The Darcy Effect: a Bridget Jones/P and P Fic, Day 3: Until this moment I never knew myself

[eggsbenni221]

The Darcy Effect: a Bridget Jones/Pride and Prejudice Fic
by Eggsbenni221
Rating: T
Summary: see Prologue

Author's Note: while talking with a friend, I realized that Mark keeping his surname under these conditions would lead to a lot of unnecessary, though amusing confusion, and because said friend and I have often joked about the fun of having Colin Firth make an appearance on Downton Abbey--well, the inspiration for the name will become clear shortly. I'm really not sure about any of this. This has been fun, but I'm still not entirely convinced it's going to work in the end. Would love feedback!


3 December, 1802, Pemberley, Derbyshire I suppose, for the sake of continuity, I should resume my story at the point at which I abruptly broke off yesterday. Following The Doctor’s conversation with Darcy and Elizabeth, Darcy and I reconvened in the library, where I presented the story I had concocted, all the while feeling extremely guilty about committing such an untruth. As long as I remain at Pemberley, I am Mr Mark Crawley, and I reside in London. According to my story, my wife and I were traveling home after paying an extended visit to some friends further north when our carriage was set upon by thieves. We managed to escape, but were apparently separated during the confusion. My conscience prickled at this deception regarding Bridget, not least because it prompted an unnecessary search, but as my first lucid inquiry upon discovering myself here concerned Bridget, I saw no means of omitting my marital status without arousing suspicion.
Darcy informed me that after Elizabeth had acquainted him with our initial conversation and my agitation about my wife’s whereabouts, he had ordered a thorough search of the surrounding area, though with little hope of discovering any satisfactory information, as I well knew. I could only apologize profusely for what I knew would ultimately prove a futile search, knowing that my own anxiety about my current situation must pale in comparison to what Bridget is currently experiencing. If, as I seem to recall, I met with an accident on the way to chambers, Bridget and the children must, thank Heaven, be safe. Yet as far as Bridget knows, I might be dead-or very nearly so. I’ve endeavored to suppress the gruesome images of cold, sterile emergency rooms, harsh lighting, and stone-faced medical attendants such thoughts conjure-with a terrified Bridget in the midst of it all. Dwelling on such things will serve no purpose in transporting me home, and I am wild to be at home-to hear, to see, to be on the spot. (Odd; where have I heard that sentiment expressed before in such words?). God, what have I done? How can I have allowed this to happen, and with Christmas approaching? I’ve promised Mabel I’d help her with her letter to Father Christmas; how I wish now I hadn’t put it off.
Darcy and Elizabeth have generously extended an invitation to me to remain at Pemberley while the search for my wife continues; given my apparent distress, they have expressed concern about my ability to bear the shock of any unpleasant tidings. (Really. I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense; all of this “delicate nerves” business is becoming quite emasculating. I must make more of an effort to appear normal). Since my residence at Pemberley is expected to be of some duration, I’ve been invited to join the company whenever it suits my inclination, though Elizabeth has assured me that, under the circumstances, I would not be thought rude if I kept to myself. I’ve determined, if my mind has, for reasons unclear to me, dreamed up this Austenian landscape, that Darcy and Elizabeth must be the piece that will solve this mysterious mental puzzle, so I would do wise to avail myself of any opportunity to spend time in their company. Therefore, once Darcy and I had concluded our conversation, I accepted Elizabeth’s invitation to join the family in the drawing-room. Introductions were quickly made; Jane and Bingley not surprisingly extended the warmest welcome to me, expressing their deepest sympathies at my current predicament and assuring me that they would, along with Darcy and Elizabeth, do all they could to see to my comfort. Bingley’s sisters regarded me with cool indifference, though I’ve since observed a gleam of man-hunting interest in the glances Caroline has frequently cast in my direction. Perhaps, my alias notwithstanding, I still manage to transmit a distinctly Darcyian aura, though I confess I can’t see what her object is; she must know I’m spoken for, though perhaps, with Darcy off limits, and no other unattached gentlemen presently in the house, she’s hit upon me as her temporary plaything, which I find exceedingly irritating. Miss Darcy greeted me shyly, but not unpleasantly, while Mr Hurst snored disagreeably on a sofa at the far end of the room, completely oblivious to my presence. It felt strange, though oddly thrilling, to be introduced to some of English Literature’s most beloved characters. (Bridget, you would be interested, and perhaps disappointed, to discover that Mr Darcy bears no resemblance to Colin Firth that I can discern, though perhaps, as this has all been conjured by me, I’m actively resisting that particular incarnation).
Much of yesterday passed as pleasantly and uneventfully as I could have expected. I remained, for the most part, a silent observer of the scene around me, not wishing to intrude more than necessary on the company, and truthfully having very little inclination to converse with any of them. I find Miss Bingley’s attentions to me particularly exhausting; for most of yesterday evening, she sat resolutely beside me, except when she chose to take a vigorous turn about the room, most likely under the impression that her figure would appear to best advantage in such exercise. Given the sidelong glances I received from her in this pursuit of amusement, I can think of no other explanation. Her scheming begins to remind me so pointedly of Natasha that I’ve resolved to spend as little time in her company as I can afford without ignoring my hosts.
Speaking of my hosts, it would appear that all is not perfect at Pemberley; in the presence of their guests, Darcy and Elizabeth present a united front, but I’ve frequently observed Darcy gazing steadily at his wife from across the room, his face registering a mix of frustration and anxiety. When he speaks to her, his voice resonates with a commanding authority born less of his innate pride and more from his obvious concern for Elizabeth-a concern that, touching though it is, a woman of such strong will like Elizabeth must find stifling at times. I can see this clearly, despite being little acquainted with either of them. (I don’t suppose several hundred pages of text and a six-hour miniseries marathon would constitute an intimate knowledge, but Bridget would probably disagree with me on this point).

If yesterday served to ease me into this antiquated lifestyle, today has more than made up for the lack of anything eventful to report. The day began ordinarily enough; Darcy, not surprisingly, informed me that he has been unable to discover any information about the whereabouts of my wife. I spent a not unpleasant morning in perusing Darcy’s library, thinking with some amusement of Sharon as I ran my fingers over a copy of Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women.

The trouble began when everyone adjourned to the drawing-room, where Caroline Bingley took up what I assume is her usual pastime of antagonizing Elizabeth.
“Tell me, Mrs Darcy, have you heard anything of dear Mr and Mrs Wickham lately?” A muscle in Darcy’s jaw twitched, and Elizabeth, who stood pouring tea, turned to flash him a warning look. Wickham and Lydia are, not surprisingly, an unwelcome subject in the Darcy household, but Elizabeth, at whom Miss Bingley had chiefly aimed the retort, showed admirable self-control.
“I do not hear very regularly from my sister,” she replied.
“Far less regularly than my own dear brother does, so I am told,” said Caroline, her lip curling in obvious distaste. “Really, Charles; you and Jane have such patience as is really quite astonishing. Commendable perhaps, but astonishing.”
Bingley only shrugged. “Sometimes, Caroline, it is far easier to diffuse family discord than to perpetuate it,” he said.
“But how, Bingley, shall they ever learn to survive on their own?” demanded Darcy. “That is the material point. I do not,” he added, looking to Caroline, “approve of you speaking to my wife in that disdainful tone, but I cannot entirely disagree with your observations, though I believe they are meant less as concern for your brother than contempt toward Elizabeth.”
Jane, dove-like as ever in her apparent role as family peacekeeper, turned to Miss Darcy with a smile. “Will you not play for us, Georgiana? I think we could do with a diversion.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Caroline. “For I never heard anyone play so well, and,” she continued, looking pointedly at me, “Mr Crawley must be in want of some amusement. Play something jolly, Georgiana; do, for Mr Crawley’s sake.” Again, she graced me with what she undoubtedly thought her most charming smile. Next she would be inquiring if I had an inclination to dance a reel.
“I appreciate your concern for my comfort and amusement, Miss Bingley, “I said. “But you will forgive me if I do not share your levity under the present circumstances.” Then, to diffuse the tension building in the room, I smiled at Georgiana. “I do, however, have it on excellent authority that you play quite beautifully, Miss Darcy; I should very much enjoy hearing you, if it suits you, of course.” Georgiana’s cheeks turned pink, but she returned my smile, if shyly. Darcy cast me an approving nod; with what little knowledge I possess of these characters, I have obviously judged correctly that kindness to his sister is a sure way to place myself in his good graces. Darcy himself rose and crossed to the instrument, opening it and gesturing to Georgiana to take her place before it.
She hesitated, still clearly reluctant to perform in front of a stranger, until Darcy said softly, “You know I enjoy nothing better than hearing you play, Sister.” Georgiana’s eyes brightened at the complement, and her brother’s encouragement coaxed her into compliance. We all settled back to listen in comfortable silence, until Gregson appeared at the door.
“Pardon me, Mrs Darcy, but I wonder if I might have a word?” Brow furrowed, Elizabeth rose and went to the door to converse quietly with him, Darcy following in her wake. I overheard snatches of the conversation and gathered that the mother of one of the servants, who lives in a near-by cottage on the estate, has been dangerously ill; the maid in question has been tending her, but Elizabeth, who occasionally visits to relieve her, has been missed these last few days.
“Of course, Gregson,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Rachel must be quite fatigued with her watch; certainly I will go.”
Darcy laid a hand on his wife’s arm. “Elizabeth, I would rather you did not. We can send Georgiana, or perhaps Jane will go for us.”
Elizabeth endeavored to smile reassuringly, but her eyes expressed irritation. “I must go, Fitzwilliam. It is my responsibility, and it is not far; I shall ask Jane to accompany me, if you wish, but I will certainly go. Rachel’s mother does not know Jane; it would be better for her to see a familiar face. The walk to the cottage is not far, and I feel quite in need of exercise.”
Darcy frowned. “Nevertheless, I would prefer that you remain here. You must not tire yourself unnecessarily. However well you might feel, you must not run the risk of being negligent of your health.”
“I believe I, not you, must be the best judge of that,” Elizabeth replied coolly. Darcy sighed and raked a hand through his hair; I recognized the signs of frustration and endeavored to suppress a smile of understanding. We little know what we get ourselves into when we marry these independent, strong-willed women.
“Lizzie,” he said gently, “Do not misunderstand me. I only wish to ensure-“
“I am not a child, Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth exclaimed, cutting across his protest.
Reflecting now on what happened next, I suppose something in Elizabeth’s words, and the tone of their declaration, triggered the reaction that set events in motion. As I listened to the argument, a rush of sounds and images, much like that which had flooded my brain during my conference with the doctor, suddenly swept over me, and I began to tremble. Murmuring a hasty apology to the others, I hurried to leave the room, only dimly registering that Darcy and Elizabeth paused in their dispute to observe my exit. In the hall, I fell to my knees, cradling my head in my hands as I fought the wave of dizzying nausea that threatened to consume me and endeavored to unravel the blur of impressions on my mind. I knew, the moment I closed my eyes and gave into the vision, that I was reliving the argument I had had with Bridget the night before the accident.
----------
It had been a long, exhausting day consisting largely of filing briefs in an endeavor to catch up on paperwork before the approach of the holiday, since I’d been contemplating clearing my schedule for the week before and the week after Christmas to spend more time with Bridget and the children. After the usual rituals of supper, completing homework, bathing, and bedtime stories, I leaned back on the sofa with a well-deserved glass of wine and hoped I wouldn’t fall asleep before Bridget and I could enjoy a few moments of quiet conversation. Bridget entered a moment later and perched on the arm of the sofa. She took a slow sip of her own wine before reaching to rub away the knots of tension in my shoulders.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such a tiring day,” she murmured.
I shrugged. “It will be worth it, if I can manage to clear my schedule for the last two weeks of December. I can’t remember when I last took so much time off at Christmas.”
“I don’t think you ever have,” said Bridget. “Or not for ages, anyway; not since the children have been born, at least.”
“I know, and I really ought to make more of an effort to be home when I can. They’re only going to be children for so long.”
Bridget smiled. “You’re not a neglectful father, Mark; you’re far more available than a lot of parents.”
“That’s true, I suppose. Thank you for reminding me.”
Bridget squeezed my hand; then her expression changed. She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip, and I recognized the symptom; endeavoring to keep my own countenance neutral, I braced myself for the bombshell she was about to drop on my moment of quiet.
“Mark, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, and since you mentioned work, well-“ She paused, then said abruptly. “I want to go back to full-time work.”
I blinked; surely I had misheard her. “Bridget, you… what?”
“I want to go back to work, full-time,” she repeated more slowly.
Steadying myself with a generous swallow of wine, I turned to face her. “Why-what brought this about?”
“I’ve been offered a really great opportunity; Cinnamon’s come up with an idea for a new program about up-and-coming contemporary writers-showcasing their work, giving them a bit of an edge-you know, since with all of this e-publishing changing the landscape of the book market, it’s hard to separate the amateurs from the serious writers, and they want to give the serious ones a voice in the market.”
I sighed. “Bridget, if there’s a point, please come to it sooner rather than later.”
“They’ve asked me to produce it.”
I stared at her in what I realize now was probably unflattering disbelief. Disjointed thoughts raced through my mind; on the one hand, this was quite a career plumb, particularly for a woman who had left full-time work nearly a decade ago to raise her family; on the other, this would mean an increased workload, the domestic implications of which I wasn’t sure Bridget had entirely considered. Much to my shame, my proud, supportive husband instinct-the part of me that wanted to sweep her up in my arms and kiss her-was no match for the tired, over-worked husband-father streak, which, I admit, tends to surface conveniently whenever I want to avoid stressful conversations.
“Bridget,” I said finally, “You can’t be serious.”
Bridget folded her arms and glared at me. “What kind of response is that?” she demanded. “I thought you’d be pleased, Mark. You have to realize what an incredible opportunity this is for me.”
“It’s rather inconvenient, isn’t it,” I protested, “to tell me that just when I’m trying to work less, you want to work more?”
“And it’s a crime to want to contribute more to my family, not to mention do something I love-something that gets me out of the house and gives me an independent identity?”
“It’s not that I don’t see your point,” I said wearily. “I just don’t think you’ve considered the pros and cons, or, rather, the cons, because you seem quite caught up in the pros.”
“Name one con,” Bridget shot back.
“Less time with the children, for one,” I pointed out. “I’ve never begrudged you your work, Bridget. I know how important it is for you to maintain a sense of self beyond being a wife and a mother, but also consider how fortunate we are; I earn enough-“
“Precisely! You earn enough,” Bridget interrupted, jabbing an accusing finger in my direction for emphasis.
“I earn enough,” I continued resolutely, “to allow you to have a more flexible schedule, which means more time to devote to the children, not to mention, more time for us.”
“It wouldn’t be a crime to have a nanny in, even a few times a week, just to balance things out,” argued Bridget. “Practically every upper-class London household has one.”
“You talk about them like they’re pieces of furniture, Bridget. They’re strangers-strangers raising my children.”
“You talk about it as if I’m disappearing indefinitely, Mark. It’s a bloody day job.”
“It’s completely counterproductive to the work/domestic balance I’m trying to create here, Bridget.”
“I’m not going to live on mars, Mark-or travel to war-torn countries and practically get myself killed, for that matter. Think about what that potentially does to your family, if you want to talk about absentee parents!”
I slammed my empty wine glass down in frustration and stood, pacing the room to place a safe distance between Bridget and myself.
“I can’t believe,” I said through gritted teeth, “that you would hold that against me now.”
“I’m trying to place things in perspective, Mark. Don’t you see? You’re making something of nothing. Why don’t you just say what you really think? You don’t think I’m capable of balancing a full-time job with the responsibilities of caring for my family!”
I was about to respond with equal vehemence, but thought better of it; this argument had already spiraled out of control. “Bridget,” I said, dropping onto the sofa and lowering my head into my hands, “I haven’t the time or the energy to have this conversation.”
Bridget sent me an icy glare; then rose and turned to leave the room. “Fine,” she replied. “But this isn’t over, Mark.”
----------
When I opened my eyes, I found Elizabeth bending over me, a hand resting on my shoulder as she studied my face intently. Darcy stood behind her, looking equally troubled.
“Mr Crawley,” murmured Elizabeth, “Are you all right?”
I sat up gingerly, scrubbing my hands over my face.
“I-I believe so, yes.”
Darcy offered me a hand, and I managed to stand. “You will excuse me, Mr Crawley, but you do not look at all well. May we not summon a doctor?”
I shook my head. “Thank you; it is only a rather violent headache. It came on quite suddenly. I will be fine.”
Elizabeth looked unconvinced. “You are quite certain?” she asked, laying a hand on my arm.
“Forgive me, Mrs Darcy,” I said, smiling as reassuringly as I could. “I did not mean to alarm you. Would either of you object to my taking some fresh air?”
“Not at all,” replied Darcy. “You will be most welcome, though Pemberley’s grounds can offer little in the way of picturesque pleasures at the moment, I am afraid, unless you delight in wintery fields and frozen lakes.”
I smiled. “I have been longing for a chance to see the estate, actually; I have heard much of Pemberley.”
Darcy nodded. “Of course. Bingley and I would be happy to accompany you, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I would prefer to be alone, you understand; fresh air and quiet is all I require.”
Darcy seemed to hesitate, likely fearing I might collapse again; discerning that I was resolute, however, he acquiesced. “Certainly, sir; you are most welcome.”
I escaped in some relief, intent on clearing my mind with a walk, but decided first to record the incident that’s just transpired.

---Later---

Things seem, at last, to have begun falling into place; after writing the above, I decided to take my proposed solitary walk, hoping that the quiet and exercise might allow the congealed mess in my head to solidify itself. My steps, not surprisingly, perhaps, led me to the lake. As I stood contemplating its still, crystalline surface, I allowed my mind to replay the argument I had overheard between Darcy and Elizabeth and the memory it had dislodged from the recesses of my brain. Perhaps I was projecting, but I saw, as an outsider, the flaws in my own marriage-in my own character-laid bare through the disagreement I had witnessed: a latticework of tiny cracks that I had never before seen, because I had been too close to the situation to examine the full picture. I have often counted myself fortunate in having what I have always believed to be a stable marriage, and indeed, for the most part, I believe it is; yet clearly I’ve drawn a false sense of security from that comfort, like a well-worn jumper that has adjusted to the contours of one’s body over time and fits so well that one fails to notice the occasional pull in need of darning.
Communication, I will admit, has never ranked high amongst the marital virtues that Bridget and I have cultivated; with her verbal diuretics and my tendency to economize words with Scrooge-like frugality, I wonder that we ever manage to understand one another. I had, I reflected, witnessed a similar impasse in the attempts that Darcy and Elizabeth had made to communicate with one another; however small the issue at hand was, like all domestic disputes, the underlying trigger that had detonated their tempers was far greater. Reflecting on the situation as an objective outsider, I appreciated both positions: Darcy’s genuine concern, and Elizabeth’s frustration at being stifled. The crunching of snow under foot pulled me from my musing, and I turned to see Elizabeth approaching.
“Mr Crawley,” she said, drawing back as she observed me. “Forgive me; I did not mean to intrude upon your solitude.”
I smiled. “I fear it is I who has intruded upon yours,” I replied.
“Not at all.” Elizabeth came and stood beside me, gazing thoughtfully out at the lake. “This is one of Darcy’s favorite spots,” she explained. “I rarely visit it with him; he treats it as a sort of out-door study, and I never wish to intrude upon his privacy.”
“It is a beautiful spot,” I acknowledged. “Very peaceful. I can see why it draws your husband.”
“Sometimes,” said Elizabeth softly, “I come here alone, after we have had a disagreement. I stand here and try, just for a moment, to think as he thinks-to see the world as he sees it, because I have always found that, in knowing him better, his disposition is better understood.”
“You are a wise woman, Mrs Darcy,” I murmured. “I can see how it must frustrate you to feel so confined, even if, I confess, I can appreciate your husband’s concern for you.”
Elizabeth sighed. “It is strange; my independence and my vivacity of spirit are-“ she paused, blushing-“what attracted Darcy to me, and yet now we are married, I sometimes feel it is those very qualities that he wishes to curb.”
“I do not think,” I said thoughtfully, “that he wishes to curb them, necessarily. I rather think that he wishes to treasure those qualities, and that, perhaps, in his love for you, he fails to recognize that his overprotective nature does more to quench than to nurture them.”
“I see it is much the same with you,” Elizabeth observed. “Forgive me if I speak too boldly, but I feel your words come from your own experience.”
I nodded. “Yes.” I saw the truth in Elizabeth’s words with a glaring clarity that showed me just how foolish I’ve been. Howe can I, a modern, forward-thinking man who claims to respect my wife’s independence, begrudge her the opportunity to do something that would benefit both her family’s security and her own career? True, my concern stems from my intimate knowledge of Bridget’s tendency to overtax herself, and my pragmatism generally finds it difficult to comprehend her impulsive decision-making. I honestly think she-or we, I should say-shouldn’t make this decision lightly, and clearly she recognizes the importance of consulting me in the process, but rather than inviting her to discuss the situation openly, from both of our points of view, I leapt to the conclusion that she is being hasty and illogical, assuming she was asking my permission and promptly refusing that permission-treating her, in short, more like a child than my partner in life.
“I am sorry if I have upset you,” said Elizabeth, laying a hand on my arm.
I shook my head. “No, it was only-before I-before all of this-we-my wife and I, that is-we quarreled, over something really rather ridiculous. I realize now how foolish I have been, and I wish more than ever that I could be reconciled with her.”
“I do wish there were something more we might do for you, Mr Crawley.”
Impulsively, I reached out and took Elizabeth’s hands in my own and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You have already done more for me than you realize,” I assured her. “You have been… a great comfort to me these last few days, Mrs Darcy. You remind me very much of my Bridget.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Bridget-your wife’s name is Bridget?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. It felt good to speak her name aloud-like coming home-and I knew somehow that I had done what I came here to do.
“I think,” I said, “that I must return to London.”
Elizabeth looked surprised. “I assure you, Mr Crawley, you are most welcome to remain with us for-however long may be necessary.”
“I may be welcome,” I replied, “but I do not belong here. You and Mr Darcy have been exceedingly kind, and I can never repay you your kindness, but I must return home.”
“But your wife,” protested Elizabeth.
“I believe I know where I will find her,” I replied simply. “The Doctor was right; I was looking in all the wrong places.”
“Well, of course, we cannot insist on your remaining,” said Elizabeth, “though I do wish you would reconsider.” She shivered in the wind that rose around us, and I suggested that we return to the house. Elizabeth agreed; perceiving that the walk had left her slightly fatigued, I offered her my arm, and, much to my surprise, she didn’t refuse.
“It has been truly a pleasure getting to know you, Mrs Darcy, despite the circumstances,” I said, drawing her arm through mine.
“I agree; under more hospitable circumstances, we might all have got on rather well,” observed Elizabeth. “If your travels ever take you through Derbyshire again, you will be most welcome at Pemberley-you and your wife. I should very much like to meet Mrs Crawley.”
I smiled. “Bridget would like that, I think.”

I have spent much of the evening alone, reflecting on my conversation with Elizabeth, and I feel certain now that my time here is drawing to a close. I should, I suppose, bring this entry to a close as well; I’m feeling rather tired.