Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  Pemberley remained as Elizabeth remembered, except for lavish preparations for the house party. In the main dining hall a table was laid for 24 places. Guest wings had been appointed for the use of Fitzwilliams, Bingleys, and Bennets. Darcy had taken on extra staff and spared no expense for their comfort.

  Two days later, at the village church, Elizabeth vowed to love, cherish and obey the tall, elegant and overjoyed man at her side. As she did so, she could not help recalling the previous occasion on which she had recited these words from the Book of Common Prayer. She had been robed in white then; now, being a widow, convention demanded another colour, and discouraged bridesmaids or blossom. But she liked the oyster shade of her satin gown, trimmed with ostrich feathers, and had Jane as her matron of honour.

  Did the vows mean anything? Could you promise to love someone forever? She had not decided to love Darcy; the emotion had overwhelmed her independently of her will. With Fredo she had done her best to behave lovingly, but stumbled over obedience. And could one honestly promise to obey always? What if a man ordered his wife to jump in a lake? Some kind of proviso had to be assumed, otherwise the vow was absurd.

  It was a traditional ceremony, after all. She would say the words, and interpret them as she saw fit.

  As they turned to procession back up the aisle, Elizabeth was reassured by the happy faces of Grace and Robert in the front row. Her re-marriage would inevitably remind them of their father’s death just over a year ago; it would be natural for them to resent the newcomer. But Darcy had won them over. They understood too that the ceremony was joining families as well as a man and a woman, adding Fitzwilliam and Molyneux cousins to their social circle.

  After the service, while guests returned to Pemberley for the breakfast, Elizabeth asked Darcy to remain a few minutes. Now alone, they strolled to the plot where Darcy’s parents lay alongside Arethusa, his first wife.

  ‘Poor woman.’ Elizabeth studied the inscription: beloved wife of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. ‘I was so jealous when I saw you together at the opera. Did you mention me to her?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was afraid she would intuit how much you had meant to me.’

  ‘People expressed such admiration for her kindness, devotion, intelligence.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘A better woman than me, don’t you think?’

  ‘Probably,’ Darcy smiled. ‘Still, my heart was always yours. Love is a strange madness.’

  ‘What a shame that she felt herself a failure.’ Elizabeth shivered, wondering whether she herself would be able to provide Darcy with an heir—a point he had never raised.

  They were silent awhile, then embraced gently and returned to their carriage.

  Marriage meant new quarters. No more would Elizabeth retire to a guest wing. Her possessions had been moved to the mistress of Pemberley’s chamber, with boudoir and dressing room on one side, and the door to the master’s bedroom on the other. For a moment she felt like an impostor. She was to sleep in the room that had belonged to her predecessor.

  But such fears had been foreseen. A different maid attended her. The room had been redecorated and refurnished. She relaxed as her hair was unpinned and brushed out, and thought back to the wedding breakfast and the dancing that had followed.

  The feast had been typical Darcy fare, favouring quality over quantity, and enlivened by entertainments including musicians and a conjuror. The ball was informal, very much a family event in which children were allowed to dance while others clustered round the conjuror to learn simple tricks. Movingly, Bingley danced again with Jane, and Lydia was led to the floor by Colonel Fitzwilliam, so underlining her acceptance by clan Darcy. Grace passed much of the ball sparring with Edmund Molyneux, Georgiana’s elder son. Elizabeth feared they were quarrelling, but Grace eventually conceded him a set, during which they continued arguing. She then stalked off, leaving Edmund rooted to the spot, still watching her.

  Whatever that meant …

  Elizabeth’s only regret was that Kitty had not returned in time. A message of congratulation came from the Gardiners, but reported no news of Captain and Mrs Harte.

  The maid had finished her work. Understanding her husband’s tastes, Elizabeth had eschewed heavy scent or elaborate ornament. Loose hair, a simple light nightgown, a hint of rosewater: that would have to do.

  She sat on top of the bed, leaning against pillows, and awaited the master of Pemberley.

  He entered, wearing a light navy-stripe gown over linen trousers, and his arms opened.

  ‘A vision of loveliness.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘You mean, a vision of a fairly well preserved woman in middle age.’

  ‘After serving as companion to a poet, you can surely do better than that.’

  He joined her on the bed and enfolded her proffered hand. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Something very silly. You?’

  ‘I feel as if a world out of joint has at last righted itself. It was a joy to see our families come together.’

  ‘Yes.’ She leaned against his shoulder. ‘You organised it wonderfully, William, with such fine entertainments for the children. As for myself …’ She reddened. ‘I am feeling a little nervous, and recalling the disappointment of my first wedding night.’

  ‘You fear it may be repeated?’

  ‘No.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘We are experienced now, and not embarrassed to talk. All the same, it is difficult when an event means so much …’

  He nodded. ‘Bliss can’t be scheduled. The most beautiful moments take us by surprise.’

  She admired his profile, viewed against the dancing flames of the fire. ‘Do you prefer the candles out?’

  ‘Not yet. I want to see you properly.’

  ‘And I you.’ Elizabeth sighed deeply. ‘You see, this is the most wonderful day of my life. The day that redeems my mistakes. The day that once seemed impossible.’

  He smiled. ‘You are afraid we might spoil it?’

  She laughed. ‘When I was a little girl, my father used to give me a notebook every year to use as my journal, and I loved the perfection of the empty pages, so full of promise, so lacking in error. I wanted to write something special, worthy of this lovely book. And so I became afraid. I could no longer write freely. One year, I turned angrily to the first page and deliberately ruined it. Wrote in big letters Utter Nonsense, then smudged it. Scribbled a terrible drawing. Copied out a multiplication sum and filled in the wrong answer. Then I turned to page two, and was myself again.’

  ‘So what do you suggest? Shall we make this the worst wedding night in history?’

  Elizabeth dissolved into laughter. ‘What a wonderful idea!’ She kneeled beside him and framed his face with her hands. ‘Dearest husband, you look … not too bad.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Darcy pursed his lips. ‘If that is your game, I will have to recall my first impression of you.’

  She recoiled. ‘Don’t you dare!’

  ‘You started this, wife.’

  ‘I warn you, William. Say that word and I won’t answer for the consequences.’

  ‘Dearest.’ He gazed into her eyes. ‘You are tolerable.’

  Elizabeth squealed and tried to slap him, but he caught her wrist. ‘Claws in, Mrs Darcy.’

  ‘I want a divorce.’

  He kneeled to face her, and gently pushed her on to her back. ‘The House of Lords would never grant a divorce from a man of my standing.’

  Elizabeth struggled to control her giggles and keep a straight face. ‘Unhand me, you monster!’

  ‘It’s time I untied the top of your gown.’

  She trembled with anticipation as he fumbled with the laces, perhaps hampered by the faint light.

  ‘How helpful of you to tie them so tight,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a bow. You pull the ends. A normally intelligent five-year-old could do it.’

  He parted her gown, smoothed her hair back, and for a moment was lost in her eyes.

  ‘Well?’ she taunted. ‘Shall we kiss? Might as well get it over
with.’

  He teased her by trailing his lips down her face without touching her mouth, and she squirmed in frustration.

  ‘Must I wait all night?’

  He continued down her neck towards her breast, making her groan with pleasure.

  ‘Mmm.’

  He looked up with a grin of triumph. ‘Feels good?’

  ‘Like a snail slithering over my skin.’

  He kissed her mouth, and she moaned and pushed her fingers into his hair. ‘Oh William. That’s so … not bad. But do we have to insult one another all night?’

  ‘We could declare the notebook now ruined, and move on to page two.’

  ‘I still want a divorce.’

  He smiled. ‘Then I shall enjoy you while I can.’

  38

  Christmas Eve

  The day was cold and crisp, ideal for a vigorous walk—or such was the opinion of Colonel Fitzwilliam. He won no supporters among the children, but during the afternoon a group set out including the Bingleys and the Molyneuxs as well as the colonel and his wife. Elizabeth recalled the tour with her uncle and aunt on the occasion of her first visit, when she had anxiously imagined the early return of the master. The gentleman in question was in a meeting with his housekeeper and steward, attending to the boxes to be presented to staff on 26th December. She had offered to help, but he would not hear of it.

  The weather was turning, and a dust of snow began to fall. They might have a white Christmas, if it intensified. Elizabeth hoped it would not, since an express from Mr Gardiner had announced the arrival of Kitty, now on her way to Pemberley. Unfortunately Jane and Mary had left, so a Bennet sister reunion would be postponed. It was a blow, but Elizabeth understood Jane’s difficulty, with five children, and a farmhouse to run.

  With Lydia, Elizabeth felt at ease now: the traumatic period following her return from Australia had formed a bond of affection and trust. They talked sparingly, mostly of small matters such as the gifts planned for the children to celebrate New Year. Darcy had taken up a fashion imported from Germany and installed a fir tree in the great hallway, which the children had helped decorate with little treats like chocolates and toffee apples. A choir had been formed with Georgiana as mistress, to practise traditional carols.

  Her marriage had brought a happiness never dreamed of. Elizabeth was reminded of summers in Italy when the sun had shone every day: one found oneself longing for rain to break the monotony. Once or twice she had tried to start a fight—not a mock one, like the game on their wedding night, but a real argument. But Darcy knew her too well, and refused the bait. There had been just one tense exchange, over the heir. After a difficult confinement with Robert, Elizabeth had been advised to put off another pregnancy—a skill in which Julia was adept. Yet she knew how much Darcy had longed for children of his own, and would gladly have tried again for his sake. Darcy would have none of it. She was older; the danger was greater. Pemberley had a worthy heir in Georgiana’s son Edmund. He forbade Elizabeth to run the risk.

  It had been an intense battle, but in no way like a quarrel with Fredo. Darcy listened to her view, and countered with argument, not decree. But on this occasion he had won—to her secret relief. It was a shame they would never see a tiny face that combined his features with hers. But one could not have everything.

  As they neared the forecourt a carriage drew up, and with a whoop Elizabeth ran after Lydia. A man in naval uniform helped down a lady holding a small girl. Lydia stopped a few paces away and the women froze, studying one another.

  ‘Lyddie?’

  The lady disburdened herself of the little girl, who ran to her father. Arriving out of breath, Elizabeth looked on as her sisters embraced, a quarter of a century after their last meeting, having both sailed around the world in the meantime. She stepped forward to welcome a tanned and sturdy Kitty.

  ‘Lizzy, look!’ Kitty pointed along the driveway, where a second carriage approached. ‘We stopped at the farm on the way …’

  Suddenly the forecourt was full, as the other walkers caught up, and people ran out from the house. Elizabeth hurried to the second carriage where a servant handed down Mary, followed by Jane and three children.

  ‘Mr Hadfield and the older boys stayed to look after the animals,’ Kitty said. ‘But we persuaded Jane and Mary to come for Christmas.’

  Tearfully they joined hands in a ring. Five Bennet girls. Together again at last.

  Epilogue

  May 1848, Euston station

  With an excited Elizabeth on his arm, Darcy walked along the platform to board the Rugby train. Ahead, two porters were loading their luggage. They had left in a rush, having received at breakfast a telegraph from the railway company. It read, simply, Baby early, EM.

  Elizabeth climbed into their first-class carriage, brushing away his offer of help. Darcy handed her the newspaper before following, his knee creaking as he levered himself up. Age was telling: he needed eyeglasses for reading, and his running days were over. But they were still active, and on a fine day would walk miles at a vigorous pace.

  He would have preferred to quit London in April, but Georgiana had persuaded Elizabeth to remain at Darcy House so that they could attend concerts by Chopin, who was performing in London to select gatherings including Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. One recital would not suffice for Georgiana, baby or no baby. Yes, she would come to Pemberley. But later.

  As usual Elizabeth took the window seat, while Darcy ignored the view and opened The Times. Mexico was to surrender Texas to the United States. Another revolution was brewing in France, after King Louis-Philippe had fled to London. Two German philosophers named Marx and Engels had published The Communist Manifesto, which Elizabeth (probably as a tease) wanted to order for the Pemberley library. Yes, times were changing, and not always (he thought) for the better. But he was grateful for the railway network to Rugby, Derby, even Lambton, where a carriage would be waiting if their telegraphed reply had reached Pemberley.

  They passed Watford, then Boxmoor, where just over ten years ago he had spotted Elizabeth on the platform and joined her in third-class. How much had flowed from this encounter—and what experiences they had shared! Vienna, Florence, Athens, often in company with Georgiana’s family or Julia’s. Grace had become a sophisticated and beautiful young woman; Robert had excelled at Harrow, and now Cambridge. It was the time of his life, a redemption after so many years of regret.

  He looked at Elizabeth. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Normal feminine thoughts.’ She threw him an ironic smile, her brown eyes acute as ever. ‘Will the bluebells be out? Will it be a boy or a girl? You know the kind of thing that preoccupies the fair sex.’

  He was tempted to rise to the bait, but satisfied himself with a roll of the eyes. He knew she was talking nonsense—perhaps with a hint of truth. She knew he knew it. A glance could do the work of a thousand words.

  At Rugby they changed trains and ate a snack, before setting off for Derby and the branch line to Lambton. Elizabeth was more anxious than she admitted—not about bluebells or gender, but the birthing itself. Grace was a strong young lady and had the best care, but motherhood remained a chancy undertaking. Darcy, as always, was a reassuring presence. He had the confidence of a man who knows what to do when things go wrong, a virtue she had noticed repeatedly.

  After the traumas of her final year with Fredo, Elizabeth had enjoyed a life of pleasant fulfilment at Pemberley, interspersed with exciting tours on the continent. Her sisters too had thrived. After one more voyage Kitty had settled in Meryton; Lydia had married her lieutenant and stayed in London. The Hadfield brood was eagerly taking over most work on the farm, leaving Jane free to roam, often to Pemberley. Sadly the Gardiners had passed away, within a few months of one another; two of their children now lived in Gracechurch Street.

  Of the Sibleys, Elizabeth had heard nothing for six years. Then a note from Lady Beatrice informed her that Martha had died, while Sir Nicholas had been left partly blinded and paralyse
d by a disease that turned out to be syphilis. A meeting was accepted, for afternoon tea at Mivart’s. Lady Beatrice did not exactly apologise, but conceded she had never believed Elizabeth a murderess; she also appreciated Elizabeth’s efforts to promote Fredo’s reputation posthumously. Relations improved sufficiently for Elizabeth to invite the Sibleys to Grace’s wedding. Sir Nicholas was too sick, but Lady Beatrice came, with her daughters. No son, they noticed. Robert was still the heir.

  At Lambton, the waiting coachman had news: Grace had been delivered of a son. Mother and child both well. They opened a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and drank toasts to make the coach transfer pass quicker. In the forecourt Edmund Molyneux, the happy father, ran out to greet them.

  Grace was resting calmly as if wondering what all the fuss was about, the baby in a padded basket at her side. After expressing her delight, Elizabeth gathered the precious bundle and went into the corridor, where Darcy was waiting for a glimpse. Her grandchild already had a name: William Frederick Molyneux. As they gazed at the little face, Elizabeth could sense Darcy’s dismay at having no son of his own. But Pemberley would pass (not soon, she hoped) to Georgiana’s son Edmund, and then to this little fellow, in whom the Darcy and Bennet lines joined.

  Tenderly Elizabeth restored the baby to Grace, who would one day follow her as mistress of Pemberley. It had surprised nobody when Edmund proposed. The two had been inseparable frenemies for years, sharing vacations at Pemberley as well as tours on the continent. Elizabeth did not doubt that Grace truly loved him. But she knew her practical daughter. Edmund was not only handsome and intelligent, but heir to Pemberley and the Darcy fortune. From their first encounter at Elizabeth’s wedding, Grace had laid her challenge. You think you’re the blue-eyed boy, Master Edmund, but are you good enough for ME? Not those words, of course, but that was the message.