What Happened in Lambton Read online

  What happened in Lambton

  A Pride and Prejudice Short Story

  Jennifer Kay

  For Maria

  This work is, of course, based on the masterpiece by Jane Austen. I have used a large portion of her plot, altering only the ending, and borrowed some of her original dialogue as well. The credit for that work belongs solely to Ms. Austen; any mistakes are my own.

  I hope you enjoy my reimagining of our beloved

  Pride and Prejudice.

  —Jennifer Kay

  Excerpt from Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 46

  Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

  They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence…

  “Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.”

  “Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”

  Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.

  One

  August 7, 1812

  The world seemed to swim around her, or maybe that was just the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes—Elizabeth couldn’t think clearly enough to determine which. Following an instinctive sense of self preservation, she made her way to a chair and sat before she could fall. She was not prone to fainting, but given her luck, she could easily imagine such a thing happening in front of Mr. Darcy.

  Oh, what he must think of her now! With each shuddering breath, the truth settled over Elizabeth: no matter what their inclinations were, she would lose him today. It did not matter that he had been solicitous and amiable, that he did not seem to hate her for her words in Kent—he would never deign to be Mr. Wickham’s brother in law, and that would be the best-case scenario. If Lydia didn’t marry Wickham… No. Better to not think about that yet.

  Lost in thought, Elizabeth started when the object of her distraction knelt in front of her and took both her hands in his own. “Miss Elizabeth, I know you may even now be wishing me gone, but please, I want to help. What can I do to ease you? There must be something. A glass of wine, shall I fetch you one?”

  Elizabeth gave a strangled laugh that turned into a sob halfway through. “There is nothing that can be done, Mr. Darcy, and you will not want anything to do with me once you hear all.” Emboldened by his closeness and the fact that she would very likely never see him again, she went on. “Consider yourself lucky, sir, for if your name was irrevocably tied to mine then you too would suffer from this, as I know I certainly shall.”

  “Miss Elizabeth—”

  She cut him off with a shake of her head, knowing what he wanted. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. You know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him—she is lost forever.”

  He sat back on his heels. “You are sure? It is quite certain?”

  “Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”

  “And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”

  “My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's immediate assistance; we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible! So you see, Mr. Darcy, we are all lost, and you can do naught but rejoice.”

  At this he stood abruptly, pushing himself back from her chair and taking several strides away before he turned back to face her. Elizabeth flinched instinctively and tucked her arms around her middle, bracing herself for the words that would break her heart once and for all.

  “So you still think me proud and unfeeling and disdainful to anyone who cannot claim circumstances as exalted as my own. I had hoped, after our recent interactions, that you might see me in a warmer light.”

  Elizabeth had not expected this reaction, and even through her own anguish it pained her to see his distress. “Of course I don’t see you as I did before!” she exclaimed. “I misjudged you and I’ve had many an hour to reflect on what I would change, but unless you’ve lost all of your considerable intellect I fail to see how this is beyond you. I’m ruined—all my sisters are ruined, our prospects less than nothing, and as bad as it would have been if—” she caught herself just in time and lowered her voice, mindful that there were multiple other people in the inn— “if your sister had eloped with Mr. Wickham, at least she would not have been used and abandoned with no hope of ever entering society again. You could still—”

  But she could not go on, could not say that Mr. Darcy would still be free to marry. It was sinking in that the only man she could ever be prevailed upon to marry stood only yards away and she had no choice but to give him up. And with that thought in mind, the tears finally began to fall.

  Her eyes had dropped to the floor, and so she heard rather than saw him take two large steps towards her and resume his position at her knees. A moment later, a handkerchief was tucked into one of her hands. “What would you change, Elizabeth, if you had the chance?” he asked as she wiped at her eyes blindly.

  This is what he wanted to discuss? But then, what did it matter? Her aunt and uncle would return in a moment and they would set off on a fool’s errand to save the family name. Elizabeth raised her eyes to his, blinking away still more tears. She felt drained and horribly tired of the games that society said they must play. “I would change any number of things, but since they all led to a single question, do you really need me to answer?”

  She barely got the last word out before he was kissing her, one hand on her knee and the other cupping the back of her neck. It was nothing like she’d imagined kissing to be, and bore little resemblance to the brief touch of lips she’d once observed as a child between a couple in Meryton. It was rough and desperate and utterly intoxicating.

  Elizabeth gasped and the kiss deepened, Mr.
Darcy’s tongue sliding into her mouth. Rather than being disgusted she pressed herself back against him, her own hands coming up to grasp his arms. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back and they were staring at each other, gasping for breath. “Please,” he rasped in a voice that bore little resemblance to the cold, haughty one that haunted her dreams. “Let me help you, Elizabeth.”

  She opened her mouth to argue and he silenced her with a look. “I know it may not be possible, and I will make you no promises, but I know Wickham. I have a long history of cleaning up his messes, and I understand how he operates. Your uncle seems to be a shrewd, intelligent man, but he cannot use information he doesn’t have.”

  Oh, it hurt that he did not even mention her father, but she could not blame him. Instead, she forced the lump from her throat. “I cannot ask you to do that. I will not ask you to do that. You’ve just arrived home. You have your sister and your guests to consider. You should not have to clean up the messes of a silly, impetuous girl and a man who has only caused you pain! Their fate can mean nothing to you.”

  Darcy renewed his grip on her hands and leaned even closer. “Elizabeth, I know I have joked in the past that your defect is to willfully misunderstand, but by God, listen to me. I would help if only to save your sister from a man I should have dealt with long ago, but there is nothing I would not do to change your fate. You are not the only one who has had time to reflect since April.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile that held no humor. “Besides, who could understand the situation better than Georgiana?”

  As her brain scrambled to catch up—good heavens, had he actually said the words she’d heard?— there were sounds outside the room and Darcy hurriedly put space between them. Flustered, Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands. When Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner entered, it was to find a distraught lady being watched from the other side of the room by a concerned but detached gentleman.

  “Lizzy, what is the matter?” Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed, hurrying to her niece. “Are you ill?”

  “No, no, I am well,” Elizabeth managed, still hiding her face. “We must pack at once, though, we are needed in London.”

  She prayed her face wasn’t overly flushed and raised her head, eyes going instinctively to Mr. Darcy.

  He bowed. “I will leave you now that your relatives have returned and pass along your regrets to Miss Darcy, since you will not be able to call today. I am sure she will understand.” His eyes bored into hers, and Elizabeth knew he spoke not of her absence at Pemberley, but his own, for he would soon be leaving for London as well.

  Darcy took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, gave Elizabeth a last look, and then was gone. Immediately Mrs. Gardiner turned back to her. “Lizzy, what has happened?”

  The lump had returned to her throat, and she feared that if she spoke the tears would begin to fall in abundance. Instead, she mutely handed her aunt the letters and tried to pull herself together while the Gardiners read them, Mr. Gardiner scanning over his wife’s shoulder. Elizabeth heard the gasps and murmurs, but paid them little mind. Slowly, she gathered her wits and calmed her breathing so it no longer hitched on each inhale. By the time her aunt finished reading and turned to her with a mix of horror and concern in her eyes, Elizabeth could stand easily. “We’d best start packing,” she said, and both Gardiners readily agreed.

  “And everything has been managed so Miss Darcy will know we were called away?” Mrs. Gardiner asked, turning back before she hurried away to pack. “Did you give Mr. Darcy an excuse for our going?”

  Elizabeth thought of his comment about passing along their regrets and understood despite the fact that they had not discussed the matter. He would tell his sister what he thought she should know. The rest of the party would be fed an excuse about business, not only for Mr. Gardiner, but for himself as well. Was it strange that she would be able to predict his words with such certainty? Aloud, she said only, “It has been managed,” and turned away before her intelligent aunt could point out that she’d answered just part of the question.

  Only when she reached her own chamber did Elizabeth realize she still held the handkerchief Darcy had tucked into her hand. Checking that the door was closed, she smoothed the fabric out on the bed and traced the “D” stitched onto one corner. It was real, not a vision brought on by her distress. Darcy had been there, had kissed her, and gone away without a final goodbye.

  Would it be the last time she ever saw him? There was no way to know, and so Elizabeth tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and tried to focus on packing. It did no good to wonder exactly where Darcy was now, and if he was thinking of her as she was of him.

  Two

  15 August 1812

  The worst part was not knowing. Every morning, Elizabeth awoke praying for news—preferably good news, but as the days went by she began to think information of any sort would be welcome. Her father did not write, of course, for he was a poor correspondent in the best of situations and this was anything but. Mrs. Bennet worried and fretted from her bed, wailing to anyone that would listen that Mr. Bennet was sure to confront Mr. Wickham and be killed, and then where would they all be?

  Elizabeth found she could spare little worry for her father. He was not the sort of man to exert himself even when he ought to—did not Lydia’s predicament prove that? —and was therefore unlikely to find himself in the line of fire. Her thoughts swung between her uncle, who did write even though he had little to say, and Mr. Darcy. She didn’t expect to hear from the latter, even though he likely could have given her a great deal of information if he chose. He was also far more likely to find himself in a situation involving pistols or swords, and each night when Elizabeth prayed for her sister’s safe return, she added a request for his safety as well.

  But prayers did not relieve her worry. Since childhood, Elizabeth had preferred to stay in constant motion, and her agitation only increased the inclination. While Mrs. Bennet took to her bed and refused to do more than sit up, her second daughter wandered the countryside more and more each day.

  “I think you could have walked to London by now, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner remarked one day when her niece finally appeared in the drawing room, cheeks flushed and escaped tendrils of hair framing a halo around her face.

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose and sat down in the chair across from her aunt. “Would that I could. Perhaps there I could do something, or at least keep myself from wanting to scream if I sit longer than a quarter hour.” She looked away. “It’s horrid to admit, but I nearly shook Mama when I tried to keep her company earlier. I’m not sure how Jane manages, except of course she has the patience of a saint and I have none.”

  Mrs. Gardiner arched an eyebrow. “I daresay Jane couldn’t walk as many miles as you if she were to try today, but with constant application it would eventually become the trivial matter that you find it to be.”

  Elizabeth flushed hotly, recalling in vivid detail that she had once told Mr. Darcy he ought to practice his social skills, simply because she found them inadequate. She’d given no thought to his own concerns or motivations, but somehow he had managed—if her memory had not failed her—to turn the remark back into a compliment on herself. Could she do the same to her aunt now? Likely not. Oh, would the regrets and realizations surrounding the man never stop?

  Thoughts fully diverted onto the gentleman, Elizabeth nearly missed the importance of her aunt’s next statement. “Patience aside, I believe our minds are in alignment. You know that the children and I will return to London once your father arrives home, and I would like you to come with us if he is agreeable.”

  Elizabeth’s head jerked up. “Forgive my frankness, but why?”

  Mrs. Gardiner smiled, eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. “I shall be frank in return—because I have watched you here and you are of remarkably little help. I had never considered Kitty to be a preferable companion until I observed her sit patiently with your mother for over an hour yesterday. Mary might have annoyed your mother with Fordyce’s Sermons, but she still
managed to sit still. You are quite correct in your assessment of your own abilities. I am hopeful that you may find more of a reason to exert yourself in London, for if your uncle is able to unearth Lydia, she will require more attention than all of my children combined. If nothing else, you would be able to entertain your cousins on walks in the parks around Gracechurch Street!”

  Excitement at the prospect warred for shame over her behavior, and it was some moments before Elizabeth composed herself enough to say, “You would reward me for my poor behavior, Aunt. I do not deserve it.”

  “You are only human, Lizzy, and I daresay facing more internal turmoil than the rest of the young ladies in this house. No, you needn’t say anything. Your father may disagree and then this conversation will be all for naught, but let’s see what he says when he arrives, hmm?”

  *

  Luckily for Elizabeth’s presence of mind, her father returned scarcely an hour later and was prevailed upon, through the combined efforts of Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner, to agree to the scheme. “Although I am tempted to keep you here, if only because you will remind me of where I have failed when the rest of the household will not,” Mr. Bennet commented dryly. “I lose a much-deserved scolding by allowing you to go so soon.” In the end, though, he did not stop her.

  Elizabeth thought about her father’s words as the coach sped her towards London. She had not planned on scolding her father, had not even considered it. Had the opportunity provided itself, though, would she have done such a thing? It unsettled her that a man who knew her very well expected behavior she found inappropriate when presented hypothetically. Did she really scold people out of turn? If so, she could only suppose it was because she thought herself better in some way. She’d judged Mr. Darcy for looking down on people, not realizing herself guilty of the same fault. The last few weeks had been full of similarly uncomfortable realizations.