Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  “I have good news,” he ventured again a moment later. “We are invited to supper and cards at the Wilkinsons’ next week.”

  Chapter 8

  On those occasions when he did come to her bed, George was not the attentive, careful lover he had been during their stay in Hertfordshire. Elizabeth suspected this was because she was no longer an object of conquest. She also suspected it was because familiarity had made her more or less impervious to his charms, and thus she received his attentions less enthusiastically now than prior to their moving to Castle Street.

  He grumbled that she put him off more than she accommodated him, but she could not help it, nor did she particularly wish to. Marital intimacies resulted in children, and although she had once anticipated the possibility with excitement, she now dreaded the thought. Jane’s physician insisted on plenty of red meat, strong wine and little exertion, and while Bingley was happily and fretfully pampering his wife and fulfilling the doctor’s every order, Elizabeth knew she could expect nothing of the sort should she find herself in the same condition. George was not the pampering type except when he himself was the object. In addition, Castle Street was no place for an infant. It had been unbearably hot all summer, and now that the weather had turned, the flat revealed itself to be full of drafts and impossible to keep warm.

  In the early days in London, before the shame of unpaid bills kept her away, Elizabeth had spoken with the wife of the apothecary around the corner, asking in halting sentences more full of suggestion than substance, how to prevent a pregnancy. The woman’s blunt advice: “Do it standin’ so when ’e’s done it ain’t got nowhere to go but out. If ’e don’ like it like that, get up as quick as ye can afterward to get rid of it. If ye come up late and ye’re needin’ somethin’ to get normal again, come back and I’ve somethin’ I can give ye. But mind, it ain’t cheap.” Elizabeth had been embarrassed and horrified but religiously followed that second piece of advice, always being careful to get up immediately afterwards, praying earnestly that no child would result. So far, it had been enough.

  So, after a mere six months of marriage, the spark of passion was past recovery. His attempts at seduction were sporadic, his performance perfunctory at best; he took his pleasure as he took his meals: quickly and hungrily. Elizabeth made excuses when it was possible and submitted when it was not, but she found little enjoyment in their intimacies with one guilty exception

  It happened the night of the Wilkinson party.

  It was a busy week. Jane and Bingley planned to attend; indeed, it appeared that most of London would be there. There was much to be done to prepare for the party, so Elizabeth walked to Jane’s townhouse nearly every morning. The chance to chat, to laugh, and to share tea and cakes as they reworked one of her old gowns invigorated her, making her realise how she had isolated herself those past months.

  “I did not realise you had grown so thin, Lizzy.” Jane turned her this way and that in front of the mirror, pinching and gathering the excess fabric at her waist and bosom. “Why it has been barely a year since the Netherfield Ball, and this gown practically swallows you whole.”

  “That is only because you have grown so fat; everything else looks small by comparison.” Elizabeth tenderly patted Jane’s expanding midriff.

  “Do you think so?” Jane looked down at her stomach, genuinely dismayed.

  “Oh, dear Jane.” Elizabeth felt the laughter bubbling up inside of her, and it felt so good to let it out as she affectionately enclosed her sister in her arms. How long had it been since she had laughed? How long had it been since she felt so at ease, so like herself?

  Not to be distracted, Jane wriggled from her grasp, leaned forward to examine Elizabeth’s face more closely, and then pointed sternly to the tea tray. “Have another slice of cake,” she commanded, before calling to the maid for meat and bread as well.

  So Elizabeth ate her fill of cake, drank countless cups of tea, warmed her feet by the generous fires, and found that she actually looked forward to the upcoming evening. Whatever he was at home, George was a handsome man and always charming in company. The prospects for an enjoyable evening were favourable.

  So determined was she to enjoy herself on the night in question, Elizabeth would allow nothing to ruin her mood. Yes, George had kept her, Jane, and Bingley waiting for an hour, and yes, he appeared at their door wearing a brand new coat—excusing his tardiness by blaming the tailor’s incompetence—while she made do with a reworked dress and borrowed gloves, but she decided to look at it philosophically. She would be miserable for many days and years in her life; therefore, she would not jeopardise this rare chance at a pleasurable evening by succumbing to petulance. Tomorrow was another day on Castle Street; she could be angry and hurt then. So she finished her wine, accepted the arm he offered so gallantly and allowed him to help her into Bingley’s coach.

  Looking back on it, most of the details of that night blurred in her memory. The bright, overheated rooms were nearly bursting at the seams with people. George was especially handsome, charming, and witty. Richly clad guests ebbed and flowed around them in a river of silk, satin, and lace. Gems sparkled, chandeliers glowed, and conversation and laughter filled every nook and cranny. She enjoyed every minute of it, remembering the days when such gatherings, though none as grand as this one, were a regular part of her life. She laughed, she smiled, she danced, and she felt once again like the pretty Miss Bennet of days past. When at length, George begged leave to join the men in the library, she smilingly agreed and sought out Jane who, hoping to draw her sister out into society, was eager to introduce her around.

  “…and this,” Jane said, presenting her to yet another acquaintance, “is Miss Georgiana Darcy. Miss Darcy”—she turned to the young woman—“my sister Mrs Wickham.”

  It was difficult to tell who was the more startled at hearing the other’s name—Miss Darcy’s eyes darted back and forth nervously; Elizabeth’s heart inexplicably pounded in her ears—but each quickly recovered her presence of mind as they exchanged curtseys and greetings.

  “Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth, being the first to recover the power of speech, greeted her.

  “Mrs…Mrs Wickham,” Georgiana managed, “I…I am delighted to at last make your acquaintance.”

  “Are you?” Elizabeth asked in surprise.

  “Mrs Bingley is a great friend,” Miss Darcy hastened to explain. “She speaks of you often.”

  “And I am certain she is a great deal too kind when she does. I hope I do not disappoint you terribly when you discover that I bear as little resemblance to my sister in character as I do in looks. I believe she claimed nearly the full measure of sweetness and gentleness granted to our family, and I am afraid there was very little left for me.”

  “How amusing it is to hear you say that.” Miss Darcy smiled. “My brother tells me something similar. He always teases that he willingly bypassed his share of kindness and affection so that I might have it all. He says it is because I can put it to better use than he.”

  The ladies shared a quiet laugh, but the discovery that there was such a similarity of feelings between her and Mr Darcy unsettled Elizabeth.

  “Both of them like to tease,” Jane joined in, “but I am sure that Mr Darcy is as kind and affectionate a brother as Elizabeth is a sweet and gentle sister.”

  “Oh, he is,” Miss Darcy agreed, “very much so. I am blessed to have him.” And then she did a strange thing. She reached out to touch Elizabeth’s hand softly.

  “We must hold on to our blessings. We must trust in the faith of those who know us best, not forgetting them or what they know us to be, despite what others might have us believe about ourselves.” She gave Elizabeth a look that showed maturity beyond her years—a look of compassion and understanding. A look slightly tinged with pity.

  * * *

  Darcy froze in the doorway, his heart in his throat. He had braced himself to encounter Wickham, but Elizabeth… For some reason he had not thought Wickham would bring his wife, an
d the sight of her hit him unexpectedly hard. But it was no matter, he reminded himself; she meant nothing to him. He watched her as she stood smiling and laughing beside Mrs Bingley and several other ladies. Her eyes glittered with that familiar gleam of light-hearted mischief, and his mouth twitched involuntarily in response. Nothing. She is nothing to me. He looked behind him at the men’s tables where Wickham was engrossed in his game, throwing money into the pot with abandon. He turned back to look for signs of disillusionment on his wife’s part, prepared to find satisfaction at the sight, when he noticed his sister among the group of conversing ladies.

  A brief panic overcame him. He had only agreed to let Georgiana attend the party after repeated assurances that she was quite past any feelings of distress over George Wickham and would be perfectly fine even if she should see him. She had added excitedly that her dear friends the Franklins were sure to be there, and she was determined to introduce them at last. He crossed the room, telling himself that, although his sister appeared to be perfectly composed and comfortable, she must feel some distress at being so close to Wickham’s wife. Before he reached them, however, they were approached by a young man. He paused, watching as Georgiana performed the introductions and, after a few moments of conversation, allowed the man to escort her to the refreshment table. Was this the Mr Robert Franklin he had heard so much about? But the thought was fleeting because suddenly he was standing before Elizabeth, and of the hundreds of things he wanted to say, of all the questions he wanted to ask, only one was appropriate.

  “Mrs Wickham.” He bowed stiffly. “I hope you are well?”

  “Mr Darcy,” she gasped. “I am well, thank you, but it appears that I am destined to be surprised by Darcys this evening.”

  “Then forgive me for startling you.” She nodded, and they stood awkwardly in silence. “I saw you speaking to my sister just now,” he at last ventured. “Am I to understand that, as a Darcy, you found her surprising, too?”

  “I did, I confess, but very pleasantly so.” Elizabeth smiled. “In fact, I found her delightful.”

  “And that surprises you?”

  “Perhaps,” was all she replied, but her eyes twinkled as she took a drink from the glass she held.

  “I see.” He sniffed. “That can only mean, of course, that you expected her to be a copy of me, whom you do not find delightful.”

  “I think I must have,” she admitted. “After all, you are all I know of the Darcy family.”

  “Well, perhaps now your frankness surprises me. You might at least have pretended to disagree with my assessment.”

  She looked at him archly. “You have accused me, on at least one occasion, of professing opinions that are not my own. I have to wonder how you can be certain I am not doing so at this very moment.”

  A picture flashed through his mind: Elizabeth sitting at the pianoforte next to his cousin; he approached them, she teased, and then he had made that very accusation. In hindsight, he understood; that was the moment he knew his initial attraction to Miss Bennet had become something deeper and stronger. No matter what might have happened afterwards, he could still recall the rush of relief that arose within him when he had at last admitted those feelings to himself. He remembered the almost giddy expectation of happiness he anticipated once he could declare those feelings. The recollection was so strong and present, he could not help but smile. “As I told you then, I am not afraid of you.”

  “Nor should you be. My opinions can be of little interest or import to you now.”

  “On the contrary. In fact, I would beg you to clarify one thing in particular. Am I now to infer that you did not find my sister delightful after all?”

  “You may. But knowing your sister as you do, you might just as easily infer the opposite.”

  “Mrs Wickham, I—” He stopped, smiled, and shook his head. She was obviously teasing him, just like at Rosings. Against his will, his heart jumped, but then, remembering her hollow offer of friendship at Bingley’s wedding, he wondered about her motives. Yes, she was teasing; what he did not know was her purpose in doing so. Were her kind words about Georgiana a way of letting him know that she had kept his secret safe? Or was he, as before, wanting to see something that was not there? Needing to regain control, he held her gaze steadily, searching her eyes for a hint of either mischief or understanding until she faltered and looked away.

  That was better.

  “We are quite different,” he said carefully after a pregnant silence, “Georgiana and I. I hate to think that anyone’s poor opinion of me would colour their estimation of my sister’s worth.”

  She stared at him incredulously for a moment before bursting into laughter.

  “Far be it from me to judge a person’s worth on the basis of the behaviour of his or her family!”

  “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “You did, but I am indisposed to hold grudges tonight, so I shall venture to say in all frankness that I found Miss Darcy to be a pleasant and very handsome young woman. I shall go even further to say that, despite your efforts to minimise it, I find the family resemblance quite striking.”

  He wished he possessed the easy humour of his cousin Fitzwilliam, so he could cleverly remark upon her inadvertent admission that she found him pleasant and handsome as well, but he did not. Instead, he was forced to simply smile and nod. Then reflect. Then carefully study her face once more. Was it an inadvertent admission? How could it be? This was no young girl beside him, flattered and blinded by a man’s attentions and grown incautious in the heady atmosphere of her first night out, nor had he ever known her to speak carelessly, however pointed her observations might be. This was a woman who looked at him with challenge in her eyes, fully aware of her words and the impression they conveyed. He wanted to ask what she meant, but the question was ludicrous.

  “How do you like London?” was what came out instead when he managed to tear his eyes from hers.

  “Not at all.” Her good humour diminished slightly. “Tonight excepted, I have found the society in town to be infinitely more confined and unvarying than any to be found in Hertfordshire.”

  “I suppose it is to be expected that you would not be much out in company when one is newly…” He bit back the word. “New. That is, when one is new in town.”

  “True, true,” she said absently. “I suppose I do not much like being…new.” Taking a sip of her wine, she added, “In town. Town life…is not at all what I expected.”

  She sighed, giving him the strong impression that she was saying less than she meant, meaning more than she said.

  “It seems to suit you,” he blundered forward. “You look very well.”

  “Mr Darcy, you once declared that you could not abide disguise of any sort. Why should you abandon that principle now for the sake of offering empty flattery?”

  Something came over him, something akin to the giddiness he had felt that day at Rosings. “On the day of your sister’s wedding you offered me your hand in friendship,” he said impulsively. “I was regrettably prevented from accepting it, but I ask you — was the offer sincere?”

  She stared at him, confusion in her eyes.

  “It was.”

  “Will you offer it again?”

  Wordlessly she held out her hand.

  A feeling almost electrical travelled up his arm as he took it, and he needed a deep breath to calm himself.

  “Then please, as a friend, do me the courtesy of believing me when I tell you that you look very well indeed. You are, in fact, quite beautiful.”

  She stared at him then dropped her eyes to their two hands touching.

  “I am not what I was.”

  “No,” he said huskily, bringing her hand to his mouth. “You are more. Much more.”

  * * *

  Mr Darcy dropped her hand, only letting go when her fingers slowly slid from his. He bowed, excused himself, and left her standing in a daze. She stared after him, not knowing what to think—not daring to think. At length, she noticed
George impatiently gesturing to her from across the room. He had at last ventured out of the card room, and Lord and Lady Smythe-Hamilton were desirous of making her acquaintance. After the introductions, she was forced to spend the rest of the evening in their tedious company. His lordship was full of the bluster and pomposity typical of his position and breeding, and her ladyship was a flighty young thing, used to being spoiled and petted by an older man foolish enough to think his was a marriage of affection rather than avarice. The men drank while the women forced stilted conversation. Elizabeth soon noted that her ladyship kept looking at her oddly, as if she were an unusual specimen in a jar, sometimes with a knowing smirk. At length, she came to the conclusion that it was her dress. The simple lines and fabric, not to mention the threadbare spots that could be seen if one looked carefully enough, stood in stark contrast to Lady Smythe-Hamilton’s handsome gown of deep blue velvet and lace. George’s eyes darted across the table regularly from one to the other.

  I do not measure up, she thought suddenly when she caught him looking their way again. He compares the two of us, and I am found lacking. He thinks I should be like her — plump and spoiled and flirtatious, silly and laughing at everything he says, but whose fault is it that I am not? I do not choose to be thin and cold and humourless. Remembering Mr Darcy’s parting words, the thought that her husband felt so differently fully depressed her, and she turned around in her chair to watch the other guests. She was finished playing the dutiful wife, abandoning Lady Smythe-Hamilton to either stare in judgement at her back or content herself with giggling at the conversation of the gentlemen.

  Chapter 9

  They did not speak at all on the way home, even after Jane and Bingley were let off at their door and her brother’s carriage brought them the rest of the way to Castle Street in solitude. Once there, Elizabeth rushed in, wasting no time before undressing and crawling into bed to find some warmth. The contrast was too great to bear. Even an out-of-date, threadbare and reworked gown was out of place here. George did not follow her immediately, and she held out hope that he would go out, visiting the tavern next door, as he often did, and not coming home until she was safely asleep. But just as the chill of the bedsheets lost some of its sharpness, she heard his footsteps in the stairwell and then into the bedroom. He undressed slowly, taking care to hang his new coat just so, fold his breeches precisely, and wipe the dust and mud from his shoes before putting them away. She watched him perform these tasks disinterestedly but noticed his lips were pressed tightly together. He was angry. She could not find it within her to care.