by Iris Lim
Now, Elizabeth smiled too.
“You know your heart, and you give it wisely.”
“Do you think he cares, Eliza?”
Surprised by the question, Elizabeth let her gaze return to Mr. Darcy and his friends – before she answered, smiling, “He certainly looks charming, dear – and he cares for you enough to extend his kindness to your mother.”
Charlotte smiled, gripping her friend’s hand again.
Elizabeth rejoiced for her friend – and stowed her own feelings for another time.
“Ladies, you are far too neglected for such an intimate party!” Mr. Collins appeared before them. Hands and smiles dropped quickly.
“Mr. Collins! Are you not adequately enjoying your tea?” Elizabeth offered, with every civility.
“The ladies find tea more soothing than I, I’m afraid. As a man, I am born to pursue evils and conquer darkness.”
The self-importance was entirely too funny to ignore.
“Mr. Collins.” The smile was clear in Charlotte’s voice. “Would you not care to keep Miss Bingley company?”
“She is being attended to, you see, by the very best Hertfordshire can offer. Without the presence of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, it is but inevitable that the company of the room is finite in its wisdom and grace and –”
“Male company, perhaps?” Elizabeth interrupted, unable to listen to another reason his patroness outshone all his relatives. “Perhaps you wish to share your insights with – the young men from Netherfield?”
Charlotte nearly chuckled, but Elizabeth maintained a most reasonable facade.
“They are speaking amongst themselves – with no regard for the ladies.” The parson mused.
“Yes, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth affirmed, “Mr. Wickham, in particular, may require your guidance.”
“Mr. Wickham, unlike the two cousins, is not engaged to be married. You are correct that he ought to be more lively.”
“Yes, you are wise to say so. Mr. Wickham is –” A true recollection of her cousin’s words stopped Elizabeth short. Was Mr. Darcy engaged – to be married?
“Mr. Darcy is correctly restrained, as a man betrothed to the incomparable Miss de Bourgh ought to be. Colonel Fitzwilliam acts loyally to his young cousin as well. But, yes – Mr. Wickham ought to be properly taught,” Mr. Collins concluded to himself.
He turned abruptly, away from the two women.
“Pardon me, ladies, there is a person I need to meet.”
Neither ladies spoke another word for another five minutes.
• • •
“Do you care for a cup of tea?” The Colonel’s voice appeared beside her all of a sudden, as if he had been moving stealthily towards her all along. Charlotte could not help the blush on her face.
“Shall you play host to the hostess?” She asked with a playful air – realizing only a moment later, when the soldier’s face turned mischievous, what she may have implied.
Charlotte shuffled on her feet, uncommonly unsure. “I – that is to say – you are a guest – and I ought to be – serving you.”
She shoved the cup and saucer in her hand – so newly filled from the contents of the tray – awkwardly towards him. She lowered her gaze slightly, curious yet shy over studying his response.
“It was not easy to find you alone – milady.” He took the tea from her gallantly. She dared to lift her eyes. Gone were the teasing tones and superficial greetings. He looked concerned, almost worried.
“I am great friends with Elizabeth,” Charlotte explained, not for a moment wondering why she owed him an explanation at all. Her hands busied themselves to prepare a serving for herself. Occupied fingers proved less foolish, always. “I must admit some neglect for my other guests. For that I apologize.”
“Yes, of course,” he agreed – almost hollowly.
She trained her eyes upon the beverage she’d prepared – not daring to spare a glance for the true object of her thoughts. Her bravery and confidence amidst traded whispers with Elizabeth had now been usurped completely by uncertainty and restraint.
Did he truly care for her? Had she only imagined that he called at Lucas Lodge so often for her? He could well have been just wishing to make neighborly gestures – or, perhaps worse, had merely been bored. Had she presumed too much by imputing unspoken intentions upon him?
“These entire hours, Miss Lucas, I wished to be here – by your side – instead.” His words carried depth, warmth.
When she raised her head to meet his eyes, she wondered if he saw her unshed tears.
“I do not deserve you,” she said simply – honestly.
“On the contrary, madame, I do not deserve you.”
“You are an earl’s son – a man of worldly knowledge. My dowry and its limitations could not promise to serve you as you deserve to be served. You must marry well – better than a poor country knight’s daughter. You must –”
“And, pray, tell – Miss Lucas.” There was a sudden, angrier edge to his tone. He was polite, but firm. His eyes leveled their gaze at her just as resolutely. “Whose standards do you presume to use in measuring what sort of lady I ought to marry?”
She blinked – hoping yet fearing to hope. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, your family and society would not condone your foolishness in –”
“I do not care for their opinion – and my family has never withheld from me what I could lawfully prefer,” he interrupted. He looked taller tonight – stronger, more determined. His hands shook. She wondered if he wished to reach for hers. “And my heart declares you as worthy beyond words, desirable beyond measure. That is the standard upon which I choose to proceed.”
Her whole body shook now. If they had been in a room, or in a garden, unaccompanied – she knew she would have been in his embrace already.
For one silly moment, she did not know to curse or to rejoice that they stood by a wall, by a tray, surrounded by all whom she knew.
“You are not expected to marry your cousin – at all?” She was frank now – undeterred on her pursuit of happiness.
“No – never,” he swore instantly. “My family may mention their preferences – but my life falls beneath my governance.”
“Are not close alliances the norm in your circle?”
He frowned harshly. “I wonder whose knowledge you glean from. There is no – unyielding expectation of the sort. There are none upon me – at least.”
“Your cousin’s engagement is irremovable. What proof have I that yours is malleable to your will?”
“What engagement at all do you mean?” He stepped closer, sounding almost pleading.
She felt ashamed for pressing him so.
“Me – Georgiana, you say? And Darcy to – Anne?” He mused without prompting. Then he laughed – scoffed almost – bitterly. “You have been speaking to the parson.”
Charlotte looked away, unable to deny it.
“Did he insist upon my family’s fabrications? That Darcy and Anne are betrothed – as I and Georgiana are supposed to be?”
“He never truly said –”
“Charlotte,” he said her name – only her name – for the first time. She watched him, unable to do anything else. “None of it – none of it is true.”
She nodded mutely – ashamed, relieved, overwhelmed.
“May I speak to your father – tomorrow?” There was hope in his eyes as well – a fettered joy waiting to be set free.
Charlotte smiled. “Yes.”
• • •
Eight Years Ago
• • •
“Oh, Charlotte, it is the most romantic thing ever possible!” Elizabeth sighed dramatically as she fawned over her book.
Charlotte tried and failed to hide her chuckle.
“You do not know love, Char, until you read this book.” Elizabeth pressed the bound volume against her chest. With their bare feet upon the grass and their bonnets forgotten, anything did feel possible, at the least.
“Unrequited love
is made pretty only if the hero and his heroine reunite,” Charlotte reminded her younger, dreamier friend. Her own mind recalled the time when her own unrequited love had proven unrewarded to the end. “And men do not always prove themselves faithful.”
“Oh, but that’s what makes it romantic!” Elizabeth declared, still ever sure of herself, it seemed. “A reciprocated love is hardly unrequited.”
Charlotte shook her head – shook away the remorse and regret and sorrow.
Then she smiled. “You are sure, Eliza?”
“Yes, of course! Why would the novels lie?” Elizabeth rolled up from her place on the grass, until she sat upon it. “You have no imagination, Char. Do they take it away from you when you grow older?”
Charlotte’s smiled turned mischievous. “And, pray, tell, who would be here listening to you if they truly do?”
“Then I simply must find another friend.” Elizabeth sighed loudly, her face twisted into a most mournful expression.
“You find me dispensable, dear.”
“I find you stubborn. You refuse to see the beauty in a sad tale.”
“And you refuse to see the beauty in a happy one.”
Elizabeth appeared slightly rebuked.
Charlotte inched closer to her young, vibrant friend. “An arduous road to love is not admirable, Lizzy.”
Miss Elizabeth, with all twelve years of her lifelong wisdom, sighed. “I suppose we shall see, Char.”
The older, wiser Miss Lucas agreed. “Yes, I suppose we shall see.”
Chapter 8:
The False Betrothals
With George indisposed this morning, Darcy contented himself with his seat towards the window. The light illumined his eyes, however slightly, and offered a breath of life the largest collection of candles could not. He could see no figures, discern neither color nor gazes. Yet, still, he enjoyed his post by the window as best he could. It was, at least, one step closer to the brilliant outdoor world of Miss Elizabeth than his own room could ever be.
Behind him, Miss Bingley chattered away with her sister – both women lamenting loudly regarding the lack of prestigious company.
Darcy smirked.
It was strange how his birth and his wealth reckoned him worthy company. If he had been born a servant’s son, or a farmer’s child – if he had been the heir to a solitary, humble cottage rather than all of Pemberley – would his blindness demean him until he was deemed worthy only of accompanying livestock and plants?
A sad, soulful part of him knew that he would have been.
His deep thoughts almost rendered the approaching footsteps unnoticed.
“Richard?” He asked, with a tilt of the head, a moment later. There were no other men in the house with a tread quite as a heavy and sure.
“Cousin,” the soldier answered – his voice low and near.
Darcy knew his cousin well. Darcy knew the man spoke openly, often loudly. He knew the battlefield had drained him of discretion. Others may murmur inaudibly; Richard words always rang crisp and true.
Thus, it was strange – unsettlingly strange – that his surefooted cousin whispered secretively now.
“Do you wish to inform me of something?” Darcy frowned. After their discomfiting argument in the library – they had aimed for civility externally, and kept tempestuous emotions within. Neither had spoken to the other, alone, since then.
“I spoke to Sir William Lucas today. Charlotte and I are to wed once the banns are complete.” There was no argument in Richard’s tone – only fact, certainty.
Darcy sighed. The inevitable had come. “And there is nothing I can say – or offer – that can alter your purpose?”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
Darcy closed his eyes. The thin sheet of light he’d felt before disappeared. “You have her permission.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You owe my sister.” Darcy gritted his teeth. “This disappointment is not to be borne with.”
“But bear it you shall – and she shall.” Still, Richard did not raise his voice. “I can no more marry Georgiana than you can Anne.”
“It is different with Anne.” Darcy shuffled away, angling his face and body towards the side of his chair with no infuriating cousin. “She and I never spoke. Aunt Catherine’s wishes never reflected any agreement on our parts.”
“And how is it so different from you directing what you believe to be desirable for your sister and for me?” The helplessness in Richard’s tone surprised him. It was a tone of grief – a tone of disappointment.
Darcy waited then, allowing each complex sentiment to settle in his heart. It was true that he had never consulted Richard or Georgiana over their betrothal. It was equally true that no formal agreement had ever been made between the individuals, or the families.
But could they not see the prudence of this match? Could either of them truly want anything – or anyone – better than each other?
“Mr. Collins has been spreading news of your engagement to Anne,” Richard said, with no prompting nor prodding.
Darcy moved – worried.
“I allay those beliefs whenever I can,” his cousin continued. “I merely thought to warn you.”
Darcy did not stop frowning. “And you believe referring to my false betrothal can help me understand how you perceive yours?”
Richard remained silent.
The silence was most provoking.
“I can cut you,” Darcy warned, gravely unhappy.
“I hope you do not – but shall not waver if you do.”
“Our families’ happiness shall be threatened.”
“Not more than they ought to be.”
“Richard, do you not see –” The words lodged in his throat. Vague thoughts of an incandescent woman – intelligent and healthy and witty beyond anything Anne could ever be – pervaded his consciousness.
Darcy sighed.
“I informed you out of respect.” Richard’s voice was hollow now – distant. “I owe you no other explanation.”
“Richard, you –”
“You are still my cousin – and are cordially invited to my wedding. Your sister is as well.”
And he walked away without another word.
• • •
The calls exchanged between Netherfield and Longbourn had become both frequent and memorable ever since their party’s first arrival in Hertfordshire. Between their weekly visits to Meryton’s church congregation – nearly the only public function she was allowed to attend – Gerogiana found pleasure wherever she could, in whatever company her brother permitted her to keep.
Among all such company, her favorite was Miss Elizabeth.
“You look unwell, Georgiana,” her favorite new friend said today – eyes creased with matronly worry, the sentiment heightened by the familiarity they’d since allowed for each other.
Georgiana clasped the proffered hand quickly. She blinked to avoid any evidence of tears. “I have recently found a reason for – disappointment.”
Elizabeth nodded compassionately. Georgiana found that even the sternest frequency of blinking could not bury her tears.
Harsh, heavy drops escaped her eyes, slipped down her face, and crashed upon her lap. She felt Elizabeth patting her shoulder – offering sisterly comfort.
The kindness only hastened the tears.
“Georgiana, dear – what is the matter?” Elizabeth sat closer, whispering lest they be heard across the spacious sitting room.
In her own mind, Georgiana believed herself to be no more than an ordinary young woman. In the midst of material comforts, her brother had never overly indulged her. In the midst of an entire garrison of servants to assist her, she had never abused their willingness to serve. She had always thought herself reasonable, understanding, and kind. She had never thrown a tantrum in the hopes of achieving her preferences; she had never – not once – refused to submit to the circumstances life wrought.
But, why, then – was this most recent news so diffic
ult to swallow?
“Georgiana, tell me. Allow me to help.” Elizabeth expressed herself with all the eloquence her five older years gave her. Her left hand soothed Georgiana’s shoulder, her right hand clasped her trembling hands.
Georgiana sniffed, sobbed – ashamed and heartbroken.
“You have not been acting quite yourself since Sunday,” Elizabeth observed, not inaccurately. “Was Mr. Brougham’s message so unsettling?”
Georgiana laughed, once, through her tears – and shook her head.
“Was Miss Bingley dressed so brightly that you wish for your brother’s blindness instead?”
Georgiana knew she was teasing – but could only muster a single, painful scoff.
“Then it was the neighbors.” Elizabeth suddenly turned more solemn. “Did my family or our neighbors disappoint? Did they offend you in any sort of way?”
Georgiana closed her eyes and swallowed. Her chest tightened as if flooded with waters.
Then, just before Elizabeth surmised the next possibility again, Georgiana said, “It was at church – that the banns were read.”
Elizabeth watched her mutely, perhaps unable to comprehend heartache when she herself had never underwent its drowning waves. Georgiana looked down, heart heavy with guilt. Had she truly admitted something so intimate to a friend so new?
“The banns were for Charlotte and Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth echoed hollowly a moment later.
Georgiana, still sniffing, nodded.
“You are sad because the banns – had been read.” Elizabeth was muttering her thoughts aloud now – that much was clear.
Georgiana nodded again.
Then, in sudden recognition, Elizabeth let go of Georgiana’s hand that she may clasp both her shoulders. Her eyes – fiery and curious – met young Miss Darcy’s.
“You like Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Her voice had a frantic edge now. “You love him.”
The stiffness of Georgiana’s face contorted again into sorrow – and she cried unreservedly.
“Yes,” she admitted a dozen sobs later. “We were meant to marry.”
“But has he – did he ever –” Elizabeth seemed to be finding words herself. “Did he ever express such sentiments to you?”