Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

IF ELIZABETH HAD expected her return to Longbourn would be met with joy that she was not, in fact, hurt, she was soon disabused of this notion. She should have known better, of course. Her mother, Mrs. Bennet, still held a grudge against Elizabeth for not having married Mr. Collins and leaving him to be swooped up by Charlotte Lucas.

Elizabeth had been trapped overnight with a wounded man, in a situation that—while not strictly proper—was extraordinary. Society might not look well on it, but they did not cast blame in this situation, at least they shouldn't have, not normally.

She was quite sure that, typically speaking, there should have been minimal damage to her reputation from the incident. However, it came down to servants, as it always did when gossip was afoot. Servants overheard things and servants whispered to other servants and then everything was being repeated and twisted and embellished. It was also spread far and wide. The servants from the Matlock household who conveyed the Lucases home spoke to the Lucases' servants—such as there were, for the Lucases only employed one married couple to see their entire household. They were not quite as well-off as the Bennets, who were not themselves well-off exactly, either.

The Lucas maid-of-all-work went to the marketplace in Meryton, where she bought food for the table, and she told everyone there that Elizabeth was a manipulative social climber who had wrecked the carriage on purpose to engineer a compromise with Mr. Darcy, and that he had rejected her in the wake of it, even though she had thrust herself into his arms and was very likely ruined.

This was the story, then, that spread like wildfire through Hertfordshire.

To say that Mrs. Bennet was displeased was an understatement.

When she heard of it, she went into one of her passions, which often lasted for hours. She railed and whined and sobbed and nothing anyone could do would soothe her. Eventually, she put herself to bed with a pronouncement that the entire family was destroyed, and that Elizabeth had brought calamity down on their heads.

And from then on, she refused to speak to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth herself felt frustrated and angry. Every night, now, she lay awake, turning over that conversation with Lady Matlock, wondering why she hadn't said the right thing. Of course, she had been exhausted and fresh from an ordeal, and no wonder she hadn't been articulate. But surely, surely, if she had simply explained it all better, then none of this would be happening.

And surely, surely, if she explained it now, then these rumors would stop.

And surely, surely, she was not ruined.

Her family was not destroyed.

Everything was not in ashes.

She waited, as weeks passed, hoping that the talk would die down. It did. But there were no invitations issued to the Bennet family, not for tea, not for dinner, nothing. Word even came that Sir William had a dinner party, broken leg notwithstanding, and that they had been excluded.

It would almost have been better, Elizabeth thought, if her mother had screamed again, or if Lydia or Kitty had hurled insults at her.

But everyone was mostly quiet and solemn, and that cut her deeply.

Was this somehow her fault?

What should she have done differently?

It must have been her fault, she thought, it must have. She began to have dreams at night, strange dreams, which would whirl up all manner of elements of her recent past.

Sometimes, she would dream that she had stopped the carriage from turning over, that she had grown thick, strong arms and she had flung herself out and held the carriage upright with her strong, strong arms, even as the horses were frightened. That dream she didn't mind, because she often woke from it feeling better, sorted, as if she had solved the problem.

The other times, the other dreams, they were not nearly so reassuring.

She would dream that she was outside the house, Mr. Darcy telling her to put her feet near his hands so that he could untie them. And Lady Matlock would come appear out of nowhere, in the way of dreams, where things that make no sense seem as if they do make sense. Lady Matlock would sit down next to Elizabeth and say, "You have failed. You will go home to your family, to your sad country house, in disgrace."

Elizabeth would try to protest to the woman that she wasn't trying to trap Mr. Darcy into marriage.

Lady Matlock would gesture to Elizabeth's skirts, saying that a woman who put her ankles so close to a man only had one thing in mind.

Mr. Darcy's hands would be on her, then, but caressing her ankles, her thighs, and Elizabeth would try to tell him to stop, but then Mr. Darcy wouldn't be Mr. Darcy, but would be Patrick, his hand moving steadily under her skirt as he pointed the barrel of a gun at her head. "Women have their uses, don't they?" he would sneer.

And then she would wake, her heart pounding, sweat gathering at the back of her neck and in all the creases of her skin, and she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, not at all.

Sometimes, she dreamed that she had been shot, not Mr. Darcy, and that he had left her there, on the couch in the house, telling her that she was a conniving woman who'd only gotten herself shot in order to trap him in a marriage.

"Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable," he would say to her, and then she would lie there, all alone, very thirsty, thinking that she might die very soon until she would wake up again, in much the same fashion as she always did after these dreams, in quite a state of fear and anguish.

The dreams continued, and time marched on, and Elizabeth was nothing except miserable.

"YOU NEEDN'T HAVE come all this way," said the Earl of Matlock, seated behind the desk in his study. "You are still healing, as I understand it, and you should be abed."

Mr. Darcy was still in pain and was still healing. He would have stayed home, except his uncle had not deigned to come to see him, sending word that he was too busy. So, Mr. Darcy'd had no choice but to come and see him. "I'm doing better," he said. "And I need your assistance with something, I think."

"My assistance? Well, name it, my boy. Whatever I can do for my sister's son." Matlock smiled at him.

"I need a special license, and I think you can get me one."

"What?" Matlock made a face. "Now, see here, my wife has told me that this awful woman may have gotten in your head—"

"Your wife has misread the entire situation," said Mr. Darcy. "Furthermore, she has damaged the poor girl's reputation and hurt her entire family. They are a family of five daughters, none of which are married, and the estate is entailed. It's cruel, what she's done, truly. Now, the truth is, Miss Elizabeth Bennet does not like me, so I don't suppose she's going to be pleased by the news she has to marry me, but your wife has forced my hand, and it's the only honorable thing I can do at this point." He sighed heavily. He wasn't exactly displeased about having to marry Elizabeth Bennet, but he also knew that it wouldn't be the kind of marriage he'd like to have with her. She hated him; he would stay clear of her.

"How could she not like you?"

Mr. Darcy laughed. "People don't like me, sometimes."

"Not women such as her."

"Well, to be honest, I may not have done much to recommend myself when I was in her company. I said a number of things. I may have been overly harsh on the entire female sex. I may have insulted her family members, all of them. I may have portrayed myself to be a person who refuses to forgive other's faults. I may have painted a picture of a man who is exacting, arrogant, and impossible to please. I don't know what woman would have liked me. Indeed, I don't know that the picture is that far off from the truth. If I didn't have a significant income, would I attract anyone?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said his uncle. "This girl, she—"

"Overturned the carriage?" Mr. Darcy sighed heavily. "Now, this I happen to know is not true, because I was looking out the window, and a whole string of deer darted out in front of the carriage—startling the horses and the driver, who paid with his life, mind you. It was an accident. Furthermore, she didn't even wish to be traveling with me."

"What? Surely, she wished it."

"No, she did not," he said. "At the time, I was too stupid to see it, probably because I have some faulty idea of how appealing I really am, but she tried, very effusively, to get out of the offer, and I insisted. I said that I would not hear any arguments to the contrary, and silenced her every protest."

"She probably protested prettily—"

"I assure you, no. She's not like those sorts of women. There's a distinct lack of artifice to her. She's blunt, bordering on impolite sometimes, and I made it impossible for her to refuse me. I realized this after the carriage was overturned. We talked, and it became clear what she really thought of me."

This seemed to affect the earl for the first time. "You mean, after the trauma of it, she was very honest. She had no reason not to be."

"Precisely."

The earl sat back in his chair, sighing heavily. "So, Lady Matlock is entirely wrong."

"Entirely."

"Oh, heavens." He rubbed his forehead. "Truly, I thought she was being too hard on her myself. That poor thing, coming back, wild-eyed, exhausted, blood spattered, and Lady Matlock would do nothing but send her off with no sympathy? I think women are too severe on each other sometimes."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Darcy.

"But see here, Darcy, you don't have to marry her. We've done her a disservice, perhaps, but there are other ways to make it right."

"Marriage is the best way," he said.

"We'll arrange a marriage for her," said the earl.

"Definitely not," said Mr. Darcy, too quickly.

The earl raised his eyebrows.

Mr. Darcy sighed. "Well, there's a reason I bullied her into riding with me to Kent in the first place, isn't there? Perhaps it's not to my credit that I am not saddened by being compelled into matrimony with her, but I certainly don't want someone else marrying her."

Lord Matlock regarded him, a small smile playing on his lips.

"If she indicates she is not even remotely interested in marrying me, then I shall pursue other options, of course, but she won't deny me. Will she?" He worried at his lower lip with his teeth.

Lord Matlock laughed. "Are you certain this woman hasn't manipulated you?"

"I think so," said Mr. Darcy. "I did think about it. For her to have done it all on purpose—not overturning the carriage, I mean, but being so perfectly intriguing to me? For her to have done that, she'd have to understand that I am tired of women who cater to me, bored with the incessant flattery, that I am roused by her sharp tongue and disdain for propriety for her directness. She would then have to feign those things in such a way that it appears that she's not feigning them."

"And to continue to feign them in the face of a dead driver, an overturned carriage, and a group of bandits brandishing firearms," finished the earl. "Not likely, I don't think. Why did I even let my wife convince me of this? I suppose I didn't think on it overmuch, leaving it mostly to her. She is protective, you know. Ever so protective of her own sons, of course, and you by extension."

"Yes, I see that," said Mr. Darcy. "I wish to believe it was done with good intentions. I do think it was because of the way Alex found us. We could not find flint, and we were cold and exhausted and propriety was the last thing on our minds."

"So, you're not denying she was asleep in your arms?"

"It was about warmth and comfort and safety, nothing more. I was bleeding. She had traipsed up and down that road looking for help, in vain. We were starving. We'd had nothing to eat in days. It… I can see why Alex thought it, but it's preposterous."

"Right," said the earl. "Yes, I see what you're saying."

"Alex was shocked to see us entwined. He spoke to Lady Matlock, and she made assumptions. And then I'm told she went to terrorize poor Maria Lucas—"

"Terrorize?"

"Well, that girl is young and impressionable and had been through an ordeal," said Mr. Darcy. "I'm sure she said anything at all that Lady Matlock suggested she say."

"No, I suppose that's likely true," said the earl with a sigh.

"So? A special license? You'll help me?"

"Go see if she even wants you, Darcy, since you're so convinced she hates you," said the earl. "To be honest, you have no title, and she is the daughter of a gentleman. It's not a good match, of course, but it's not outlandish."

"Thank you. So, you'll do it?"

"Why the rush?"

"I tell you, her entire family's reputation has been dragged through the mud!"

"And a speedy marriage, that will repair things? Won't that make it look as if you got her with child or something?"

Mr. Darcy snorted.

"I'm only saying, you don't seem to be viewing this situation clearly. Perhaps the laudanum—"

"I haven't had a drop in two weeks," said Darcy.

"Oh," said his uncle. "Well, good. Quite good. That was quick. Lady Matlock had a cousin who took eight months to wean off the stuff after a hunting accident, so I am impressed."

"It wasn't easy," he said. "Honestly, it's down to the steadfastness of my butler more than it is to me, I think. I broke easily, but he did not."

"I see," said the earl. He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "There isn't a chance you have gotten her with child, is there?"

"No," said Mr. Darcy, appalled. "I could barely walk."

"All right," said the earl.

"I suppose I want it quickly," said Mr. Darcy. In his mind, she was going to be angry with him, probably for some time, but she'd eventually have to stop being angry with him, and then… well, then their marriage could properly start. The sooner he got through the angry part, the better, in his opinion. "But you're right. She may not wish it that way. I suppose I'll ask her. But you will intercede for me with the archbishop, if we wish to be married quickly?"

"Oh, all right, yes. Since you're so insistent. I shall see what I can do."