Dispelling the Gloom, Part 3

Happy end of October! Below you’ll find Part III of the story I began here and continued here, in honor of this month’s theme, Which Witch: Magic and Malevolence in Austen.

Many years ago, when I was posting regularly on one of the fan boards, I claimed to be the Wickham of my own life—and that remains true, even to this day. Oh, I am not a fortune hunter, nor do I spread ill-founded rumors about my former friends. No, my Wickham-ness comes in my inability to see projects through on the timeline I originally set for myself.

And so here I am, attempting to post the final installment…but it’s not the final installment! Will this story never end? Somehow, “Dispelling the Gloom,” which was meant to be a 1000-word vignette, has turned into a short story of 9,000 words… and counting! I’ll post the next 1400 words here now — and I will post the next (and hopefully last installment) in early November.

This past week has been rather hectic in my personal life—good things, mostly, like a new project at work and my mother-in-law’s first visit in over a decade—but still more than I’m used to managing. All of this is prelude to this admission: I have not really proofread my own writing! Eeek! So, please do forgive the typos, forgive the delay in finishing, and forgive me for being such a dork. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

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Dispelling the Gloom, Part III

Though she had a stitch in her side and water in her boots, Elizabeth did not stop running until she reached the grounds of Longbourn. Even then she did not pause long; after taking two gasping breaths, she raced past the house and toward the copse on the far side of the grounds, hoping to avoid detection.

Never mind her supposed invisibility. Her cloak shimmered so brightly now that she wondered how anyone could avoid seeing her. Was it this light that had allowed Mr. Darcy to recognize her? Had her cloak stopped working (as if cloaks were regularly supposed to keep out prying eyes, as well as the cold)?

Yet Mr. Wickham had not seen her; he had seen only her hand, which must have become visible the moment she had thrust it past the folds of the cloak in order to seize the letters. She nearly laughed at the fright she had given him—her disembodied hand reaching for him like some ghoulish creature from a gothic novel.

Then she thought of all she had heard, all she had seen. No, Elizabeth could not laugh, not in her present state. She could only slump against a sturdy elm and stare at the bundle of letters she continued to carry. What was she to do with them?

Burn them, she supposed. Yet was that not for Mr. Darcy—or better still, Miss Darcy—to decide? So how was she to return the letters? She could just imagine marching up the steps of Netherfield, this time the hem of her gown more than six-inches deep in mud.

But Mr. Darcy would not be returning to Netherfield. He had made sure no one in the Bingley party would return to Netherfield.

Elizabeth shook her head. How was she to make sense of this situation? Wickham was a scoundrel; on that score, she no longer held any doubt. Oh, how oblivious she had been to his faults—and how utterly blind she had been to Mr. Darcy’s virtues.

But these virtues by no means absolved him of his likely involvement in separating Mr. Bingley from Jane. While he had been willing to suffer great humiliation on behalf of his sister, he seemed to have very little concern for the happiness of hers.

“Miss Bennet?”

She whirled around, startled to see the object of her thoughts hurrying across Longbourn’s grounds. Oh, what was she to say to him? She felt suddenly unprepared to face him after all she had learned of him—and herself.

“Miss Bennet?” he called again, this time with a note of—was that panic in his voice?

She realized then that he was not calling to her; he was searching for her. He looked in the direction of the copse and then, shaking his head, made his way toward the front steps of the house.

“No, wait! Mr. Darcy!” She cast an anxious glance at Longbourn, hoping her exclamation had not earned the notice of anyone in the house.

Darcy turned back toward the copse, eyes narrowing—and then, suddenly, widening with recognition. She threw back her hood and wondered, as he came toward her, exactly what he saw.

“Do I appear to be nothing but a floating head?”

These were not, she supposed, the right words to begin this conversation—but then, after all that had occurred, were any words sufficient?

His lips quirked. “No, you appear to be Miss Elizabeth Bennet, wearing a very wet cloak, though a moment ago, I saw but a shadow.” He paused, his countenance becoming grave. “Are you well? Were you injured?”

“I ought to be asking you those questions. Did Mr. Wickham—”

“The moment he realized I had his pistol,” Darcy said, “he ran.”

She looked away. When Wickham returned to his regiment, would he keep silent—or spread even more lies, not just about Darcy this time, but about his sister?

Then, of course, she recalled the letters.

“Here,” she whispered, holding them up for him to take.

He glanced at the letters, then swallowed. “Miss Bennet, I—”

“I know you think very little of me,” she said, “but I did not read them. I promise to say nothing of this matter to anyone.”

“Think very little of you?” He winced. “Do you truly believe I have so little respect for your integrity?”

She tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled, hurt. “I seem to recall something about being tolerable, but not… ”

She stopped, the remaining words suddenly meaningless. That insult, which had loomed so large in her mind, now seemed such a small thing—rude and unkind, certainly, but not an aspersion of her character. Did her appearance matter so much to her? She had always believed herself above such petty concerns. Well, now she knew better.

“So you heard what I said at the Assembly,” he said, face reddening.

“I did.”

“Those words, Miss Bennet, reflect my defects, not yours. Forgive me for the pain I must have caused you. I”—he laughed softly, sadly—“I seem to have many reasons to apologize today.”

“Not to me. Oh, you were wrong to speak in such a way, of course, but you did not cause true pain. You merely injured my vanity, which I have been told is a weakness that must not be confused with that nobler quality of pride.”

“Those were the words of an arrogant fool,” Darcy muttered, and Elizabeth laughed.

“I would not go so far as to call my sister Mary arrogant.”

“Your sister Mary? But I—”

“Oh, did you think I was speaking of you, sir?” She arched a brow. “You are not the only one to give me a lecture on pride and vanity. That not one but two individuals of my acquaintance spoke to me on this subject, I prefer to see as a mere coincidence.”

He laughed—and her breath caught. Had she ever heard such a sound from him before? Surely not, for why else would she catch herself staring at his mouth? Hardly knowing what else to do, she glanced down at her hands—and saw that she still held the letters.

“Please, you must take these.”

“Thank you.”

As he slipped the letters from her hands, she looked up at him, then wished she had not. He was gazing at her with such concern, such distress, that she knew what he must be thinking.

“I promise,” she said again, “I will say nothing at all to—”

“No more of that, I beg you. What will it take for me to convince you that I do not doubt you? That in fact I have long admired and…” He exhaled sharply. “It is enough to say that I do not doubt you. I am sorry that I ever caused you to doubt me.”

“I believe you have apologized quite enough for one day, Mr. Darcy.”

“I am beginning to think I cannot apologize often enough.” He glanced down at the letters before slipping them into his coat pocket. “Though I am only too aware that my apologies will never atone for the damage I have caused my sister.”

“Do not allow Wickham make you believe you are to blame!” she said with a vehemence that surprised even her. “Yes, you patronized him as a child; you spoke without considering his feelings, just as you spoke without considering mine. You cannot, however, be blamed for his greed—or my vanity.”

“If I am not allowed to apologize,” he said, “then you must not speak again of your vanity. Today you have proven yourself to be brave, clever and everything that is good. No one admitted to the privilege of knowing you, Elizabeth, could find anything wanting.”

She thought, but could not be sure, that he blushed when he realized he had used her first name; she felt, and was entirely sure, that she blushed.

“Excuse me, Miss Bennet, I should not have—”

She laughed. “Are you about to apologize yet again…Fitzwilliam?”

She ought to have been shocked at her own impertinence; he ought have been shocked. Instead, they grinned at each other, as if they were not standing in the wet grass, as if she had not recently been invisible to him, as if he had not just faced the prospect of his sister’s ruin.

They grinned at each as if they were, well, friends.

Except, what did it mean to be friends with such a man—a man whose words provoked her, whose laugh thrilled her…whose actions had made her sister miserable?

She felt her entire frame droop.

“Miss Bennet, are you well? What can I—”

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

A/N: Thanks for reading!