“Shattered” — a new Elizabeth and Darcy short story (complete)

Happy February 29, that rarest of days! This month’s theme is “Alone Together,” so I thought I’d finish a short story from a few months ago, one that seemed relevant to this theme. But when I read back over the story, I didn’t like it–and so I started anew.

The idea for this story is actually one I’ve had for a while, but as I wrote it this past week, I was influenced by two current circumstances: my daughter’s illness…and my own! While I was nursing her (she’s fine now, slowly recovering from a bout of flu), I was thinking about what it might feel like to be a little dazed and confused. Then, I got sick myself. Can we use that fact as an excuse for all the typos?  Also, I have footnotes for the quotes (Jane Austen and Shakespeare) in my Scrivener draft, but I don’t know how to move them here. I’m sorry I ran out of time to edit this story! Maybe we can make reading this draft a game: in the comments, list all the quotes from others, as well as typos and anachronisms, that you find! (Or just read and enjoy…I hope!)

 

Shattered

Eyes closed, she felt him next to her, his arm flung against her arm, his hand warm against her shoulder. She did not, at first, question this state of affairs; it seemed natural enough, hearing him breathe beside her.

Then something—the ache behind her eyes? the raggedness of his breath?—set her heart to pounding.

Where was she?

Swallowing a wave of nausea, she opened one eye, then the other. Were those flowers, scattered across the rug? Why was that Windsor chair tipped onto its back?

Slowly, as if in a dream—this had to be a dream—she reached out to touch a shard of porcelain. There were dozens littering the ground. (Was she on the ground? Why was she on the ground?) Only when a droplet of blood bloomed on her fingertip did she feel any pain, but it was not her finger that hurt. Her elbow hurt; her chest hurt; her jaw, pressed against the cold wood of the floor, hurt. Everything hurt, it seemed, except her finger. This realization made her laugh, but that, too, hurt.

“Elizabeth?”

His voice shook, a broken whisper, almost inaudible.

“You do not sound well,” she noted, her own voice faraway and foreign.

“I…I am well enough, but forgive me, I cannot seem to lift—“

As he spoke, the comforting weight of his arm disappeared—but only for a moment. Then his arm fell back against hers, and he uttered a soft groan.

Suddenly, it seemed crucial that she turn and look at him.

“Miss Bennet, no, do not move.”

Ah, now he sounded better: certain, solid, with just a touch of arrogance.

Your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain…

No. No. She did not wish to think of that now. It was imperative she move, for she was sleeping on her stomach, and she hated sleeping on her stomach.

“Be still.” Gently, he squeezed her shoulder. “Please, you may hurt yourself if you move.”

“I am already hurt.” Propping herself up on her forearms (good god, had she ever endured a more painful dream?), she glanced around and blinked. Charlotte’s writing desk stood in the middle of the parlor. Would it not have looked better against the wall?

“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” she said before turning over and collapsing onto her side. Now she faced him, her eyes level with his cravat. “Your valet is to be congratulated; even now, the knot is perfectly tied.”

“Elizabeth. Miss Bennet. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you. Do you ever tie your own cravats?”

“Yes, I often—that is not important.”

“I think it is.”

“Listen to me, Elizabeth. Please.”

“I am listening. Your voice has gone all wrong. Are you frightened? It is only a dream, sir.”

“Look up at me, Elizabeth…Miss Bennet, look at my face.”

She did not want to look up. Her temples were throbbing. “Why do you call me Elizabeth and Miss Bennet? It hurts my head to have two names. Did you know there is a cut on your chin?” Where was her reticule? He required a handkerchief.

“Miss Bennet, do you not remember what happened?”

“I…you…” You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love… “No, no, I am very tired, which is strange because I am asleep already, but I think it has something to do with this dream I am having.”

“Miss Bennet…Elizabeth, keep your eyes open.”

“Two names, two names! It is so much trouble!”

She felt him shift slightly, heard him utter “Damn and blast!” (did Mr. Darcy know how to curse?)—and then his fingers were on her chin, forcing her to stare up at him, into his eyes.

“I never truly observed the color before now.” Were his irises actually gray, or was it just the effect of the light? “You puzzle me exceedingly, Mr. Darcy.”

“Do you know where we are?”

Hunsford Parsonage, of course, but she could not seem to speak the words aloud. That happened sometimes in dreams: people did not do what was expected of them, and neither did words.

So she said, “It was a very ugly vase.”

And it had been. Even now, as her eyes fluttered closed, she could picture that unfortunate piece of porcelain tumbling from the china hutch.

“Mr. Collins will be devastated.” It had been a gift from Lady Catherine, after all.

“Do not concern yourself with Mr. Collins. Just open your eyes, Elizabeth.”

“You are very insistent about that.” Her eyelids felt heavy, so heavy; the only thing she wanted was to go to sleep—or to stay asleep?

“There was a man once,” he said, brushing his fingers across her eyelids until she blinked and spluttered.

“A man?”

“Yes, a man, a groom, at Pemberley. He fell from a horse and hit his head.”

“Like Jack, on the hill. I hope he did not break his crown.”

He made a sound that might have been a sigh or a laugh, but did Mr. Darcy know how to do either? Then again, he did know how to tie a cravat.

“Thankfully, the groom was not badly injured, but the physician told me it might have turned out differently, had the groom’s friend not kept him awake and talking until aid arrived.”

“But I am not awake, and you are not my friend—are you?”

He went so still then that she wondered if he too had fallen asleep. And though she did not understand why they must pretend to be awake, she did not wish him to break, either, so she reached up and pressed her hands to his cheeks, checking his eyes to make certain they were still gray.

“Stay in one piece,” she whispered.

“Too late,” he whispered back.

Keeping his face between her hands—she could not let him shatter—she watched him for a long time. Or perhaps only for a few moments. She could not be sure. The trembling floorboards and rumbling walls had slowed the clock—no, not the clock, for that had flown off the mantelpiece at an alarming speed. But time had slowed; it must have, for she had seen each flower in the vase hover in mid-air, even as the vase itself hurtled to the ground.

Some part of her brain insisted this memory was impossible, but then so many other impossible things had happened that evening: the clock had flown, the earth had shook, and Mr. Darcy had proposed.

Not in that order, but what did order matter when everything had fallen apart?

*

When she came upon him in the sunlit grove edging Rosings Park, Elizabeth felt an unexpected rush of elation. Here was the man who had dashed the hopes of a most beloved sister and stolen the inheritance of his late father’s godson. And yet, it was good to see him standing upright.

She considered turning away before he could speak to her, but then she saw that his arm was in a sling, and she could not quash the memory of him shielding her from flying clocks and falling vases. Perhaps his heroism had been instinctive, some chivalric response more akin to pride than compassion. And surely the physician’s claim—“The damage to your skull might have been severe, even lethal, had Mr. Darcy not cushioned your fall!”—was mere hyperbole. (Goodness, she hoped so.)

Still, Elizabeth could not forget those moments they had spent together in the Hunsford Parsonage—not the proposal so much as the tremors that had come afterward. Yes, he was arrogant, conceited, and selfish, but he was also the man who had fought to keep her eyes open, even as the earth had crumbled around them.

Curiously, not much of the earth had crumbled. Rosings Park, Hunsford village, even the outbuildings of the Parsonage—all had been spared the force of the earthquake. Indeed, the only structure to sustain noticeable damage had been the Parsonage itself, and even there, the impact had been limited mainly to the parlor. That room had been thoroughly wrecked, and its two occupants injured badly enough to keep them to their beds for the next several days. As for the servants at Hunsford, the earthquake had been a mere nuisance—just another day of cleaning up clutter they did not cause themselves.

Elizabeth had done her best to aid both Charlotte and the servants returning some measure of order to the parlor; she could not help but feel as if she, somehow, had been partially to blame for the chaos. But each time she had attempted to make her way into the wreckage, she had been promptly ushered back to bed.

“Remember the physician’s advice,” Charlotte had told her, each time she appeared in the parlor doorway. “You must rest.”

For the past five days, Elizabeth had reluctantly complied, but enough was enough. The spring sun was shining; the April breeze was sweet; and she was suffering—not from injury but tedium. So, after Mr. Collins, Charlotte, and Maria had departed for their daily call at Rosings, Elizabeth had made her escape, certain the verdure on the trees would do more to heal her than the blank white walls of her chamber.

Of course, now that she stood before him—his eyes were indeed gray, even in the sunlight—she found herself wishing for the comfort and safety of the sickroom. But having recently boasted to him of her courage, she felt obligated to raise her chin and say, “Mr. Darcy” with as much firmness as she could muster.

After that, she said nothing, for what does one say to a man whose behavior has provoked great enmity, minor embarrassment, and reluctant admiration?

“I did not expect to find you out of doors today,” he said after she had let the silence stretch between them for seconds—or perhaps minutes. Her sense of time remained disordered, though she did not know whether to blame her discombobulation on the head injury or the tedious hours she passed in the isolation of her chamber.

“I did not expect to find myself out of doors,” she admitted. “I only knew I might go mad if I confined myself to the sickroom for a sixth day.”

His eyebrows rose just a fraction of an inch, but she read in that movement some combination of dismay, disapproval, and…amusement? He appeared changed to her somehow—and not just because of the sling on his arm or the cut on his chin. What once she had taken for haughty composure now seemed—well, she did not have a word to describe this new version of him. Or perhaps he was the same as he always had been; perhaps it was she who had changed.

He looked at her for a long moment and then held out a letter.

She stared it, so neatly folded in his palm.

“Be not alarmed.” At these words, he winced. “That is, I have no wish to repeat the sentiments…” Again he winced, then shook his head.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, studying his face. Her hands felt suddenly warm, as if they were still pressed against his cheeks. Stay in one piece…

“I…I am well enough.”

Their gazes locked. Did he remember saying those words to her, that night?

“And you?” Now he was studying her face, and she thought of him tracing his fingers along her eyelids. “Are you well?”

She lifted a hand, almost unconsciously, to the bruise on the side of her jaw. “It appears worse than it feels,” she said, attempting a smile.

He did not return her smile, and she wondered what she must look like to him then: the sun was so harsh it surely revealed all the imperfections he had ignored when proposing to her. Then again, he had not begun their acquaintance thinking her beautiful. What in God’s name had made him believe he loved her?

She wanted to flinch under his gaze, but instead arched a brow. “I am interrupting your walk. Excuse me.”

“No, wait, please. Here.” He again offered her the piece of paper in his hand. “Will you do me the honor of reading that letter?”

That letter—as if the missive had been written by someone he did not know, someone he did not understand.

She shook her head, confused, and he turned away.

“No, wait!”

He turned back to her.

“If you did not expect to find me here,” she said, “then why, how—“

“I wrote the letter the night after…well, the night after. Since then, I have walked out each day, wondering if you might return to your favorite path.”

Why was he not confined to his room for the week?

“I told myself,” he continued, “that if I met you before I left Rosings, I would give the letter to you. If I did not, then I would burn it.”

Well, that decided her: she snatched the letter from his hand.

Again, he turned away.

“No, please, do not leave yet!”

Again he stopped, but this time he did not turn around.

“I cannot make sense of you, Mr. Darcy.”

“That is why I have written the letter,” he bit out.

His tone was so aggrieved that she could not help but laugh. “So much of what I say vexes you. You must be congratulating yourself on your escape.”

He whirled around, his eyes wide, his jaw clenched. Once she might have taken this expression as haughtiness. Now, she saw it for what it was: hurt. He had worn the same expression that night, both before and after the earthquake.

“Here,” she said, her tone gentler, her hand trembling a little as she held out the letter. “You need not explain yourself to me, not in this fashion.”

“You do not want to read it?”

“What I want is to understand you better.”

“They why not read the letter?” he asked. “I suppose it is not exactly proper for me to have written you, and yet—“

“We are alone, without anyone to overhear us,” she said. “You may simply tell me whatever it is you have to say. I think that would be better.”

He uttered a humorless laugh. “I think not. I have proven myself without talent in that regard, Elizabeth.” He winced. “Miss Bennet.”

“Two names,” she murmured. Then, quickly, in a lighter tone,  she added,, “Do you not recall my advice about practicing?”

His eyes closed briefly, and the truth hit her with terrible force: all those exchanges, all those arguments at Rosings and Netherfield—he had thought them flirtations.

“You supposed I meant to encourage your interest in me, that day at the pianoforte,” she whispered.

“Yes, well”—he reached up, as if he would run his hand through his hair, only to realize he wore a hat—“I clearly made an error of judgment.”

“An error of judgment.” Those words revived her anger. “Yes, you made two unforgivable errors in judgment!”

“You speak of your sister and Mr. Wickham.” He grimaced as he said the name. “In my letter, I explain—“

“There is no possible explanation to justify hurting my sister and destroying Mr. Wickham’s hopes!”

“Destroying his hopes?” When he spun away, she thought he would leave—but he only sighed. “Your sister…if I caused her any pain, I…” He shook his head. “Elizabeth”—and this time, he made no attempt at the second name—“will you please do me the honor of reading that letter?”

She could not hold on to her anger in the face of his plea, but she did say, “I would ask you to remain until I have finished.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You wish me to stay and watch you read?”

“Well, you do not have watch me, but if I have questions, or if I should disagree—“

He made a sound that might have been a sigh or a laugh. Yes, he did know how to do both, after all. “Of course you will have questions; of course you will disagree. That is your way.”

Another day, she would have taken those words as an insult, but in light of his proposal, she was struck by the idea that he actually liked her contrary, impertinent ways. Perhaps that was why, when she unfolded the letter and read it—once, twice, a third time even—she found herself near tears at his salutation: “I will only add, God bless you.” He had loved her, this man. (Could he love her still?)

When she looked up at him, he was leaning against one of the trees in the grove, staring up at the buds on the branches. Had she ever seen him lean before? Was this what he looked like when he was at Pemberley, relaxed and at home with himself? Or was he, in fact, in pain, his arm aching, his body still bruised after the earthquake?

“I have made you stand about for a very long time,” she said. “Forgive me.”

“I do not mind, but you—“

“I am well,” she replied, except she was not well. Not at all. She looked into his face then, meeting his eyes, making no attempt to hide her tears. “Your sister,” she whispered. “My sister.”

“Yes,” he whispered back.

She hardly knew which topic to broach first. No wonder he had wanted to write to her, instead of telling her all of this in person. She had misjudged the situation; she had misjudged almost every situation involving Fitzwilliam Darcy.

So when he came to stand before her, holding out a handkerchief, she ought not have been surprised. Yes, he had been arrogant and uncivil at times, but this too was who he was: a man who did not wish to see others hurt unnecessarily. Why had she, who had always prided herself on understanding the intricacies of others’ characters, supposed him incapable of having virtues, as well as flaws?

Till this moment, she thought, drying her eyes, I never knew myself.

“You must not blame yourself,” he said. “Wickham has a talent for fooling everyone he meets, my father included.”

“He did not fool you.” She thought then of that meeting between Wickham and Darcy in Meryton; she thought especially of her unfounded jabs about his character during the Netherfield Ball. “These past few months must have been very hard for you, as well as your sister.”

He looked away. “Seeing Georgiana suffer—that has indeed been difficult. But she is recovering, and I hope one day, she will learn to trust her own heart again.” He paused. “I hope the same is true of…of Miss Jane Bennet.”

She drew in a sharp breath. The anger was still there: how could it not be? Though she knew his interpretation of her family—most especially her mother—was not without merit, she could not yet forgive him for his meddling.

“How could you, of all people,” she burst out, “criticize Jane for her reserve? There was no possible way for her to behave that would have met with your approval! She is reserved, and you think her cold and mercenary. Had she been forward and flirtatious, you would still have seen my mother’s influence at work. I am surprised, when you proposed, you did not think the same of me!”

Then she gave a sad little laugh. Of course he had thought the same of her. What had he said to her about Bingley? Towards him, I have been kinder than toward myself.

When he half turned from her, his fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, his shoulders slumped slightly forward, she said, “Perhaps you may take some comfort in knowing that the woman you wished to marry was a mere figment, Mr. Darcy.”

“Quite the opposite, in fact.”

She stared at him. “But I refused you with all the incivility, all the ill-breeding, you had come to expect of my mother and my younger sisters—though, in their defense, they would have been kinder to you than I was.”

“That is precisely it,” he said, lips twisting into something like a smile. “Since meeting you, I had hoped you might be different—that you, unlike most young ladies, cared little for my wealth or connections. And yet, I also counted on those advantages when proposing. To be blunt, I did not think you could possibly refuse me. Then you did refuse me—and why? Because you believed I had hurt people you esteemed, even loved.” He looked away then, and she realized he thought she had been truly attached to Mr. Wickham. Before she could disabuse him of this notion, he added, “By refusing me, you proved, beyond a doubt, that you were not mercenary. You proved that you were exactly the woman I had hoped to marry.”

His tone was flat, his expression distant, his posture rigid. He might have been made of marble, and she felt her heart break on his behalf.

“I cannot lie to you,” she said quietly. “Not once did I consciously think of you in such a way.”

His only response: a slow blink, as if he was the one who now wanted to closed his eyes and return to dreaming.

“I say that to you now only to make clear my true character, Mr. Darcy.”

“You need not worry, Miss Bennet. I do not think you a coquette.”

“No, that is not what I mean! Do you not see?” She leaned forward on her toes, as if she might, by standing taller, make herself better understood. “My views of you, sir, are less a reflection of your character than mine. I, who take such pride in my understanding of human nature, was blinded by own prejudice. You pricked my vanity at the Meryton assembly; you called me ‘tolerable,’ and I was determined to dislike you forever.”

He tilted his head back. “So you did hear me that night. You had every right to be angry.”

“No, not angry, not for such a trifling remark. Vexed, yes, but it is not the kind of comment that ought to dictate every future interaction I had with you—or with Mr. Wickham, for that matter.” She looked down at her hands. “Every lie he told me, I believed because he flattered me, and you did not. If that does not demonstrate my vanity, I do not know what can.”

He shook his head. “I gave you little reason afterward to think differently of me. As for George Wickham, he is prodigiously charming. To know that he has hurt you, as well my sister—“

“No, he has not hurt me,” she cut in. “Your sister—she is not be blamed. She is young and trusting. For my part, I believed him not so much because I thought highly of him; I believed him because I thought too highly of myself.”

She might have said more, but a noise—a rumble, deep and low—caused her to freeze.

“It is only a passing carriage,” he murmured, pointing to the lane just beyond the grove of trees.

She laughed weakly. “You must think I am a fool. I have been jumping at every little noise of late.”

“No, I think that we both find it difficult to forget what happened that night.”

She looked at him, and then at the letter in her hand, and wanted to ask, What do we do next? But what was there to do? Well, there was Jane. For Jane, Elizabeth must act.

“Do you leave for London soon?” she asked him.

“As soon as I am able.” He nodded toward his injured arm. “The physician says I am fit to travel, but my aunt insists otherwise.”

“I am surprised she allowed you out of the house.”

“Lady Catherine is not my minder.” He frowned, then added, in a grudging tone, “I do have to sneak down the servants’ stairs, though, to take these walks.”

She laughed, and he looked at her then with an expression she could only call admiration.

“I have been so blind,” she said, in spite of herself.

“We have both been blind, but I think I have been less blind than you.”

“Oh?” She arched a brow. “That statement smacks of arrogance, sir, suggesting I was not as blind as I supposed myself to be.”

“No, in that respect, you were very perceptive. I am arrogant. I cannot pretend otherwise, for I like to be right; I often am right.”

“Arrogance indeed! Well, if you are often right, that is only a reminder that you are not always right.” She frowned up at him. “I will not allow you to forget my sister, Mr. Darcy.”

He sighed. “And I will not forget her. When I return to London, I will call immediately on Bingley. What I will say to him…that I still have to work out.”

“Perhaps you ought to write him a letter,” she quipped, before she could help herself.

His lips wavered, as if he did not know whether to laugh or scowl.

“Forgive me,” she said, “I do not mean to be glib—or rather, I do mean to be glib, but I am sorry if it hurts you.”

“What hurts is the realization that I will no longer—“ He stopped and shook his head. “I will go to London and speak to Bingley. You have my word on that, Miss Bennet. Do you suppose, if he were to return to Netherfield, Miss Jane Bennet would receive him?”

“Perhaps she ought not to receive a man with so persuadable a temper,” mused Elizabeth, “but then, she loves him dearly, and we none of us are perfect, are we?”

“No,” he said, holding her gaze, “we none of us are.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, and then asked, quickly, “Will you accompany him to Netherfield? That is, he may want your support.”

“Bingley is as forgiving as he is persuadable,” Darcy said, “and so I do not doubt that he will ask me to accompany him. Yet…well, perhaps I ought to let him undertake this errand on his own.”

She looked away. “Of course. Very sensible of you.”

“Then again”—he cleared his throat—“I do have other business in Meryton.”

“Do you?” She glanced up quickly. “No doubt you wish to attend another country assembly, as they are so much to your liking.”

He smiled. “No, I will never be able to pretend that I enjoy country dances.”

She found herself thinking she would like to convince him otherwise—before remembering she had no right to convince him of anything.

“I should speak to Colonel Forster,” he said, sighing. “Our conversation today has reminded me that anyone in Meryton is liable to be taken in by Mr. Wickham’s lies.”

“Oh, of course! But your sister—“ She looked down at the letter, then handed it to him. Loath as she was to part with it, that page contained a secret not hers to keep.

He shook his head. “Burn it, or keep it if you like. I trust you, Miss Bennet. As for Colonel Forster, I believe I can make known to him Wickham’s character without revealing details that might be damaging to my sister. I ought to have said something earlier, but my—what were the exact words—arrogance, conceit, and my selfish disdain kept me silent.”

“Oh, do not use my words against me, not when I admit to being so very wrong. At least,” she added, smiling, “about the conceit and the selfish disdain.”

They fell silent for a long moment, and Elizabeth tried to listen to the birds, the breeze, all the reminders that the world would continue as it always had. Instead, she found herself stopping him when he offered a stiff bow and a quiet adieu.

“Wait, Mr. Darcy, please. There is at least one more reason you ought to return to Meryton.”

He turned and looked at her, his gaze searching.

“You made a poor first impression on the people of Meryton.”

“Yes, indeed—an error I regret deeply.”

“There is no use regretting what can be changed, Mr. Darcy.”

“A first impression, once made, is made forever.”

“A first impression, true. I have heard some say that their good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. That is not, however, the philosophy to which I subscribe.”

“No?”

“No, for I believe we are more than the first impressions we place on others.”

“Yes, we are intricate characters,” he said, smiling.

“As it happens, I—or rather, the people of Meryton—are quite fond of intricate characters.”

“I am,” he said quietly, “very glad to hear it.”

She hesitated, then thrust out her hand.

He did not hesitate: he took it and brought it to his lips: first the knuckles, then the palm. Never mind the glove; she felt the heat of him and wondered just how long it would take for him to return to Meryton.

“I look forward,” he murmured, “to making a better impression on the people of Meryton, most especially”—he gave her hand a gentle squeeze—“Mrs. Philips and your mother.”

She laughed a laugh so full, so rich, that she thought all the world must have heard it. Pressing his hand in return, she said, “You tie your own cravats and you make jests. Yes, you are more certainly an intricate character.”

It was unsettling how much she did not truly know about this man—but then, she had lately learned she did not mind being shaken by the unexpected, so long as she had a friend to keep her company during the difficulties.

*

The Earthquake of 1812 was that rarest breed of catastrophes: it upended everything and changed almost nothing, which perhaps explains why it has been so easily overlooked in the natural histories of England.

Elizabeth and Darcy, however, would long remember those tremors.

As would Mr. Collins. He never again possessed a vase he loved quite so much as the one the earthquake shattered.

*

©2024 Christina Morland

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