Page 26 of Bitten By Mr. Darcy
“No, of course not,” said Jane in a voice that seemed to indicate it most certainly was Mr. Bingley.
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Bennet, thoughtful.
Elizabeth vowed that she would put a stop to whatever it was that her mother was thinking about or scheming about, because the Bingleys were monstrous blood-drinking fiends. Though it had been said that Mr. Bingley could marry Jane, she would never saddle her sweet sister with a life like that, no matter how Mr. Hurst seemed to have enjoyed it.
But then Mr. Collins arrived, and she could not stomach the idea of Jane marrying him, and she said nothing at all.
Mr. Collins was a heavy sort of man in his mid-twenties. He spoke a number of words but seemed to say very little of meaning. He opined long and complicated speeches about subjects that interested him. Subjects that interested him included his own accomplishments, the Lady Catherine de Bourgh, his patron, and potatoes. He seemed to have a deep love for potatoes.
So, when her mother spoke of the possibility of a connection between Mr. Bingley and Jane in the presence of Mr. Collins, Elizabeth did not contradict it, for she thought it would be better for Jane not to have to marry that wretched man.
If she gave much thought to the idea of who Mr. Collins would turn to next, she brushed it aside, because she was consumed, quite often, with thoughts of Mr. Darcy. She could sort of always feel him. It was not as if she could read his thoughts or anything of that nature, but just that she could sort of sense him there, all the time. It was akin to the feeling one has when one knows one is being watched, a sensation similar to that. When Mr. Darcy had emotions, however, she could feel those, too, and if she allowed them, they could be overwhelming and she could feel his emotions as if they were her own.
Luckily, Mr. Darcy was a fairly measured person. Sometimes, though, anger flared through her, and she had to be quite diligent about pushing Mr. Darcy aside, not allowing him to overtake her.
She was distracted by one other thing, and that was the appearance of a certain Mr. Wickham.
At first, she paid Mr. Wickham positively no mind, because he was just another of the officers. She walked with her sisters to Meryton, it was true, and the younger girls fawned over the officers, but Elizabeth ignored them. She met Mr. Wickham one day, and he was a handsome man with sparkling eyes and a dimple in one cheek. She forgot him immediately afterwards, however.
Then, they all dined in town at the Philips’s house. Her aunt was Mrs. Philips, so Elizabeth was quite accustomed to having suppers there. This supper included not only herself and her sisters and Mr. Collins and her parents but a number of the officers as well. It was quite a gathering, and afterwards, the party broke down in tables to play cards.
Elizabeth found herself at a table with Mr. Wickham. Neither of them joined in the whist game, so they were both sitting there while the others at the table were engrossed in the playing, and this afforded them the time to speak.
At first, they only spoke about polite subjects like the weather and such. But then she inquired where he was from, and he told her that he was from Derbyshire, that he had grown up on an estate called Pemberley, and Elizabeth recognized the name of the estate as being Mr. Darcy’s.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wickham. “Yes, I grew up on the Darcy estate. My father is the steward there, you see.”
Elizabeth remembered Mr. Hurst’s story, that Mr. Darcy had assumed the identity of the real Mr. Darcy after his untimely death in a fire. She wondered how all of that would work withservants and the like. Certainly they would notice that Mr. Darcy was not, in fact, Mr. Darcy. How had that been explained to them?
Perhaps they had all been charmed, she thought, but that was quite a great deal of charming, and she understood that it didn’t work well on people who would be confronted with the contradiction with the truth nearly every day.
“How do you know of Mr. Darcy?” said Mr. Wickham.
“Oh,” she said, “well, he is in residence quite close by, staying with the Bingleys, who have rented out the Netherfield estate.”
An expression crossed Wickham’s face that let her know he knew of the Bingleys, that he knew exactly what they all were. “I should stay clear of that if I were you, madam,” he said.
And she, unable to help herself, let out a helpless little laugh, and said, “I fear it may be too late for that.”
He turned on her, quite serious, and then leaned in close. “Let us take a turn about the room so that we may talk without being overheard?”
She nodded.
They excused themselves from the table and wandered, giving the appearance of it all being quite casual, out of earshot of everyone else.
“You know what he is,” said Mr. Wickham when they were sure no one else was listening.
“You mean, a vampire,” she breathed.
Wickham’s nostrils flared.
“Have you always known?” she said. “I should think, when the original Darcy was no longer the boy you had watched growing up, that it would have been obvious.”
“Yes,” said Wickham. “Very obvious.”
“But you do not speak of it?”
“I am speaking of it to you,” he said. “I suppose I don’t do anything that would make things difficult for Miss Darcy, though I can’t say why that is anymore.”
