What Would Mr. Darcy Do? (Pride & Prejudice Continues)

155 Pages·2011·1.14 MB·English

by  Abigail Reynolds

Copyright
Copyright © 2011, 2001 by Abigail Reynolds Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Cathleen Elliott/Fly Leaf Design Cover images © The Bridgeman Art Library
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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www.sourcebooks.com Originally published as From Lambton to Longbourn in 2001 by Intertidal Press,
Madison, WI Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Reynolds, Abigail.
What would Mr. Darcy do? / by Abigail Reynolds.
p. cm.
1. Bennet, Elizabeth (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Darcy, Fitzwilliam (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3.
Gentry—England—Fiction. 4. England—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. I. Austen, Jane,
1775-1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title.
PS3618.E967W47 2011
813’.6—dc22
2010043654
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Rebecca,
even if she does like Shakespeare
better than Jane Austen
Chapter 1
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