by Heather Moll
While she had not intended this outcome when they set out on their private walk, Elizabeth was thoroughly delighted with the result. It felt like a reasonable progression in a relationship that, although suffering misunderstandings and conflicts, had steadily developed into an unfaltering and passionate bond. I do not, could not, feel an instant of regret.
She restrained a chuckle as she admired the view of the unclothed master of Pemberley. Not so daunting now! Her amusement then shifted to a more tender emotion as she regarded his sleeping face, inches from her own. His features were relaxed in the early morning sunlight, and his hair was charmingly disheveled. How young he looks when he sleeps. His unshaven jaw was not set in determination, nor was his forehead creased in thought. Elizabeth was elated that, in a matter of weeks, it would be her privilege to awaken by his side every morning.
Needing to breathe, she lifted his arm and rolled to face him. He stirred with her movement and raised his head, bleary-eyed and confused, but she saw in his eyes the precise moment he recognized his surroundings. His smile widened, and he leant over to brush her lips with his.
“You smell like lavender.”
“Good morning to you as well.”
“I have often wondered whether it be your gowns that smell of lavender or your perfume. As you are removed from all of your clothes, it must be you, Elizabeth.” He pulled her closer, and a thrill traveled over her skin.
“You are a clever man.”
“That I am. I have decided to marry you.”
He suddenly rolled onto his back and brought her with him as Elizabeth shrieked with laughter. He pressed his smiling lips against her cheek and shoulder and ran his fingers through her hair. He drew back to look into her eyes, his face filled with a tenderness she had rarely seen.
“You are not a dream after all,” he said before he pulled her into his chest. “I had no sense at all that being with you would be as wonderful as this. I have never been happier.”
Elizabeth thought of how wonderful it was to be pressed so close to his heart, to know him as no one else would. She was now more sensible than ever before of the bond between them and how necessary he was to her. “If I did not know that you love me as much as I do you, I could not tolerate feeling dependent upon you for my own happiness.” After gathering her courage, she continued. “The description I heard from the neighborhood matrons was a poor depiction of what we did. However, I shall not tell them what they are missing.”
She felt Fitzwilliam’s soft rumble of laughter as she rested her head on his chest and wished never to leave his side. She did not realize that she had spoken those words aloud until her betrothed replied.
“I would like nothing more than to stay here with you, and after you become Mrs. Darcy in a few weeks, I think a fortnight in bed might be sufficient to satisfy me, but if we do not return soon, you could be missed.”
“I am sure I do not know what you are talking about. You must have heard a nightingale and not the lark, Romeo.”
“If only because Elizabeth wills it so? Very well—as your father already hates me, we might as well stay here until we are discovered.” Elizabeth was swiftly overturned, and Darcy lay above her, smiling widely as he placed kisses across her face. She had never seen him so unrestrained, and she felt herself falling even more in love with him.
“I would rather stay here with you, but we ought to go back. Would you check your watch?”
He rose and crossed the room to search through his discarded clothes, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to admire him. As she recalled their lovemaking, she was flooded with sensations that she never previously imagined were possible.
“What can you mean by looking at me so?” he asked.
“I am simply admiring your figure. It appears to the greatest advantage while walking.”
Fitzwilliam blushed as he gathered his watch and clothes. It was seven o’clock, and they needed to return. Fitzwilliam fastened her dress with marginal success, and she impressed him by showing that she could tie a simple, but not altogether striking, knot in his cravat. Should all their servants leave them, they might at least still be able to dress themselves. Quitting the cottage, they walked among the blooming flowers towards Longbourn.
The surrounding fields bustled with laborers, and a horse and cart were coming down the lane as they neared Mr. Bennet’s property, which forced them to part in less private a manner than they might otherwise have enjoyed. They would not see one another except for briefly after church tomorrow, and Fitzwilliam would not return to Netherfield until Saturday at the earliest.
“Despite what happened,” Elizabeth said quietly, “it would not do to throw all convention aside to kiss you in full view of watchful eyes.”
Fitzwilliam stepped closer, grasping her hand tightly. “You do not regret it, do you?”
She smiled, hoping the sparkle in her eyes and the animation of her voice would be enough to assuage his fears as they held a private conversation in a very public place. “You are the very best of men.” She squeezed his hand in return. “I love you, and I have no regrets about anything we have shared.”
Darcy looked at her with a passion she had come to suspect he could not communicate in words. “Nor do I.”
They parted quickly, and Elizabeth returned to her room unseen, feeling like a different person than she had when she awoke. Fleetingly, she wondered, as she glanced in the mirror, whether anyone could notice.
She had begun their walk in restless anxiety, fearing his disappointment and his reprimands. Now she felt an exhilarating happiness that she had never before known and a fierce relief that the strength of her precious feelings for him had not made her lose his good opinion. She had been so certain that he would be ashamed of her. I judged him wrongly again! Not only did he approve of her boldness, but while she had been unknowingly tempting him, he was suppressing the same desires she was. What a relief not to have to hide those feelings or desires from Fitzwilliam—not when he feels the same way!
She saw it all with a clearness that had never blessed her before. Elizabeth had thought that Fitzwilliam had found much to blame in her passionate conduct and that, between the two of them, he viewed her as the one more liable to err. She now knew he would readily admit that he, unwittingly, had been as tempting to her as she had been to him. What had happened was not an unpardonable folly for which either of them had to bear the sole blame, but rather the natural, affectionate actions of two people in perfect accord.
Elizabeth was not prepared to speak to Jane—nor anyone for that matter—about what had passed, and she was therefore pleased when Jane came in and took up the conversation.
“I did not have the chance to tell you yesterday, but Caroline wrote to me.”
“What does she say?”
“She articulated her delight on learning of my approaching marriage to her brother and repeated all her former professions of regard.”
“Do not tell me that you believe her? After all she has done to keep you and Bingley apart!”
“I am not deceived, but I am affected by her words. I ought to write her a kind answer for Bingley’s sake.”
“So long as you know that your generosity is far more than the deceitful woman deserves.”
Elizabeth would not tell Jane that Georgiana had written to her with far more sincerity. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight and earnest desire of being loved by her new sister. Elizabeth would miss Jane terribly when she left for Derbyshire, but the comfort of knowing that Georgiana eagerly awaited her softened her sadness.
“Is not Bingley the most amiable man of our acquaintance?” Jane said dreamily as she sprawled out on Elizabeth’s bed. “I have nothing to fear and nothing else to hope for. It is such a comfort after being disappointed over the winter.”
“You and Bingley have a strong
affection for one another. You are fortunate to have found such a partner in life. We both are since we have a poor example to follow in my mother and father. They have neither affection nor respect for each other.” She gathered her thoughts and her courage before speaking again. “But do you not feel that something else is to be had in one’s marriage beyond fondness? Something more akin to excitement…or passion?”
“I do not understand.”
“I mean that you and Bingley are well suited and enjoy one another’s company, but I hope for more than just a sensible marriage.”
“Well, of course, Lizzy! What a silly notion. I love Bingley as I am sure you love Darcy. Tell me now, how long have you truly loved him?”
“I wish I could say that the first moment I beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone, but now when I set my mind to remembering, I do believe that I hated Darcy for longer than I have loved him!”
Jane laughed along with her and then left, but Elizabeth remained deep in thought. Passion, as she could fully understand and value now, was not a word she would apply to her sister and Bingley. Jane only longed for the company of an affable man.
Elizabeth knew that she and Fitzwilliam would have many verbal battles and would argue their difference of opinion. But she admired his intelligence and powers of perception, and there was no doubt that he admired her wit. Jane would be shocked at the idea of taking pleasure in arguing with Bingley.
Bingley lacked substance, but in an amiable way for there was nothing laughable about him, and Jane was too good-natured to believe ill of anyone, no matter the evidence before her.
Such a marriage would never suit Elizabeth. What she felt for her own betrothed was more than attraction—more than ardent love. She had Fitzwilliam’s love, his respect, and his confidence. She felt the compliment of being well loved by such a man, and she was satisfied that she meant as much to him as he did to her. As she thought back with a contented sigh to the morning’s events, she was even more assured that she had made an excellent choice. How soon could she obey the first impulse of her heart and repeat them? She felt a deep glow spread over her cheeks at the hope of it.
***
The week without Fitzwilliam passed slowly for Elizabeth. Her mother’s prattling about how handsome Darcy was, how amiable Bingley was, and how rich they would all be drove Elizabeth to distraction. Mr. Bennet sported with her by suggesting that her “unsocial man” would jilt her. She found little solace in Jane’s company for she was always with Bingley, and Elizabeth preferred to be by herself rather than be with Mary or Kitty. It was consequently necessary to have another point on which her hopes might be fixed to console herself: Fitzwilliam would return on Saturday, and in a fortnight, they would be married.
Bingley omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in Jane’s way, and called at all hours. Friday evening, Mr. Bennet and Bingley played backgammon after supper while Mary attempted a piece of music that was beyond her skill, and the other ladies sat at their work. It was late when a rider was heard approaching the house to deliver an express. After reading it in stony silence, Mr. Bennet passed the letter to his wife and returned to his chair. The Bennet girls looked up from their needlework only when they heard their mother’s wails of misery.
“Oh, Mr. Bennet! What is to be done?” sobbed the lady, who received no response from her husband.
The door to the hall remained open, and Hill, the express rider, and the footman were still in sight. Bingley dismissed them and shut the door. Elizabeth noticed his disdainful glance towards Mr. Bennet as he walked to Mrs. Bennet to comfort her.
“Mrs. Bennet, whatever the letter contains, I presume it is not for the servants to overhear,” Bingley said kindly as he led his future mother to sit by Jane.
Mrs. Bennet could only sob into her handkerchief. Elizabeth, seeing that all attempts at reasonable discourse with her mother would be futile, addressed her father for information.
“It is from Colonel Forster, informing us that Lydia has gone off to Scotland with one of his officers.” He did not look up from the backgammon board as though the game held more interest to him than the safety and reputation of his youngest daughter. “She has left her friends and thrown herself into the power of Mr. Wickham.”
The assembled party cried out in alarm, and too many hands grabbed for the letter. Jane, ever the peacemaker, took the letter from her mother and reviewed for the others what Colonel Forster had written.
“They were off Thursday night about twelve, he conjectures, but were not missed till this morning at eight. He will come himself tomorrow to speak to us further. Lydia left a few lines for Mrs. Forster informing her of their intention to go to Gretna Green to be married.”
“Such an imprudent match on both sides,” said Mary.
“Yes, for he must know that I can give her nothing.” Mr. Bennet tipped over the dice cup as he spoke without looking at any of them.
“This is so unexpected,” said Jane to Bingley, who sat beside her, shaking his head.
Everyone muttered their assent except for Kitty, who took pleasure in her triumph for knowing more than the rest of them. “Well, it is not so wholly unexpected to me!” Kitty cried. “I was the only one who knew of their being in love with each other, and for many weeks. Her last letter prepared me for such a step.”
When Mrs. Bennet began to wail again, it was Bingley who suggested they retire for the night and be ready to hear from Colonel Forster the next day. Mr. Bennet went to bed without a word to anyone, and Mary and Kitty reluctantly attended to their teary-eyed mother. Bingley, before excusing himself, guaranteed his silence and cautioned them to be silent before the servants in the hopes that they could report the marriage as a fait accompli and the word “elopement” need not cross anyone’s lips. Soon Elizabeth and Jane were alone, stunned and sadly grieved.
“I am willing to hope for the best, Lizzy. Perhaps his character has been misunderstood.”
“How can you say that? You are far too good if you believe that of Mr. Wickham! After all we know of him from Darcy’s accounts, how can you doubt that he is a philanderer, a gamester, and liar?”
“How Lydia could ever have attracted him appears incomprehensible. I never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him.”
Elizabeth remembered Wickham’s demeanor towards her youngest sister when they last parted. He had taken notice of Lydia’s unrestrained flirting with his fellow officers. “Mr. Wickham was angry with me for discovering his true character and favoring Darcy. I am surprised he would place himself in a position where he might be worked upon to marry my sister although I doubt that is his intent.”
Jane’s eyes went wide. “But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?”
“What I do know, what we both know, is that Mr. Wickham is profligate in every sense of the word! That he has neither integrity nor honor. That he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating!”
“I believe they will yet marry and then we must forget all that we know of him, for he will be our brother.”
How she hated to see her sister think the best of a man like George Wickham. There was never a man more undeserving of her generous heart than him. Rather than lash out at Jane, who could never stand to think unkindly of anyone, she left for bed, and it was not until her head hit the pillow that she realized with horror what she must relay to Fitzwilliam when he returned to Netherfield tomorrow.
***
Saturday evening found Darcy in his carriage, feeling the journey into Hertfordshire to be a lengthy one, and he was weary enough before the close of it. He was tired, and he felt he was being slowly dragged and cruelly shaken over the rough roads. His journey left him in a foul mood, and the one thing that would bring him comfort was to see
Elizabeth.
Bingley was nowhere to be found when he arrived, but that did not surprise Darcy, for he knew Bingley spent every moment at Longbourn. While waiting for his host, Darcy sorted his stack of correspondence, stopping only to read the expected disapproving reply from Lady Catherine regarding his letter announcing his engagement. The language of it was so abusive towards Elizabeth that it was not fit to be repeated. He tore it to pieces, promising himself to cut ties with her until her ladyship apologized, and returned to the others, nothing critical catching his eye until he reached the last letter. It was first sent to his house in town and was then forwarded to Netherfield before he arrived back in London. He immediately recognized the handwriting, and his stomach lurched. His first instinct was to set it afire as if, by burning the paper, he could burn away the existence of the man who wrote. Inquisitiveness won out over wrath, however, and Darcy broke the seal.
Brighton, East Sussex
25 June 1812
Dear Sir,
The disagreement subsisting between us cannot be refuted, but you must pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. You think so ill of me that you have thrown me off and have left me without any other dependence in this world. I hold you responsible for my ruined prospects. That you disagree with this assessment I cannot deny, but know this: I shall take from you what is owed to me.
I have it on good authority, as well as from my own observations of the lady, that you are enamored of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I have the highest opinion for your taste. I might have been successful had she not believed your version of our history upon her return from Kent. Your attachment to her must have induced you to unfold them, and knowing all I do of your character, I suspect you will make her an offer of marriage.
Her sister Lydia, who followed us to Brighton, eagerly gave herself over to me. I depart the militia Thursday for London as my debts have moved beyond my ability to repay, and it will be the work of a moment to induce her to come with me. I have no intention of marrying the foolish girl, but she would think it a great adventure to go to town and then to Scotland to marry. However, if you compensate me for the funds I ought to have had by marrying your sister, I shall make the journey to town alone. Otherwise, I make no guarantee as to the condition of Lydia Bennet and her reputation when I leave her in London.