The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Mary Street

  I did not much care what Miss Bingley thought, since it had the effect of sparing me from her most irritating attentions. She was, in fact, better company because of it.

  My own thoughts were frequently turned towards Longbourn and its inhabitants, wondering how they were faring now they knew the worst of their troubles were over, and wondering, especially, if one particular person in that household ever thought of me.

  Fifteen

  THE WEDDING OF Wickham to Lydia Bennet took place at St Clement’s as planned. It was a bleak affair, with none but myself and the Gardiners as witnesses. Only the bride seemed to be in good spirits.

  Wickham informed me that as soon as the ceremony was over, he and Lydia were to proceed to Longbourn and remain there for a few days before setting off for Newcastle.

  I was surprised, for Mr Gardiner’s account of his brother-in-law’s reaction to the elopement had led me to believe Mr Bennet would never receive the errant couple at Longbourn.

  When I dined in Gracechurch Street the following day, I heard it had been brought about by the two eldest girls.

  ‘Though I doubt they were consulting their own wishes,’ said Mr Gardiner. ‘Meeting Wickham again would be the last thing either of them would want.’

  Elizabeth and Jane, according to Mrs Gardiner, had, for their sister’s sake, persuaded their father that Lydia should be noticed on her marriage by her parents. He had given them permission to visit.

  ‘Those two girls,’ said Mrs Gardiner dryly, ‘credit their sister with the feelings they would have, had they been the culprits, though in my opinion Lydia wishes to go home merely to triumph over her sisters. She has no sentiment of shame: she thinks being the first to be married is a matter for self-congratulation.’

  ‘I am surprised Wickham has agreed to go,’ said Mr Gardiner.

  ‘He will carry it off,’ I told them. ‘He will behave as though nothing untoward has happened. As he ever does.’ I took the glass of wine Mr Gardiner handed to me. ‘Wickham must know it would not be wise to have my part in arranging this marriage mentioned at Longbourn. But the girl talks without thinking. Can she be trusted to hold her tongue, do you think?’

  ‘I left it to Wickham to persuade her,’ said Mr Gardiner. ‘Very skilfully he did it, too. But the truth is, she is not very interested in the part you have played and, therefore, she is unlikely to mention it. All she cares about is being married to her dear Wickham.’

  With that, I had to be satisfied. Upon later reflection, I became assured Mrs Wickham would see no reason to mention my involvement, for certain it was she did not properly understand it. To her, I was just the man who had helped Wickham with some tiresome business affairs.

  When I returned to Pemberley, the others had seen in the newspaper, as I had known they must, the announcement of the marriage between Wickham and Lydia Bennet.

  My sister’s naughtiness proved to have been a real blessing, for by it I was spared whatever derisive remarks Miss Bingley and her sister might otherwise have made. Only Bingley commented, saying Wickham must be truly in love if he had, in the end, made a choice so imprudent as to fortune.

  ‘So it would seem,’ I said.

  My sister said nothing in presence of the others. Later, when we were alone together, she asked me if our aunt had made me acquainted with the fact of the elopement.

  ‘She has,’ I agreed. That lady’s letter had spared me none of the details and had likewise made her opinion known. She obligingly informed me this false step on behalf of the youngest sister must be injurious to the fortunes of them all: ‘For who would connect themselves with such a family?’

  My aunt, had she known the answer, would have been most seriously displeased.

  To Georgiana, I admitted I had known of it before receiving our aunt’s intelligence. ‘I hope you have not mentioned this to anyone here?’

  ‘I have not,’ said my sister austerely. ‘But I thought you must know of it. It is the reason why Miss Bennet and the Gardiners left Derbyshire in such a hurry, is it not?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And she, I mean Elizabeth, she herself made you acquainted with the matter?’

  ‘She did.’

  Georgiana nodded to herself. I waited. I cannot disguise I disliked the prospect of connecting myself with Wickham. I disliked it, but I would not shrink from it, for now I knew the pain of losing Elizabeth, and that was worse. Once, I had had to bear that pain: I might have to face it again, for I was by no means certain of overcoming her dislike; I was by no means certain of winning her.

  I only knew I would not let Wickham stand in the way of my own happiness.

  Georgiana, however, had reasons more complicated than mere pride for disliking a connection with Wickham. It pained me to feel she was about to voice objections of her own.

  She did not. My dear, my beloved sister, put me to shame, when she said, ‘I was most disappointed when my acquaintance with Miss Bennet was cut short so abruptly. I have been meaning to consult with you, sir, about an idea I had. I wondered if I might write to her and invite her to stay with us, here at Pemberley? Mr Bingley and his sisters go on to Scarborough very soon, but we do not have to accompany them, do we?’

  She could not have spoken her approbation more clearly and for a time I was too moved to do anything but hug her and speak her name. Recovering at last, I told her I planned to persuade Bingley back to Hertfordshire.

  ‘It is better so.’ I said, ‘for many reasons. If you do not accompany the others to Scarborough, you will be left alone at Pemberley with only Mrs Annesley for company. Will you mind?’

  ‘I would prefer not to go to Scarborough,’ admitted Georgiana. ‘To own the truth, I am finding the society of Mr Bingley’s sisters a little irksome, at present.’

  I did nothing until I was certain Wickham had left Longbourn for the north. Knowing he must pass through Sheffield on his journey to Newcastle, when he was due there, I sent a servant to check he was indeed proceeding on his journey as planned. I wanted no more unpleasant surprises from Wickham.

  Satisfied on that point, it was scarce the work of a moment to persuade Bingley to change his mind about accompanying the others to Scarborough.

  Having accomplished this, I allowed some time to pass before asking him whether anyone had shown an interest in purchasing the lease of Netherfield. Upon being told no one had, I went on to express some curiosity about how our Hertfordshire friends were faring.

  Bingley said nothing, but I was encouraged by his expression. At breakfast the next morning I returned to the same subject and also mentioned the excellent sport we had there last year.

  It was almost too easy. We sent servants to open up the house and a few days later we set off for Netherfield. There, with affectation of innocence, we went out shooting. Some of our neighbours visited: Mr Bennet did not.

  On the third morning after our arrival in Hertfordshire, Bingley represented to me how very impolite it would be, should we neglect to wait on the ladies of Longbourn.

  Faces appeared at one of the windows as we entered the paddock and rode towards the house. The two most earnestly sought did not appear, but I had no doubt they were by now well advised as to who was approaching.

  How Bingley felt, I know not. I know my own mouth was dry as we were admitted into the presence of the ladies.

  We stayed for half an hour and Elizabeth had little to say. She enquired after Georgiana, answered my own enquiries after the Gardiners and spent most of the time concentrating on her needlework. I noticed a few anxious glances at her sister, as though she expected Jane to be discomposed by Bingley’s presence. There were no glances in my direction, or none that I could perceive. Whenever I looked at her, she wore her blank-faced expression which spoke displeasure.

  Mrs Bennet did most of the talking: she welcomed Bingley with effusive civility, and myself with cold, ceremonious politeness. She began to talk of her daughter’s marriage to Wickham, speaking of it with some pleasure, as though it had been p
roperly arranged, unaware, I suppose, that either of us knew the truth of the affair.

  Fortunately for him, Bingley did not, so he was able to respond to her chatter with tolerable ease.

  I turned my attention to Jane Bennet. She was friendly, but not effusive, and not at all embarrassed. She appeared to be entirely unaffected and, when Bingley spoke to her, she chatted quite easily.

  I did not know what to make of her. Had it not been for the anxiety in her sister, I would have come to the same conclusion I had reached at the Netherfield ball, last year.

  I think I was watching her too attentively: she seemed to become aware of my scrutiny, looked up and smiled at me.

  I will swear revenge was the last thing on the lady’s mind. But she had it, in that moment. She was the one person in the world who had most reason to detest me, and she was the one, the only one, who showed me a little kindness at Longbourn that day. I felt all the meanness of my own behaviour towards her more keenly than ever before.

  I hope I managed to return her smile: I cannot be certain I did. I know my colour rose, although I think that circumstance went unnoticed.

  I was relieved when the half-hour visit was over, and we got up to go. Mrs Bennet, her hopes of Bingley now revived, invited us to dine at Longbourn in a few days’ time. Bingley accepted the invitation for both of us.

  Bingley was in good humour: he wanted to visit the Lucases, too. There, I received a warmer welcome. My aunt, after all, was patron to their in-law, Mr Collins, reason enough for their civility. Nevertheless, I felt a genuine spirit of goodwill was there, in contrast to the Bennet household.

  It soothed me a little, but it could not console me for the cold reception I had received from Elizabeth, which was all the more painful for recalling how agreeable she had been in Derbyshire. It seemed she was determined to give me no further encouragement.

  The Lucases invited us to dine two days after our engagement at Longbourn. I said I could not be certain of keeping the engagement, since I may be called to town on business.

  ‘Darcy,’ said Bingley seriously, on the way back to Netherfield, ‘I think it is time you told me what is wrong. You have been going back and forth to town all summer, and now I hear you are planning to go again.’

  I was silent. I could not tell him what had been taking me to town lately, and I could hardly inform him that, should I discover the nature of Jane Bennet’s feelings to be favourable towards him, I meant to take myself out of his way.

  He was waiting for an answer. At last, I said, ‘I beg you will not ask any questions, at present, Bingley, since I find myself in some uncertainty.’

  ‘That in itself is unusual.’ Bingley shook his head. ‘You are changing,’ he said. ‘I cannot quite determine what the difference is, but I know there is one.’ He paused, seeming to make up his mind, then added, ‘Tell me the truth, Darcy: is our friendship becoming irksome to you?’

  ‘Never think such a thing!’ I exclaimed. ‘Indeed it is not! In fact, I—’ I stopped, then added more slowly, ‘I have come to value you more then ever, these last few months. There have been several occasions when … when I have wished I had followed your example … or taken your advice.’

  He laughed, embarrassed, and more than a little surprised. ‘This is a day of wonders, indeed! Never did I think to hear such words from you.’

  ‘You are wiser than you know,’ I told him. ‘And, I admit, wiser than I have given you credit for, in the past.’

  ‘Heavens above! You have changed even more than I thought.’

  He spoke in a bantering tone, trying to lighten my mood, but fell silent when he saw he could not succeed.

  When we reached Netherfield, Bingley discovered he had some letters to write and I, disturbed by this conversation as well as by our visit to Longbourn, took myself into the gardens.

  Perhaps I should not have been quite so emphatic in my expression of regard for Bingley, for I suspected the day was approaching when I must forfeit his friendship. Having caused months of unhappiness by my presumption and interference, I could hardly expect to retain it.

  His regard for Jane Bennet was as strong as ever. Should the lady betray any symptom of regard for my friend, my endeavours must be directed towards securing their happiness, whatever the outcome for myself.

  From the Gardiners, I had learnt a little of Jane Bennet. It seemed she was truly as good-natured as all reports of her suggested, but without being weak. She would admit a mistake if she truly believed she had been wrong, but where she felt she was right she would remain firm. She was more patient, more tolerant than Elizabeth; she was serene and she was kind. I was persuaded she was exactly the right kind of woman for Bingley.

  Whatever her feelings she certainly did not display them openly. In such a household, in such a neighbourhood, I could understand why she would not, but it made the task I had set myself seem impossible. I could only hope to catch sight of her in an unguarded moment.

  I had, so far, resolutely avoided thinking of myself: I had high-mindedly determined my purpose was to see Jane Bennet and judge if she were still partial to Bingley.

  I had other designs: of course I had. I wanted to know how far I dared to hope for success in winning Elizabeth.

  If her behaviour this morning was a true indication of her feelings, it would seem there was no hope at all.

  In Derbyshire, at Pemberley, I knew she understood my feelings, that I had been doing everything in my power to woo her. I had allowed myself a little hope, not expecting any swift results, but thinking I might obtain some forgiveness when she understood how bitterly I regretted my past behaviour, hoping she might overcome her abhorrence of me when she saw I had taken her reproofs to heart.

  I had expected more time, for they had planned to stay in Lambton for ten days: in the event, they had stayed only three days, thanks to Wickham. At some point, during those weeks we had been apart, she had decided against me.

  I brooded over Wickham, recalling Elizabeth’s distress, her tears when I had come upon her that morning. As I reviewed that dreadful scene, I began to comprehend, with the most painful clarity, exactly what Elizabeth must now think of me.

  I understood what she must have seen: the man who had so arrogantly disdained her family, once again returning to his former ways when faced with this fresh evidence of folly and impropriety; detaching himself from them, from their trouble, not lifting a finger to help.

  What a fair-weather friend she must think me! All my former attempts to win her forgiveness and approval must seem worthless indeed in the face of such apparent desertion. Had she thought of me at all, Elizabeth must have imagined me strutting around at Pemberley in all my pride and disdain.

  The result of these reflections sent my spirits into such despondency as I had never known before. Even when she rejected my proposals, she could not have thought so ill of me as she must do now.

  This time, I could not explain myself, by letter or by any other means. I had purchased honour for Lydia Bennet, and my chief design had been to spare Elizabeth’s feelings, but I would not have her know I had done it. I took no pleasure in knowing I had made Wickham her brother-in-law.

  If Elizabeth despised me now, there was nothing at all I could do about it.

  By Tuesday, when we set out to keep our engagement at Longbourn, I had reasoned myself into a slightly more hopeful frame of mind. I reminded myself I had only my own conjectures to account for that half-hour on Saturday: I would see how she behaved this evening before reaching any firm conclusions.

  We were not the only company at Longbourn that evening: Mrs Bennet seemed to have invited the whole neighbourhood.

  Jane Bennet gave herself away very early in the evening. As we entered the dining-room, Bingley hesitated, wondering, I think, whether he dare take the place beside her. Jane looked round, smiled, and settled it. As he joined her, her colour rose and her eyes glowed, showing her delight.

  I would have gladly sacrificed my right arm for one such look fr
om Elizabeth.

  Mrs Bennet asked me to take the place beside her: knowing how much the lady disliked me, I was surprised at the civility, but it was not one I could refuse. Now I was seated as far from Elizabeth as the table could divide us.

  Later, when we gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing-room, I discovered the ladies had crowded close to the table where Jane and Elizabeth were dispensing tea and coffee. There were no vacant seats; there was no space to bring up another chair. A young lady, no one I knew, was talking to Elizabeth. I was obliged to join the Lucases at the far side of the room.

  She made polite enquiries after Georgiana when I took back my coffee cup. We were not left in peace for long enough to indulge in any more conversation, for that same young lady once again demanded her attention.

  All seemed accidental, but I began to suspect a conspiracy. I have known ladies to request others of their sex to protect them should the attentions of a gentleman become an embarrassment. Well could I imagine Elizabeth speaking thus to a friend: ‘I beg you, spare me, if you can, from the offence of Mr Darcy’s notice!’

  When the card tables were brought out, I was invited by Mrs Bennet to join the party playing whist. Elizabeth did not play whist. By this time, I was persuaded Mrs Bennet also understood Elizabeth wished to remain as separate from me as possible.

  Whatever one said about Mrs Bennet, her affection for her daughters was real. For their own sakes, she wanted to see them married, and certainly she believed any marriage was better than none. Had she known of my sentiments, she would have acted differently: having no suspicion, knowing only that her daughter shared her dislike of me, she was willing to oblige Elizabeth. I spent the evening at a different table and I knew I had nothing to hope for.

  I was thankful I had ordered our carriage to be early. Bingley was not. ‘Why did you do that, Darcy?’ he demanded. ‘Certain I am Mrs Bennet would have invited us to stay on for supper had we let the others go first.’

  ‘You cannot be hungry after a dinner such as that.’