A Pemberley Medley (A Pride & Prejudice Variation) by Abigail Reynolds

the path ahead of them. Had Mr. Darcy told Mr. Bingley of Jane’s presence in London? It seemed the most likely explanation. But what had he meant by it?
     
    She remembered that she had confirmed Jane’s affection for Bingley just before Mr. Darcy’s surprising departure for London. And then, on his return, the first question he had asked her was whether she had heard from Jane.
     
    He must have done it. She felt warmth all over at the idea, certain he must see how embarrassed she was. She wished she could thank him, but how could she when he had not admitted to the action? Not to mention that he was engaged to another woman.
     
    It was dangerous to let herself feel warmth toward him. Tightening her bonnet strings, she said, “I understand there is reason to congratulate you, as well.”
     
    He gave her a puzzled look. “I do not understand.”
     
    He had said he abhorred disguise, but that was another falsehood. “Lady Catherine told us of your forthcoming engagement to Miss DeBourgh.”
     
    “That nonsense again?” he exclaimed irritably. “I have no intention of marrying my cousin, now or ever.”
     
    “But she said….” Elizabeth reviewed the conversation at Rosings in her mind, and realized that Lady Catherine had neatly avoided stating directly that the two were engaged. A feeling of relief suffused her.
     
    Mr. Darcy’s annoyance had not yet faded. “How could you, of all people, believe such a thing?”
     
    “I am not in the habit of disbelieving what I am told,” she said in confusion, perceiving that he was affronted. In an effort to reduce the tension, she changed back to the previous subject, rashly saying what she had only minutes ago decided not to say. “I cannot help but thank you for speaking to Mr. Bingley. His visit made Jane very happy.”
     
    “Do not thank me. I did nothing more than a friend’s duty of confessing my error.”
     
    “Still, it was generous of you.”
     
    His mouth twisted. “I would not wish Miss Bennet unhappy, nor stand in the way of my friend’s joy. The experience of having a sister in pain is not unknown to me.”
     
    She stole a glance at him. “I am sorry to hear it.”
     
    “When my sister was but fifteen, George Wickham took advantage of her innocence to persuade her that he loved her. His object, of course, was her dowry. It was pure chance that led to their elopement being foiled.”
     
    “You need not tell me this, sir,” she said uncomfortably.
     
    “I would not wish you to be misled by Wickham’s charming manner.” There was a bite in Mr. Darcy’s voice.
     
    “I do not doubt your word.” At least not any longer. The words hung unspoken in the air.
     
    “I am glad to hear it, for I do not wish you to be under a misapprehension. Especially regarding me, when it is clear your opinion of me is not high.”
     
    “Mr. Darcy, in truth I find it hard to hold any opinion about you for more than a day at a time, since you persist in surprising me, and I hear such differing reports of your character as to confuse me completely.”
     
    “Differing reports? From Mr. Wickham?”
     
    She shook her head, then with a sudden urge to tease, said, “I have many sources of information, sir. For example, after hearing Miss Bingley praise the neatness and deliberateness of your letter-writing, I now hear that you are prone to write half the night and then burn the results.”
     
    He stiffened, and a flush rose in his cheeks. “There is some writing best consigned to the flames.”
     
    “Such as?” She was playing with fire, but for some reason, she had no desire to stop.
     
    “Such as words of ardent admiration directed toward someone who would have no desire to hear them.” His voice was oddly flat, and his eyes seemed fixed on the horizon.
     
    She had not expected so direct an answer, and it left her confused, embarrassed, and unable to find words for an answer. But something about the set of his jaw told her of his pain, and she