Dispelling the Gloom, Part 4

Happy November—and for those of you who celebrate the holiday, Happy American Thanksgiving! I am thankful to be part of a community that takes such pleasure in Jane Austen’s works.

I’m also thankful for your patience! Over a month ago, I began a “vignette” called “Dispelling the Gloom,” based on October’s magic and malevolence theme. What began as a 1,000-word scene morphed into short story with more than 10,000 words, mainly because I can never control myself when dialogue is involved. If I had my way, I’d have Elizabeth and Darcy stand outside and talk, talk, talk, all day long!

I suppose this October “vignette” also fits November’s theme, “Indoors and Outdoors.” My versions of Elizabeth and Darcy love to converse in the freedom of the outdoors, but life always drags them back into more constrained realm of the house.

It’s been so much fun to write a serial story—something I haven’t done in over a decade. However, because I’ve written and posted this story in fits and starts, I’m afraid certain aspects of plot, character, and voice—you know, the main elements of writing—don’t always hold together. So, I’m grateful you’ve come along for the ride, and I welcome any feedback, including critical feedback, that you have to share.

If you are interested in reading the previous parts, here are the links: Part One, Part Two, and Part Three. Hope you enjoy!

Dispelling the Gloom, Part Four

 

“Tell me the truth, Mr. Darcy: did you convince Mr. Bingley to depart Netherfield?”

His eyes closed briefly. “Yes.”

When he said nothing more, she exclaimed, “And this is all the reply I am to expect from you?”[1]

“What else am I to tell you?”

“Perhaps you might honor me with a reason you were so determined to separate Mr. Bingley from my sister? For that, I am now certain, was your purpose in leaving.”

“It was one of them,” he said, looking away.

She turned and paced along the edge of the copse, hoping the crunch of leaves beneath her boots might relieve some of her anger. Instead, she felt only how cold and wet her feet had become.

“Miss Bennet, stop,” he said, coming up behind her. He reached out but did not touch her. “Please.”

She turned and glared. “Well?”

“Yes, I encouraged Bingley to leave. I understand his temperament only too well. His heart is easily engaged—and easily broken. In the three years since leaving Cambridge, he has, on several occasions, nearly fallen prey to the schemes of marriage-minded mothers.”

She opened her mouth to object, but settled on a sigh. “I cannot defend my mother’s behavior, but—”

“I do not blame you for it.”

“Oh, how very kind! Well, I have never sought your good opinion, Mr. Darcy!”

“No.” He frowned, kicking at a stone beneath his boot. “No, I suppose you have not.”

“I freely acknowledge,” she said, resuming her pacing, “that my mother can be silly and wrong-headed, but she cares for us, in her way.”

“Be that as it may, I must think of my friend.”

She whirled on him. “Is he not a man of independence and information? You behave as if he were a child, dependent on your good sense and guidance!”

“He is not a child, but he is young—and far too easily swayed by the whims of others.”

“You have certainly proven that to be true!”

Darcy’s face reddened. “You may consider me officious, but I will do whatever I must to protect those I hold dear.”

“Yes,” she said, thinking of all he had been willing to say and do on behalf of his sister. “I know that to be true, as well.” Her voice softened. “Your sister is fortunate to have such a brother—but I cannot help thinking you have harmed, rather than helped, Mr. Bingley.” She stared up at him, willing him to understand. “My sister is the very best of women!”

“Your sister, Miss Bennet, appears to be all that is good-natured and dutiful—qualities I fear, as much as I laud, when it comes to young ladies with scheming mothers.”

“Then you had best run away,” she could not help but retort, “for you find yourself alone with the daughter of such a woman now!”

“I am not afraid of you,” he said, smiling.[2]

“No, I suppose I am not good-natured, dutiful, or handsome enough to tempt you.”

The moment she spoke the words, she regretted them. Would she never overcome her own vanity?

“Miss Bennet, I only meant that you would not let yourself be led by your mother.”

“And neither would Jane! She is not a mere instrument of my mother’s machinations. You have called her dutiful and good-natured—and you are correct. But she is, above all else, honest. If she has given Mr. Bingley reason to hope, then it is for the two of them to decide how to proceed.”

He threw up his hands. “But she has not given him reason to hope!”

“Of course she has!”

“I have seen no sign of it. She smiles but never laughs; she is at times reserved, even cold; and I have never seen her seek him out.”

Elizabeth could not help but gape. “What would you have her do, Mr. Darcy? Should she flirt and flatter? Should she follow him about, hanging on his every word? I suppose you think she ought to behave toward Mr. Bingley as Caroline Bingley behaves toward you!”

Now it was his turn to gape.

“I cannot deny,” continued Elizabeth, “that Jane is reserved. She does not like to bring attention to herself. With a mother such as ours, her reserve is a virtue, Mr. Darcy—not a vice.”

“I…I had not seen it in such a light.”

Her lips twisted into something like a smile. “There is no little irony in the fact that you, of all people, should condemn Jane for being cold and reserved.”

A shadow of hurt passed over his features before he schooled his expression.

“Forgive me,” she said, immediately ashamed. “I did not mean to be cruel, I only meant—”

“No, you said nothing untrue. I am reserved and—well, you are not the first person to call me cold.”

He half turned from her, running a hand through his hair, and she realized then that, somewhere along the way to this inconceivable moment, he had lost his hat. He looked younger somehow, vulnerable even—certainly not cold or reserved.

“Irony abounds, I suppose,” he said, attempting a smile. “I thought with you I was being open—too open, perhaps.”

She drew in a long breath, hoping it might ease the sudden ache in her chest.

“I truly believed,” he said, “that your sister allowed Bingley’s attentions only to please your mother. If you believe Miss Jane Bennet cares for my friend, then I believe you. I will speak to Bingley the moment I arrive in London this evening.”

She ought to have been happy—and for her sister, she tried to be. For herself, however, she felt only the sting of disappointment. For months she had seen him in one light, and now—well, now he would return to London, and she would return to Longbourn.

She reached for the hood of her cloak and pulled it atop her head. “I should depart. My family will be—”

“Wait, please!” he said, as she began to walk past him. “Do not disappear.”

She stopped and saw that her cloak was, once again, glistening. “Are you speaking figuratively—or literally?”[3]

His lips quirked. “Literally, though now I can see you well enough.”

And indeed, the cloak had resumed its dreary, muted appearance.

“Do you understand how it works?” he asked her.

In spite of everything, she smiled. “You surprise me continually, Mr. Darcy. I would never have expected to converse with you about…well…” She bit her lip, hesitant to use the word that came to mind.

“Magic?” he suggested, one eyebrow raised.

She laughed. “Yes, magic! Do you not find it incomprehensible—unbelievable, even?”

“No, not at all. I have seen—or not seen—the effects with my own eyes. I cannot doubt my own senses.”

“But if another person were to come to you and say, ‘Mr. Darcy, I have a cloak that makes me invisible,’ you would scoff.”

“Once, I would have. Now…” He shrugged. “What is magic, except the inexplicable rearrangement of our expectations?”

Her eyes widened. “I would never have thought to define it as such, but I wholly embrace your definition. This means that we all have the capacity for magic.”

“I like that idea,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Why should I not?”

“I would have expected…” She laughed. “I suppose am still adjusting to the inexplicable rearrangement of my expectations regarding you. By your definition, today has been the most magical of my life.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his gaze searching.

“Yes.” And then, fearing she had said too much with that one quiet word, she tugged at the hood of her cloak. “With this at my disposal, how could today be anything but magical?”

“Of course.” He looked away, exhaling. “The cloak. You did not answer my question. How does it work?”

“I am not certain. It has lived in the back of my wardrobe for years, long before I was of a size to wear it, in fact—and I find myself donning it only on the gloomiest of days, when I require the additional warmth. I did not realize until today that I could become invisible, as long I stay completely within the cloak’s folds. I believe that is why you saw my hand when I reached out for the letters.”

“Yes, that seems reasonable—as reasonable as magic can be, I suppose. When I recognized your ring, I—”

He stopped abruptly, and she asked, “How did you recognize my ring?”

It was a simple, silver band, so common she could not recall who had given it to her. Even she would not have recognized it on the hand of another.

“Ah, well…” He swallowed. “I believe I first noticed it when you played pianoforte at the Lucas residence.”

Her brows inched upward. “Then you must have quite a memory for plain jewelry! That was some time ago.”

“It was not that long ago, though I did also see it on a more recent occasion—when you stayed at Netherfield and chose to read instead of play cards. More recently still, there was the ball.”

“I wore gloves at the ball!” She ought to have worn them this morning, too—only she had left them behind in her rush to escape the house.

“At the ball, you removed them momentarily, after your cousin spilled punch on them.”

He had seen that? All at once—and far too late for someone who supposed herself so clever—she understood: those moments when she thought he had been looking at her with disdain, he had actually been…admiring her?

She dared a glance at him, and his blush seemed to confirm her suspicions. Good God, could she have been more obtuse?

Clearing his throat, he said, “I do not yet understand precisely how the cloak functions. Why can I sometimes see you—as I can now—and sometimes not?”

“I believe,” she said slowly, “that I can control it.” She arched a brow. “Shall I try now?”

“Indeed.”

She nodded and, not knowing what else to do, squeezed her eyes shut, as if not seeing him would cast a spell of invisibility on her.

Not only did this approach fail—“I can see you still,” he said, laughing—it did nothing to keep her from seeing him, at least in her mind’s eye: hatless (his hair curled slightly in the mist), disheveled (he must have left London so early that he had not had time to shave), and utterly appealing.

Heart racing, she opened her eyes, hoping a good dose of reality might cure her of these silly thoughts. Alas, the sight of him only confirmed her feelings: she admired him—very much. It was not simply his appearance: here was a man who could be proud and humble, warm and reserved, disapproving and devoted. His was a character intricate enough to intrigue her for the rest of her days.

How had this happened? Two hours had passed, and her entire world had changed.

She spun on her heel. “We should not look at each other. That must be why the cloak is not working.”

“Should I turn around too?” he asked, his voice rich with amusement.

“Do what you will,” she muttered, thinking how unfair it was that even his voice should now be so endearing to her.

Disappear! she told herself, huddling in her cloak as she had earlier that morning. Yet she could not stop herself from thinking of him—of all the ways she had, and had not, seen him these past months.

When he cleared his throat, she glanced over her shoulder.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Oh, it is no use,” she said, crossing her arms as she turned back to face him.

“You cannot control the cloak, then?”

“I cannot control myself.”

“I do not understand.”

“Before, I did not want you to see me. Now…” She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Well, now I do.”

He took a step toward her. “Elizabeth…Miss Bennet…”

She wanted nothing more than to tilt her head and say, laughingly, “Which is to be with you: Elizabeth or Miss Bennet?”

But though she knew very well how to be impertinent, she was not well-practiced in the art of intentional flirtation. So instead she blushed and said, “You return to London soon.”

“Ah.” He retreated, not one step but several. “Yes, I…I should go.”

She winced. That was not what she had meant.

As they walked slowly in the direction of Longbourn—was it her decision or his to weave their way through the copse, instead of walking directly toward the house?—she asked, “How will you explain to Mr. Bingley your changed perspective on my sister?”

“What if I told him the truth?”

“What a conversation that would be!‘Bingley!’” she cried, lowering the pitch of her voice to imitate his. “‘I happened upon Miss Jane Bennet’s occasionally-invisible, always-impertinent younger sister while visiting Hertfordshire today, and she told me I was mistaken!’”

He laughed. “Bingley would be so startled by my admission of error that your invisibility might seem, by comparison, unremarkable.”

“Do you truly plan to tell him all that has happened this morning?” She looked down at her cloak, suddenly protective of it—or perhaps just protective of the secret the two of them now shared.

“No, I think I will try a different approach,” he said, smiling. “My sister is town, and she has lamented the fact that we are spending Christmas in London, rather than the country. While Netherfield is no Pemberley, she would enjoy Hertfordshire a great deal more than town.” He paused. “She would also enjoy meeting you. If I could convince Bingley to return…”

Her heart leapt at the idea—for Jane’s sake, of course.

“You certainly did not have much trouble convincing Mr. Bingley to leave,” she could not help but tease. Then, all at once, she groaned. “No, your plan will not work!”

“Why not? It will not take long to reopen the house, and—”

“Wickham,” she said quietly, wishing she could swallow the bitterness of that word. “Mr. Wickham will still be in Meryton with the regiment. You could not bring your sister to the same neighborhood.”

He grimaced. “No, of course not. You helped me forget about him, at least for a moment.”

“Do you worry that he will continue to trouble you and your sister?”

Darcy’s smile was bitter. “Oh, I do not worry, for I know he will. So long as there is money to be had, George Wickham will always reappear.”

“Then he may still spread lies about your sister. Indeed, he may, as you feared, have other letters in reserve!”

“He may, though he seemed truly astonished by that idea.” Darcy laughed softly, humorlessly. “George does not always think ideas through to their conclusion. I would surprised if he had even meant to keep my sister’s letters. You should have seen his lodgings at Cambridge; he threw his books and papers into whatever container was nearest for him.”

“So you believe he simply came across the letters and realized they were a fortuitous means of escaping his current debt?”

“Indeed. I do not think he possesses the foresight to plan beyond his present needs. It is not that George is a fool; to the contrary, he is quick-witted and charming. But he lives moment to moment. I do not know whether to despise, pity, or envy him for this approach to life.”

She raised a brow. “Envy?”

“It is not an admirable impulse, I grant you. But when Wickham wants something, he does not ask himself if he should. He does not wonder about the repercussions. He simply acts.”

They stopped walking, and he looked at her so intently that her heart began to race. What would he do if not constrained by duty and decorum?

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I should speak with your father.”

“My father?” Now that pesky organ in her chest slammed hard against her ribcage.

“I ought to have spoken to him—or some other gentleman in the area—the moment I knew of Wickham’s presence here.”

Ah, of course. She nearly laughed for believing, even for a moment, that he had meant anything else.

“You are right to warn others of his perfidy,” she said, resuming her walk, and rather briskly, too, “though what my father will be able to accomplish without knowing the details of Wickham’s deceit, I cannot predict.”

“I will tell him as much as I can without naming my sister. If I am able to do nothing except put others on their guard, Wickham will not have quite so much power here.”

“Perhaps, but I must warn you that your reputation in Meryton is not such that our neighbors will easily accept your word in this matter.”

He snorted. “I am aware of Wickham’s lies, but I am not concerned with how others see me. So long as they begin to question Wickham’s character, I will be satisfied.”

She could not help but smile. “Your indifference to the opinion of others is, in many respects, a virtue—but in this matter, it is precisely what threatens your credibility.” She hesitated before adding, “Your haughtiness and disinterest have been just as effective as Wickham’s lies in sinking your character here.”

Jaw tightening, he said, “Is that so?”

Now it was his turn to quicken the pace, and she found herself running to keep up. Without thinking, she put her hand on his forearm, stilling him immediately.

He glanced down at her fingers, gripping the sleeve of his coat.

“Pardon me,” she said. But as soon as she began to withdraw her hand, he forestalled her, placing his hand over hers.

Unable to look away from their interlocked fingers—he radiated such warmth, even through the leather of his glove—she whispered, “I did not tell you this to hurt you, only to prepare you.”

“I know, Elizabeth.”

At the sound of her name—a second time made no difference; the thrill that shot through her was just as strong—she looked up at him.

“Only a true friend,” he said, voice low, “would tell me a difficult but necessary truth.” Then he squeezed her hand lightly before releasing it.

“Would you advise me?” he asked, as they resumed their walk. “Tell me how I might convince your father to trust me.”

For all the romance of clasped hands, could such a gesture compare to the eagerness of his expression just then, as if he wanted nothing more than to hear her opinion? Well, yes—both set her pulse racing. She suspected she was losing head and heart to this man—and fast, too.

Fortunately, falling in love did not much get in the way of her sharing a decided opinion.

“It will not do,” she said, “to make others see Mr. Wickham clearly. You must make them see you. Not your pride or your wealth, certainly not your impatience with our provincial shortcomings—but the man I have come to know today.”

“Ah, but in essentials,” he said, lips twisting, “I am as I always have been.”[4]

“Yes, in essentials, you remain unchanged: a concerned brother, a devoted friend, and a man who, even in his darkest moments, showed great wit and integrity,” she replied fiercely—a little too fiercely, given the widening of his eyes. He must know how she had begun to feel about him. What a fool he must think her—one moment despising him, the next ready to kiss him.

“But it does not follow,” she continued, her voice only a little unsteady, “that others, who have not been witness to your true character, are able to see beyond the mask of incivility you sometimes wear.”

His smile was wry. “Ah, there you are, Elizabeth Bennet. I was beginning to fear, after hearing so many compliments from you, that the cloak had performed a different kind of magic.”

“Oh, no. In essentials, I too remain unchanged,” she retorted, wondering if this was, in fact, true. “Now, come: Longbourn looms, and we still have important matters to discuss. I must advise you on how to win over my father, and you must devise a plan for making certain Mr. Bingley sees Jane again.”

“Does your family never come to London?” he asked.

“No, my father despises town.”

“Then that is a point of agreement between us.”

She smiled. “When you enter his study, you may discover you have a great deal in common. Oh, his library is nothing to Pemberley’s, if Miss Bingley is to be believed, but he is proud of it.”

“Well, you have helped plan my speech to your father: I will tell him how much I admire his books, his views on London, and”—here he paused, but only for a moment—“the wit and vivacity of his second daughter; he will then agree to warn the other gentleman of the neighborhood of Wickham’s debts and deceit.”

She halted, just at the edge of the tree line, grasping hold of a branch, as if she might keep herself in these woods, in this moment, for just a little longer.

“It is that simple, is it?” she asked, gazing at Longbourn. The house was beautiful this morning—bright and cozy, bathed in the sudden sunlight of a once-foggy morning. Oh, what a perverse creature she was, wishing now to return to the gloom they had just left behind.

“No, not simple,” he replied. “Our greatest hopes rarely are—not if they are any good for us.”

She laughed unsteadily. “I cannot tell if you are flattering or insulting me—or speaking of me at all.”

“Of course I am speaking of you, Elizabeth,” he said, coming to stand before her, blocking her view of the house and all that lay beyond. “I wish I had spoken earlier.”

“I would not have listened,” she said, swallowing hard. “Before this morning, I did not see you—not as I see you now.”

“None of that matters. Elizabeth—”

She shook her head. “These thoughts and feelings are new and untested. This must be true for you, as well.”

“No, not at all,” he replied fiercely. “Since you stayed at Netherfield, I have felt—”

“Not enough to speak,” she cut in. “Not enough to remain in Hertfordshire.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Perhaps you saw how much I disliked you,” she continued quietly, “and decided to leave without speaking, for fear of refusal.”

“In truth…” He glanced at her, then away. “I never considered that you might refuse me. I hesitated to speak because, well, your family—your mother in particular—”

“Ah.” The laugh that followed was soft and sad. “It seems we have both been blind, Mr. Darcy.”

“Yes, but now, Elizabeth—Miss Bennet—now you must know that my feelings will not be repressed, that I ardently—”[5]

“No,” she said quickly. “No, not yet!”

“Not yet?” His brows contracted, then jumped—an endearing shift between alarm and optimism that threatened to undo her resolution. “Then when?”

She looked past him, toward the sun-drenched grounds of Longbourn. “Perhaps when you have decided whether to call me Elizabeth or Miss Bennet—and when I have decided I may call you Fitzwilliam without blushing; when you have spoken to Mr. Bingley of your errors—and when I am certain Jane is happy, whatever that means for her; when you have left this enchanted wood and returned to the world—and when I have had enough time alone to consider all I have seen and heard today.” She smiled ruefully. “The fog may have lifted, Mr. Darcy, but now we are squinting at the sun. Do you not think we ought to give our eyes time to adjust?”

“Such a speech, Elizabeth, only makes me more certain I am seeing quite clearly now.”

She laughed. “As your most officious friend, Fitzwilliam, allow me to advise you against making such pronouncements on a morning when you have both confronted your nemesis and witnessed magic. Such events do not inspire sound decisions.”

“Do you not believe that such events can, in fact, provide the clarity of mind needed to make the very best decisions?”

“No, I believe ample rest and long walks are much better sources of wisdom.”

“Pemberley has many very fine walks.”

“Now you are not playing fair.”

He grinned—and oh, what a sight that was! But his mischievous joy was short-lived. “In a matter of hours, Elizabeth, I must return to London, to my sister.”

“Yes, I know.”

They were silent for a moment, before she said, “If you could convince Mr. Bingley—” at the same time that he said, “If you could convince your father—”

They stopped, and then he said, “With Georgiana, I cannot return to Hertfordshire—” just as she said, “My father will never agree to travel to London.”

Yet the moment she said, “London,” she remembered what should have been obvious from the start: “My dearest aunt and uncle live in London! Indeed, they are visiting Longbourn for Christmas, and I might convince them to invite Jane to town on their return. Then she may call on Miss Bingley, and you may make certain Mr. Bingley knows of her presence in town.”

“I will be glad to do so. Where do your aunt and uncle reside? We might meet them in Hyde or Green if they walk there regularly—”

Ah. Here was the first test. “They are not very close to Hyde or Green Park.”

“Then they must be nearer to Portman Square.”

“In fact, no. They live on Gracechurch Street, in Cheapside.” She met his gaze squarely. “My uncle—my mother’s brother—prefers to live near his business; he is a wholesaler dealing in cut glass.”

To his credit, Darcy’s eyes widened only a little.

“What is more,” she said, crossing her arms, “I love him and his family very much. Mr. Gardiner is a man of information—and the kindest man I know. His wife is witty, charming, and the dearest aunt in the world.”

“Then I look forward to meeting them,” he replied, crossing his arms in imitation of her. She could not help but laugh.

“Truly?”

“Yes, Elizabeth, truly. In fact, your uncle’s profession is one that interests me.”

“It is?”

“Indeed. Pemberley requires a new supply of glassware.”

“Is that so?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I suppose your steward sent you to London specifically to make such a purchase.”

He smiled. “My steward knows only too well that I consider no detail of the estate beneath my notice.”

“Then your steward must be a very patient man!”

“He does not mind my officious ways. I think he knows how much I love Pemberley—and I do not love by halves, Elizabeth.”

Such a claim, in such a voice, sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine—not that she was allowing herself to anticipate any particular outcome, of course. No, she was determined to be rational about this business: yesterday, Fitzwilliam Darcy was the last man in the world she would have chosen to marry; it simply did not follow that today—no matter how revolutionary the day had been—she would throw herself into his arms and shout, “Yes!”[6]

“How soon after the new year do you suppose you and your sister will be in town?” he asked as they reluctantly left the copse and crossed the front lawn.

She did not know whether to be amused or vexed at the assumption he made. “I said that I might be able to convince my aunt and uncle to invite my sister—not that I would come to London myself.”

He stopped and stared at her.

“It would be an imposition,” she said, tugging gently on his arm. They moved forward, but only in fits and starts.

“Surely they would be only too glad to invite you!”

“Surely they would,” she agreed, smiling a little at his vehemence, “but I cannot possibly ask on my own behalf. For Jane, yes, I may impose. Her spirits are low, and she requires a change of scenery. For myself—I am a selfish creature, Mr. Darcy, but not so selfish that I would expect them to take on the expense and trouble of hosting me, just so that I may be courted under their noses.”

He was silent for a long moment. “Perhaps you are correct about squinting into the sun; I can see nothing in this moment except what I want. I resemble George Wickham more than I would care to admit.”

“Except that you did admit it, which presents something of a paradox, for I doubt very much that George Wickham would ever acknowledge his shortcomings.”

“He has not such an inducement,” Darcy replied, smiling.

“Come now, Mr. Darcy! You are not a man to flatter. I do not suppose for one moment that I have the power to alter his character—or yours.”

“You have not altered my character, perhaps—but you have altered the course of my life, and I find myself wishing for nothing more than to follow the path we have so strangely forged this morning.”

She did not trust herself to respond.

“Yet you cannot come to London,” he continued, “and I cannot, for the time being, return to Hertfordshire. So what shall we do?”

Again, she had no response. They stood now before the front steps of the house, and she glanced up at the first-floor windows, hoping against hope that she would not see her mother’s frilly cap. Mrs. Bennet did not appear to be in the parlor or the morning room; she would not, of course, be in her father’s study…

“Your friend, Miss Lucas—she has lately become engaged to your cousin?” Darcy asked.

Elizabeth turned to stare at him. Here they were, in their last moments together for who knew how long, and he wanted to discuss Charlotte Lucas?

“Yes, she is to marry Mr. Collins in less than a month.”

Again, she glanced at the windows. Oh no, there was her mother, a shadow on the second floor! She was in her own bedroom, looking out at the scenery. How long before she noticed them?

“So she will soon reside in Kent, at the Hunsford rectory?” Darcy asked.

“Hmm? Yes, but…”

The cap had disappeared. Her mother must have seen them. How long now before she raced down the stairs and opened the door?

“Do you intend to visit her at Hunsford? I believe she is one of your closest friends.”

“Well, yes, she has invited me, but I do not know if I—” She stopped, blinked, and laughed. “Hunsford! Parish of the great patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh!” [7]

“Yes,” he said, grinning that grin, “and it so happens that I visit my aunt each Easter.”

“How convenient! It so happens that I have a sudden interest in hearing Mr. Collins give an Easter sermon!”

They looked at each other and laughed. Could this be their future, then: misunderstandings and arguments, yes, but also this harmony of laughter?

“Then you will come to Hunsford?” he asked.

“Yes, if Charlotte truly wants me to visit, I will come. Of course I wanted to visit for her sake, but I have delayed accepting, dreading the idea of spending so much time in the house of my cousin.”

“Well, you need not spend very much time within doors when he is there. There are fine walks at Rosings—”

She bumped his shoulder. “Surely not as fine as those at Pemberley!”

He met her nudge with one of his own. “Surely not. But they will do—for a start.”

“And what if it should rain?” She glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “March is a mercurial month.”

“Rain will not deter me, Elizabeth Bennet.”

She laughed. “Easily said, on a sunny day.”

“If you are worried about the weather, wear this serviceable cloak of yours.” He extended a hand and brushed his fingers along the hem of her hood. He did not touch her face, but she felt the heat of him nonetheless. “Its magic has served us well this far.”

His proximity, his voice, his use of that word, magic—they all conspired to undo her. She gazed up at him, leaning forward ever-so-slightly, then ever-so-slightly more, until…

“Mr. Darcy!”

Her mother’s sharp exclamation nearly caused Elizabeth to tumble backward.

Mrs. Bennet stood in the open front door of Longbourn, mouth agape, face red, eyes wide.

Glancing at Darcy, Elizabeth saw that he had closed his eyes; she was tempted to whisper, “I have tried that method of disappearance already; it does not work.”

“Whatever are you doing here, sir?” Mrs. Bennet asked, hurrying down the front steps.

Perhaps it was her mother’s wary but polite tone; more likely it was the sudden gleaming of her cloak. But Elizabeth knew then that Mrs. Bennet saw only Darcy standing on the front lawn of Longbourn. How strange he must have looked to her: a hatless gentleman, talking to himself and then reaching out to touch nothing but air! Then again, Mrs. Bennet might have noticed none of these oddities; to her, it must have been astonishing enough that this haughty, disagreeable man was here at all.

Biting her lip, Elizabeth glanced sideways at Darcy, who shot her a look of such desperation that she almost laughed—almost. But that would have meant alerting her mother to her presence. No, here was another test: if he truly cared for her, then he had better learn to converse with her mother on his own.

Darcy took a deep breath and turned to Mrs. Bennet with a bow. “Good day to you, Madam. I hope you and your family are well.”

Mrs. Bennet squinted up at him, then looked to his right, just where Elizabeth stood. Did she suspect something? Elizabeth fixed one thought in her mind: Do not see me! Her mother’s eyes narrowed further, and Elizabeth held her breath. For all her foolish ways, Mrs. Bennet could be extraordinarily shrewd, when it suited her.

At last, her mother turned her sharp-eyed gaze to Darcy. “My family are all well enough, though my dear Jane…” She stopped, mouth forming a large O. “Mr. Bingley! Has he returned to Netherfield, then? Is that why you are here? Do tell him, sir, that he owes us a visit! I believe he was to dine with us—before he left so unexpectedly.”

“Ah.” He again shot Elizabeth a glance; she smiled sweetly at him from beneath her cloak. “Mr. Bingley has not been able to return, Madam, though I am certain he regrets his absence.”

“Oh, well, I…” Mrs. Bennet sighed heavily. “Then why are you here, if Mr. Bingley has not come back?”

Elizabeth glared at her mother, wishing she could be a little more welcoming. One might suppose that Mr. Darcy’s situation in life would earn him at least a little deference from a woman so obsessed with fortune.

“I traveled to Hertfordshire for a matter of…business,” said Darcy at last. “I return to London today, but as I was in the neighborhood, I did not wish to leave without paying my respects.”

“Is that so? You have never called on us alone before!”

This combination of incivility and disbelief mortified Elizabeth, but Darcy merely smiled.

“I have heard from a very trustworthy source, Mrs. Bennet, that your husband has one of the finest libraries in Hertfordshire. As I am something of a collector myself…”

“Oh, books!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Well, I suppose some gentleman find them interesting, though why you should like books above hunting—you know we have very fine hunting grounds, Mr. Darcy?”

“I am sure you do, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Oh, very well. Come in, come in! I will have Sally take your gloves and—where is your hat, sir?”

Mr. Darcy raised a hand to his head and then blushed so endearingly that even Mrs. Bennet seemed to soften toward him.

“Dear me, the wind must have gotten to you today, Mr. Darcy. Well, do come in out of the cold, sir. I will tell Mr. Bennet you are here to see him. Will you take some refreshments?”

“No, Mrs. Bennet, I will not inopportune you.”

“Oh, it is no inconvenience to me, Mr. Darcy!” she replied, beckoning him to follow her through the open front door. “We have means enough to entertain our guests, I assure you. Never let it be said that I am not hospitable to any guest who should wander into Longbourn!”

As soon as she dared, Elizabeth threw off her hood and hurried after them into the house.

“Elizabeth Bennet!” her mother cried, the moment she entered the vestibule. Thankfully, Darcy had not yet gone to her father’s study; he stood by the hall table, pulling off his gloves so slowly that their maid, Sally, must have wondered what precisely was wrong with this hatless gentleman.

“Where have you been?” her mother demanded. Then, with a glance for Mr. Darcy, she lowered her voice to a hiss, as if this might make it impossible to be overheard by someone standing a mere two feet away from them: “And what are you wearing? I thought I told Sally to throw out that old cloak!”

“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, ignoring her mother completely and offering Darcy a flippant curtsy and a saucy smile. “What a surprise to see you here!”

“Indeed, it is very good to see you again,” he said, smiling so fully that Mrs. Bennet’s eyes narrowed.

She must have suspected he was laughing at them, for she said, “My daughter, sir, likes a good walk, and I suppose she does not wish to dirty her much more elegant pelisse, though I have would not have her wear such an old cloak for anything. We can certainly afford a new pelisse, if the need arises.”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Darcy. “Do you know, ma’am, that I recently saw a cloak just like this one? I thought it would make a fine gift for someone very dear to me. If you have no wish to keep it, I would be only too glad to purchase—”

“Oh, no!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “We certainly have no need to sell our belongings! I was thinking of giving it to the poor; I am a charitable woman, Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth blanched, not certain whether to feel more horrified at her mother’s suggestion—or at her own selfish wish to retain the cloak.

“The recipient will certainly be well-pleased,” replied Darcy, “for cloaks such as those are considered quite fashionable now.”

Mrs. Bennet’s mouth fell open. “Are they? I have heard nothing of this.”

“I believe it is a very recent trend,” said Darcy, whose twitching lips nearly caused Elizabeth to laugh.

“And you said you saw a cloak like this recently? In London?” Mrs. Bennet asked.

“I did indeed see it recently,” he said, and now Elizabeth could not help but laugh at his attempt to avoid an outright lie.

“How odd,” said Elizabeth, “that this cloak should so suddenly become the height of fashion when my mother, who is quite knowledgable about these matters, thinks it very outdated indeed.”

“Well, I did not say that,” retorted her mother. “I suppose I can see some merit in the cloak; it certainly appears…warm. And, as it is an heirloom…”

“Is it?” Elizabeth asked in great surprise.

“Of course it is!” Mrs. Bennet turned to Mr. Darcy. “It belonged to my dear aunt Matilda—quite an odd old lady. I do not think she much liked you, Lizzy,” she added, shaking her head. “She left each of the other girls a gift of one hundred pounds, but your legacy was only that old cloak—oh, and that plain silver ring you always wear.”

Elizabeth looked down at herself—at the cloak, at the ring, at the worn wooden floor of the front hall. Was this not the very spot where she had stood all those years ago, when her great aunt had crooked her finger at her and said, “Remember, my dear: the gloom will be your friend and your legacy”?

Elizabeth looked up and saw Darcy watching her. Sudden, inexplicable tears welled in her eyes.

“No, you must not part with the cloak,” said Darcy softly. “One day, perhaps, you may wish to give it to your daughter.”

“If she is anything like me,” Elizabeth replied, “she will certainly need it.”

“If she is anything like you,” said Darcy, “she will be an admirable young lady indeed.”

Mrs. Bennet watched this exchange with apparent bewilderment. No doubt her marriage-minded instincts were at war with her patent dislike of Mr. Darcy. What was she to do with a man who was both rich enough to earn her awe and foolish enough to have insulted her daughter?

“Well!” she said at last. “These are nice sentiments, but Mr. Darcy did not come to discuss old cloaks. Allow me to show to you Mr. Bennet’s study, sir.”

From the stairs, Elizabeth watched them disappear down the hall, Darcy turning back just at the last moment to gaze up at her. Soon, perhaps, she hoped…

Later, as she tenderly returned the cloak to her wardrobe, Elizabeth rubbed the fabric between her fingers, marveling at the lessons these unassuming threads had taught her. She had seen so much this morning—and yet still knew so little.

She could not be certain that others would recognize Mr. Wickham for the reprobate he was; she knew not if Jane would find happiness with Mr. Bingley. As for her own future with Mr. Darcy, well, she thought they could see each other clearly now, but who could tell for certain? She and Darcy both shared a penchant for making unwarranted assumptions.

For now, though, it was enough to know there was magic in the world—and that she, in her own small way, knew how to tap it.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Below are some footnotes, indicating lines I’ve pilfered or changed from Austen!

[1] Elizabeth is speaking a version of Darcy’s words from Chapter 34 (Project Gutenberg version).
[2] This is almost word for word the quote from Rosings, when Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam are talking to Elizabeth as she plays piano. (The change: Austen uses “smilingly.”) Chapter 31 (Project Gutenberg version)
[3] I admit this phrasing — figuratively or literally—sounds quite modern to me, but when I looked up the words in the Oxford English Dictionary, I found both in use from as early as the 1600s. I don’t know think this sentence is particularly Austenesque, but alas, I am reminded day after day that I am definitely no Jane Austen.
[4] It is Wickham, in the original, who wonders if Darcy could possibly have changed “in essentials,” with Elizabeth acknowledging that “’In essentials,” Darcy “is very much what he ever was.” Chapter 41 (Project Gutenberg version)
[5] Yes, you know I had to include part of that blasted first proposal! Here are Darcy’s original lines, in case you have not memorized them out of fear that you, too, may someday make the second-worst proposal ever (Mr. Collins’s taking first place, of course): “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” Chapter 34 (Project Gutenberg version)
[6] These words — “…the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed on to marry” — are part of Elizabeth’s response to Darcy’s first proposal. Chapter 34 (Project Gutenberg version)
[7] This is a slight variation on the timeline. Charlotte does not urge Elizabeth to come to Kent until just before she marries Mr. Collins in early January. Chapter 26 (Project Gutenberg version)