, and then her gaze swung to both her older sisters, a look of something like sheer betrayal on her face, and Elizabeth knew she'd blundered.

Drat.

Kitty and Lydia brayed like donkeys over the entire exchange, something that did nothing to bolster Mr. Collins's spirits. Mrs. Bennet snapped at the younger girls, and Elizabeth could see that things were not going well. Mr. Collins had come here with the feeling he was doing the Bennet sisters a favor. He need not look at his cousins for a future bride. He might seek one anywhere. He was going out of his way to do what he thought was the right thing, and his efforts were being denied by all the parties—asked to overlook the eldest of sisters? Barely accepted by the third?

Drat.

Elizabeth sought out Mary later on. Her sister was sitting and gazing out the window, looking wretched and horrified, and Elizabeth stood over her, licking her lips and trying to think of the right words to say.

Finally, all that came out was, "I suppose you don't like him either."

Mary let out a little laugh.

"Of course you don't. Who could?" Elizabeth groaned, rubbing at her forehead. "I am sorry, Mary. You can refuse him."

"Mama would never speak to me again."

"Well, that sounds like a boon, actually," muttered Elizabeth.

Mary smirked.

Elizabeth smirked.

"I wish I were pretty like you and Jane," said Mary.

"You are pretty," said Elizabeth.

Mary sighed.

"I think we all must not see ourselves clearly. I think we find too many faults when we consider ourselves. It is too important, isn't it, that we measure up, so we are overly harsh on ourselves. But for other people, they see us as we actually are, and they are not so exacting with their judgments."

"I have been thinking about never getting married," said Mary.

"What?" Elizabeth sat down next to her sister. "But then you will be a burden on Papa or on the husbands of your sisters and someone will have to look after you."

"I'm working on a novel," said Mary in a small voice.

Elizabeth drew back. "Oh? What's it about?"

"It's about a girl who is sent to stay at a house with some relations, and the house across the way is decrepit and falling apart, and the man who lives there is handsome and tortured and only comes out at night and maybe killed his former wife. You don't know if he did it or not the entire time."

"It sounds interesting," Elizabeth admitted.

"I thought, if I could write books, then I could have some ability to not be a burden. And it sounds ever so much better than being a wife, you know? Also, I don't think I like children."

Elizabeth licked her lips.

"I really don't think I want to give birth," said Mary.

Elizabeth lifted her shoulders. "But if you never get married, by choice, Mary, people will think things."

"People already think awful things about me," said Mary. "When they even notice me, which they usually don't. Believe me, I am the least interesting member of this family."

"That's not true," said Elizabeth stoutly, but she supposed there was some kernel of truth in it, perhaps. "Well, you'll refuse him, then. And he'll move on to Kitty."

"But Kitty is too young," said Mary.

"Not entirely," said Elizabeth.

"And she would be an awful wife for him. Can you see Kitty as a parson's wife? No, he will give up on us entirely, and be frightfully offended, and when he does take over the estate, we shall all pay the price."

Elizabeth's jaw twitched. Yes, it will all be my own fault. I had to go and rescue Jane, who was willing to fall on her sword for all of us.

"Why won't Jane marry him?" said Mary.

"I think she would," said Elizabeth. "But I convinced Mama that she is going to get an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy."

"Oh, Lord, and that is a lie?"

"I…" Elizabeth shrugged. "He does seem to favor her."

"Well, it won't matter in the end," said Mary softly. "You will marry Mr. Bingley. That seems rather sure. And then you will be able to take care of all of us, even when Mr. Collins turns us out after Papa's death."

"Right," said Elizabeth, swallowing hard. "Right, of course." It was all her fault, after all, and now she must fix it.

HE SHOULDN'T HAVE danced with her.

Mr. Darcy knew, when the thought entered into his mind, that he should not do it. For one thing, he didn't know when he'd even get the chance to do it. Bingley would have claimed her first two dances, of course. If anyone else wished to dance with her, she would have her card filled quite quickly.

But he asked, anyway, and she agreed, seemingly stunned.

And then Mr. Darcy danced his first two dances with the elder Miss Bennet, who was polite and sweet and engaging, a singular sort of woman, quite admirable. The Bingley sisters looked on, disapproving, but he could not have cared less about their opinions.

The atmosphere at Netherfield had grown downright chilly in the ensuing time since the Bennet sisters had gone home. Mr. Bingley was, of course, oblivious, too much in love to think of anything except what it would be like to spend his life prostrate at the feet of Elizabeth Bennet.

Caroline and Louisa, however, were giving Mr. Darcy the silent treatment, and he supposed he deserved it. Mr. Hurst had take him aside and told him he thought it was all nonsense, but that he did whatever his wife told him to in instances like this, because it was simply easier to acquiesce, and she said he must not speak to him, so he apologized, but he would be following his wife's lead.

Mr. Darcy should have left. That was the intended consequence of such behavior. If most of a household was not addressing him—pointedly not addressing him, in many cases, not that Mr. Bingley was even noticing—he should go back to London .

But he stayed.

He told himself he stayed because he had planned on it. He told himself he stayed because he was looking out for Bingley, who had a tendency to fall too fast and too quickly for women that wouldn't suit him at all. And then, he was asking Elizabeth Bennet to dance, and he knew why he'd stayed.

Damnation.

They talked of the Jane Porter book for a bit.

Her: "I'm sorry if I oughtn't have gotten Mr. Bingley into reading that book. Perhaps you didn't want to lend it out further."

Him: "I was quite surprised he read any book at all. You are a good influence on him." He said this pointedly, and he waited.

She didn't say anything about that, though, just continued to speak of the Jane Porter book.

So, he led them back. "How do you like being a point of betterment for Mr. Bingley?"

She grimaced. "Oh, it's… lovely. Very romantic."

He raised his eyebrows. That hadn't been the least bit believable. "If you wish to enter London society on Mr. Bingley's arm, I think you will need to practice being more believable at saying things you don't mean."

She looked up at him, devastated. "Oh, no, Mr. Darcy, you mistake me. I don't mean it that way at all. I simply don't wish Mr. Bingley to look at the two of us the way he does, as if I am superior to him in some way, for I fear that he will be disappointed if he continues thusly. He will eventually see that there is nothing about me that is so very laudable. He will see all my foibles and he will feel as if he has been tricked. I only want him to understand that I am but flesh and blood."

Ah, so her sister was wrong, then. It wasn't pride at all. It was more of this sickness that afflicted them both, wherein they didn't see how alluring they were.

On the other hand, he wondered about her assessment of Mr. Bingley. The truth was, Bingley could be changeable. Darcy had watched him with other women. He was a bit in love with being in love, sometimes. He did have a tendency to put women on unrealistic pedestals.

"What if he were going to do that?" said Mr. Darcy.

"What?" she said.

"If he were going to become disappointed in your lack of goddesshood?"

"Oh, he will be," she said. "I assume it would be better if he saw it sooner rather than later, of course."

"Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes, indeed."

She gave him a look. "You always see me just as I am, don't you, Mr. Darcy?"

"I like to think so."

"You see I'm not a goddess."

His lips parted. "You can't think I mean…" Damnation. "It's not my intention to insult you, Miss Bennet."

She laughed, throwing back her head. "Only tolerable, your lack of goddesshood, not my intention to insult you."

He was hotly embarrassed.

"My sister is right when she says you have not been gifted with a way with words." She was smiling still.

And he was right when he noted that this woman hated him. He fell entirely silent. Here he was, dancing with Bingley's woman, plotting ways to take her from Bingley, and it was all so very entirely pointless. He was a fool.

"I think it's your turn to talk now, Mr. Darcy."

He glared at her.

"Conversations go this way, you see. I say something, and you say something, and then—"

"This is how you interact with others, by following rules?" He was sharp.

She scoffed. "You have just gotten done commenting on how lacking I am as a woman, Mr. Darcy, and all I said was that you don't have a way with words, and I hardly think you should be so very offended. You cannot drink down what you pour out, I see."

"I never said you were lacking as a woman, for heaven's sake, Miss Bennet. You're perfect . "

Her nostrils flared. "You're awful."

"I don't mean—"

"If you're going to be like this, and we're going to quarrel anyway, why don't you tell me about why you don't like Mr. Wickham, if you please. Everyone noticed how you could hardly tip your hat to him—"

"I shan't speak about that man," he said, teeth gritted. How dare she? Also… everyone noticed?

Damnation.

"Of course not. You say whatever you like, then, and don't say whatever you like. The rest of us, of course, must follow other rules."

He wanted to scream. She was the most exasperating woman in the entire world.