His Good Opinion: A Mr. Darcy Novel (44 page)

He opened his mouth to argue, but she flexed her fingers and the words escaped him. "I told your aunt," she said quietly, "that even if your whole family stood against me, I could not lose the happiness I would find in being your wife."

"You could have, on the whole, no cause to repine," Darcy said. Confusion marred her lovely features, and he explained. "My aunt shared your words with me."

"Then why did you..." She dropped her hand and took a step back. "Why did her opinion matter so much to you?"

Darcy took Elizabeth's hand and pressed it back to his heart. "Not her opinion of me, Elizabeth--her opinion of you!" His impassioned tone caught her by surprise, and she tried to step away. Darcy caught her around the waist with his other hand and held her close. "But I must admit," he said, his voice much quieter now, "that I feared perhaps your... affection for me might be swayed by her words."

There was a long pause, in which Darcy dared not meet Elizabeth's gaze. "I do not need your aunt's words, or anyone else's," she said finally, "to tell me you are at times a proud, disagreeable man."

Darcy flinched, and this time it was Elizabeth who held him in place. Her free hand somehow found its way to the back of his neck, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"However, you are also the best man I have ever known."

Inexpressible warmth stole over Darcy. Elizabeth had seen him at his very worst, and she still loved him.

Elizabeth smiled up at him, and Darcy could no longer resist her. He covered her hand with his own and closed the remaining distance between them. He was close enough now to feel her sudden intake of breath when she realized what was about to come. "Elizabeth," he whispered, and she raised her face toward his.

In the heartbeat before he kissed her, he recalled the proud pretensions that had kept them apart for the last year. Then his lips met hers, and they all melted away.

There was none for Darcy but Elizabeth.

Nancy Kelley is a Janeite, an Austenesque author, and a blogger. During the writing of
His Good Opinion
, a version of Mr. Darcy took up residence in her brain; she fondly refers to him as the Darcy in My Head, or DIMH.

If Nancy could possess any fictional device, it would be a Time-Turner. Then perhaps she could juggle a full-time library job, writing, and blogging; and still find time for sleep and a life. Until then, she lives on high doses of tea, of which DIMH approves.

You can find Nancy on Twitter
@Nancy_Kelley
, at
nancykelleywrites.com
and on
Indiejane.org
.

First, to Jane Austen for writing a book so beloved and enduring that readers 200 years later still want to know more about her characters.

There are far more people to thank than I can possibly list here, but I can at least start. First, to my entire extended family for instilling a love of reading in me; second, to Mr. Roher, the junior high English teacher who told me I should write a book; third, to National Novel Writing Month for giving me the impetus to take writing seriously, fourth, to the online Jane Austen community who has been so supportive and enthusiastic as I've worked on
His Good Opinion
; and finally to the band of critique partners, beta readers, and editors who took my first draft and turned it into what you see today: Jessica Melendez, Kate Dana, Rebecca Fleming, Haley Whitehall, Jaymi Elford, and Carissa Reid. Special thanks goes to Jennifer Becton who very kindly shared her indie publishing expertise.

Please enjoy the following excerpt from

Caroline Bingley

A Continuation of Jane Austen's
Pride and Prejudice

by

Jennifer Becton

Banished.

The word echoed through Caroline Bingley's mind with each beat of the horses' hooves, and she felt the stab of her own mortification with each bone-jarring jolt of the hired carriage in which she was imprisoned. Her brother Charles's own hand had locked her away in this dreadful post chaise, which was presently being drawn by a second-rate pair of horses, and the entire conveyance was bound for the worst place she could imagine: her mother's home in the north of England.

Caroline glanced at the woman seated beside her. This, ostensibly, was her traveling companion, for it was quite improper for a woman of Caroline's status to voyage alone. In truth, their current mode of transport--two women traveling alone by post--was verging on impropriety as it was.

She thought her companion's name was Rosemary, but she had not taken the initiative of remembering. After all, Charles had been the one to employ the impertinent widow to accompany her while in transit and to act as her companion once in the tedious, unvarying society of Kendal, Cumbria.

While she could not blame Charles for hiring a servant to attend to her while navigating the public roads and dealing with the unsavory individuals one often encountered at posting inns, it was beyond the needs of propriety to have retained her for the duration of her stay in the north. Caroline did not need a chaperone; nor had she reached that unfortunate stage in life wherein she required the services of a paid companion. She was no doddering fool, but a wealthy young woman of sound mind and good judgment.

Caroline lifted her chin against the humiliation and anger rising within her breast. The presence of a companion was an insult to be sure!

To think that she had become a prisoner in her own life--with the right to make her own choices stripped from her--was intolerable. No, she had chosen neither the voyage nor her companion, and she certainly would not have elected to embark on such a long journey so late in the year when the weather was apt to turn foul.

Ha! It was all a good joke. This was no journey. This was a prison sentence, and Rosemary was her jailor.

Rosemary.

Caroline winced at such a gauche name. She certainly hoped that her memory had failed and that the woman's name was not Rosemary, for she did not like the pert flavor of that particular herb in servants any more than in a roast of beef. Besides, her parents must have been quite inelegant to name their daughter after such an ugly, sprawling plant, and Caroline had no patience for inelegance.

Unfortunately, the name seemed to suit both the woman's piquant personality and her gauche posture, for Rosemary was currently slumped in her seat, asleep with her head lolling in rhythm to the motion of the carriage as strands of strawberry blond hair swayed across her forehead. A woman of her age--why, she must be nearly thirty!--should not sit so indecorously.

Caroline leaned forward to scold her, to remind her how a lady ought to recline, but then she sat back and sighed. What was the point of correcting her now? They were going to the country, where posture was unimportant. For who of worth would be present to observe and reward such correctness of bearing?

She considered the woman and her vexing ability to rest despite the ruts and bumps of the byways they traveled. How could Rosemary possibly sleep at such a time? It was just the sort of incommodious thing the woman would do. For her own part, Caroline found that she could not possibly relax. She sat perfectly erect, hands crushed together in her lap, looking with great regret in the direction from whence they had come, back toward the remnants of her dreams and desires. Now her life was in shambles, and the winter-worn roads that led her inexorably into a dismal future did nothing to lull her into the forgetfulness of sleep.

Here was the sad state of her situation: Caroline not only failed to win the regard of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the only gentleman she had ever admired, but she had lost him to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, a headstrong young woman of neither breeding nor fortune. As a result, Caroline's thoughts of becoming one of the wealthiest women in England and mistress of the great estate of Pemberley had been ruined. Indeed, she had forfeited the most excellent society of Mr. Darcy and endangered the shy companionship of his sister Georgiana.

To make matters worse, she had also been unsuccessful in thwarting her brother Charles's unwise marriage to Miss Jane Bennet, and now, it seemed, no one would forgive her for having been opposed, and justly so, to both matches.

Though Caroline had never believed such a possibility to exist, her beloved brother had ostracized her, sending her away for the sake of family harmony or some such nonsense.

Her crimes?

Attempting to elevate her family's position by seeking an advantageous marriage? Hoping to prevent her brother from marrying a young lady so beneath the status to which he should ascribe?

Indeed.

But what had she done that any woman of sense would not have done? Would not the sainted Miss Elizabeth Bennet herself have shifted the heavens in order to prevent her sister Lydia's disastrous match to that scoundrel Mr. George Wickham? Caroline believed so, and as she had done nothing out of the common way in attempting to separate her brother from Miss Jane Bennet, she did not believe she deserved the censure she had received. Why, Mr. Darcy, who had been chief in instigating the entire scheme, had already been forgiven by all involved.

It was utterly unfair.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes.

'
Twas a centuries' old struggle in which she had been engaged, a struggle whose outcome had not been in her favor.

Society dictated that the Bennet girls must aspire to such gentlemen as Charles and Mr. Darcy. For was it not the duty of all children, be they male or female, to marry as well as possible for the benefit of their families?

In the same way, family loyalty had ordained that Caroline must wage a campaign against them. For was it not the duty of every family of wealth and consequence to guard against the infiltration of low-class fortune hunters?

Caroline had been forced to act after Charles had shown his admiration for Miss Bennet at their first meeting at that silly little public assembly in Meryton. Upon developing a deeper acquaintance with the lady in question and her rather wild, country family, Caroline had become concerned that her brother might have fallen in with a lady, kind though she may seem, who only sought his fortune.

She had shared her concerns with Mr. Darcy, and he had agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment. In fact, he had been the one to declare that Miss Bennet seemed to emit no real feeling for Charles, and they both shared reservations about her low-born relations.

After much strategizing, it was decided that it would be best to remove Charles from Hertfordshire before he could become the victim of a one-sided marriage to a fortune hunter wearing a dowdy country frock.

Being naturally humble, Charles had been easily convinced of Miss Bennet's indifference, and he had allowed himself to be taken to London. After learning of Miss Bennet's true feelings, he could not forgive himself for having doubted his own. His anger at Caroline's interference had been complete, and try as she might, she could not convince him that she had been acting in his best interests. She had wanted to protect him.

Caroline's cheeks moistened with tears, and she swiped them away as she considered the other charge leveled against her: her abhorrence of Mr. Darcy's decision to marry Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

As to that, she could not claim such innocence. She had considered Mr. Darcy to be her ideal match. He was everything a gentleman ought to be if he possibly can. He was handsome, well-spoken, dutiful, and rich, and he had accumulated his fortune in the most acceptable manner--through inheritance.

Caroline's own fortune, though substantially smaller than Mr. Darcy's, would assure her lifelong comfort, but her wealth was tainted: her father had earned the bulk of her inheritance through trade, a fact that Caroline always sought to conceal.

A union with Mr. Darcy would have ended the necessity of concealment and raised Caroline in the esteem of society.

And so she had sought the good opinion of a gentleman through those arts--flattery and a bit of flirtation--that all women use, and through conversation and comparison she had sought to make him aware of the obvious inferiority of any woman other than herself for matrimony.

In this, she had failed, and now she was truly a prisoner of society's whims, for though she was wealthy, she was not free.

Again, Caroline turned to look along the muddy road toward the past, as if merely looking in the direction of Pemberley might somehow transport her back in time, might change her circumstances, might win her the gentleman she had admired.

But it was not to be.

The carriage only swept her further from the comforts of her brother's household and from her dreams of permanency of station and home. Caroline braced herself against the seat, wishing she had thought to demand extra cushions when they had stopped to change conveyances at the last posting inn, for there was nothing more irksome than to arrive at one's destination with a sore posterior. She glanced about the coach for a cushion, and seeing no other suitable option, she folded her lap robe and positioned it beneath her. Fortunately, it was warmer today and dry, so the covering was not necessary to ward off the cold, though her feet were a bit chilled. The robe did little to absorb the shock of the carriage, but at least she had taken some action.