Conceit & Concealment: A Pride & Prejudice Variation, Page 2

  “I am not criticizing you, sir, merely noting we have all made such arrangements. The French are perfectly happy to tolerate me while my factories keep producing caissons and limbers to transport their artillery, and I can justify it to myself because it protects the Englishmen who work in those factories from being conscripted to fight in Europe. But you and I are both living in glass houses, so let us not throw stones!”

  Mr. Bennet inclined his head. He did not agree with Mr. Bingley on this point, but Lizzy would be safer with a gentleman to escort her, even one who had struck a deal with the French in the past. “We have all made difficult decisions. If you believe your friend is trustworthy and would be willing to provide an escort for my daughter, I would be obliged to you and to him.”

  ***

  Darcy could find no particular fault with Netherfield Park. The house was spacious and pleasant. The grounds were well kept. The rolling hills surrounding it kept the landscape interesting. Bingley was a gracious host. His cook produced tasty meals. And after two days, it was slowly driving Darcy mad.

  He had spent hours calming Georgiana’s anxieties about being in a new place. He had walked with her around the gardens and listened to her practice her music. The previous night he had stayed up late drinking brandy with Bingley, something he had been looking forward to. But instead of finally being able to talk freely to his friend as he had hoped, he had hidden everything.

  Today Bingley had gone to visit a neighbor, and Darcy was too restless to keep his attention on a book. The only distraction he could find was to work on his billiard game. At least it was quiet in the billiard room apart from the clicking of balls striking and the satisfying thump when one dropped into a pocket.

  Bingley appeared in the doorway, apparently done with his visits. “Practicing again? As if you need it to thrash me thoroughly!”

  Leaning over the table, Darcy sighted along his cue stick. “It passes the time.”

  “If it is time you wish to pass, I have volunteered you to join me in a charitable duty.”

  Without raising his head, Darcy flicked his eyes up at Bingley. “Why do I suppose I will not like this?”

  Bingley chuckled. “It is true; you will not like it. The local regiment is having an assembly and has commanded the presence of all the young ladies. I agreed we would escort two of them who would both be unprotected otherwise.”

  Darcy dropped the cue stick and straightened. “Bingley, the last thing I want is to be giving some local girl expectations I will never be able to meet.”

  “There will be no expectations. Their fathers arranged it purely as a matter of their safety. So many of the local men have been conscripted that there are few left to provide escorts, leaving the ladies to the mercies of the French officers.”

  “I suppose we must, then,” Darcy said grudgingly. Had he not already given up enough for his fellow countrymen? But the same answer always resounded in his head. Many had been forced to give their lives for their country, and he had not. Yet.

  He would only go to this damned dance because if he refused and anything happened to those poor girls, he would bear that burden forever - along with so many others. Sometimes he wondered if a clean death in battle would not have been preferable. But Georgiana needed him, so that was not an option.

  Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to be so glum, old fellow! You might even enjoy yourself a bit. From what I gather, you are getting the young and pretty one. Mine, according to her loving father, is all but on the shelf and ‘not what I would call pretty, but a good girl, a good girl.’” His voice had deepened into an imitation of an older man's.

  “Most likely yours will at least manage some interesting conversation. What is the name of my insipid miss?”

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her father already dislikes you, so you should be safe from expectations.”

  “Dislikes me? I have not even met the man.”

  Bingley grinned. “Oh, you are in a mood today! It is the usual complaint. I did not hesitate to point out his own failings in that regard. But look – the sun is finally showing its face. You should go for a ride and clear your head.”

  He had been longing all day to do exactly that. “You will stay here if I do? I do not like to leave Georgiana alone in a new place.”

  “Of course. Now go. Get out of here!”

  A quarter of an hour later, the stable master regarded Darcy as if he were a being from another planet. The Netherfield staff had not yet accustomed themselves to their guest’s eccentricities, such as saddling and bridling Hurricane himself. But Hurricane was the one luxury he had insisted on keeping at a time when he had given up so much else. He had raised and broken the horse himself, and Hurricane always understood him. Darcy hated allowing anyone else to handle him. Even the process of saddling him and the feeling of Hurricane's warm flanks under his hands brought him some much-needed peace.

  They set off at a trot down the lane and jumped a fence before cantering across a pasture. The sun had not yet burned off the dampness in the spring air.

  Darcy had loved springtime when his mother was alive. She had taught him the names of each spring flower in the Pemberley gardens, encouraged him to watch each stage of leaves unfolding, made wishes with him over the star-shaped wood anemones, and taken him on adventures in Pemberley's magical bluebell wood. She had died in the springtime, too, just as the bluebells were fading away to nothing. And then there had been the terrible spring of 1805 which had cost him his father and more relatives and friends than he could count, as well as his freedom and his country.

  Spring had once been a time of beginnings for him. Now it made him think of all he had lost.

  These thoughts were not helping to clear his head. He laid a hand on Hurricane's neck, feeling the tautness of his muscles beneath his shiny coat. Hurricane was still with him – loyal, steady Hurricane.

  At Pemberley he could gallop for miles over the empty moors, but Hertfordshire was more settled. He spotted a copse in the distance and made for that, hoping to find some semblance of untamed nature there. He skirted the edge until he found a path leading into it, but before he even entered the copse, a familiar floral scent transported him into the past. It was a bluebell wood.

  On impulse, he dismounted and tied Hurricane's reins to a tree. Ahead of him bluebells swayed in the dappled sunlight. He strode towards them as their almost otherworldly scent enveloped him, raising goose bumps on his skin. The spring green of the wood was the perfect frame for the sapphire flowers. Magic, his mother had called the bluebells.

  His pace slowed. How long had it been since his last visit to a bluebell wood? He could not even recall. The bluebells seemed to dance around him with a ripple of laughter. But no – that was human laughter, and it was followed by a squeal of pain.

  “That hurt, young man! Or young woman, if that is what you are.” A woman's musical voice seemed part of the magic, drawing him towards it with a seductive enchantment of its own. Where was she, the woman of the rippling laughter? He searched for a side path through the flowers. His mother had taught him never to trample bluebells.

  There it was, so faint it could barely be called a path, just grass dividing a sea of bluebells. Carefully he stepped along it.

  He could see her now. Tendrils of dark chestnut hair escaped their binding to riot across her long neck in exuberant curls. She sat on the ground, her legs curled up beside her, and she was surrounded by... puppies? Yes, puppies, crawling over her lap, nipping at her skirts, and rolling over for petting. She picked one up and kissed its head. Fortunate puppy!

  His lips curved. A poet would call her Titania, queen of the fairies, in the flesh. More woodland magic.

  She must have heard his footsteps, or perhaps the yapping of a puppy alerted her, because she looked back over her shoulder. At the sight of him, she twisted around and scrambled backwards.

  In the dappled sunlight, his Titania's face was alive with energy, full of fine sparkling eyes and kissable lips.r />
  And she was pointing a fully cocked pistol at him.

  He took a step back and opened his hands to show they were empty. “I mean you no harm.” The sound of his own voice startled him.

  “English?” Her voice was sterner now.

  “Yes. I am visiting from Derbyshire. Or, if you prefer, I will say it – Theophilus Thistle, the thistle sifter, sifted a sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrusting three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb.” It was the tongue twister no Frenchman could pronounce, no matter how accentless his English might be.

  Her lips quirked, but she kept the pistol leveled at him. “Well, Theophilus Thistle from Derbyshire, why are you following me?”

  “Because I was walking through an enchanted bluebell wood when I heard the dulcet tones of Titania, queen of the fairies, which enspells any mortal man.” He swept her a full court bow.

  She chuckled. “Lovely words, but perhaps you should avoid sudden movements when I have a pistol trained on you.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Of course. You could have been a French soldier out hunting for game.” The distaste in her voice made it clear what kind of game the soldiers hunted here.

  “Good. I trained my sister to shoot for the same reason.” One of the puppies began to crawl in his direction.

  “Ah.” She lowered the pistol but did not put it aside. “If I am Titania, perhaps I will cast a spell on you instead. It would be much less bloody.”

  “Since I would prefer not to have the head of an ass, perhaps I should leave you in peace. Or at least as much peace as you can find with all these puppies.” He could see the mother dog now, a springer spaniel lying in a hollow between two trees and nursing two more puppies. “Which was the one that nipped you?”

  She pointed to the brown puppy squirming his way toward Darcy. “That little wild thing.”

  He took a slow step forward and held out his hand to the puppy, who sniffed it eagerly. “May I?”

  At her nod, he picked up the puppy. The mother dog raised her head and growled.

  “You need not worry,” his Titania said to the dog. “He is wearing brown, not blue.” She looked up at him again. “I am training her to attack soldiers who come too close to me.”

  “I will keep that in mind.” He turned the puppy over in his hands and examined him. “If you were still wondering, he is a young man. Definitely a young man.” He held the puppy up to his shoulder and scratched its ears. Pushing back against his hand, the puppy licked his chin. Repeatedly.

  Her eyes sparkled when she laughed. “I should have known as much since he is a troublemaker already!”

  Darcy cuddled the puppy for another minute, taking pleasure in his warmth and the softness of his fur, then reluctantly set him down. “Back to your mistress, young Puck,” he told the puppy firmly. “And now I will leave you in peace. Farewell, proud Titania.”

  She set down the pistol at last, picked up the puppy, and waved a tiny paw at him. “Theophilus Thistle, I grant you safe passage through my domain.” She crinkled her nose at him.

  He made his way back through the sea of bluebells, smiling for what felt like first time in years. His mother had been right; there was magic in a bluebell wood. He would not wait so long to revisit one.

  Perhaps he would bring Georgiana here. She was even more in need of a dose of magic than he was.

  Chapter 2

  Darcy's improved spirits lasted through the following day, even when it came time to depart for the assembly. He had resigned himself to the prospect of spending the evening with a silly, chattering girl. After all, he did not have to listen to what she was saying, did he?

  Miss Lucas, whom they collected first, was a pleasant surprise, or at least a relief. While living up to her father's description, she was soft-spoken and seemed sensible and, more importantly, showed no embarrassing intention of flirting with either Bingley or Darcy. She was a peaceful presence. If he had to spend an evening escorting a woman, someone like Miss Lucas would suit him well.

  He was less sanguine about the prospect of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Lucas described her as much younger, with a lively wit and a strong will. Not the sort of comfortable companion he would prefer.

  Still, he managed to be civil through his introduction to Mr. Bennet and even to ignore that gentleman's slightly scornful coolness.

  Then a familiar face appeared, one whose eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Theophilus Thistle!” she exclaimed.

  Now he was smiling like a fool again as he bowed. “Proud Titania.”

  Mr. Bennet looked amused. “Lizzy, I would present Mr. Darcy to your acquaintance, but I perceive you have already met.”

  Bingley asked, “How could you have met? Darcy has barely stirred from Netherfield since he arrived.”

  Darcy said solemnly, “We have a mutual acquaintance, a young man with a taste for making trouble.”

  Bingley looked more baffled than ever. Mr. Bennet wore a quizzical look.

  Titania – no, Miss Bennet – had a mischievous glint in her fine eyes. “And a taste for licking Mr. Darcy's face.”

  “That as well,” Darcy agreed.

  With a sidelong glance at her father, Miss Bennet said, “One of Rose’s puppies.”

  Mr. Bennet pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Are dogs performing introductions these days? Quite remarkable. Perhaps they are taking on the civility so many Englishmen have abandoned of late.”

  The amusement faded from Miss Bennet's face. “Indeed,” she said coolly. “I suppose we must not keep the French officers waiting, should we, Mr. Darcy?”

  No. Not his Titania, too, turning away from him because of his association with the damned French. Why did the one bit of joy he had discovered have to be quenched by those damned assumptions he could not contradict? His stomach churned.

  Well, so be it. He had agreed to the sacrifice himself, and he would do it again in the same circumstances.

  But sometimes it was simply not fair.

  ***

  It simply was not fair. Elizabeth did not want to like Mr. Darcy. How could she like a man who put his own wealth and possessions before his love of his country? True, he had been far from the only man to do so, but she was prepared to hate every last one of them.

  But she had liked Theophilus Thistle. How long had it been since she had the opportunity to exchange witticisms with an educated young Englishman? He had displayed a sense of humor and an ability to laugh at himself, and he was unquestionably pleasant to look at. He even liked to cuddle puppies. Why did the best prospect for flirtation she had met since the invasion have to turn out to be a French sympathizer?

  Oh, if only she could stamp her feet in frustration! She should have realized who he was and not allowed herself to dwell on him. It was not as if young men of wealth and education suddenly appeared from nowhere. But it had been such a pleasant interaction that it had never crossed her mind he could be a traitor to England.

  And now he was being unfair again, not only engaging her playfully, but then having the gall to look injured when she treated him as coldly as he deserved. Did he think his bloodstained wealth would influence her? If he had to consort with the enemy, the very least he could do was to behave like an unpleasant fellow. Before his arrival, she had been prepared to dislike the unknown Mr. Darcy, and dislike him she would, regardless of whether he cast puppy dog eyes at her. She certainly would not tell him she had named the mischievous puppy Puck in his honor.

  Fortunately, she had a great deal of practice at being coldly polite.

  Mr. Darcy declined to take the hint. “Miss Bennet, might I have the honor of the first dance?”

  “I am afraid it is already promised.” It was just as well. If she had to spend half an hour close to him right now, he might start seeming like the delightful Theophilus Thistle again. That would be a mistake.

  “Perhaps the second, then, or whatever you might have open?”

  “If the second dan
ce would suit you, I will be pleased to dance it with you.”

  Once in the carriage, Mr. Bingley rubbed his hands together. “What should we expect from this assembly? Since it is given by the officers, will the gentlemen outnumber the ladies?”

  Under her breath, Elizabeth said to Charlotte, “It depends on how you define ‘gentlemen.’”

  Charlotte pretended not to hear her, but judging by Mr. Darcy's raised eyebrow, he had made out her words, too.

  Tactful as ever, Charlotte said, “It is likely they will, although not by much since there are so very few Englishmen left here. Lizzy and I will be the envy of many ladies for having English escorts.”

  Mr. Bingley seemed somewhat embarrassed by that. “Will it be English dances or French?”

  “Need you ask?” said Elizabeth with a lightness she did not feel. “They may have an English reel or two as a token gesture, but most will be waltzes and quadrilles. They are particularly fond of waltzes.”

  “London balls are much the same,” Bingley confided. “Even those given by Englishmen seem designed to please the French.”

  “There is no surprise in that,” said Elizabeth.

  Mr. Darcy, of course, said nothing.

  The first dance was indeed a waltz, and Elizabeth feared the second might be more of the same. To her relief, the musicians struck up a reel for it. That meant less opportunity for speech with Mr. Darcy, less ability to gaze into his eyes, and she did not have to spend half an hour with his arms around her. A pity – she had imagined the pleasure of waltzing with Theophilus Thistle, but that had been before she discovered who he truly was.

  When they reached the end of the set and had to wait to rejoin the dance, he said to her, “I hope your first set was enjoyable.”

  “Waltzing with Lieutenant Bessette? It was tolerable, I suppose. His manners are better than many of the other officers and he never tries to take advantage of women, so I cannot complain.”