Switched Read online

  There was no romance to enjoy tonight.

  Despite supporting a well-groomed bride on his arm, Darcy found his eyes searching the meeting house the very moment he entered, yearning for the presence of another woman. Elizabeth met his gaze soon enough, her eyes red, fearful.

  Elizabeth – he nearly called aloud. Was he to suffer not just his own grief, but the knowledge that the woman he loved was equally forlorn?

  Heart aflame, he strode determinedly towards the Bingleys, caring not that Jane nearly stumbled behind him.

  “Mrs. Bingley,” he said the only name he was permitted to use. He had rehearsed his proposal countless times in his mind. He had planned each look, each word, each whisper. He had plotted and weighed the wisdom of every implication he was about to share. He knew what he wanted – and he needed her to want it too.

  “Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy,” Elizabeth replied with her curtsies – compelling Darcy to at least trade civilities with his friend.

  The handshake was weak between them, but Darcy concluded it was his own half-hearted goodwill that affected their greeting. Bingley was, after all, a most generous and hearty man.

  “Mrs. Dar – Mrs. Bingley.” Darcy gulped at his faux-pas. Elizabeth's eyes watched him keenly, piercing and intelligent. It was fortunate that Bingley seemed occupied with greeting Jane instead. “Shall I – may I –”

  Words failed him as his heart suffocated him from within. Every thought and word intended disappeared at the first true sight of reality.

  Other couples dallied about – many affectionate and filled with glee. The giggles and sighs in the background informed him as much. Tonight was a night of celebration. It was the hour of union and joy and passionate avowals of lifelong love. It was a magical night of wonder – save for him.

  Darcy gulped again before the pressing need to speak – to salvage whatever he possibly could from this farce of a confirmation – enveloped any sense he still possessed.

  “May I seek a private audience, madam?” Practiced eloquence escaped him, all pretenses erased.

  Her eyes, wide with surprise, reflected his own hesitations back towards him in full, tidal force. Her slightly parted lips drove him to distraction.

  “Sir?” Her voice sounded almost as light and helpless as her sister's often did.

  “Mrs. Bingley, may I – have the honor of your presence – for one moment – for one, last moment.”

  He did not dare spare a glance at Bingley. How was a man to respond to his friend speaking so intimately to his wife?

  Bride – Darcy repeated and hoped. They had not completed; he himself had not completed.

  Elizabeth’s gaze strengthened, the initial fear gradually replaced by curiosity and power. She did not look at Bingley, though she clearly spoke to him.

  “Mr. Bingley, allow me to be excused.”

  • • •

  Her heart thundered in her ears, roaring in flames. What Fitzwilliam planned, she did not know – but anything was to be preferred to the stifling torture of professing false affections so publicly.

  She trailed behind him when they reached the door, and she wondered what degree of premeditation must have armed him with the knowledge of this side entrance. His solemn, quiet demeanor brooked no argument, so she offered none.

  Fall twilights had not the protraction of their summer counterparts, leaving the two companions in relative darkness once they reached the small alcove.

  “Mr. Darcy?” She whispered lowly when he stopped, his back rigid and proud. Her own feet halted a yard behind his.

  She watched, as carefully as she could in the fast-dimming light, how his frame lifted then dropped, as if heaving a heavy sigh. Her own eyes stung, unexplained.

  Jane's letter, arrived so hurriedly this afternoon, flickered in her mind.

  My Dear Elizabeth,

  The trembling handwriting had seeped through to every letter.

  As the confirmation of our happiness draws near, may your heart be ever joyful in your circumstances. May your vibrant nature be your husband's greatest source of joy. May forgiveness in your heart abound for your sister's choices.

  With love,

  Jane

  A sniffle escaped Elizabeth unbidden. Why else would Jane ask forgiveness – if not for attaching herself to the man Elizabeth loved most?

  “Elizabeth!”

  The impassioned pronouncement of her name bid her to look up – and find herself crushed in Fitzwilliam's arms, his face buried in her hair.

  “Elizabeth – I cannot. Please – do not make me –”

  His latter words sounded nearly tearful. She struggled to blink away the onslaught of fluid in her own eyes.

  “Elizabeth,” he cried again, pressing her closer still.

  She trembled as her hands slipped around his person. Her face, she pressed against his jaw.

  “Mr. Darcy –”

  “No! No.” He pulled back, hands gripping her shoulders. His eyes looked nearly rabid. “I refuse to be a man so foreign to you.”

  The tears fell over cheeks and lips, and clothes. Her hands clung tightly to his waist.

  “Elizabeth, shall we elope? Let us go to Scotland this very night. Let me be the sole husband you shall ever know. Allow me your life, your love.”

  His face inched nearer even as he spoke, and all thought nearly escaped her.

  “Forget Bingley, forget Jane. Georgiana shall survive the scandal. Let us be –”

  “Fitzwilliam,” her one word withered between them.

  “I am convinced of the ardency of our feelings – whatever else shall matter? The system proves true for many, but it ruins others just the same. I cannot confirm my vows to a woman I barely know. There can be no room for –”

  “Fitzwilliam!”

  “I cannot bear to see you unhappy – and why should we persist in such agony when our union could banish all pain? Your sister, I am sure, cares little for her current title. She may be –”

  “Fitzwilliam!” Her voice had turned pleading, and he stopped for one moment.

  The words exchanged between their eyes flowed hundreds and thousands of pages long. The silence itself quivered within the confines of their frail privacy.

  “You do not wish it,” said he, eyes blinking furiously. He pulled back, nearly dropping her on the ground. “You do not love me – and you do not wish to risk it all for our chance at happiness.”

  “No, Fitzwilliam, I do not –”

  “You do not, you see?” Hints of mania began to appear in his voice. He stepped back blindly, almost crashing into the bushes. “You do not care. You prefer Bingley, prefer Brigham Park. You prefer –”

  “I prefer you!” Elizabeth cried, every part of her flaring in anger. Her fists clenched the fabric of her gown. “I prefer you, Fitzwilliam – every single day, every single moment. Your company and intelligence and love are everything I could ever have hoped for – and everything I wish to own with every fiber of my being.”

  He looked back at her, eyes wide. Both their pants echoed between them.

  He did not speak again until he had righted himself and wandered forward, until his face hovered two inches from hers.

  His next words were soft, pleading, and uncertain. “Then why?”

  The heart that had thundered in her ears just moments before – now hung heavy on her chest and soul.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “I prefer you,” she repeated, cracks in her voice. Her tongue felt trapped in her mouth. Every word took herculean effort. “But so does Jane.”

  The shock in Darcy's eyes looked sincere in every way.

  “And I refuse to hurt my sister.”

  She knew, felt his disappointment.

  But he did not pull away.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered, before planting a kiss on her brow.

  She cried into his coat, thinking little of the consequences. They had exited the meeting house in plain sight – and risked exposure with every additional minute shared. Their res
olved avoidance of scandal reflected little in their actions.

  But she did not care.

  Resting against the safety of Darcy's expansive chest, Elizabeth almost wished that someone would discover them – that, perchance, they may have their happy ending after all without disrespecting her sister.

  A woman untouched could still remarry – right?

  “Elizabeth,” his whispers grew soft, and she knew the end was nigh.

  She was the first to pull back her head until she met his eyes again. His arms still around her, she hesitated little, before pressing her lips against his.

  He welcomed her kiss immediately, hands wandering to her jaw and hip. She reciprocated every caress as she pushed up on her tiptoes. The top of his tongue grazed her lips, and she opened them immediately. With only the darkening trees as their walls, their embrace could not grow quite as heated as their encounter in Brigham Park's library – but the sorrow and the pain made this one no less memorable and keen.

  It did not suffice to merely kiss him, but it was all that she could do tonight.

  • • •

  “You are – well, I suppose?” His plea sounded hollow to his own ears. His manly hands held Jane's slender one as delicately as he could, unable to render evidence of the depth of his affection.

  He had both waited and dreaded to see her all day – while chasing after her shadows. Caroline had often lamented that she had no finery suitable for her imaginary second meeting, when all eyes would admire the lovely husbands and wives as they confirmed their passionate love for one another. Bingley had braced himself to encounter a dazzling Mrs. Jane Darcy adorning his best friend's arm. He had planned for the jealousy and admiration and pain.

  He had not planned to behold the withering frame he now watched with care.

  “Jane,” he whispered, hoping at least that any who overheard would attribute their familiarity to their familial bond, “please – answer me. Are you well?”

  Her face, pale as alabaster, held no color today – and her lips nearly matched the pale blue of her gown.

  “Jane.”

  “Charles,” she whispered, words shaky, before lifting her clearly drooping eyelids. She held his hands with both her own. “Charles.”

  “Jane,” he said again, all other words failing. The coldness of her palms offered him no comfort. “Jane – you are ill.”

  “Only slightly.” Her weak smile denied her own words. The way she clung on to his hands was feeble and raw. “Are you well?”

  Her concern, so softly proffered, tore at his heart. He had always admired the ladies quite easily and freely before – and thus had never begrudged the system. Surely, any lady brought to him at the exchange would win his heart most thoroughly.

  He had been right on that score – though mistaken about what followed.

  “Shall we really proceed?” Bingley's voice cracked, shaky and uneven. “Shall we succumb so willingly to the cards the gods have dealt?”

  “Charles.” Her voice carried reprimand, strong amidst her weakness. “We ought not to complain.”

  Tears assaulted his eyes as his heart split in two. Her virtue was beyond reproach, tragically so.

  “Jane!” He stood closer, nearly touching her. “We need not submit so easily. Your aunt, our matchmaker – could she not amend her pairings as she had done before?”

  “I would not dare.” A solitary tear slipped down her cheek. Oh how he longed to wipe it away!

  “Shall we allow our fears to hinder our happiness?”

  “I do not fear,” she replied, voice stronger.

  “Jane –”

  “I choose to stay.”

  “Stay? Derbyshire shall remain your home, dear Jane. I cannot fathom a life without you.”

  “You shall not have to.” Another tear escaped her just as Bingley began to note the seeming resignation in her voice. “You shall always be in my life, Charles.”

  His heart wondered whether or not to mend. Had he succeeded in convincing her at last of her aunt's influence? He himself may be to blame for so haphazardly requesting which sister be paired to which man – but surely, Mrs. Gardiner's sway with the Constable could urge the authority to consider her wisdom, if not his?

  Was the initial mismatch even a true mistake?

  Could not the rights offered to every new couple be granted to them today? Did they – helpless pawns of humans that they were – have to pay the price for Mrs. Gardiner's carelessness and wrong?

  “Say you will be, Jane,” he whispered, heart contorted to a myriad of shifting shapes.

  “I shall always remain in your life, Charles.”

  He lifted their joint hands towards his lips. So deeply did he long to seal this promise.

  “As your sister.” The tears flooded her cheeks now, undeterred. “I shall always share your every care.”

  Sister – Bingley stepped back, coldness coursing through his veins. Surely, she could not mean –

  “I cannot ruin you – ruin us.” The strength within her frailty overcame him.

  His own eyes stinging, Bingley gently dropped the hands he held.

  His two steps backwards on the wooden floor sounded as if they echoed throughout the universe. His heart, shattered, fell about him in a thousand blistering pieces. His lungs nearly refused to breath.

  “I understand,” he said simply – and looked away to face the crowds.

  • • •

  What had been a dizzy morning had fallen far too fast into an overwhelming night. It was by necessity that the meetings be held in the evenings, so that most of the town folks may bear witness. Today, of all days, Jane Bennet almost complained.

  It had taxed her greatly to prepare for tonight – to resolve that she would see through her marriage with Mr. Darcy, that her sister may have the better man. If the confirmation had been slated for the morning, she would at least have had the rest of the day – and the rest of her life – to mourn. As it was, the event had to be conducted at night, thereby providing her with plenty of hours to worry, fret, and falter.

  “I understand,” was Mr. Bingley's harsh and teary reply – and she thanked God that he had not seen her face then.

  Her resolve had all but disappeared already.

  A sniff escaped her as she stumbled slightly. Mr. Bingley, ever the gentleman, righted her fall – though without sparing her another glance. She closed her eyes as the reality she had chosen came crashing over her in all its weight.

  She would see Elizabeth happy – she would always choose to see Elizabeth happy. If she had agreed to Charles' request, she would be jeopardizing the happiness of the one person she had cared for since the day she had been born. To suggest that the brides be switched again would be to condemn Elizabeth to a life with the dour, unfeeling Mr. Darcy. She, frankly, could never bring herself to such cruelty, especially against the sister she most knew and loved.

  A rustling began in the far end of the room – couples parting and moving, though never from each other. Her increasingly blurry vision yielded little detail, but even the humming in her ears could not mute the voice she recognized so well.

  “Shall we ready ourselves, most lovely people!” Aunt Gardiner's soprano rang loud and clear. “Gather with your matchmakers, please – and take your stands by the candles.”

  Bustling, chattering, giggling couples all glided to their respective positions. She – alone and ironically accompanied – remained in her place.

  “Jane, my dear! How are you?” Aunt Gardiner, glistening in her best matchmaking garb, approached her then.

  It was horrific trying not to cry, and her aunt's matronly hands on her shoulders aided her effort little.

  “Aunt Gardiner –” The plea came, though its contents would not.

  What was she to say, after all? How could she inform her most beloved aunt of how she had done so well – and then so badly?

  The only comfort, if there was any, was a grander chance at Elizabeth's joy.

  “Aunt Gardine
r.” Jane lowered herself to hug her aunt, arms clinging desperately against the older lady's shoulders. Her tears fell against the draper's best fabrics, and she wondered if the busy matchmaker noticed at all.

  “Now, now, dear – it is quite normal to feel a rush of sentiments.” She felt Aunt Gardiner's generous pats on her back before they parted. “I must say my nieces make the most handsome wives.”

  Being the sole niece present at the moment only served to choke Jane's words even further. The room, stuffy before, now felt suffocating.

  “Aunt Gardiner –”

  “Where is Elizabeth?” There was a keenness in the lady's eyes – a sharp observation of something that Jane knew herself to be missing. “Mr. Bingley is present – what of her?”

  It was quite fortunate that Charles decided to abandon his short-lived coldness then.

  “I am afraid she is sharing a private audience – with Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Bingley swallowed loud enough for the sound to pierce her whirling senses. “Is something the matter?”

  “The matter? Why, yes, of course –” Aunt Gardiner stopped short, as if thinking whether she should proceed. Her next words escaped her slowly. “Surely, every couple longs to confirm their heartfelt vows and cannot bear to be apart. Is that right – Mr. Bingley?”

  Jane stepped back and looked away. She could not bear, could not brave the reality of hearing –

  “I am sure any vows – if heartfelt – would be amorously spoken.” His words surprised her. Her perception blurred, then clarified, then blurred again. “It all depends on the speaker, Mrs. Gardiner.”

  “I am not sure I understand what you mean, sir.”

  “I am sure that you do – completely.”

  The uncommon courage in Charles' words lifted Jane's spirit unexpectedly. She felt joy, pride in his words. He was kind, yet firm; wise, yet courteous. A man of such caliber was a treasure to keep. Could she truly allow him not to find his heart's desire? Could she be permitted such selfish thoughts – admitting at last that the desires of the man she loved proved a higher calling?

  “Aunt Gardiner,” Jane began.

  “Aunt Gardiner.” A panting Elizabeth appeared – a grouchy Mr. Darcy in tow. “I'm sorry. Time eluded me, I –”