by Mary Street
There, I discovered all my fine plans for Bingley’s felicity had been overset even before they were made. A letter from that gentleman awaited me.
Caroline Bingley had once complained of her brother’s letters. ‘Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable,’ she said. ‘He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.’
This letter was no exception. I spent half an hour studying one page and understood only that for some illegible reason, Bingley had gone somewhere, with someone, for a length of time which was specified but unreadable.
It might yet be possible to recover him in time to send him to his Jane and with the object of discovering where he was, I went to call in Grosvenor Street. The house was shut up. Presuming Mr Hurst and the sisters were Bingley’s companions, I then called at Georgiana’s establishment, hoping she would be able to give me more information.
She could not. She had stayed at the Bancrofts until Tuesday and had heard nothing of Bingley or his sisters. She spoke for some time of her own visit and enquired about mine.
‘How did you get on with the lovely Miss Bennet?’ she asked shyly.
I recalled, with some consternation, how I had mentioned Elizabeth in glowing terms in my last letter to Georgiana. Judging by the expression on her countenance, I had excited some expectations. How I managed to reply with composure, I know not. I said the lady was as lovely as ever and Fitzwilliam was very taken with her.
Georgiana looked disappointed. In thinking how well the two ladies would have liked each other, and how my sister could not fail to have benefited from knowing Elizabeth, I was struck with fresh pangs of grief and loss.
It would not do: I pulled myself together and made conversation as best I could. I left after half an hour.
Unless Bingley soon returned, I could do nothing about his affairs. I set aside his problem, determined to face my own.
During the next few weeks, I strove to appear as usual whenever I found myself in company and I believe I succeeded well enough, for no one remarked any difference in me. But the despondency of my spirits was great indeed. I found solitude was my greatest relief, and I sought it whenever I could.
My reflections were most unhappy: Elizabeth’s reproofs had forced me to take a critical look at myself and I did not like what I saw. I began to comprehend how shallow and unworthy were my objections to her family: I loved her, but even in love I had been selfish, putting my own consequence before any other consideration.
Her accusations of arrogance, conceit and selfishness began to receive assistance in the most painful way, for unbidden memories of my childhood and youth now intruded. Events that had troubled me not at all at the time of their occurrence now presented themselves to me in a very different light, as evidence of these failings.
I cannot describe my horror in discovering how very selfish and overbearing I had been all my life. All I can say for myself is that I had never before realised it. I could not now conceive why my parents had done so little to correct me, for they had been good themselves. My mother, to be sure, had some of that dignity which characterized my aunt, but without the absurdity. My father had been always most benevolent and amiable.
They had given me good principles; they had taught me good manners: I could wish they had taught me to correct my temper, but I had only myself to blame for the pride and conceit which had so recently been my undoing.
Often, during that time, I would experience those strange feelings which I had first noticed in myself on the day I left Rosings. Some change was taking place in me, partly through my own reflections, but mainly, I suspect, because of her reproofs. Wishful of change, I did not try to stop it. The lessons I was learning were painful, but the pain was deserved.
Still more painful was the prospect before me now. My future looked bleak indeed, for whatever resolutions I made, enlightenment had come too late to spare me the wretchedness of losing Elizabeth. How I wished I had learnt my lessons before I met her, instead of after I had lost her.
Bingley returned to town three weeks after myself. He looked surprised when I asked where he had been. ‘Did you not receive my letter?’
‘I received,’ I said, ‘a piece of paper filled with illegible handwriting and blots. I would not dignify it by calling it a letter. Bingley, I have seen children write with more precision.’
‘You have missed your calling, Darcy. You should have been a schoolmaster. Do you wish to continue the lecture or shall we take a ride in the park?’
We took a ride in the park. I learned they had all been to Bath because Mr Hurst had been advised by his doctor to drink the waters. ‘Horrible stuff,’ said Bingley cheerfully, ‘but they say it does wonders for the system.’
‘And how did you amuse yourself whilst Mr Hurst was drinking the waters?’
Bingley looked more cheerful than he had since his removal from Netherfield. He talked of his excursion, of the people he had met, but if he had found himself admiring any of the ladies he mentioned I could detect nothing of it from his manner.
Now I was confused, wondering if he was, at last, recovering from his attachment to Jane Bennet. I could not think it would be wise to restore him to the lady, if that was the case.
I knew there was also the likelihood of Jane Bennet recovering from her attachment to Bingley. Had I been able to observe the lady for myself, I might discover the present state of her feelings. But my own situation left me with no alternative other than to stay away from Hertfordshire. I could not inflict myself on Elizabeth and I had grave reservations about sending Bingley to Netherfield alone.
I told Bingley I had seen Elizabeth in Kent, explaining how it had come about. He asked how she was, and had I enquired after her family? He did not ask if she had said anything particular about Jane, although he might have done so, had we not been hailed by some acquaintance at that moment.
The whole matter became a fresh source of vexation to me. I could not determine what to do for the best, but I knew that doing the wrong thing would be worse than doing nothing at all. In my prayers, I asked the Lord for guidance and though none was immediately forthcoming, I felt better, for I could not feel He would wish me to continue in error, when I myself so desperately wished to do right.
In June, our whole party went to Eastbourne. Whilst we were there, we received news that a new Fitzwilliam had been born: Fitzwilliam George Fitzwilliam, grandson of my uncle, the Earl of Matlock, son of my cousin, the viscount.
The christening was to be held in July, in the private chapel at my uncle’s country seat in Cromford, Derbyshire. I, along with my cousin Fitzwilliam, was asked to stand as godfather to the infant.
Plans were made accordingly: we would all travel northward together as far as Nottingham, where the Bingleys would visit their aunt. Georgiana and I would go on to Cromford for the christening. Later, they would join us at Cromford before we went on to spend the rest of the summer at Pemberley.
We returned to London two days before we began our journey, and there I found a letter from Lady Catherine awaiting me.
Mrs Collins was now telling my aunt all the news from Hertfordshire. It was disconcerting to find I had a source of information about Elizabeth, who was now taking a tour of the Lake District with some people called Gardiner.
I wondered about the Gardiners, for the name was unknown to me: they were not a family I had met in Hertfordshire. No doubt they were some of her friends and I was pleased for her because I knew she would enjoy the Lakes.
For myself, it was a fresh source of sadness. I found myself wishing I could have taken her there, thinking how wonderful it would be to watch her expression as I showed her Windermere, Coniston Water and the rest. We could have taken a boat and—
I stopped, reproving myself for indulging in vain wishes and was then struck by another frustration. Were I not now obliged to attend this christening, I could have taken the opportunity to persuade Bingley back to Netherfield. I could have restored him to his Jane and taken myself out of the way b
efore Elizabeth returned.
I groaned: Fitzwilliam George Fitzwilliam could not have timed his advent more unfortunately.
We arrived in Cromford at the appointed time. Whilst Georgiana and Mrs Annesley cooed over the baby, Fitzwilliam and I walked up the hillside to Black Rocks, an outcrop of millstone grit where we had sometimes played as boys. We seated ourselves on the smooth flat top and, careless of our own safety, allowed our feet to dangle over the eighty-foot drop. A breathtaking view of the whole valley was spread out before us.
‘Georgiana is looking well,’ observed Fitzwilliam. ‘And you, sir, are not. You are out of spirits and you have lost weight. What is wrong with you, Darcy?’
‘I am not ill,’ I said, ‘and neither am I starving.’
‘I am to mind my own business, I take it?’
‘There is nothing wrong with me; I am perfectly well.’
Fitzwilliam gave me a doubtful look, but did not pursue the subject. ‘So, you plan to move on to Pemberley next week?’
‘Yes. Bingley and his sisters will join us. Can I persuade you to come and make one of the crowd? You would be very welcome.’
‘No, I thank you. I must rejoin my regiment, I have been away long enough. We are encamped at Brighton for the summer.’ He grinned at me. ‘Do you wish me to give your regards to our mutual friend?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Colonel Forster’s regiment is there, also. Wickham will have a nice surprise when he sees me, will he not?’
‘I had forgotten that.’ I could not help but feel relief that he was removed from Meryton and unlikely to trouble Elizabeth again. ‘No, Fitzwilliam, I send no regards to Wickham.’
‘I shall speak to his colonel at the earliest opportunity,’ Fitzwilliam promised me. ‘I do not think Forster is the man to resent a hint. Wickham may find army life a little harsher than he has, hitherto.’
With this happy thought, we made our way homewards.
The christening took place: my godson screamed his disapprobation. Fitzwilliam left for Brighton the next day, and Bingley’s party joined us later in the week.
One morning Bingley was struck by a memory. ‘You promised to show us the petrifying wells, Darcy, when next we came into Derbyshire. Did you not say there was one at Matlock?’
Georgiana and Mrs Annesley exclaimed their enthusiasm for the excursion: a carriage was ordered and off we went.
Matlock is but a short distance from Cromford, and the journey was soon accomplished. More interesting than the spring itself was a display of ‘petrified’ objects, including kettles, spoons, scissors, even spectacles. My companions were delighted: I found some pleasure in watching their faces.
Outside again, I chanced to look ahead towards a group of people who were just moving around a turn in the road.
I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of a bonnet that I recognized.
It was gone before I could be sure, but I gave a shout and ran after it, pausing at the spot where it had disappeared, looking round frantically. It was nowhere to be seen.
I returned to my companions, feeling foolish. ‘I thought I saw someone I know.’
I chided myself all the way back to Cromford. Elizabeth was in the Lake District; there must be hundreds of ladies who wore blue bonnets with a pink trim; and lastly, even had it been Elizabeth, which, of course it was not, but even had it been she, what had I intended to do?
The incident unsettled me. I found myself dwelling on the possibility that Elizabeth, owing to some alteration in her plans, might, indeed, be here in Derbyshire.
It was, I knew, a notion born of my own desires, a little seed of hope, where there could be no hope. Elizabeth was in the Lake District. I must accept it.
My struggles were not assisted by the attentions of Miss Bingley and, once again, I craved solitude. When I received a letter from my steward outlining several matters of business, I made that my excuse: I would have a day to myself; I would leave for Pemberley ahead of the others.
So, Tuesday morning found me setting off on Starlight, a pleasant-natured, broad-backed mare: not a speedy mount but I was in no hurry. I took the bridle path through Via Gelia, riding at an easy canter, not thinking much, just enjoying the peace of the countryside.
I arrived in Youlgreave by ten. A little later, I passed the ancient stone circle at Arbor Low and half a mile further on I turned northwards again, towards Pemberley.
Four miles from home, I noticed Starlight beginning to peck a little to one side. Dismounting, I discovered she had cast a shoe. There was but one thing to be done. Half a mile to the east lay the town of Lambton and the nearest smithy.
I led the mare over the hill. As I looked down, I saw an open carriage bowling along the coach road towards Pemberley.
Once again, I thought I caught a glimpse of a bonnet that I recognized.
I caught my breath and swallowed. It could not be so, I told myself sternly. I had been through this before. Although Pemberley was open to the public view, no one was less likely to visit my home than Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
An hour later, Starlight freshly shod, I resumed my journey. As sometimes happens in the heat of summer, there was a swift, sudden downpour of rain, shortlived but drenching. I grimaced as I felt the dampness penetrate my clothing, but I forgot my discomfort at my first sight of Pemberley.
Over the amber-coloured stone of the buildings, a perfect rainbow arched the sky and, in the watery light, the house seemed suspended in another dimension, shimmering with an unreal, almost magical quality.
I reined in and stared silently as a strange, dreamlike feeling took hold of me, as though the earth was holding its breath, as though time was standing still.
Gradually, the illusion faded in the sun. Starlight whinnied, and I again became aware of discomfort from my damp clothes. I rode on. In the stable yard, I handed the mare to a groom and turned towards the house.
Then I started, for a moment believing myself in the grip of another illusion: I had caught sight of a bonnet that I recognized.
This time, it was no illusion: this time, I could be in no doubt: this time, I beheld the beloved face.
The beautiful dark eyes were regarding me in consternation and dismay.
Eleven
SO THERE I stood in all my pride and terror, trying to behave in a gentleman-like manner.
I asked many silly questions. I am embarrassed, now, to recall how foolish I must have seemed. I asked after her parents; I asked when she had left Longbourn; I asked after her sisters; I asked how long she had been in Derbyshire; I asked after her family; I asked where she was staying; I asked after her parents, I asked how long she was staying.
I stopped myself asking after her relations for the fifth time, but I could think of nothing more to say: I could only recall, stupidly, that she was supposed to be in the Lake District.
My skin burned with a heat that had nothing to do with the July sun, for it was impossible not to recall our last disastrous encounter at Hunsford Parsonage. Elizabeth was looking as uncomfortable as I felt. Something in her eyes told me she was wishing I was miles away and I, unable to find any way of smoothing over the awkwardness of such a meeting, could only excuse myself and leave her.
I walked to the house in a daze. Once inside, I knew I could not let her go away without making some attempt to improve the situation. A miracle had occurred and I was not going to question it: she was here, at Pemberley!
Had we met by chance, in any other place, I could approach her only to pay the briefest courtesy. Here, I could join her as her host, and I could, without impropriety, offer her every civility in my power.
I ran through the house, scattering servants in all directions as I called for hot water, towels, clean linen, fresh clothes. By the time I reached my dressing-room, a footman was waiting to ease off my boots and my valet was there, stropping my razor.
I stopped and stared at him. ‘I thought I left you in Cromford?’
‘No, sir.’
&nbs
p; I did not, as I might have done in other circumstances, demand to know how he compassed it. Elizabeth was here, and I had no thought for any other thing.
Hot water arrived whilst I was stripping, fresh clothes were laid out as I washed and my valet forestalled my arguments about not shaving by showing me my face in a looking glass. Cursing my beard, I submitted to the razor.
He was mercifully quick: ten minutes later, I was ready at last and on my way to meet my beloved.
I had left Hunsford Parsonage in anger, resentment and bitterness. There had been frost between us when we met briefly the next morning and I had no means of knowing how she had reacted to my letter.
But she was here: she had come with her friends, most likely because they had desired it, simply to view and leave again. I would wager Pemberley itself that she had been assured of my absence before she consented to the scheme.
A miracle! Something had caused an alteration in her plans to visit the Lakes: I had left Cromford a day early: we had both arrived at Pemberley on the same day and if that was not amazing enough, we had actually encountered each other: had I been ten minutes earlier or later, I might not have seen her at all. She could have been here, quite easily, without my knowledge.
A miracle, indeed. But one can expect only so much from miracles. What I had in mind, I know not. I think I hoped to show her I was not so mean as to harbour that first resentment. I think I hoped to obtain a little forgiveness for myself by showing her that her reproofs had received attention. I think I hoped to find some means of preserving the acquaintance and, in time, lessen her ill opinion of me.
I did not dare to hope for more.
I knew my gardener would have taken her party on the usual visitor’s walk through the park, and by now they would be some distance from the house. Eventually, I spotted them on the other side of the river and made my way to the bridge.
Elizabeth had seen me coming, as I had known she would. She immediately addressed me in praise of Pemberley, then some unlucky thought crossed her mind and she flushed and fell silent.