Tempest
VII. Earthquake
and tilts above its axis
-~o~-
"Mrs. Darcy, you will come attend the Semples' soiree."
"And why is that?"
"Because if you do not, then I will be forced to accompany Mama as she brazenly attempts to marry me off to any man between the age of twenty-two and fifty."
"I'm uncertain how my presence would make any difference," Elizabeth demurred absently.
Darcy. Wickham. The litany of doubt charged through her mind, disruptive and distracting, grating against her immediate surroundings and occasionally overwhelming them.
In another world, she could have thought upon it and let it go, unresolved – but that was a world in which she had not married the man she might have misjudged so terribly. As it was, she'd lain awake all night, sleepless, wondering and shaken. Calling on Miss Trent was a valiant effort at taking her mind away from its turmoil.
Her attempt to achieve peace of mind was also apparently nothing sort of an abject failure. Ruefully jerking herself out of her self-chastisement, Elizabeth realized Miss Trent was still speaking.
"But if you are present, then I will be allowed to converse with you in peace. The only thing Mama covets more than my wedding is being able to one-up her friends with the newest gossip."
That pulled a laugh. During her mother's matchmaking days, Mrs. Bennet, too, would have single-handedly slain a fire-breathing dragon to have all her daughters married before Lady Lucas planned Charlotte's wedding. Gossip would not have deterred the Bennet matriarch, back then. Then, before the scandal, the deaths, the ruin.
"I'm afraid I would do Mrs. Trent very little good. There's not much to tell about Mr. Darcy and I – our lives are quite boring, I'm afraid."
"Don't say that," Miss Trent gushed, her wide mouth forming a comical ring of horror. "You're taking away my peccadilloes, one by one!"
Lizzy's lips twitched. "I'm afraid you give me too much credit."
"I do not. First you besmirched my vanity by painting a nicer rose than mine – don't think I didn't notice – and now you've destroyed my delusions of passionate grandeur. There is nothing duller than a perfect contentment like yours."
A part of Elizabeth found wicked amusement in that – if she and Darcy were the picture of domestic tranquility, then marital discord probably involved wolves, cannons, and plenty of bloodshed.
"'Perfect contentment' isn't quite the phrase."
To Lizzy's dismay, she sounded oddly wistful, not wry. Miss Trent was silent.
Silence. If Wickham had lied, why had Mr. Darcy been silent in the face of her accusations?
The sun was suddenly too bright. Disoriented, the cacophony in Lizzy's head blared at full, dizzying speed. She stood, swiping her brush against the drying cloth with enough force to leave a trail of dark fibers, dismal and out of place against the wet rag.
Miss Trent looked up, startled. "Mrs. Darcy?"
"I apologize, Miss Trent; I'm not quite myself today. There are some matters I need to attend to – and then I will be better company, I promise."
A faint crease lined the other lady's golden brow. It was the first time that Miss Trent had appeared perfectly serious since their roadside meeting.
"I don't mean to presume – but come to the soiree, Mrs. Darcy. For my sake, and for yours. Some new company might do you some good." She paused. "Though I suppose you will be getting that soon enough at Pemberley."
Elizabeth dropped her lavender paints into the wicker basket. "Pardon?"
Clear green eyes widened. "Why, Georgiana Darcy is returning home this weekend. I thought you knew; she wrote me of her plans a fortnight ago. Surely Mr. Darcy informed you?"
"Evidently not," Elizabeth retorted. She regretted the faint acrimony that lined her words like a sour aftertaste as soon as she'd uttered them. But that half the neighborhood apparently knew of her sister-in-law's impending stay and that she did not – and here she had thought her relationship with Mr. Darcy was improving –
Her cheeks felt hot, too hot, her anger surging. How could he not inform her? She inhabited the house too – it was just like him to be so high-handed, so thoughtless –
And it was so like herself to leap to conclusions, to play judge and jury based on reactionary emotions alone. Elizabeth flushed. It was precisely this type of thought that had allowed such uncertainty regarding Wickham to fester under the surface. Perhaps she'd been right, but if not –
She needed answers, now.
.
.
.
.
.
The narrow staircase loomed in front of her, somehow more intimidating than the spiraling behemoth that dominated the foyer of the manse. Elizabeth had visited the servants' quarters before, examining the kitchens and supervising the replacement of various appliances, but never had the entrance seemed so poorly lit, so unwelcoming.
It was pure cowardice, but she did not want to know –
Only she must.
Her fingers curled around the rope that swung from the bottom of the brass bell and pulled. It was a mere moment later when Mrs. Reynolds materialized with her severe bun and crisp uniform, looking more like a female incarnation of her employer than ever before.
"Mrs. Darcy. How may I assist you?"
Elizabeth met the housekeeper's gaze levelly. This time, her hands did not shake; her posture proved impressively serene, even placid. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds. I was wondering if you would mind taking a turn around the gardens with me."
Mrs. Reynolds' impeccably polite expression did not shift an inch. "Delighted to, ma'am."
It was as much as Elizabeth had hoped for. Together, they made their way to the grounds. The day was warm, unusually so, yet the vermillion maples and the tangerine layers carpeting the withering grass made it difficult to forget the season.
The crimson hues of foliage appeared almost mocking, reminders of how long Elizabeth had been responsible for this place. How little she had gleaned about Pemberley since then.
How unfamiliar and enigmatic its master remained.
She caught sight of a break in the sea of reds: an abundance of small yellow flowers dotting the nearby shrubbery, framing the small trail. Reaching out, she clasped one between her fingers and rubbed the silky petals against her skin. "I was unaware that goldenrod bloomed this late in autumn."
"The gardeners do an excellent job of cultivating them."
"I can see that," Elizabeth murmured, allowing the flower to fall. It sprang back to its original position in an instant. "Mrs. Reynolds, how long have you worked here at Pemberley?"
"Twenty-seven years, ma'am."
"Then you have known Mr. Darcy since he was a child."
At last, a glimmer of emotion showed on the older woman's face. If possible, her back seemed to become even straighter. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I don't gossip about the master, if that's whom you mean to discuss."
The housekeeper's immediate defensiveness startled Elizabeth. For Mr. Darcy to earn such unremitting loyalty – Lizzy's tongue suddenly felt thick, awkward, like a bar of lead in her mouth. "I was not planning to – I intended to ask if you also knew a gentleman named George Wickham."
Intelligent blue eyes narrowed, sharpened. "I do."
"I heard he spent his childhood here." Elizabeth chose her words with care. "There are rumors that he suffered some great misfortune due to my husband's actions. I wanted to ascertain if those whispers were at all justified – "
"The only misfortune that George Wickham ever endured, he brought entirely on himself!" Mrs. Reynolds' worn hands flew to her mouth as if as startled by the vehemence of her own outburst as Elizabeth was. Slowly, her arms dropped to her sides as she continued more calmly, "My apologies for interrupting, ma'am, but Mr. Wickham was no victim. What that man intended – almost succeeded at – Mr. Darcy was right to expel him from the estate."
A cold sensation spread through Elizabeth. "What did Mr. Wickham do?"
The housekeeper shook her head, lips thinning. "Mr. Darcy prefers that the staff not mention it, the few of us that know. I'm sorry, Mrs. Darcy. For the specifics, you will have to ask the master directly – but I can tell you this, at least: Wickham is not one to be trusted."
Elizabeth barely heard this last indict of Wickham. The vivid canary of the goldenrod faded to an indistinguishable cream. Even the trees and the path careened to the side, everything off-center, unbalanced. She would not ask Mr. Darcy. What principles Wickham had violated, she did not care to know.
The only thing that mattered was that she had been so wrong about the kind of man she'd deceived.
Bile rose in her throat, thick and bitter. Mrs. Reynolds might be flinty and unyielding, but, however blind Elizabeth may have been before, however pettily determined she'd been to think the worst of Mr. Darcy, she recognized that a lie from the stern housekeeper would be entirely out of character. In concordance with the kindness he had shown her, and the respect the villagers presented him, it was far more likely than not that Elizabeth had erred.
He was not a paragon. He was haughty; he had wronged Jane in taking Bingley from her; and he minced no words – yet that did not justify Lizzy's own blindness.
Why had she so easily believed Wickham, three years prior? What had he, a transient, a new member of the militia who'd hunted for an heiress even then, to recommend him other than pleasing manners and an eagerness to agree with any popular opinion? Nothing but her own slighted vanity, her building a shrine to her dislike, an altar onto which she could sacrifice Mr. Darcy's character to her prejudice.
And how she had refused him – the memories rose unbidden, small cyclones scattering her other thoughts. Her passionate defense of Wickham, her furious diatribe at Darcy. You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule!
"Mrs. Darcy," interrupted Mrs. Reynolds – except her voice carried the tin quality of sound from very far away somehow – "I'm afraid I must go to oversee preparations for supper."
The reminder dragged Elizabeth back into reality. Supper – it was to be the first night they dined together. The olive-branch that would attempt to turn this charade looming over the rest of their lives into something bearable, perhaps even passably true. He could be kind – he was kind. To her. Who was cruel, if unknowingly, and mercenary, quite purposefully.
She would not face him tonight – she could not.
But she had to face him. To do otherwise would be cowardice, to renege on her word, to engineer the demise of this – this possibility between them. And, for all her sins, she was not a coward.
Her spine straightened as she composed herself, sheer force of will holding her upright. There was nothing but polite gratitude in her smile by the time she turned.
"I understand, Mrs. Reynolds. And – truly – I appreciate your time today. It has been an enlightening conversation."
.
.
.
.
.
He arrived punctually – the foyer clock tolled precisely nine o'clock on the hour – as was his habit. What he had not expected was for her to already be present, dark eyes gazing at the rich burgundy walls and seeing nothing.
"Good evening, Mrs. Darcy."
She started. Pink splotched on her cheeks as she gave him a smile bordering on sheepish. "I'm sorry. I was woolgathering, again. It's an unfortunate habit of mine."
"May I ask what about?"
The upturned curve of her lips faltered. Her flush intensified, appearing crimson against her unusually pale skin. Silence settled between them like snow filtering into an empty hollow, cold and almost malleable. Ever since Anne, he'd taken a certain comfort in the stillness. Without forward movement, nothing could shatter.
Eventually she spoke. "Just – just personal failings, I suppose. And that you, Mr. Darcy, neglected to mention that your sister will be returning to Pemberley in less than four days."
He arched a brow. "And which of the servants did you hear this from?"
"No servant, actually. I was having tea with Miss Trent. And was rather surprised that half the neighborhood knows Georgiana Darcy is arriving." She adjusted her plate so the gold accents faced outward, the faint glint matching the effect of the candles on her hair, thick and uncovered by a bonnet. He folded his hands in front of him lest he succumb to the foolish urge to take out the pins holding up her tresses, one by one.
"I doubt half the neighborhood knows. Georgiana and Miss Trent are thick as thieves – my sister likely informed her before even informing me."
"Oh," she murmured. Her eyes snapped upwards, focusing everywhere but his face. It was unlike her to hesitate so. He could not give her much, but neither did he enjoy seeing her so tense.
"Is something the matter?"
She swallowed, drawing attention to the graceful slope of her neck. "I – No. I think – I spent too time much thinking, actually." Appearing to have reached some sort of equilibrium, some secret decision, she smiled a bit ruefully, her knife digging vigorously into her food. "A dangerous activity for me, isn't it?"
"Quite," he agreed, straight-faced.
Elizabeth started, offense beginning to take form in the argumentative set of her chin – and instead laughed. Her eyes danced. "You are terrible. Deliberating provoking others with statements you do not believe may land you in trouble yet, Mr. Darcy, and that icy glare of disapproval may not be enough to ward off everything."
Cheek. Liveliness. Zest. It had always been that spontaneity, that earnest enthusiasm for life that illuminated Elizabeth Bennet, that lent her a glow that no society beauty – and Darcy had seen his share – could match. It had been so muted since her arrival at his doorstep – and now, at a rare appearance, the corner of his mouth turned up of its own volition.
"It certainly falls short when faced with your impertinence."
"I am afraid I am uncommonly stubborn. There is a stubbornness in me that can never bear to be frightened by the will of others," she said archly, almost daring him to respond. The smidgen of cream at the corner of her full, wine-stained lips bobbed up and down as she spoke. The artless way she licked it off made his cravat abruptly feel too tight.
He wanted her.
It had been so long. And, Christ, he had never been indifferent to her. Quite the opposite. Three years ago, he'd gone stark raving mad. A decade of rationality, imposed by the duties of raising a sister and managing an enormous estate, had surrendered to the love-struck, lust-addled fervor of young men since time immemorial. A club to which he had never imagined belonging. But he'd thrown himself into that membership with all the unfortunate determination of a debt-laden man going in all-or-nothing at White's tables. Vingt-et-un.
A game that he had lost in more ways than one.
Darcy was not a man who repeated his mistakes.
He gripped his silverware, willing his sanity to return. His rejoinder came out slightly strained. "'Those who never retract their opinions prefer themselves over truth.'"
Distracted, he missed the way she stiffened. Then composed herself.
"It's 'love themselves.'"
"'Love themselves?'"
She blushed a little, rose patches blooming on creamy skin. "Joseph Joubert wrote 'love themselves over truth,' not 'prefer themselves over truth.'"
"What is love if not irrational preference?" The faint bitterness clouding his speech was both unexpected and unwelcome. He reached for his glass. The wine was too sweet, with no depth. Fitzwilliam was not given to drink, but he longed for the burn of whiskey at this particular moment.
Irrational preference had killed Anne, after all.
She reddened further. Aware that his distemper bordered on rude, not wishing to discomfort her, he drank in the silence, driving out the memories, the sudden mood. His control was usually iron-clad, but there was something about Elizabeth Bennet – Darcy – that never failed to unbalance him.
He eventually managed normality. "I should have guessed that you are a bluestocking."
"I am," she admitted. He could tell from the relaxing of her shoulders that she was grateful for the lighter turn to the conversation. "And you, Mr. Darcy, are a man of hidden depths. I had you pegged for Newton and Locke – not Joubert's aphorisms on the significance of existence."
"I live to defy expectations," he said, voice wry. "In the future, however, I suppose I will have to choose my Joubert – and pithy sayings – with far more care, considering that my wife likely knows them better than I."
"It is only habit. My father – he would always mangle his sayings. Although purposefully, as you did. It was a contest of sorts between us. I would correct him and he would correct my correction. Charlotte called it 'the most boring game she'd ever seen' – perhaps second only in lack of diversion to Mary's piano recitals."
"That intolerable?" he inquired, deliberately avoiding her mention of her father, and the past tense she'd used in association with him.
"I found neither activity to be so. But others have different tastes than me, I suppose. May I ask you for a favor?"
He blinked at the non sequitur. "You may."
"Will you attend the Semples' soiree with me? I noticed that you are not one for large functions, but I thought it might be nice to go together – and to quell some of the gossip."
He detested neighborhood get-togethers. Had ever since the whispers started. But what she said was true. According to Grant, their lack of public appearances together were beginning to cause talk.
She was an affliction, but an affliction with irresistible dimples and an irritating tendency to be right.
"Yes," he said curtly. Her grin broadened.
"You may be surprised, Darcy. It might even be entertaining."
