Only Mr Darcy

An excerpt from Julie Cooper's new book, coming May 5

The last day of the month brought the full moon, and the knowledge of Mr Darcy’s disapproval would not keep her from night fishing on the river. She looked forward to it with unusual enthusiasm. To say that Mr Darcy had ignored her since their last ‘discussion’ was a polite way of putting it. She had watched him, even though irked that she paid any attention at all to his opinions. She had seen Miss Bingley making remarks behind her hand and knew them to be criticisms of her or her family. His replies, although she could not tell what he said, seemed to give the woman satisfaction. It was not that she expected him to defend her, but having this proof that he would not bruised her. The foolish power of that was galling.

The truth was, she had repulsed him, and she knew it. The odds that Mr Darcy would ever approve of her as a bride for Mr Bingley were slim, and since the latter gentleman relied so heavily upon his friend’s opinions, even if she could manage to attract him, subsequent rejection would probably result. She did not doubt that, should he learn of her little fishing expedition, Mr Darcy would be even more revolted.

Why am I even considering him or his stuffy opinions? Naturally, he has long forgotten the entire conversation with a female so unimportant to him, she comforted herself as she tramped through the woods with a small lamp to light her way.

The moon shone brightly over the black, glistening stream, and Elizabeth immediately felt cheered to see it. Little ripples tossed by moonlight seemed to promise the life beneath its surface—a reward for her efforts, a distraction from her troubles, a relief from the monotony of everyday existence. As she cast her line, she sighed contentedly.

All hope is not lost, she assured herself. There were rumours that Mr Darcy soon would be departing for town again. He might not return, and she might in turn have more possibility of success with his friend. She would fix upon Mr Bingley’s decency, his benevolent nature, his many good points, and forget foolish fantasies peddled by the purveyors of fine fiction.

It is meant to be. It will be.

“I knew it,” said a voice from above, nearly startling her into dropping her pole.

A dark shape towered over her, and she scrambled up, wielding the pole like a flimsy sword until the form of Mr Darcy came into sharp focus as he drew near.

She could not prevent her relief, nor an annoyance that was a hairsbreadth from anger.

“You frightened me,” she accused, “and you did it apurpose.”

“I did not. I was hoping, rather than believing, that you would remain safe in your home, as you once claimed. Clearly, you have no issue with disguising the truth.”

“Clearly,” Elizabeth repeated, “protecting my reputation carries a far greater weight than the supposed necessity of revealing my actions to one whose business it is not.”

They stood motionless, glaring at each other in the darkness. His face appeared carved from stone and shadow.

“Point taken,” he said at last, sounding harsh and unfriendly. “I will wait on the embankment until you are finished here.”

“You might return to Netherfield,” she suggested.

“As a gentleman, I am duty-bound to wait until your safety is assured.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the gleaming water, determined to ignore him. It was not so easily done; she was ever conscious of his disapproving figure, silhouetted in the moonlight—a spectral sentinel radiating censure. No matter, she told herself. I will fish until I catch something, should it take until dawn!

After a time, however, she managed it, as fish nipped at her bait for the first time in weeks. She had almost forgot Mr Darcy by the time she hooked one, a nice-sized trout, and brought it up. Almost instantly, however, he was beside her, already shoving his gloves into a coat pocket, ready to deal with it.

She clamped her mouth shut against protest over the necessity of his intervention. He already thinks poorly enough of me, without further exacerbating my reputation for unladylike behaviour.

He expertly attached the fish to a stringer in the shallows, seemingly heedless of the sanctity of his fine boots.

“Much appreciated,” she forced herself to say politely.

“Did it hurt?” he asked, an apparent non sequitur.

“Did what hurt?”

“Expressing your thanks for my assistance.”

She tried to see his face, but it was hidden in the gloom; his voice sounded as sober as it usually did. Nevertheless, a smile tried to work its way to her lips.

“Only a little,” she said, casting her line.

In Only Mr Darcy, when 12-year-old Elizabeth Bennet is given the name of her husband, she takes it as a surety. Alas, when a man of that name arrives in Meryton nearly a decade later, he seems more intrigued by her sister Jane than by her--and Elizabeth finds his tall, handsome friend much more to her liking.