by Jessie Lewis
She twisted her head to kiss his cheek. “Then we must be thankful only you have improved in civility since. If you fell in love with me because you enjoyed being vexed, you might fall out again if I suddenly learnt to be agreeable.”
His lips curled into a wonderful little smile, and he shook his head. “Maddening.”
She turned back to the window and hugged his arms to her.
“Have I improved in other ways?” Darcy enquired after a moment. “That is, am I still proud?”
The question took her aback. “What makes you enquire?”
“A passing comment of Bingley’s. But it has been troubling me, as you will comprehend.” She tried to turn around, but he resisted it, his arms stiff. “I would have you answer frankly.”
Her heart went out to him. He was ever as unforgiving of his own defects as he was of other people’s. “A little, then,” she said gently. “Very occasionally. But I do not blame you for it.”
“So you have merely learnt to tolerate it?”
She did turn around then. “Yes, I daresay I have, but is that not what love is—tolerating, accepting, even holding dear one another’s imperfections?” She placed her hands on his chest. “I would have you know your imperfections are better than most other people’s finest merits, and I love them very much.”
He cradled her face with both hands and fixed her with the full force of one of his inimitable gazes. “If my imperfections are tolerable, it is because you have made them so. I would be nothing without you.”
“As would I be without you.”
He shook his head. “You have no imperfections.”
She slid her hands around his neck and pulled herself up until their lips were a hair’s breadth apart. “I love you more dearly than I knew it was possible to love, Fitzwilliam.”
After that, the view from the window was forgotten in favour of the unseen pleasures of the darkened bedchamber, and though Elizabeth could not see him, she felt his gaze as intimately as she felt him love her, and she knew he felt the same.
“God, I shall miss you,” he breathed into her hair as they lay together in bed some time later.
“I am sorry I shall not be there to comfort you,” she whispered.
“Knowing I have you to come home to will be comfort enough.”
“I shall be here, growing fat and relying unreasonably on others to relieve the tedium of waiting.”
“Voila,” he murmured sleepily.
“What?”
“I forgot your impatience when I said you had no imperfections.”
She smirked, and for his benefit, because he could not see her expression in the dark, poked him in the ribs.
He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “I do not think you ought to rely much on Bingley for company. I am not sure asking him to remain was wise.”
Elizabeth delighted in the turn of events that had Darcy bemoaning Bingley’s solemnity. “He might be in a better humour when you are gone, for I begin to suspect our felicity is contributing to his wretchedness.”
“Yes, he has said something of that sort to me,” Darcy replied, yawning. “It has much to do with his reasoning for leaving, if one can call it reason.”
Elizabeth had given considerable thought to Mr. Bingley’s professed intention to leave the country. Though both Darcy and she were convinced it was a foolhardy scheme, neither of them wished to interfere so far as to tell him outright he ought not to go. In truth, there was only one person who could. “Fitzwilliam, if I write to Jane, will you deliver the letter to her while you are in London to make certain she reads it?”
She felt him adjust his head down to look at her, though he could not have seen much in the darkness.
“Have you not had your fill of being shunned by your sister?”
“More than enough. Yet, I cannot help but think she is the person best placed to convince Mr. Bingley to stay.”
“You assume she wishes it. To the best of my knowledge, she has not written to him the entire time he has been with us.”
“I know. But consider, she does not know of his plan to go abroad. I cannot allow him to leave without giving her the chance to try and stop him.”
He rolled his head back to where it had been on the pillow, pulling her more snugly against him as he settled into his repose. “I should never refuse you anything, love. But I beg you, enough of the Bingleys now. I would not have them obtrude any longer on my time with you.”
She stretched to kiss his cheek and whisper her thanks, then settled her head back onto his shoulder to listen to his breathing, already slowing as sleep overtook him. She would rise early to write to Jane. Until then, she meant to remain in Darcy’s arms all the night long. Where she belonged.
12
Disguise of Every Sort
Thursday, 4 March 1813: London
The nearer to Farley House the carriage took him, the hotter burned Darcy’s resentment. He had not laid eyes on Jane Bingley since October when she slapped Elizabeth at Netherfield, and the intervening months had done naught to diminish his displeasure. Contrary to what Elizabeth believed, however, he was not averse to delivering her letter. Indeed, her request provided the perfect pretext to pay the visit he had been desirous of making for some weeks.
The carriage drew to a halt, and after presenting his card, Darcy was shown into a small room at the rear of Hurst’s house where Jane Bingley sat at her needlework, for all the world as though her most pressing concern was where next to stick her needle.
Her serenity deserted her upon seeing him. “Mr. Darcy!” she cried, launching herself to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
Darcy waited for the servant to close the door, taking advantage of the brief time to bring his temper under regulation. Once the door had clicked shut, he turned his eyes upon her, feeling no contrition when she visibly quailed. He made no effort to moderate his tone, which even to his ear sounded exceptionally cold. “I would have your word that you will never cast aspersions about Elizabeth’s good character again—by any means, to any person, or in any manner that might threaten her reputation or well-being.”
“Oh! Pardon? I…I thought you must be come about Charles.”
“I imagine you did. I have noticed your first thought always tends to your own interests. Your word, madam.”
“I…I did not know any of what I said would be repeated! It was never my intention to gossip, only to confide in my friend.”
“You are mistaken if you consider Lady Ashby a friend. She has been known to my family since childhood and long acknowledged by all of us as self-serving.”
She had the temerity to look affronted.
“I might also add that Elizabeth is troubled far less by those to whom you whispered your vile misrepresentations than that you yourself believed any of it.”
She frowned a little but seemed otherwise disinclined to remorse. He could not say he was surprised.
“I, on the other hand, take an excessively dim view of your propensity to gossip about my family to anybody. If it happens again, you will discover that being excluded from my homes is but the merest expression of my displeasure. Your word, madam.”
She paled and gave it with a nod. He knew not why she should be alarmed. She could not have expected he would allow her to continue unchecked with behaviour so injurious to his family.
“And now, your word that you will not repeat what you know of my sister’s dealings with Mr. Wickham to another living person.” Her eyes widened, and she stared at him. “Do not pretend ignorance, madam. Elizabeth assures me you know.”
“I do, but…you must think very ill of me indeed if you believe me capable of so cruelly exposing her. I assure you, I never would. I am not the sort of person who does such things to innocent young ladies.”
“Evidently
you are.”
Her countenance contorted with emotion, and for one brief moment, he thought she might cry before indignation got the better of her and she began to bluster instead. “You do not know what I have suffered! It is scarcely my fault I have grown bitter.”
“Do not dare suggest it is Elizabeth’s! She has done nothing to deserve your contempt. You, whom she ever held in the highest possible regard and in whom, for some reason unfathomable to me, she still has not given up hope, have abused her in every imaginable method. You have disdained all the particulars of her new situation, from her home to her capacity to run it. You sabotaged her relationship with my family, you marred her entrance into society, and you have abandoned her when she most needs you.” He lowered his voice. “You struck her, not only knowing that she is with child, but because of it.”
She backed away, shaking her head. “You misunderstand! It is only that my husband has—”
“You would blame him also?” Darcy exclaimed, turning to walk with quick steps across the room to distance himself from her effrontery.
“As might you if you only knew what I have endured.”
“What have you endured but Bingley’s struggles to overlook the defects in your character and esteem you regardless?”
She laughed bitterly. “He does not esteem me!”
“That is hardly any great wonder. What, pray, have you ever done to earn his esteem?”
“I am his wife!” She appeared to think this would rouse him to compassion. Presumably, she did not suspect him of knowing how it came about.
“That alone does not entitle you to his unwavering affections. You cannot expect his good opinion to endure when you treat him and all those around you with such utter disdain.”
“Sir, you are unjustly severe!” she cried, her eyes moist with unshed tears.
“In voicing such censure, perhaps, but not in thinking it. And since you have not scrupled in speaking ill of Elizabeth, I am not presently inclined to be overly sympathetic to your sensibilities.”
“You do not understa—”
“No, I do not.” Determined to hear no more of her self-pity, he reached into his pocket for Elizabeth’s letter and held it out to her. “Neither does Elizabeth, yet such is her devotion to you that she has written again with news she considers imperative for you to hear.”
Jane took the letter gingerly as though it might burn her.
“She wondered whether you had troubled yourself to read any of her others since you have never deigned to reply. I recommend that you read this one.” He turned on his heel and quitted the room without taking his leave. She deserved no such attention. He was unsurprised to discover Miss Bingley loitering outside the door and only wondered that her sister was not with her.
“I hope you are well, Mr. Darcy.”
“I am, thank you. If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
“Oh yes, of course. If I may, though…might I enquire as to my brother’s whereabouts?”
“He is at Pemberley still, madam.”
“With Mrs. Darcy?”
“Yes.” She looked more concerned for her brother than he had ever seen her, prompting him to add, “He is in good health, despite his troubles. You need not worry for him.”
She gave a poor approximation of a smile. “I do, though, Mr. Darcy. Pray, send him home as soon as may be. Pemberley is not the best place for him. He ought to be with Jane.”
Darcy was no longer certain where the best place for Bingley was but gave Miss Bingley all the assurances she sought to avoid being further delayed. He later reflected, as his carriage sped across the Kentish countryside, that it was telling with what alacrity he hastened to his aunt’s deathbed, infinitely preferring it to the scene of his objectionable audience with Jane Bingley.
Rosings Park, Kent
Saturday, March 6
Dearest Elizabeth,
Be not surprised if what I write is incomprehensible. It is late and I am weary, but I find I do not wish to end another day without speaking to you.
Lady Catherine is still with us, though barely. I am increasingly relieved that neither you nor Georgiana accompanied me. No quantity of pastille burners can mask the scent of illness in the house, and her appearance grows no less shocking upon subsequent visits to her bedside than when I first arrived. When my mother passed away, her mind wandered and her limbs trembled, but her person was otherwise unchanged. My father’s death was so sudden I never saw him aught but hale. Lady Catherine is wasted away to almost nothing.
Nonetheless, you were correct. I am pleased to have come. She sleeps a good deal, but this evening she stirred sufficiently to acknowledge me for the first time. Our exchange was brief, for she can scarcely breathe enough to speak, but we were able to share a few thoughts. We touched on Rosings, Anne, Georgiana, our unborn child, and you. It does not surprise me in the least that what might be her last ever words to me were about you. “I am pleased you married Elizabeth. I always liked her.”
I shall say no more on that. I trust we are of equal minds on the matter.
Montgomery and I spent two hours this morning with his steward and another three this afternoon with his attorney, all of which seemed painless in comparison to the ten minutes I spent with Mr. Collins afterwards. I am finding the role of adviser even more onerous than I had anticipated, not least for its tedium but also the unexpected remembrance of the days following my father’s passing, which were dark indeed.
I have seen very little of Anne. It would seem her delicate health has not lent itself to the rigours of nursing a dying relative, and I understand she spends but little time with her mother. Your good friend Mrs. Collins, however, has been stalwart in attending her ladyship, despite not having been long out of her confinement and having a newborn infant in need of her attention. I mean to speak to her at church on the morrow to express my deepest thanks for her troubles. I have already given her your letter.
I have also given Master Jonathan the gift you sent for him, with which he was delighted, of course, though he was most disappointed not to have his Aunt Darcy in person. I am not sure how much of him you would have seen had you come, however, for he is largely being kept to the nursery, presumably to spare him from the general malaise in the house.
I should not object to such a reprieve myself. Much though I esteem my family here, the dismal circumstances have made poor companions of us all. Fitzwilliam has written to say he is delayed with imperative business at his barracks. Ashby will likely only come for the funeral, for he has never had much attachment to Rosings. My uncle has not made his plans known. This place has never seemed more remote.
I miss you more than words can express, Elizabeth. I have not heard from you—which you must not take as a complaint, for I know you prefer to add to your letters over a number of days—but I miss your voice. I miss your good sense and your teasing. Being here without you to talk to recalls me disagreeably to the time before you were mine. Thank God, that is in the past. I count the days until I am home with you and feel no compunction for desiring it, for it would be a mercy if Lady Catherine were released from her suffering sooner rather than later. From what I saw of her this evening, it cannot be much longer.
I trust you are receiving sufficient attention from our guests to allay your impatience and not overburdening yourself. I know you will laugh at me, but I cannot refrain from reminding you of your promise to send an express should any need occur.
Good night, dearest Elizabeth. I am away to my bed—with any luck, to dream you are there with me. Pray take every care of yourself and our beloved child.
As ever, I adore you.
Fitzwilliam
He tucked the leaf he had plucked from the vine in the conservatory into the folds of the letter and sealed it securely within. Then he climbed into bed and succumbed to the blissful oblivion of
sleep.
***
Saturday, 13 March 1813: Kent
Four days had passed after Lady Catherine succumbed before Fitzwilliam was able to escape his duties and journey to Rosings Park. His father remained indisposed after a recent relapse, and Ashby had been indecently eager to claim Fitzwilliam’s delay as his own, thus the two brothers had not arrived until the eve of her ladyship’s interment.
The funeral had been what most funerals are: gloomy and tedious. On this occasion, thanks to Mr. Collins’s interminable orations, it was also so protracted as to prevent half the mourners travelling home that day, forcing them instead to trespass overnight upon Rosings’ empty rooms and Anne’s less-than-enthusiastic hospitality.
Darcy, having been there the longest and being therefore the most desirous of leaving, was by far the least forbearing of the delay. Fitzwilliam was therefore surprised not to find him in better spirits as they readied to leave after breakfast the next day. His mind, however, seemed fixed on one thing and one thing only.
“I am certain all is well, Darcy,” he said as he trotted down the stairs ahead of him. “Her letter has obviously been lost in the post.”
“They cannot all have been lost in the post.”
“Is she likely to have written more than one? You have not been gone a fortnight.”
Darcy’s voice, when he answered some five or six steps farther down, was divertingly peevish. “Yes, it is likely she wrote more than one.”
Fitzwilliam inferred from this that Darcy had written several, and his concern was founded mostly on disgruntlement that his wife was not as mawkish as he.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, a short distance from the gaggle of mourners milling about by the front door, donning their coats and hats and bidding their hosts farewell. “If aught were amiss you would have been informed. In cases such as these, no news is good news.”
“No news is damned troubling, as well you know.”