Writerly Ambitions

by Timothy Underwood

  “I confess I was delighted to see you seated in those shadows, with just a single beam of pink light from the windows falling upon you,” Elizabeth said, her eyes bright. “So for my part, I hope you liked our service enough that you might betray Mr. Oversteegan again.”

  Darcy noted from the side of his eyes that Mrs. Bennet looked delighted at this speech, Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes, and Mrs. Hawdry started looking between him and Elizabeth with more interest than she had shown towards anything else since she had entered the church.

  “Your vicar has a…” Darcy was not sure what to say, especially as Elizabeth looked at him directly again with those dazzling, beautiful, bright and gold flecked brown eyes of hers. Eyes he could stare at endlessly. Also he had not heard a single word said by the vicar as he had spent, to his discredit, the entire service so arranging himself as to look at Elizabeth without being obvious to everyone in the church that he was staring at his friend.

  “Yes?” Elizabeth queried. “What did you think of Mr. Walton?”

  “Mr. Walton has a fine look about him. Yes. I shall come again next week.”

  Mr. Bennet snorted as Darcy said the vicar who was a fat man with ample ear hair and an unkempt beard, and who was closer to seventy than sixty had a fine look about him.

  They really were being quite obvious about… something.

  Darcy insisted once more to himself: They both knew that they only were connected in friendship, and there was no possibility he would forget himself so far as to offer marriage to her, so he could keep Elizabeth with him when he returned to Pemberley, and not be so endlessly lonely, as he now realized he had been these past years.

  He had to marry a woman who was…

  “I myself have always admired Mr. Walton’s homely smile and rheumy eyes,” Mr. Bennet said.

  “Papa!” Elizabeth frowned at Mr. Bennet, blushing.

  “Sit in our pew next week — with most of the girls long gone, and my parents much longer gone, there is ample room next to us,” Mr. Bennet offered gallantly.

  Darcy knew that he had to decline the offer, because if he accepted it, he would have halfway made a declaration towards Elizabeth. He absolutely could not sit next to her in church, even if he intensely desired to.

  “Thank you, sir. I most certainly shall.”

  “You must call,” Mrs. Hawdry then said, suddenly speaking. Her voice was soft and quiet, but this time there was something about her timber and manner that made them all quiet enough to hear her. “You and your friend. Tomorrow if you are not otherwise occupied. You have called often, I have heard — do not refrain on my part. I would much… much rather—” She choked with emotion for a moment.

  “Jane?” Elizabeth said to her, with a manner of both being desperate to comfort her sister, and yet still unwilling to do so.

  Mrs. Hawdry waved off her sister’s and parents’ concern. “I am well enough. I would rather, far rather company and noise, and new acquaintance to remaining seated at home with nothing to do. The memories… I need distraction. Please do say you will call, soon as you may.”

  Mr. Darcy had no way to refuse a request which reflected his own wishes so perfectly. Especially not one which came from a woman with such an appealingly defenseless manner as Mrs. Hawdry’s.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. and Mrs. Hurst did not join Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy in calling upon the Bennets to meet Mrs. Hawdry.

  For reasons entirely explicable by Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth were at best polite, and neither showed any tendency to seek out the company of the other. Having satisfied herself that her brother was in no danger from Elizabeth Bennet, Louisa Hurst saw it as in no way her task to prevent Mr. Darcy from the ruinous escapade into which he had hurled himself.

  In fact, she found it quite hilarious to see how badly the man who had spurned her sister was going to tumble and humble himself. She could not silence an odd, mischievous hope, which she knew to be completely ridiculous, that Elizabeth Bennet would refuse the great and grand Mr. Darcy when he finally humbled himself far enough to ask. If she did it would be, without any second opinion permissible, the greatest joke Mrs. Hurst had ever heard.

  Mr. Darcy, of course, knew nothing about this speculation by the sister of his friend.

  Bingley however was happy to visit — he only hoped he would not intrude on Mrs. Hawdry. “After all — she principally asked to see you again. As you are much more Mr. Bennet’s friend than me. But I like the old man well enough, and he me. Though we are not such great friends as you.”

  This was a simple lie on Mr. Bingley’s part.

  He was pursuing his self-imposed task of making the match between Miss Bennet and his friend as assiduously as he could. Which took the unfortunate, from Mr. Bingley’s perspective, form of not constantly teasing Darcy about his infatuation, and of engaging the conversation of the rest of the family onto himself as much as possible to give Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennet as much opportunity for tete a tete as he could.

  Mr. Bingley knew full well that Mr. Bennet thought little of him, and he did not think much more of Mr. Bennet. But both of them viewed it a matter of policy to do nothing to interfere with Mr. Darcy’s courtship of the gentleman’s daughter. And they both knew that it was important to often interfere with Mrs. Bennet’s eager attempts to forward the match, so she could not scare Mr. Darcy off.

  Of late, Bingley had begun to think he might soon be able to tease Darcy a little — the poor fellow was too far gone in love to be put off from Miss Bennet easily.

  Mr. Bingley thus was entirely surprised when lightning struck a second time in his life.

  It happened when they were ushered into the drawing room by Mrs. Hill, the Bennet’s fine housekeeper. Bingley normally made a joke with the woman in the time between when she opened the door for them and when they had reached the drawing room. He knew from Isabella that girls often liked to have an extra minute to compose themselves for gentleman callers, and he also always showed open friendliness to the upper servants of any house he visited.

  However on this visit he spoke to Mrs. Hill in somber tones, and he asked politely how Mrs. Hawdry took the death of her husband. The servant paused before they reached the drawing room door to reply, “Very hard, sir. Very hard. She does not have that old sweet look in her eyes. Something of her was buried in that coffin with her dear husband.”

  “The same with me. The very same. When they buried my wife.”

  Mrs. Hill shook her head sadly. “Poor Miss Jane. A sweeter, a more beautiful girl there never was. She deserves better than such a loss.”

  Then they entered the drawing room.

  A woman sat upright on the sofa.

  Yellow hair glowed round her ears, the ringlets of a few straw locks not tied up in her bun fell in natural curls over her sweet cheeks. Her skin was perfect and clear, and she wore black that intensified her angelic appearance, and made her seem both tragic and somehow grand.

  She met his eyes with something like confusion. After a moment that lasted too long, but not nearly long enough, she shyly and demurely looked down.

  Mr. Bingley knew, based on the same instinct that had led him to pursue Isabella, that Jane Hawdry, once her mourning period was completed, would become his second wife. That was as simple as it was.

  The two were introduced, and Bingley smiled softly and sadly at her. He knew how she must hurt.

  And he spoke to her with words that he could never remember, and neither could she, for they were not what mattered. What mattered was the things that could not be said — that he understood, for he had lost his own wife, and the pain still ached in him.

  Mr. Darcy hardly noticed Bingley’s behavior. And he had too high an opinion of his friend to possibly imagine that Mr. Bingley had formed a sudden and intense infatuation for a woman, no matter how beautiful, who had been widowed for barely more than a fortnight.

  Instead he was quite busy with the cause that had brought him here: Elizabeth.

  Some
thing had changed in Elizabeth. It had put her in miserable spirits.

  And he needed to know what, and he needed to promise her that he would find some way to aid her in whatever burden she had put on herself. She took too much upon herself. It was so like her: In all of her novels her heroines would decide that they must support themselves, and then support those who they loved, and they must find some way to do so alone.

  She would not even think to ask for his help.

  So he must encourage her to tell him what worried her, whether it was about money, about her sister’s spirits, about her torn and ambiguous feelings towards her sister — whatever matter bothered Elizabeth. He would find a way to help.

  At some point the decision to take a walk was made, though this was a larger group than usual. Mrs. Hawdry’s older daughter was brought into the drawing room from the nursery with the intention to come with them, as Mr. Bennet liked to hold his granddaughter’s hand on walks around the neighborhood, and he insisted it was good for the child’s health to go out of doors, even in the cold.

  Bingley immediately set about charming the little girl who boldly entered the room despite the two strangers present in it. There was something about her hair and face that reminded Mr. Darcy of Elizabeth.

  After two minutes Bingley and Lavinia Hawdry were best of friends, with Mr. Bingley exaggeratedly calling her Miss Hawdry, and getting in return rare smiles from Mrs. Hawdry.

  The party set out.

  However they soon began to straggle apart, as Darcy and Elizabeth were great walkers and none of the rest were.

  When they had reached a distance that Darcy judged there was no chance they might be overheard by the others, Darcy said to Elizabeth the first time she ceased to speak, “You do not look well — do not appear startled, I know you well. Very well, I like to think. You are not happy.”

  Her eyes were clouded, and she seemed to shrink into herself.

  After a delay of some time, whilst Darcy hoped she found his presence comforting, Elizabeth at last said, “I am not.”

  The two walked forward, wading through the autumnal detritus, leaves piled to their ankles on parts of the road. Almost all the leaves had now fallen, and the cold winds of winter wound through their coats.

  “I…”

  “Elizabeth, you can tell me.”

  She looked at him, intent as a pistol, and Darcy flushed. He should not use her Christian name. He was still determined that he would never have the right to call her Elizabeth.

  “Every time… every time… when I see her face as she looks at me. I can’t… I can’t pretend she did not betray me. I cannot embrace her as a sister. I can’t. Though I ought. I feel… I feel as though I am a murderer — no worse, a killer of children. As though I had fed and trained a puppy to love me, and then I chose to shoot it for no reason in particular.”

  “You cannot hate yourself. Not for… she did hurt you greatly. You have excuse.”

  “I ought to forgive. I am not so Christian as I ought to be — and I… I am worried upon money.”

  Darcy nodded. “She had nothing from her husband?”

  “Nothing. And Papa and Mama do not save.” Elizabeth shrugged. “And I do not earn enough that I can give them dowries, or anything. There is no money. None for Jane. None for either of the girls. And my other sisters did not marry so well. Mary is happy — but her husband is the poorest of them. It is not easy to spend sufficiently to maintain the status of a gentlewoman. Clothes, and clothes, and clothes. Mama would hate genteel poverty. And I could not stand to see Lavinia and Frances have no hope for a future match. It is strange, they are my blood, my nieces, and even though I’d never met them before a week past, I love them already.”

  “That is not strange in my view. You are a loving woman, and you… you would make a fine mother.”

  “Ha!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “No money for any children I might have either to live as Papa and Mama have — I would hate to see them be forced to become governesses. For Jane to become a lady’s companion. They all… they deserve better than that.”

  “You do still love her.”

  “She hurt me, but she is still my sister.” Elizabeth looked him in the eye. “Understand, I may not be able to stand her embrace, but I would give her my last penny, and the last loaf of bread I would ever taste to keep her from hunger.”

  “Matters cannot be so dire.”

  “It must be me! I am the only one who can earn, and who can save amongst us. Everyone else spends every guinea that touches their hands — I am so tired of this.”

  “You are not alone, Elizabeth. You are not alone.”

  Again. He used her name again.

  “I am — you… you. You can give me nothing. I see in your eyes. You want to help me in some way. But I tell you, I must depend upon myself. The only honorable aid you could give us would be to… I do not know… beyond offers of respectable employment should the girls become governesses there is no honorable way you can help us.”

  “I… I am on your side.”

  “I… that does mean something to me. That is, that is a source of comfort. But…” She shook her head. “I can only depend on myself. You are kind… very kind…” Her dark eyes looked appealingly into his. “Oh, sometimes… sometimes I wish… sometimes I wish so desperately that, that… that you could… and I could… that nothing else mattered, and that—”

  “I wish it too.”

  She looked at him. They stopped walking for a moment. The sound of Lavinia loudly laughing as Mr. Bennet said something unclear echoed from behind, seemingly quite distant and dampened by the trees.

  “I swear…” Darcy placed his hand on her shoulder. But no words came. He had nothing he could swear to her. He was helpless, for she was right. There was only one honorable offer a single man could make to an unmarried woman who was no relation of his that would allow him to give her a great deal of money without causing any damage to her reputation. Only one way that he might hold her, and help her as he desperately wished to.

  “I just wish…” Her eyes were deep, drawing him in. “I am getting older, and I just wish, I just wish I had someone I could depend upon.”

  “Marry me.”

  The forest was silent except the blowing wind buffeting the bare branches of every tree. At this second, they were alone. Just the two of them. And the windy forest.

  Elizabeth looked at him, and her eyes went wider and wider, and then even wider.

  “No,” she squeaked out. “You cannot mean that.”

  “I do not jest. I spoke.” Darcy paused, and then his own confusion rose. “I spoke, and I do as I promise.”

  “I did not mean… I do not ask you to solve my problems.”

  “I wish to solve every problem you face.”

  “No. No. No. I… I only spoke to you as a friend, a man towards whom I — yes, I have some passionate feeling towards you. Yes, I like you and I admire you very greatly. But I only spoke because I needed some chance to… to vent my passionate feelings. I assure you, I did not beg you to make an offer. I can depend upon myself, and I—”

  “Elizabeth Bennet. I am asking you to be my wife. You do not need to depend upon solely yourself. We can depend upon each other. Can you trust me?”

  “When?”

  Darcy did not reply to her intent question.

  “When did you decide to make an offer to me?”

  Darcy’s mouth was dry, parched.

  “And what about your list? She must be near twenty — I am seven and twenty, and I shall become no younger. And well born? I am not well born. And my reputation — my… my zounds! You do not even know the truth, for I have not told you.”

  “I do not care. Whatever this unpleasant truth is, I know the truth of your good character.”

  “When did it enter your head? When did it enter your soul that you would ask me to marry you? I cannot vouchsafe any answer unto you until you tell me.”

  “I did not know what I wanted.” Darcy spoke quietly, anx
iously. He understood Elizabeth Bennet quite well and she would argue against their match upon this basis. But he could not hide the truth from her direct question. “I did not know until I opened my mouth to speak.”

  “No, no. No. This is — you have… you have obsessed too long over women, and thus the first time you relaxed and actually became friends with a woman whose look you liked, you fancy yourself in love, and ready to throw everything else away and aside. You have not… you have not given due consideration to such an offer.”

  Her eyes were darting every direction, and she did not look at him. She was trembling, and Elizabeth pressed her hand against the bottom of her throat. “Lord, Lord, Lord,” she muttered in a low voice.

  Darcy, despite himself, felt hurt by this refusal.

  He hardly knew himself. He hardly understood why he had now at last, despite repeating to himself, like a mantra, every day for the past weeks, that Elizabeth Bennet was unsuitable, rejected all thought of that unsuitability and asked her to marry him.

  To marry Elizabeth felt right. Like the only choice he could make. He felt as though he would die if she did not turn towards him with her smile again, and say that yes, yes she would trust him to bear her burdens with her.

  “Miss Bennet, I speak from my heart. I speak from my soul; when I speak to you, I speak from the deepest reaches of my being. It was not the change of a moment that led me to make this offer. It was rather the work of two months of falling each day deeper into admiration and love towards you.”

  “You… Mr. Darcy, you can’t… can’t… you can’t say a decision you made an instant ago is the matter of two months’ thought.”

  The others were still so far away that they could not be seen through the woods, but they heard a sound of laughter from them. Darcy took Elizabeth’s arm and led her forward again, so they could continue to talk. She followed without any resistance.

  “I can, I certainly can claim,” Darcy said, “that my decision is a matter of deep thought. It was a burst of insight, like an epiphany, but the foundation had been laid already, and laid solid — I see you do not trust passionate speeches.”