Mistaken Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  1

  After the Storm

  2

  As Though Naught Had Changed

  3

  The End of Equanimity

  4

  The Beginning of Despair

  5

  Whims and Inconsistencies

  6

  Mixed Blessings

  7

  In Love and War

  8

  Wilful Misunderstandings

  9

  Of Revelations and Resentment

  10

  Prejudice, Thy Power Is Sinking

  11

  Distinctions in Connubial Felicity

  12

  Disguise of Every Sort

  13

  Mistaken

  Acknowledgements

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mistaken

  Copyright © 2017 by Jessie Lewis

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641

  ISBN: 978-1-68131-019-0

  Cover design by Zorylee Diaz-Lupitou (all images public domain)

  Layout by Ellen Pickels

  Dedication

  For Richard, my rock, and my kids, my pebbles

  “Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.”

  —Jane Austen

  1

  After the Storm

  Saturday, 11 April 1812: Kent

  Well, Darcy,” said his cousin as their carriage rolled through the gate, “notwithstanding your unaccountable brooding, this year’s visit has been a good deal more pleasurable than most.”

  Darcy made no reply. Fitzwilliam was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation alone and would do so better without any objection from him.

  “Astonishing what a difference a few young ladies can make to a place, even one as depressing as Rosings.”

  Darcy considered neither his aunt’s house nor the presence of any of said ladies agreeable. He kept the thought to himself and fixed his eyes on the window through which the parsonage would not appear as they passed it.

  “You do not agree? I hope you are not going to hold it against Miss Bennet that she did not ask me to verify your account. You know how persuasive Wickham can be. It may take time for her to learn to appreciate your disclosure.”

  The glass reflected Darcy’s sneer back at him. He adjusted his focus beyond it. Given the appreciation Elizabeth Bennet had shown for his offer of marriage, he had expected no gratitude for exposing her favourite’s true character. Indeed, were it not for the satisfaction of having defended his own, he might regret writing the letter at all.

  “I have faith she will though, old boy. If you trust her with such a delicate matter, then I trust her to come to the proper conclusion about the perpetrator.”

  Darcy did trust her—implicitly. Her integrity was but one of countless qualities he admired. Perverse was the twist of fate that had given rise to the woman he held in such high regard refusing him in defence of the man who so cruelly used his sister. He gave his cousin a glancing nod so as not to invite another debate on the wisdom of revealing Georgiana’s near ruin.

  Fitzwilliam presently gave up his chatter and fell asleep, but Darcy’s relief was short-lived. His own private monologue soon took over, recounting conversations he would much rather forget.

  A rejection of marriage was not something he had ever thought to encounter. The violence of Elizabeth’s refusal left him winded, gasping for comprehension. She had been merciless in her use of him, teasing and taunting ’til he was driven beyond his endurance, only to spurn the offer she wrung from him. Incensed anew, Darcy followed his cousin’s lead and sought the anaesthesia of sleep. By the time he awoke, Kent’s rolling hills had flattened into London’s suburbs.

  “I thought you would never wake up. I was forced to read this awful book of yours to pass the time.” Fitzwilliam picked it up and peered at the spine. “What the devil are you doing reading this hogwash?”

  “It was the first one I found in Lady Catherine’s library,” Darcy replied, tilting his head to release the muscles in his neck. “I thank you for your trouble. I shall not bother starting it now.” He caught the book before it hit him and felt the pull of his first smile in days at the corners of his mouth. “Can I tempt you to join me for dinner?”

  “I should infinitely prefer it,” said Fitzwilliam, “but alas, my father has summoned me to dine with him and Ashby—and my future sister, God help me.”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow in query.

  “Lady Philippa,” his cousin revealed. “My delightful brother decided he could not bear Miss Blake’s teeth after all and has staked his entire future happiness on the dental merits of an ill-tempered shrew.”

  Darcy almost smiled again ’til Fitzwilliam’s enquiry as to his plans chased it away. His only obligation that evening was to resume his former life as though naught had changed. Indeed, other than the longing for Elizabeth—which none of his resentment had dislodged from its perch in his heart—nothing had. “I have no fixed engagements,” he mumbled then picked up the book he had moments earlier foresworn and hid himself in the opening chapter.

  ***

  Saturday, 18 April 1812: Kent

  Elizabeth returned to Hunsford parsonage to find her friend awaiting her in the parlour. Tea things were spread upon the table in readiness, and at Charlotte’s invitation, she sat down and accepted a cup.

  “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Very much,” she replied, hiding behind the steam from her tea lest the lie reveal itself in her half-hearted smile. In truth, unwelcome reflections had plagued her all through the grove, as they had all week long, ruining her last opportunity to enjoy it.

  “I shall be sorry to see you go.” Charlotte’s odd little frown seemed to suggest she had something else less innocuous to say.

  “And I shall be sorry to leave you.” Though not sorry to leave. “I hope the house does not seem too quiet without us.” Looking around, she added, “Will your sister not join us?”

  “She is repacking her trunks,” Charlotte replied, a sly smile replacing her frown. “The poor dear was up half the night fretting that Lady Catherine would somehow discover she had not folded her gowns the right way.”

  “Poor Maria! Her ladyship was particularly urgent on the matter. But then there is excessive urgency to all Lady Catherine’s advice.”

  Charlotte laughed lightly but adopted the same strange look as before.

  “I am pleased you are not made so anxious by her tyranny,” Elizabeth hastened to add.

  “Oh, you know me. I try to be practical about these things. There is little point chafing at the bit, having submitted to the harness. Besides,” she added wickedly, “some of her advice has proved rather useful.”

  “Is that so? Such as…?”

  “Such as the several methods she has described for discouraging my husband’s attentions once I provide him with an heir.”

  Incredulity prevented Elizabeth’s amusement from turning into a full laugh.

  “Do not pretend to be shocked. I know very well you are in possession of all the facts, for you enlightened me long before L
ady Catherine, or indeed, my husband.”

  “Yes, well,” Elizabeth admitted, grinning, “I probably ought not to be in possession of quite as many facts as I am. We are both indebted to Mr. Craythorne for our prescience. Were it not for his…evident admiration that day, I should never have petitioned my aunt for such intelligence.”

  “And Mrs. Gardiner probably ought never to have consented to provide it, but I must say I am grateful she did.”

  Elizabeth opted to drink her tea rather than answer. She disliked how closely the conversation had veered towards Charlotte’s intimacies with Mr. Collins, with whose admiration she had only narrowly avoided becoming fully acquainted herself. His had been the first offer of marriage she refused—the memory of which brought her perilously close to thinking about the second.

  “You have been uncommonly quiet this past week, Eliza,” said her friend, taking shameless advantage of her distraction. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

  Elizabeth surprised herself with the violence of her aversion to doing so, though she was stranger to none of the sentiments that swarmed nauseatingly at the prospect. Indignation, confusion, shame, affront—she had kept constant company with them all since Mr. Darcy’s astonishing and offensive proposal and even more shocking letter. Until she settled the matter for herself, however, she could not begin to justify it to anybody else.

  “Has it something to do with the gentlemen’s departure?” Charlotte pressed.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Only that it coincided with your low spirits. I wondered whether, perhaps, you had set your heart on Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam? Goodness, no! He is perfectly amiable but quite above my reach.”

  “And not nearly so handsome as his cousin.”

  “Nor so insufferably proud!” she retorted, exasperated that such an inane remark should have made her blush. With a concerted effort at composure, she added, “If I have been quiet, I believe it is only that I am ready to be home. I hope you will not mind my saying so.”

  “Not at all. I know you must be eager to see Jane.”

  Seizing upon the change in subject, Elizabeth launched into an account of all the things she and her sister meant to do together in London before travelling home to Longbourn. Charlotte graciously let the other matter drop, referring to it only once, obliquely, with a firm reminder that Elizabeth could write to her at any time with any concern.

  At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate farewell between all parties, Elizabeth and Maria set out for London.

  ***

  Saturday, 18 April 1812: London

  “You are very quiet, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner remarked after dinner. “Are you well?”

  “Forgive me. I ought to have slept in the carriage as Maria did; then I might have arrived better company.” As it was, anticipation to be reunited with Jane and other, less agreeable anxieties had kept her awake for the entire journey.

  “Nay, there is nothing wanting in your company,” said her uncle. “You are naturally fatigued from your travels.”

  Jane sent her a worried look, which Elizabeth parried with a smile. Of greater concern to her was that Jane had not passed any part of the day in a carriage and thus had no reason to look as weary as she did.

  “Tell me then, girls,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “how are Mr. and Mrs. Collins getting along?”

  “Oh, they make a fine couple, though I wonder how my sister tolerates the way Mr. Collins chews his food.”

  Maria’s eagerness to satisfy everyone’s curiosity suited Elizabeth very well. She was exhausted from the effort of diverting all talk of Kent away from the specific mention of Mr. Darcy, conscious of her propensity to blush at the merest mention of him. To avoid speaking of him was one thing; however, Jane’s unabated melancholy made it impossible not to think of him. Her sister might have been happily engaged to Mr. Bingley presently had not Mr. Darcy separated them, a deed for which his letter revealed him to be wholly unrepentant. Perfectly ready to wallow in resentment, Elizabeth was vexed when certain other parts of the same letter obtruded on her memory. Its revelations of Mr. Wickham’s true character were almost too appalling to allow, given how blithely she had permitted him to court her vanity and colour her opinions.

  “Please do not make me go,” she heard Maria say. “His plays are all high Dutch to me.”

  “Of course we shall not make you go, my dear,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

  “I should be happy to stay here and keep you company,” Jane offered. “I have never much cared for Shakespeare either, particularly the tragedies. They are too fraught with turmoil for my liking.”

  “And you, Lizzy?” Mr. Gardiner enquired. “Can we tempt you with a little Romeo and Juliet?”

  “I should be delighted,” she replied, drawn to the prospect of an evening passed in contemplation of anyone’s turmoil but her own. How, after all, was she ever to reconcile such an intense dislike of Mr. Darcy with such remorse for misjudging him?

  “Excellent! It is settled, then. Have you any other plans, ladies?”

  The failure could not be hers; Mr. Darcy was the most contrary creature she had ever met. On the one hand, he was unrepentantly meddlesome while, on the other, unfailingly dutiful.

  “I promised Mrs. Featherstone we would all visit,” Mrs. Gardiner said.

  He boasted of consequence and duty yet, by his own admission, was motivated by sensibility.

  “I should like to go shopping,” said Maria. “Lady Catherine said, if I mentioned her name at the drapers on Bond Street, I would be attended to!”

  “Then we absolutely must go,” Jane replied. “I have no plans other than to steal as much of Lizzy’s time as I can.”

  Elizabeth smiled. Dear Jane! How perverse that Mr. Darcy should have treated her so cruelly whilst all gallantry in defence of his sister!

  “I cannot imagine you will find any complaint,” Mr. Gardiner replied amiably. “Though before you begin, might I persuade you, Lizzy, to play the pianoforte for us?”

  Most contrary of all, she thought, was that he had disdained her connections, situation, and looks and then declared his passionate admiration and love!

  “Go to bed, Lizzy,” her aunt said softly, closer by than she had been a moment ago. “Maria can play for us. Truly, you look very ill.”

  She looked up, struggling to disengage herself from her reflections. The drawing room, her aunt’s frown and, over her shoulder, Jane’s concerned expression came into focus. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in defeat. “Pardon me, everybody. I am a hopeless bore this evening.”

  Everyone politely assured her otherwise, though no one objected when she excused herself to bed.

  ***

  Tuesday, 21 April 1812: London

  “Let me understand you, Bingley. This cousin of yours has inherited land in Nova Scotia?”

  Bingley squinted at his friend Tindale and nodded. The whole room wobbled. He stopped nodding.

  “And he has asked you to build him something on it?”

  One, brief nod—still too much movement.

  “Why can he not build something himself?”

  “He has no money.”

  “Ah, and you have no land. I begin to comprehend your temptation.”

  Bingley tried, in his best approximation of sobriety, to explain that, in fact, he was not at all tempted. “In any case,” he concluded, “it is too blasted far away.”

  “’Tis about to be in the middle of a blasted war,” said his Brother Hurst.

  “I wager they will not see a bit of fighting that far north,” said another of the dinner guests from the far end of the table—Wrenshaw, Bingley thought.

  “That is a gamble
I should not like to make,” Tindale countered. “But then, we all know how you prefer your odds.”

  “The material question,” their host, Verney, asserted, “is what potential has the land? I could endure a good deal of unrest if my house were built on a lode of gold.”

  “He does not need to leave the country in order to invest in the land,” someone argued. Bingley had given up attempting to fathom who said what.

  “Quite right! He could stay here and invest in mine!”

  “You cannot have much land left, Wrenshaw. Did you not recently sell half your estate to Mr. Darcy?”

  “Not quite half. Only three hundred acres.”

  “Three hundred acres and still you are in deep? What the devil did you wager this time, man?”

  Wrenshaw mumbled something about a horse and a duchess, whereupon Bingley gave up all attempts to follow the conversation. His legs felt heavy, and he amused himself by wriggling his toes in his shoes to see whether he still could.

  “Here is a wager you can afford, Wrenshaw,” Verney shouted. “Two pounds to the man who can guess which woman has put that stupid grin on Bingley’s face.”

  Bingley laughed for show, though his cheer evaporated at the mention of women.

  “’Tis not Miss Rivers is it, old boy?” Tindale said with a wink.

  “No,” Bingley replied, reflecting briefly upon what he had always considered to be two of Miss Rivers’ best virtues. “I have long been reconciled to never becoming better acquainted with those. Just as I am resigned to the loss of Miss Bennet.” He ended with a morose sigh.

  “Miss Bennet? Who—”

  “For all our sakes, do not ask, I beg you! It will only encourage him,” Hurst interrupted. He lurched to his feet, splashing brandy down his waistcoat in the process, and hauled Bingley from his chair by the elbow. “Come now; you are too foxed by half to be brooding over women.”

  Bingley was also, it transpired, too foxed to object and submitted with only mild complaint as Hurst thanked Verney for an agreeable evening but insisted it was long past time they took their leave. In the time it took Bingley to correctly align all the fingers of his hands with those of his gloves, their carriage had been summoned, and the two gentlemen were homeward bound.