Read Online A Pemberley Medley (A Pride & Prejudice Variation) by Abigail Reynolds - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Abigail Reynolds
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Mr. and Mrs. Collins? Elizabeth had pleaded a headache and stayed home, primarily to avoid the gentleman now standing before her.
He did not sit down, but instead paced back and forth across the floor. “I am sorry to hear you have been in ill-health,” he said. “May I hope that your headache is better now?”
“Tolerably so, thank you.” Perhaps she should have said it was much worse, and then he might go away.
But he seemed to have something else on his mind. He did not appear to be in good spirits; in fact, if anything she would have said he looked worried.
“Miss Bennet. I wish to apologize for my behaviour yesterday.” He spoke hurriedly, as if he wished to get the words out as quickly as possible.
The great Mr. Darcy lowering himself to apologize? Hardly likely. Elizabeth wondered what he was hoping to accomplish. Certainly he could no longer be maintaining any romantic intentions toward her.
“There is no need for apologies. It was a misunderstanding, nothing more.” She hoped he would go now.
He did not seem happy with her response. “I would also like to ask you to keep what I said about my sister in strictest confidence. I am sure you understand the importance of this.”
So he did want something from her. As if she would be likely to reveal something to the discredit of a young girl she did not even know! “You may count on me to reveal nothing, because that is precisely what you told me.”
“But about Mr. Wickham....”
“Mr. Darcy, I understand that you and Mr. Wickham have your disagreements, and that one of them apparently involved your sister, but I would prefer to remain outside them.”
“ Disagreements ? Is that what he called them?”
Elizabeth was quite exasperated by Darcy’s refusal to change the subject. “Difficult as it may be to believe, I do not recall every single word he ever spoke to me, either about his sister or about you, nor do I see any reason why I should tell you if I did.”
He fell silent, but the whiteness of his face spoke of his anger. His boots seemed to strike the worn rug with unnecessary force. She could see his struggle to keep control, but sympathized with him not at all. If he insisted on forcing the topic of Mr. Wickham on her, she was well within her rights to say what she did. It was just more proof of his pride and ill-temper.
Finally he burst out, “I cannot believe that you place your trust in such a man.”
“I have seen no reason not to.”
“He is a scoundrel. He has wasted his education, squandered his inheritance, left debts behind him, and attempted to take advantage of innocent young women. Is that enough reason for you?”
“Squandered his inheritance? He says you denied him his inheritance.” Anger had taken over from wisdom in choosing her words.
“That is nonsense. His inheritance was a living which he chose not to accept, and I paid him three thousand pounds in lieu of the preferment. Which he squandered, then had the audacity to apply to me for the living when it became vacant. You cannot blame me, I hope, for refusing.”
Elizabeth was taken aback. Their stories coincided, except for the portion regarding the payment. But which man to believe? Mr. Darcy had never seemed a dishonest man, despite his ill-temper, and what would it profit him to make up such a tale? But if he was telling the truth about that, should he also be believed about Mr. Wickham’s other supposed sins? She could not imagine that amiable gentleman behaving in the manner Mr. Darcy described, although it was true that he seemed rather free with his money, and had been all too ready to denounce Mr. Darcy on their first acquaintance.
“I cannot believe him so bad,” she said, more to herself than to Mr. Darcy.
Darcy’s mouth twisted. “I had hoped you would trust my word, but since you cannot, I urge you to appeal to Colonel Fitzwilliam for information, since
He did not sit down, but instead paced back and forth across the floor. “I am sorry to hear you have been in ill-health,” he said. “May I hope that your headache is better now?”
“Tolerably so, thank you.” Perhaps she should have said it was much worse, and then he might go away.
But he seemed to have something else on his mind. He did not appear to be in good spirits; in fact, if anything she would have said he looked worried.
“Miss Bennet. I wish to apologize for my behaviour yesterday.” He spoke hurriedly, as if he wished to get the words out as quickly as possible.
The great Mr. Darcy lowering himself to apologize? Hardly likely. Elizabeth wondered what he was hoping to accomplish. Certainly he could no longer be maintaining any romantic intentions toward her.
“There is no need for apologies. It was a misunderstanding, nothing more.” She hoped he would go now.
He did not seem happy with her response. “I would also like to ask you to keep what I said about my sister in strictest confidence. I am sure you understand the importance of this.”
So he did want something from her. As if she would be likely to reveal something to the discredit of a young girl she did not even know! “You may count on me to reveal nothing, because that is precisely what you told me.”
“But about Mr. Wickham....”
“Mr. Darcy, I understand that you and Mr. Wickham have your disagreements, and that one of them apparently involved your sister, but I would prefer to remain outside them.”
“ Disagreements ? Is that what he called them?”
Elizabeth was quite exasperated by Darcy’s refusal to change the subject. “Difficult as it may be to believe, I do not recall every single word he ever spoke to me, either about his sister or about you, nor do I see any reason why I should tell you if I did.”
He fell silent, but the whiteness of his face spoke of his anger. His boots seemed to strike the worn rug with unnecessary force. She could see his struggle to keep control, but sympathized with him not at all. If he insisted on forcing the topic of Mr. Wickham on her, she was well within her rights to say what she did. It was just more proof of his pride and ill-temper.
Finally he burst out, “I cannot believe that you place your trust in such a man.”
“I have seen no reason not to.”
“He is a scoundrel. He has wasted his education, squandered his inheritance, left debts behind him, and attempted to take advantage of innocent young women. Is that enough reason for you?”
“Squandered his inheritance? He says you denied him his inheritance.” Anger had taken over from wisdom in choosing her words.
“That is nonsense. His inheritance was a living which he chose not to accept, and I paid him three thousand pounds in lieu of the preferment. Which he squandered, then had the audacity to apply to me for the living when it became vacant. You cannot blame me, I hope, for refusing.”
Elizabeth was taken aback. Their stories coincided, except for the portion regarding the payment. But which man to believe? Mr. Darcy had never seemed a dishonest man, despite his ill-temper, and what would it profit him to make up such a tale? But if he was telling the truth about that, should he also be believed about Mr. Wickham’s other supposed sins? She could not imagine that amiable gentleman behaving in the manner Mr. Darcy described, although it was true that he seemed rather free with his money, and had been all too ready to denounce Mr. Darcy on their first acquaintance.
“I cannot believe him so bad,” she said, more to herself than to Mr. Darcy.
Darcy’s mouth twisted. “I had hoped you would trust my word, but since you cannot, I urge you to appeal to Colonel Fitzwilliam for information, since
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