To Forget:Darcy's London Christmas: Pride and Prejudice continuation; Sweet Tea Short Story (8 page)

January 7, 1812

Darcy blinked rheumy eyes, head throbbing, stomach protesting like a mob rioting in the streets.

A mob would have been easier to quell.

He pressed his belly and smacked his lips. Drinking so much had been a poor choice, even if it had been in the privacy of his study, after the ball.

His study—he glanced about—he had slept in his study!

He squeezed his temples and groaned as fragments of memories came rushing into place.

On his return from the Matlock ball, he had intended to return to his chambers. The port in his study had called to him, one glass after another, until his best intentions faded away into an alcohol muddled haze. Port after several generous glasses of Aunt Matlock’s famed—and very potent—punch was a very bad idea indeed.

The housekeeper pounded on the door.

Why did she feel the need to do that, today especially? A polite tap was all that had ever been needed to garner his attention. He would have to speak to her about that ... later.

The door squealed like a dying animal as she opened it. “Sir.”

“What?” He clutched his temples and bit back the harsh words dancing on his tongue. There was no need for her to shout.

“I brought you something to help your ill-ease, some coffee, and a bite to eat if you wish it.”

He flicked his hand toward a small table.

It would be a miracle if she did not crack every piece of porcelain on the tray with all the rattling and clattering. Was it possible to make more noise?

She shuffled out and slammed the door. The woman had never been so ungainly before—why now? He would have sharp words for her when—

His stomach roiled and he reached for the glass, full of a slightly opaque liquid, sparkling in the too bright afternoon—afternoon?—light.

He shaded his eyes against the glare. How could it become afternoon so quickly?

He gulped down the contents of the glass. Gah! With any good fortune, the drink would work better than it tasted. Not that it would be difficult. Could she not have provided him with something less foul than his temper?

He pitched forward and scrubbed his sandy eyes with his palms. If only he could scour away the previous night as well.

What a fool he had been, trusting Aunt Matlock would indeed make his evening tolerable. How clever of her to assign him and Letty the bard’s Benedick and Beatrice, so, in her words ‘their debates and disagreeable remarks would be entirely in character.’ How kind and generous her assessment of him.

Perhaps she meant it as a joke.

He gulped down another mouthful of the housekeeper’s foul tonic.

At least the costumes had been tolerable, an officer’s coat for him and a wreath of flowers for her. Acceptable enough.

The evening began to unravel after his second cup of punch, happily provided by Letty herself. Had she been trying to relax him, or provoke him? It was difficult to tell, and either would have been in keeping with her character.

She had been pleased enough with her role for the evening. Of course, she would relish the opportunity to disagree with him at every turn. What was more natural than her doing nearly all the talking for them both?

Then she chanced upon the great fun in pointing out every woman in the room, attractive or not and remarking upon her assets and flaws. The punch made him careless. When he flinched upon her mention of fine eyes, she made that the target of her future remarks. Over and over, he was forced to observe fine eyes.

That only served to remind him that the pair of fine eyes he truly desired to see were situated hours away, and unwelcome at such an affair in any event.

His temper grew worse, and Letty delighted in her success.

She knew the bard’s work too well and perceived precisely how to draw him in.

At one point, in a futile attempt at distraction, he had politely remarked upon the weather—the weather!—only to receive her response:

“I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.”

“What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”

The words slipped out before he could control them, and the game, for Letty was on.

“Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.”

Heat rose along his jaw—or perhaps it was the punch. How dare she insult his deportment! It was not to be borne.

“Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.”

Why had he permitted himself those words? Even playing a role, he disdained to lie. What was Elizabeth driving him to?

Letty, though, took far too much delight in his protest.

The look she had given him as she said, “A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humor for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

Her betrothed would be pleased with that public declaration. Perhaps it was made for the benefit of the nearby tell-alls who would repeat the evening’s most flavorful morsels to anyone who heard them. But something in her eyes implied she enjoyed the lines too much for it to be merely an act.

“God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.”

“Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.”

That was uncalled for, even if the bard had written it. Elizabeth would have twisted the line somehow, with something witty and clever, and entirely her own. Even in the moments her wit was most sharp, she did not stoop to vulgar insults and would not even for the sake of the script.

He gulped the remainder of his punch.

In retrospect, perhaps not the wisest choice. That glass burned all the way down, spreading a fiery boldness through his belly.

“Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.”

“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.” Letty laughed, a shrill, ear-splitting sound on the best of days which had clearly not improved with drink.

“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's name; I have done.”

Oh, she had not liked that, given the face she made at him. “You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.”

Had she but a modicum of restraint, it might have been bearable. She shrieked and carried on as though those words were meant personally, not written for the public’s entertainment. It was easy enough for her to dole out the bard’s words, but to be on the receiving end of them—that was intolerable.

He scrubbed his face with his hands. Great heavens, even the Bennet family had checked themselves better! Was it possible that family demonstrated greater decorum than his own?

That was not possible. What would Lydia Bennet have done with the character of Beatrice? He shuddered.

Heavens! That thought must have been the result of far too much port.

He leaned back in his chair and threw his arm over his eyes. His own behavior left much to be desired. Had he only followed his own advice, Letty’s tantrum might have been entirely avoided. One might easily argue, it had been entirely his fault.

Fitzwilliam would not see it that way, but surely an unpleasant call from Aunt Matlock was in the offing. He could hardly blame her. Nor Mother would not have approved of his behavior.

Elizabeth would probably not have been impressed either.

Even with Letty’s outrageous behavior, his plan for the ball had largely been a success, at least until this moment.

He had hardly thought about Elizabeth Bennet during the entire evening. Not when the young Miss Blake, wearing the gown that would have better suited Miss Elizabeth sauntered past. Not when the musicians played the same music he and Elizabeth had danced to at Netherfield. Not when he caught a glimpse of the library on the way to the card room and the same book Miss Elizabeth read while she stayed at Netherfield caught his gaze. Not when Letty attempted to involve him in conversation with her shallow chatter and gossip that bored him senseless instead of endeavoring to engage him in sensible discourse. None of those moments made him consider Miss Elizabeth at all.

It was only now in the solitude of his study that thoughts of that maddening woman invaded his consciousness, refusing to give way in the face of his stalwart defenses.

Why was it no young lady, regardless of fortune, connections, or beauty, seemed to measure up to the standard set by the impertinent Hertfordshire miss?

There had to be something for this untoward distraction—something other than a stay in Bedlam.

He leaned back and closed his eyes.

“What is troubling you, dear?” Mother gathered her skirts and sat beside him on the uppermost step of the grand stair.

Darcy shrugged. “Nothing.”

She leaned her shoulder against his. “Nothing often bothers me as well.”

“Why should it matter who my friends are?” he muttered, scraping his boots along the polished marble.

“Bad company corrupts good character.”

“But his is not bad company, everyone agrees, he is a capital fellow. But...”

“What do you see that troubles you?”

“Most of the others, they shun him because of his father.”

“What is his father’s sin?”

“Being in trade. He is a good fellow, kind ... tolerant. He does not take offense when I say the wrong things, he just laughs. The others are never so generous to me. I think he is much better than they. But they spurn him because his fortune is not good enough.”

“Oh, son. I wish there were simple answers. But the world is as it is and people are judged by standards that are hard to understand. There are times when we must choose to stand by someone of good repute, even when others around us do not agree. It may be difficult, but some people, some friendships, are worth the scorn they may cost us.”

Mother had been correct about Bingley. His friendship was as solid and reliable as Fitzwilliam’s, if every bit as maddening at times.

Would Mother have said the same thing about Elizabeth?

She had nothing, absolutely nothing to recommend her, but herself. Nothing but her wit, her kindness, her devotion to her family, her reputation in the community, her beauty, her manners...all those things Mother had considered cardinal virtues.

Was Elizabeth worth the scorn it might cost him?

Aunt Matlock would insist she was not. Likely the rest of the family would agree.

But Mother, she would say she was.

A cool swath of peace settled over his shoulders and wrapped around him, bandaging all the worn and ragged places of his soul.

Of course, of course! It was so clear, so simple.

He would not forget her. Somehow, he would see her again, and when he did, he would make her an offer of marriage.

December 24, 1812

“I am all astonishment.” She stared, agape.

“That my cousin could be so badly behaved?”

“It is nice to see that it is not just my family who causes blushes.” She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I am honored you think your mother would approve of me, and that should have propelled you to act as you did in Kent.”

He clutched his forehead and grimaced. “Do not remind me of what I said then. Has there ever been such a proposal in all of England? I can hardly think of what I said to you without abhorrence.”

“All of it?”

“Almost all of it.  There is a very little bit that was not appalling. I believe I said,” he leaned closer and pressed the back of his hand against her cheek. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed.”

She licked her lips, eyes wide and glistening.

He whispered in her ear, “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

She pressed into his hand and purred a sound that thrummed in his veins. “And I you, Mr. Darcy, and I you.”

He kissed her, and in the glow of the Yule log, they dwelt upon those things they wished to remember for a lifetime.

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G
iven Good Principles Series
:

Darcy’s Decision

The Future Mrs. Darcy

All the Appearance of Goodness

Twelfth Night at Longbourn

Remember the Past

The Darcy Brothers

A Jane Austen Christmas: Regency Christmas Traditions
(nonfiction)

Mistaking Her Character

A Spot of Sweet Tea: Hopes and Beginnings
(short story anthology)

The Darcy’s First Christmas

Short Stories
:

Four Days in April

Sweet Ginger

Last Dance

Not Romantic

To Forget: Darcy’s London Christmas

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