A/N: This chapter ends the first part of our story.

Darcy's Struggle

Chapter 5: Hen and Viper

Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Darcy stood on the Netherfield steps as Bingley rode away to Meryton. Another errand for Miss Bingley. Darcy had refused Bingley's invitation to ride with him.

Low spirits were making everything hard for Darcy. Confusion and frustration.

He had stood in the same spot on Sunday as Bingley helped the Bennet sisters into the carriage their father had sent for them.

The Saturday rain had slowed and become a cool mist. Bingley had tried to discourage the sisters from leaving because of the weather. But Miss Bennet did appear to be recovered, her color fully back and no cough that morning. Miss Elizabeth had given Darcy a puzzled look when he offered his brief ceremonious goodbye. He wondered if she was reflecting on how her merry joke — at least Darcy hoped it was a joke — about him rarely putting two sentences together had darkened into a prophecy, for he had surely said almost nothing to her on all of Saturday and Sunday morning. He was desperate for conversation with her, interaction, but he did not trust himself. His conviction that she was the woman had only grown deeper — and now he was watching her leave Netherfield.

Why would I find her only to learn I could not let myself have her?

Better to never have discovered her than to have discovered her and to be forced to decide against her.

He had not solved the Learner's Paradox. He had only realized that not all knowledge is a boon; some is a misery.

As the carriage rolled away, Darcy underwent an amputation. He would allow her lack of fortune, her family, and connections, to sever her from him, as if she were a mortified limb, instead of the life of him. His thoughts were confused and wavering, his throat tight. He turned and went back inside Netherfield.

As Bingley disappeared toward Meryton, Miss Bingley stepped out of the door, shaking her head at her brother in the distance. "I had to find something for him to do. I could not listen to him sigh any longer, or be forced to endure such a moped creature." She paused and then went on, her voice quieter. "Miss Bennet constitutes a danger to my brother — and to my family. Lovely she is, to be sure, and sweet, but she has nothing; her connections are low; her family intolerable."

Darcy hid his wince at Miss Bingley's sentiment and her choice of words. Yes, well, Miss Bennet is no longer under this roof. And your brother has proven himself changeable in the past when his object is no longer near. Perhaps the pattern will hold."

Miss Bingley nodded, then turned to him with a small, saucy smile. "Speaking of lost objects, Mr. Darcy, how are you bearing the absence of Miss Elizabeth, your fellow Johnsonian? Perhaps you no longer feel quite as…tall?"

When Darcy did not answer, she laughed, even as her smile diminished and her voice harshened. "Miss Elizabeth lacks every recommendation. She cannot be serious. She has neither figure nor air nor grace nor poise. Her face is thin; her nose undistinguished; her chin sharp. Impertinence marks her every speech. Her teeth are…common." Miss Bingley stopped, recognizing that she was beginning to rattle.

Darcy glanced at her. "You did not disparage her eyes, Miss Bingley. And surely someone with your elevated taste must appreciate beauty whenever you see it, including the beauty of a fine pair of large, dark eyes." He had managed to keep his voice even. "I must see to letters of business."

They went back inside together but parted in silence after Darcy closed the door.

Upstairs in his room, his writing things out but unused, Darcy remembered Sunday again.

The Bennet sisters left Netherfield in the morning, but the party reassembled at the afternoon service — or at least they were all present, if not together.

Darcy was seated so that he could see Miss Bennet's face. He had not planned it; he had been seated before her family entered. The mist had lifted and the sun came out as the service started. A shaft of butter-yellow sunlight shone through a small window and illuminated Miss Elizabeth from behind. Her head was bent in prayer, her eyes peacefully closed. Aglow. Darcy stared for a moment before bending his head and closing his eyes.

Darcy knew then with complete certainty that he loved her. I love her.

He lost the words of the prayer and found himself instead among the words of that Marlowe poem, about love at first sight, but this time among the opening words, not the closing words: It lies not in our power to love or hate, For will in us is overruled by fate.

Darcy's will had been overruled by fate.

He loved Miss Elizabeth.

Attraction, esteem, love. It suddenly seemed to him that he had labored through that series backward. It was not that he loved Miss Elizabeth last, after feeling attraction and esteem; it was rather that he knew he loved her last, after knowing he felt attraction and esteem. But the love existed first, existed before he knew it did. It happened above his will.

What he said of her at the assembly had been his pathetic attempt to wrest his will from fate, to subject his love to his power. Darcy had noticed her before Bingley pointed her out, before pronouncing the verdict, 'tolerable',

But he had been lost already, powerless, and he had looked at her again and then yet again after Bingley left to dance with Miss Bennet. Sentenced by fate.

He loved her.

But self-deception and self-protection kept him from beginning to understand until she tracked mud into Netherfield. Only then had the tuition of his heart started; only then had he started to know what was already true. His tuition finished during the prayer.

Darcy squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

I cannot allow myself to have her. Pride, propriety, reason itself, — all speak against it. My parents' ambitions for me and for Pemberley.

He loved Miss Elizabeth but he would never ask for her hand. Fate could not extend its dominion so far. He might not control his feelings but he could control his actions. His passion for her might be fated but he could refuse to act on it, let his reason regulate his action.

He could!

As he wrestled with himself, he opened his eyes and realized Miss Elizabeth's dark eyes were open and fully upon him. He had seen That same unsureness in her eyes outside Miss Bennet's sick room again. But deeper. No peculiar brightness, no challenge, only unsureness, a deep unsureness.

He felt himself color, his face immediately heated.

She closed her eyes again.

When the prayer ended, Darcy stood and left the service, his boots echoing on the floor, all eyes on him. Outside, he leaned against an old yew tree, one arm bracing himself.

He could not write letters of business. He stood and went to his bedroom window. A soft knock sounded on his door.

"Yes, come in." Darcy remained at the window staring out.

It was Steele, his valet, his arms full of items from the laundry. "Are you well, sir?"

Darcy tried to free himself from the mood of his memory, prayer, and sunlight. He turned to face Steele and made himself smile. "Yes, Steele, fine. Did you enjoy your morning, your walk?"

Darcy had allowed Steele the morning to himself, and Steele had told Darcy he planned to take a long walk in the countryside.

Steele raised one eyebrow and smirked. "It proved more interesting than I would have liked."

Eager not to start remembering the prayer full of Miss Elizabeth again, Darcy smiled. "How so?"

"I walked in the direction of Longbourne, following a path across the fields."

"Yes, I know the path, although I have not walked it myself. I have seen it from the hilltop."

"I was walking along, smoking my pipe, when I came upon a clergyman?"

"A clergyman? The Meryton rector?"

Steele shook his head, his unruly shock of white hair waving as he did.

"No, this clergyman is a Mr. Collins. He has been a guest at Longbourne since yesterday. He is tall but thick-chested, with very spindly legs. His head jerks from side to side, and his eyes roll. Much like a chicken, a hen." Steele considered his description. Darcy had long encouraged Steele to speak his mind.

"You mean a rooster?"

"No, sir, I do not."

Steele started again. "It seems that Longbourn is entailed and that Collins is the one who will inherit upon Mr. Bennet's death."

"How did you come to know all that?"

"It was among the infinitely many things Mr. Collins shared with me. You see, he fell in with me immediately and insisted that we walk together. I have never been exposed to such a superfluity of speech, sir. The strangest swill of Scripture and silliness."

Darcy smiled. "It must be awkward for Longbourne to have its inheritor visiting as if he were surveying the place before taking possession."

"Yes, or it would seem that way." Steele's face showed distaste. "But Mr. Collins is not an ordinary man."

Darcy laughed. "What does that mean, Steele?"

Steele leaned toward Darcy. "He further confided in me, sir, that he is the rector at Rosings, and that his patroness is none other than your aunt, Lady Catherine. This has of course raised him above the common lot."

Darcy started. "You must be joking."

"No, indeed. I am not inclined to tease." He stood even straighter than usual.

"Of course not, Steele."

"Mr. Collins is installed at Longbourn, not to survey before possession but rather to do the Bennets a very great favor — a tender mercy assigned to him by none other than Lady Catherine. Her words, sir, or perhaps his."

Steele might not have been inclined to tease but Darcy found the idea of a tender mercy suggested by Lady Catherine amusing. Lady Catherine was incapable of tenderness or mercy singly, much less together.

"And what is this tender mercy?" Darcy asked with a slow smile, genuinely curious.

"Lady Catherine has instructed, nay, commanded Mr. Collins to take one of the Bennet girls to wife."

Darcy's smile vanished; it felt like he swallowed it. "He is commanded to do what, Steele?" He half-choked on the question, his smile a bone in his throat.

"To wed one of the five daughters. He seems to have immediately settled on Miss Bennet, but Mrs. Bennet has explained to him that she is almost engaged."

Darcy shook his head. "Almost engaged?"

"Yes, sir. She is almost engaged to Mr. Bingley."

Darcy shook his head more vigorously. "Is there any woman who has made marrying off her daughters a more obvious, clumsy, maneuvering business?"

Steele shrugged. "I would not know, sir. — But it seems Mr. Collins has surrendered his connubial ambition toward Miss Bennet." Steele slowed — and sobered. "He now aims at Miss Elizabeth."

Steele was silent after saying that, his face carefully impassive as he considered Darcy.

Darcy controlled himself. Steele had always been good at reading him and he had been incautious enough to speak of Miss Elizabeth to him. "Mr. Collins hopes that Miss Elizabeth will accept his proposal?"

"Hopes, sir? No, I would say that he is certain of it. As he sees it, he is a prodigally eligible bachelor, — his words, sir. I believe he meant 'prodigiously. He was perhaps confusing himself with a parable. What is more, he is above her station, and she must accept him for her own sake and her family's."

Darcy did not speak for a moment.

"He has spoken to Miss Bennet, tested the waters?"

"I do not believe so. There is no need. Her acceptance is taken as a fait accompli." Steele snapped his fingers for added emphasis.

Bile rose in Darcy's throat, burning. This…hen…to marry Miss Elizabeth?

"And when is he planning to make his proposal?"

"No date was given but I do believe Mr. Collins hopes to impress Miss Bennet with the splendor of his person and situation before asking. He does not simply want an acceptance but he wants the eager acceptance he takes as his due. He was out walking so that he could polish various turns of phrase that would be featured in the proposal."

"What sort of man would relate such things to a stranger?"

"As I said, sir, Mr. Collins is no ordinary man."

Steele walked to the wardrobe and began to put the laundry away. Darcy was too distracted by his thoughts to continue the conversation.

"Thank you," he said in a clipped tone, not upset with his valet but not thankful for this intelligence.

Darcy walked back to the window. Hoofbeats announced the return of Mr. Bingley. He was riding hard. He pulled up his horse and jumped from the saddle. His face was pale.

"Excuse me, Steele." Darcy hurried out of his room and down the stairs.

A few moments later, a still pale and silent Bingley had taken Darcy's arm and pulled him outside and into the garden.

He did not stop tugging Darcy along until they were in a spot not only private from hearing but from being seen, deep in the shrubbery, next to the small ruin.

"Good God! What is it, Bingley?" Darcy asked as Bingley released him. "Why would you return from town so?"

"He is here, Darcy!"

"Oh, yes, that Mr. Collins, I know. Steele told me."

Bingley's face showed confusion. "Collins? No, I don't know who that is. I speak of Wickham."

Darcy's stomach clenched violently; he felt a whirl of sickness. "Wickham? In Meryton?"

"He is here with the militia. Just added, so newly arrived that he was not yet in uniform. But it is he. I not only recognized him from your description — his handsome features and smooth, plausible, ingratiating manners. Miss Elizabeth introduced him to me and he spoke to me. I do not believe he knows me as I know him."

Darcy could not breathe. The shrubbery danced a reel around him, a mockery. The garden paths were full of winding snakes, Darcy's ears full of hissing.

Bingley reached out to him again, gripping his shoulder. "Darcy, man, are you ill?"

Darcy bent over, putting his hands on his knees. It took him a moment to slow his panic, to gain some control over his breath.

"Darcy?" Bingley asked again worriedly.

"Give me a moment, please." A desperate, impotent rage overcame the sickness and Darcy stood, knowing that he was as pale as Bingley.

"Wickham does not know you, Bingley. I never mentioned you to him. Tell me."

Bingley swallowed and nodded. "He was newly introduced to the Bennet sisters by another soldier, Denny, I think. I gathered they had all been standing there perhaps a quarter of an hour. They were deep in talk and laughter. Miss Elizabeth was laughing a great deal." Bingley's voice was quiet, concerned, but he reported this fact about Miss Elizabeth without suggesting it would have any special significance for Darcy.

"I joined them, and Miss Elizabeth, as I said, introduced me to Wickham.

"Wickham explained that he had been discussing with Miss Elizabeth their shared partiality for dancing, and Miss Lydia began to tell Wickham how she longed to dance — and to see him dance." Bingley frowned. "Miss Lydia knows no reserve. She immediately grabbed my arm, reminding me that I had granted her that she could fix the date of the ball here I promised. Wickham was very pleased to hear that news."

Bingley shrugged helplessly. "I was bound to allow it, I had granted it, and she fixed a week from today as the date. The sisters were quite jubilant. Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty both began skipping around triumphantly. It became a scene, and Wickham urged them on."

"So you invited Wickham to the ball here at Netherfield?" Darcy asked, his voice low, intense."

Bingley gave Darcy a sheepish look. "I did not know what to do, so, yes, I extended him an invitation. I had planned on inviting the officers all along. Perhaps, if you do not wish it, I can find a way to withdraw the invitation to him," Bingley offered, obviously uncertain how he would accomplish that.

Darcy inhaled slowly, then exhaled. "No, there is no way to withdraw the invitation now, short of canceling the ball, and I would not want you to break that promise. Also, I would rather no one knew that there is enmity between myself and Wickham. For Georgiana's sake, I do not want to have to account for it, or to encourage Wickham to account for it. I must be master of myself when I see him. And I will — my pride demands no less." Darcy raked a hand through his hair.

Bingley's answering gaze was all that was sympathetic and unconvinced.

"I am sorry to be the bearer of this news, Darcy. I had hoped our time at Netherfield would free you from memories of Ramsgate, not trap you in them anew.."

"I know, and I thank you for your concern, Bingley."

The two men stood in awkward silence, each staring at the ground until Bingley lifted his eyes. "I should inform Caroline about the ball. She does not have much time to plan it. Miss Lydia was too eager for dancing to choose a later date." Bingley examined Darcy's face.

"Yes, go. I will be in soon."

Bingley walked back in the direction they had come.

Darcy waited until he was alone to plunge both hands into his hair, fisting them and pulling it, using the pain to attempt to clear his mind.

"Good God! Good God!" he cried softly, facing skyward. He stumbled to a stone bench and sat down, dropping his head into his hands. If any of his acquaintances in fashionable London saw him now, his lofty sedateness brought low, they would not recognize him. "Good God!" he cried again.

How does it happen? — No matter whom I love, no matter how I cleave to him or her, Wickham insinuates himself between us, and if he cannot keep them separated from me, he taints their love for me.

My father, my sister, my college friends — and now Miss Elizabeth.

Wickham had whispered to George Darcy assiduously, using the delight the old man took Wickham's apparent fiery daring and spiritedness to blind him to Wickham's real impudence and cruelty. Darcy knew but could not make his father see: his father believed Darcy was jealous of their easy, undemanding relationship. And Darcy was jealous of it; his relationship with his father, while loving, was structured by expectations, requirements, and duties — but his jealousy was not his motive for trying to make his father see.

By the time Darcy's father died, Wickham was a hardened gamester and a hardened seducer. His father had mismanaged Wickham's education, granting him the rights of a gentleman but never requiring from him any of the responsibilities. While Wickham ran up debts and ruined young women, Darcy served as the de facto master of Pemberley, shouldering its burdens as his father shrank from them due to age and worsening senility anxiety.

Darcy's father proved in his will that he had not entirely discounted all that Darcy had tried to tell him. He had left Wickham a living at Kympton, where Wickham was to become a clergyman. He hoped that such a profession would curb the few excesses to which Wickham might have been prone and that so disquieted Darcy. When Darcy's father had disclosed the plan to Wickham shortly before dying, Wickham had been apparently overjoyed. But on the day the will was read, Wickham informed Darcy that he had chosen to make law his profession, not the church. He needed money to pursue the law, so he surrendered the Kympton living for a sum of three thousand pounds (Wickham's figure), paid to him by Darcy. But he soon was more often of interest to the law than interested in the law. He squandered his money and soon reapplied to Darcy, claiming that he had been given too little for the living and demanding more. Darcy had refused. Wickham had cursed him, cursed the trick of birth that had disenfranchised him, the heir of George Darcy's heart, to give the birthright to the heir of George Darcy's loins, to Darcy, a man who had internalized so many demands that he could not enjoy the life of God-like freedom that by right belonged to the master of Pemberley. Wickham had used his genius for society, aided by his handsome face, his graceful form, and his plastick manners to tell venomous lies about Darcy to his Cambridge friends, and soon Darcy found himself friendless. He would have remained friendless if Wickham had not been forced to flee northward because of debts, and was thus not on the scene when Darcy met Bingley shortly before they both finished at Cambridge. But Darcy never doubted that Wickham would have spoiled his friendship with Bingley too.

And then — Ramsgate.

Wickham had not been able to poison Georgiana against Darcy, but he had damaged the implicit trust between them, their natural sibling intimacy. He had forced Darcy to be more father than brother, and Georgiana to be more daughter than sister. Lately, as Georgiana's recent letter proved, they had repaired that trust somewhat and were starting to feel like brother and sister again, but their relationship would never be quite what it was.

It does not help that I cannot forgive myself for Ramsgate, for my failure to make more detailed inquiries into Mrs. Younge, for not anticipating Wickham's gambit. I should have known she would be Wickham's next target. Who else was there with whom to hurt me?

And now Wickham was in Meryton.

Could it be simply a coincidence that he was here? Darcy assumed it must be — not even Wickham could manipulate the War Office. But in Meryton Wickham was, and already he was insinuating himself into society, — already he was making Miss Elizabeth laugh.

Wickham. The arch rogue. Gamester and rake, trailing debts, debauched virgins, wives false to marriage beds, and fatherless children.

Wickham.

And Collins too.

Now flanking the woman he loved was a hateful demon and a foolish cleric.

Darcy's situation had been complicatedly miserable when the day started; it was now much worse.

What should I do? I love her but I cannot ask for her hand. Above all, Wickham must not learn that I love her, or she will become a pawn in his game of revenge.

She is no fool and she is far from helpless. He managed a faint smile at that. But Wickham is Wickham.

He stood.

He must aid the woman he loved while repressing his love for her. But how?

His history with Wickham was private and unbearably shameful.

November afternoon shadows were lengthening when Darcy took himself to the path to Netherfield. He had been unable to stay in his room, inactive, when all around him the world seemed mobile, secret, and malevolent.

He decided to take Miss Elizabeth's path in reverse, walking in the direction Steele had walked that morning. He normally rode to take his exercise but he had not wanted to wait for his horse to be readied.

For the first part of the walk, he found no comfort but in the motion; as he continued, he found the somber fall landscape calming. He lost track of time and distance.

He was called back into alertness by a twinkling laugh, a laugh felt in his own body. Ahead of him on the path, around a sharp turning, were Miss Elizabeth and Wickham. She was in a green dress and She had her hand on his arm as they walked and laughed. Behind them at a short distance were Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia and, behind them, an older woman, a servant. Darcy was obscure by orange and brown leaves and by their satisfied, mutual attention. She wore green; Wickham wore red.

Miss Elizabeth was staring at Wickham and her eyes were neither peculiarly bright nor unsure, but rather teeming with admiration.

As his heart collapsed on itself inside him, he realized he had walked much nearer to Longbourn than he had intended.

He immediately reversed his course but stopped when he heard Miss Elizabeth's voice. "Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy faced her. Them. She and Wickham had made the turn. Wickham paled but Miss Elizabeth did not see it. Darcy felt his color rise.

"Miss Elizabeth," Darcy said, sketching a bow by nodding his head.

The self-consciousness Darcy had noticed in Miss Elizabeth when they had spoken of resentment was present in her again. "Mr. Darcy, I believe you already know Mr. Wickham."

Miss Elizabeth's smile was small and tense, her turn of countenance tinted with disapproval.

Darcy was wholly unprepared for this meeting, and as he stood, stiff and silent, Wickham gathered himself. Nodded.

"Yes, Darcy and I have known each other for a long time," he said, giving Miss Elizabeth a quick but speaking look.

Darcy froze, unable to trust himself to speak. He finally managed a single nod at Wickham.

Miss Lydia caught up to them. She beamed up at Wickham, her eyes lingering on his red militia coat, and then glared at Darcy and grinned maliciously. "Do you find our Hertfordshire autumn beneath you, Mr. Darcy? You look dissatisfied with it. Don't Americans call autumn 'fall', and is there not some connection between that word and pride?" Lydia asked, all false innocence.

Darcy forced his mouth to work, both to speak to and to smile at Miss Lydia. "No, I found…I am finding my walk pleasant. So much so that I realize I have walked farther than I planned." He could feel the heat still in his face.

"I find our autumn…tolerable, but not enough usually to tempt me into a walk," Miss Lydia responded, watching Miss Elizabeth and Wickham out of the corner of her eye. Miss Elizabeth started. Wickham was bemused.

"Lydia," Miss Elizabeth said sharply, frowning, and blushing, "I doubt Mr. Darcy wants to stand here and extol the virtues of Hertfordshire seasons. He was about to return to Netherfield, I believe, and we…" she checked the small watch pinned to her green dress, "we are expected back home. We have forced Mrs. Hill to walk far enough."

Miss Kitty had joined the group and she had crossed her arms, mirroring Miss Lydia's glare.

"Come, ladies," Mr. Wickham said, having fully recovered his color and charm, "let us leave the dying season to Darcy and let us return to Longbourn. Did not Mrs. Bennet mention custard tarts?" He shifted his gaze from Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty to Darcy. "Darcy, please tell your sister I often think of her." He produced a double-minded smile, knowing Darcy would see the leer in it but the sisters would miss it.

Darcy did not acknowledge Wickham's words. The two younger sisters had done Darcy an involuntary favor; they had kept Wickham from paying attention to Darcy's reactions to Miss Elizabeth.

The group turned and started toward Longbourn. Darcy remained planted and watched them. Even though the group was soon obscured again by the turn in the path and the leaves, Darcy saw Miss Elizabeth glance back.

A breeze gusted and leaves fell around him.

He stood there until he could no longer see the green and red. He had to save her — but not for himself.

A/N: More soon.

On 'plastick'. Although I'm no rigorist about it, I have usually been checking my lexical choices against Johnson's Dictionary, trying to use a mostly period vocabulary in its mostly period senses. For Johnson, 'plastick' is an adjective meaning having the power to give form. It seemed too good a word for Wickham's manipular manners. There is not any thing strange in the production of the said formed metals, nor other plastick virtue concerned in shaping them into those figures, than merely the configuration of the particles. — Woodward's Natural History