Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  After spending the better part of the night indulging in fantasies of speaking his mind to Elizabeth, withering her with his anger and eloquence, he started to think better of it as the miles passed. Why should he expose himself yet again? What would it accomplish, after all? Better to show her that she was nothing to him. By the time the two coaches reached Rosings Park, Darcy had worked himself into a state of haughty disdain. He would not seek Elizabeth out, and if he should happen to come upon her, he would send her a scathing look and go about his business. Or perhaps he would not acknowledge her at all, passing her by as if she did not exist… He would decide in the moment.

  The trouble with such a resolution, however, was that it gave an active man, alone in a large house with one nearly silent and another exceedingly vocal woman, very little to do. The decision not to seek out a confrontation had unexpected consequences when he realised that, if he wanted to avoid Lucas as well, he was effectively cut off from the stables and thus unable to ease the tedium of life at Rosings by riding. He tried to content himself with long walks on the grounds, solitary games of billiards, and extensive reading, but by the afternoon of the third day, he found himself on his way to the parsonage. Without Fitzwilliam to smooth the way, it could be an awkward affair indeed, but desperate men do desperate things, and Darcy was desperately bored. He did not fool himself regarding any other motive for the visit; he would listen eagerly for mention of Mr Collins’s cousin or Mrs Collins’s brother. As the long days and hours passed, his determination to avoid either of them was rapidly fading.

  Just as he reached Hunsford Parsonage, he nearly collided with a young man rushing out the gate.

  “Mr Darcy, is that you?” The young man stepped back in delighted surprise. “We heard you were visiting Lady Catherine, but as much as Mr Collins looked for you to call, my sister was sure you would not. Your arrival will be a happy surprise for them both!”

  “Excuse me—have we met?” Darcy asked icily, although he was fairly certain he knew exactly to whom he was speaking. Jonathan Lucas was younger, and a good deal more wholesome and friendly looking, than he had expected.

  “Oh, forgive me, sir.” Lucas hastily pulled off his cap and introduced himself. “There is no cause for you to remember. After all, it has been more than a year since you were at Lucas Lodge with Mr Bingley and his sisters, and we only met the one time.”

  “What brings you to Kent, Mr Lucas?” Let him look wholesome and friendly while answering that.

  “I am staying with my sister and brother. And, well…looking to be my own man,” he surprised Darcy by saying. “If I may be so bold, I wanted to strike out on my own. My father is of the opinion that…but, I am not the sort to enjoy an idle life, and to be blunt, even if I were, our family does not have the means to support it despite my father’s ambitions to the contrary. I would rather be busy and useful, and my new position at Rosings allows me to be both. I work in the stables, you see, and I am surprised I have not yet seen you there.”

  “So you decided to strike out on your own? Alone?”

  “Oh no! Not alone. My sister and Mr Collins have been very generous in allowing me to live with them for a time. I owe them a great deal.”

  But what did all that mean in regards to Elizabeth? Lucas seemed open and forthcoming, yet made no mention of her or the circumstances surrounding his leaving Hertfordshire.

  “I hope you had your father’s blessing as well,” he said, attempting to elicit more reaction.

  The young man blushed, giving Darcy hope that he would disclose something worth hearing.

  “No, sir, I did not, and as a matter of fact, I am even now on my way to rectify that. Charlotte has been after me to write to my father, apologising for the way I left, and I have been too stubborn to listen. But Mr Collins has been speaking to me of Christian duty and the respect I owe my parents…and I suppose it has finally sunk into this thick skull of mine.”

  “The way you left?”

  “I am sorry to say we quarrelled”—Lucas sighed—“but I have written an overdue apology and a plea for understanding.” He patted his coat pocket. “If you will excuse me, sir, I must get to the post office before Mrs Culbert locks the door.”

  Stepping back to let Lucas through, Darcy watched him disappear down the lane, wondering whether the post office was his true destination, whether he had left Elizabeth behind at the parsonage, or he was on his way to meet her somewhere else.

  * * *

  His reception by Mr Collins was everything he expected. The effusive welcome evolved into an extended expression of gratitude for his condescension and favour in honouring them with a visit, while Mrs Collins quietly offered him a seat and a cup of tea. There was no sign of Elizabeth, and for a short time, he struggled to determine the best way to introduce the subject without appearing too obvious, but as he looked across the small sitting room at his hosts, he realised he cared nothing for what they thought of him. Despite his inner protestations to the contrary, he knew he had come there for answers; therefore, he would ask the question.

  “I was in Hertfordshire recently”—he turned to Mrs Collins—“and I was surprised to learn that Mrs Wickham was not at Longbourn. I had understood that she intended to return to her family to recover from her ordeal.”

  The look exchanged between Mr and Mr Collins exactly mirrored that of Charles and Jane Bingley one week earlier, with Mr Collins visibly more agitated than his wife.

  “Sadly, we have heard nothing from Mrs Wickham,” he insisted, talking over Charlotte who appeared about to reply. “And, considering her unfortunate experiences, which could not help but adversely affect her disposition and character, it is not surprising that she understands there is no longer any true place for her in decent society and that she ought not to impose herself upon the respectable members of her family. Or her friends,” he added, with a significant glance towards Mrs Collins who sat tight-lipped over her sewing, stabbing the needle through the cloth.

  Had the runaways arrived at the parsonage, then, in search of support and shelter? It was clear that there had been a disagreement between them regarding Elizabeth, and Mr Collins’s answer seemed to imply that they had been turned away, but…

  “I met your brother at the gate.” He turned again to Charlotte. “Has he been with you long?”

  “Nearly a month,” she managed to say before her husband started explaining—completely contrary to what he had stated just minutes before—how happy he was to do his Christian duty to any member of his dear Charlotte’s family. He said more, as one could not say enough about Lady Catherine’s generosity in allowing his dear brother the privilege of shovelling the manure produced by her ladyship’s horses, but Darcy was not listening. Abruptly, in the middle of Mr Collins’s speech, he stood and declared that he would take his leave.

  * * *

  He left the parsonage as the sun set and walked in the direction of the village of Hunsford, unable to think clearly. There were too many questions, too much confusion, and too many mixed emotions. All he knew was that he must find Jonathan Lucas and somehow compel him to speak. Of everyone who knew Elizabeth or anything about her, Lucas was Darcy’s last hope. And good or bad, he had to know.

  Darcy wandered the streets, particularly those around the post office, then those further and further out, but there was no sign of Lucas. He returned to Rosings Park and, on a whim, passed by the stables. Hope kindled when he saw shafts of soft light streaming through the rough planks of the wall. Walking straight to the door, he said a quick prayer for success and threw it open. To his relief, there stood Jonathan Lucas, brushing one of Lady Catherine’s carriage horses.

  “Mr Darcy? Can I help you?” he enquired, surprised at the intrusion.

  “Where is Elizabeth Bennet Wickham?” Darcy demanded without preamble as he entered.

  “Who?” Lucas asked stupidly.

  “Do not sport with my intelligence. I know the two of you left Hertfordshire together. I know you two eloped.”


  “No, sir!” Lucas, unused to standing against the full force of will from such a personage as Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, stammered, “I told her that was what people would think, but she said it hardly mattered. And I suppose it did not matter after the way her family treated her. She was not welcome; everyone talked and stared at her—and not even behind her back. Whatever she did, their opinion and treatment of her would not have changed. I heard her mother talking to mine and…well…it was not kind. I do not blame her, of course, but when I think about my part… It did not seem like anything but a good joke at the time, but the more I think about it, the more ashamed I am of what I have put my family through. That is why I sent the letter to — ”

  “Mr Lucas, explain yourself. Was there an elopement or no?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You are not together?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why run away? Why sneak off in the middle of the night?”

  “I…” He looked distressed. “I wanted to leave, to be my own man, but my father refused to let me. Lizzy…well, like I said, she had to leave, but it just would not be safe for her to travel alone, you see, and I had just quarrelled with my father…so she offered to pay me to be her travelling companion — you see, a business arrangement.”

  “But when you arrived, she was not welcomed here either?”

  Lucas tried to deflect the question by turning his attention back to the horse.

  “If she is not here, and you are not together, where has she gone?” Darcy pressed.

  “Mr Darcy, I promised…”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You, like everyone else, are bound to keep her confidence. But I have had enough of those promises. I shall not be denied. You will tell me where Mrs Wickham is, or I shall go to Lady Catherine and make sure your employment here is of short duration.”

  “Oh, please, sir, no,” the young man pleaded.

  “There is no need for that.”

  “Charlotte?” Jonathan Lucas looked past Darcy to the woman standing in the stable door.

  Mrs Collins ignored her brother and turned to Darcy.

  “I know where Elizabeth is.”

  “Were you not sworn to secrecy?” he could not help but ask.

  “I was, but one must be practical. My friend wrote to me begging for my help, and despite my husband’s opposition, I did what I could for her. I found her a house and helped her to get established, but I wonder if I might do her a greater service by revealing her secret.”

  “Charlotte! No!” Lucas gasped.

  “Mr Darcy,” she ignored her brother, “last year, you declared your feelings for her, and even before that, I saw your admiration. If I am not mistaken, I see it still.”

  Darcy tried to meet her gaze with a cold stare, but found he could not. As much as he tried to hold onto his anger and disgust, the moment he learned that Elizabeth had not run off with Lucas, his motives for seeking her out had changed. He nodded.

  “Elizabeth is in Griggsdon,” Charlotte said. “She is called Mrs Bishop, and she lives in a small house on the corner of Turnbow and South streets.”

  Griggsdon? His heart leapt. He knew that village. It was not eight miles from Rosings Park. He leaned against the stable wall, closing his eyes in relief.

  “But Mr Darcy…”

  He opened them to face her serious expression.

  “I can see that you very much want to find her, but please do not go to her if you will only disturb her peace. After everything she has been through, she deserves better than that.”

  * * *

  For all his single-minded pursuit of information the night before, Charlotte Collins’s parting words echoed in Darcy’s mind all the next day, effectively paralysing him. He could think of nothing else but that Elizabeth was less than ten miles away, yet every time he made a move to go to her, doubts crept in and made him sit back down. Lady Catherine watched him with a curious eye.

  “You are out of sorts today, Darcy,” she announced just after noon.

  “Not at all,” he said, trying to appear unruffled.

  “But of course you are. And I know why. You have seen all your friends marry this past year—and your sister—and you realise you are the only bachelor left. It is time, Darcy. Time for you to fulfil the wishes of your family, and—”

  “If you will excuse me.” Darcy stood abruptly, interrupting her ladyship before she could reach the inevitable conclusion and leaving the room before she could recover from the shock. When he walked out the door, he had no doubt about where he was going.

  * * *

  Elizabeth took the kettle from the fire and filled the teapot with steaming water. It was still early enough in the spring that the small fire gave off a comforting warmth, and she sat down in her overstuffed chair, tucked her feet beneath her, and pulled her wrap around her shoulders. Waiting for the tea to brew, she looked around with a little smile. The house was small and sparsely furnished, but it was hers—her chair, her stool, her kettle, her little table beneath the window. Outside the window sprouted the beginnings of a garden—vegetables for necessity and a few flowers just because they were pretty. A feeling stirred in her chest, one she had not felt for so long that she found it hard to recognise at first. It was happiness.

  She felt as if she were slowly coming out of a fog that had settled on her so deeply and with such subtlety that she scarcely knew it was there until it started to lift. For all the months of her marriage and life in London, she had fought with varying degrees of success against the depression of spirits, the feeling of worthlessness that hovered over her daily. But the moment she closed the door on Mr Darcy’s outstretched hand, the battle was lost. Dejection enveloped her like a heavy blanket.

  That feeling had only been affirmed in the weeks she had spent at Longbourn. When her Uncle Gardiner left her, he said that he believed Mr Bennet would quickly forget his anger and welcome his favourite daughter — now contrite and chastened by the consequences of her fateful stubbornness—back home again. That had only partially come true. Her father’s anger was indeed short-lived, but rather than revert to his former fondness, he slipped into indifference, ignoring her, just as he ignored the constant scolding and harping Mrs Bennet directed at her and the smug, superior looks her sisters gave her. For the first week, Elizabeth tried to bear it philosophically, knowing it was her due, but as the days passed and the harassment continued unchecked, she began to understand that she would never be forgiven, nor would she ever find a home with her family again. What she had not realised until that moment was how deeply she had cherished the buried hope that she would one day be able to return to them. After that painful revelation, she wrote to Charlotte out of desperation, a desperation confirmed by the looks and whispers of the locals who followed her as she walked to the post office. They hurled their disapproval like darts, stinging her with their censure, and the scorn swirled around her, further deepening the cloud of oppression.

  Her presence, her mere existence, was an affront to the neighbourhood and an embarrassment to her parents, and while Jane and Bingley would surely take her in, she would be as much a detriment to their peace as she was to Mary, Kitty, and Lydia’s reputations. After a sleepless night in which she pondered actions so desperate they frightened her, Elizabeth knew she must leave, and leave immediately. Therefore, when she came upon Jonathan Lucas on the road to Meryton, threatening to run away after a quarrel with Sir William, she jumped on the chance to propose an arrangement that he was angry enough to accept.

  At some level of awareness, she knew how it would appear and what everyone would think, but what did it matter? In her father’s eyes, she was nothing. In Mr Darcy’s eyes, she was even less. They could all think what they wanted to think. She was unloved and unlovable. None of them would ever see her again.

  The journey itself was uneventful, and after two long days hidden at Hunsford Parsonage, where Mr Collins made it clear that her presence was unwelcome and must never be made known to Lady Catherine, Cha
rlotte brought her to the house she had found for her in Griggsdon. Almost immediately, Elizabeth felt the oppression lift just a little, and as she looked around the impossibly small house and tiny rooms, she could at last see a future and a life for herself.

  Chapter 23

  At first, Elizabeth paid no attention to the clip of hooves on the street outside, even as they slowed to a stop. After all, it was close to two o’clock in the afternoon, and she lived on a busy corner, relatively speaking, of the sleepy village of Griggsdon. Nor did she take any particular notice of the sounds of conversation that followed. Not until she thought she heard her assumed name, Mrs Bishop, did she listen more carefully, and then her heart dropped. She recognised the voice speaking to one of her neighbours!

  Apprehension and disbelief washed over her. Her teacup rattled loudly as she returned it to the saucer with shaking hands. Despite her best efforts to stay hidden and anonymous, Mr Darcy had found her! What was she to do? Part of her was horrified. Another part wondered what he wanted, and she alternated between feeling flattered and frightened.

  Before she could even begin to come to terms with his sudden appearance, she heard the approach of booted footsteps, the creaking gate, crunching on the gravel path and then a sharp rap on the door. Without another thought, Elizabeth bolted into her bedroom. At the next knock, she looked around in a panic, ran to the window, and slipped behind the curtain, pressing herself flat against the wall. Even as she did so, she had to stifle a laugh at her silliness, but she remained hidden until the knocking ceased. Slowly and quietly, she crept back to the sitting room, listening for the sounds of retreat; only when she heard the horse walk away did she breathe again.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in dreadful anticipation, but there was no further interruption of her peace. By sunset, Elizabeth had all but convinced herself that she either had imagined the whole thing or perhaps had fallen asleep and it had all been a strange dream. By the next morning, she was certain of it and went on about her day, though she could not say for sure whether the dream was a nightmare or more like wishful thinking.