Suddenly Mrs. Darcy

by Jenetta James

  “How do you find Pemberley, Mrs Darcy?” interjected my partner, seeming to sense my distraction.

  “It is wonderful, Mr Woodham. It is quite the most wondrous setting I could imagine. I scarcely know what I have done to deserve it. Are you familiar with Pemberley yourself?”

  We parted, smiled at others, and were reunited.

  “Well, a little. I visited there with my parents many years ago when old Mr Darcy and Lady Anne were alive, but I recall little of it. I understand it is a very splendid estate.” His words seemed to hang in the air between us, and I believe he expected something from me by way of comment. But I knew not what to give, so I simply danced and pondered the connection between his wife and my husband until I felt quite poorly.

  By the time my dance with Mr Woodham was completed, I had calmed. I forced myself to do so. I reasoned that, as Fitzwilliam could not know all about me, I could not know all about him. I had no right to be so affronted. We had not married, after all, for love. There was nothing improper in being acquainted with a young woman who was the wife of an acquaintance. He had maintained throughout our conversation his customary attention to me, and I had no complaint. As Mr Woodham escorted me back to him at the end of the dance, I consoled myself thus.

  Mrs Woodham, upon our returning, almost threw herself at her husband’s person and demanded a dance. He was willing to give it, and they were gone. As they scampered towards the dance floor like children, Fitzwilliam was silent at my side.

  “Mr and Mrs Woodham seem a very friendly couple, Fitzwilliam. Are you well acquainted with them?”

  “Erm, no, not well acquainted. Woodham’s father hunted with mine, and they have a good estate. He has been to Pemberley but not for some years.” He paused, his eyes fixed straight ahead of him. “I was surprised to see them here.”

  He said no more, and I, fearful of what answers there may be, ventured no questions. We were soon joined by Lord and Lady Matlock, and the remainder of the evening was lost in dances and pleasant conversation. I danced once more with Fitzwilliam and with Lord Matlock and with our host. But otherwise, I sat with my husband, conversing with his relations and nursing my cup of punch. My reverie was broken only once as I returned from the dance floor on the arm of my husband’s uncle. Through the crowd of couples and laughing faces, I spied my husband and his aunt, apparently arguing. Her expression was most fierce, and her hands shook in exclamation as she spoke. Her greying curls jittered below the feathers of her headpiece. His own face, I knew, bespoke irritation. Whatever could they be disagreeing about? I was overcome with the sense that I was in ignorance of some great matter.

  Later, darkness filled the sky like spilled ink, the air grew chilly, and ’twas time to leave. I drew my cloak about me and felt my slipper slide slightly on the icy surface of the iron step as I entered our carriage. I saw my breath on the air in the tiny light from the lamps outside. Otherwise, it was all darkness, and I felt along the frozen leather seat with my gloved hand before sitting on it. Mr Darcy immediately began bundling my legs with a further blanket and then sat beside me, his arm wrapped about me.

  “I am sorry about this cold, Elizabeth. We should have departed before the night became so chilled.”

  Our frosty breaths met and mingled in the enclosed space of the carriage. “It shall not matter, sir. We shall soon be warm, and Pemberley is not far. The dancing was worth the cold.” I smiled at him in what I hoped was a winsome manner, and he gave a guarded smile back.

  If he had only spoken some words of affection and reassurance, I would not have pressed him. I longed to be in his confidence and to be trusted with his true, unvarnished thoughts. But words, he gave me none. The spectre of how little I knew him and his history stirred within me. The memory of Mrs Woodham playing with her bracelets and looking at my husband with knowing eyes appeared to me as we drove on in the darkness. It was like an itch I could not but scratch. We were hardly outside the gates of Standenton Park when I was worrying at him for knowledge and goading him into an argument.

  “I enjoyed my dance with Mr Woodham. He seems a pleasant young man. I wonder you have never mentioned them.”

  “Well, they are not close neighbours, Elizabeth. I was surprised to see them there at all.”

  “I wonder you did not ask Mrs Woodham to dance while I was engaged with Mr Woodham, Fitzwilliam. I do not think she would have been a punishment to stand up with.”

  I endured the silence for a moment to see whether he would fill it, and just as I began to give up hope, he sighed, removed his arm from around me, and said, “You know that I am not a great dancer, and I do not enjoy prancing from partner to partner. One of the advantages of being married is that I am now less subject to the aspirations of every woman in the ballroom.”

  These last words were spoken sharply and unkindly. My mama’s behaviour at Netherfield and afterwards had shocked me to the core, but to suggest that I had been out to ensnare him was an outrageous insult and completely untrue. “Perhaps you do yourself too much credit, sir. I can assure you that, if it is Netherfield of which you speak, I had no aspirations of the kind, and I hope you were not excessively troubled by the notion that I did.”

  “I was not talking about Netherfield. And if you recall, I asked you to dance with me on that occasion of my own volition. You did not throw yourself in my way by way of seeking a dance. It should be obvious that I am sparing in my approach to dancing, and I would only ever ask a woman with whom I was acquainted.”

  “But you are acquainted with Mrs Woodham!”

  “Only on the basis that she is married to Woodham. In any case, Elizabeth, why on earth are you so concerned at my not having asked Mrs Woodham to dance? You have only this evening been introduced to her, and quite by chance.”

  “But you must have known her before she was married, Fitzwilliam, for she has only been Mrs Woodham these two weeks.”

  He drew in his breath, and in the darkness threw his head back. His eyes were closed, and the skin around his mouth tightened slightly. I could not see these things in the dimness of the carriage, but I knew them to be true.

  “May I ask to what these questions tend?”

  “Merely to the illustration of these acquaintances and your relations with them. I am trying to make them out.”

  “And dare I ask your conclusions?”

  “Oh, I do not get on at all, Fitzwilliam. For example, I see you with the Woodhams, and they seem to know you well, including Mrs Woodham, who is married for only two weeks and is not a native of Derbyshire. But you say little of them, if anything. Before tonight, I had never heard of them. Now, when I ask, you have little you are willing to tell. And so you see, I am puzzled exceedingly.”

  “Well, maybe you would do better not to worry about such a trifling matter,” he grumbled loudly. “There is nothing to be said about the Woodhams, Elizabeth, and that is why I do not do so. They are a young couple with whom I am slightly acquainted, and I have nothing else to say about them.”

  The remainder of our journey home passed in an uneasy silence. Trees, hedges, dry stone walls, and low cottages flew past the carriage windows in greys and blacks. In the torment of my mood, I fancied them all tombstones. The racket of the carriage and the whinnying of the horses were the only sounds, for my husband and I each watched the cold night whistling by and said nothing. I knew that I should not have pushed him, that I should not have ended a pleasant evening with discord, and that the light was not really worth the candle. At the same time, I resented his lack of openness with me. Did I not deserve some honesty? Did I not deserve some words of affection?

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning was wet and chilly, and I quickly resigned myself to a day spent within doors. I re-read my latest letters from Hertfordshire and penned my replies. For Mama, I included details of the ball, although none of the ones that most concerned me. I kne
w she should like to hear of thronging ballrooms in grand houses and fashionable dresses, so that is what I told her. To Jane, I wrote far more of our life within Pemberley, of my walks and reading, and of my adventures on Mrs Wollstonecraft. I decided not to reveal we were expecting Mr Bingley and his sisters in but a few days. It was clear from Jane’s words that Mr Bingley’s absence had caused her great melancholy, and I did not wish to exacerbate it. I fancied myself an agent of Jane’s interest, and I decided to find out what I could of that gentleman’s feelings before exciting Jane’s expectations. I wanted my letters to comfort her, not to worry her into a state of nervous anxiety. I did not mention to either Mama or Jane my suspicions of being with child. I told myself that, not having informed Mr Darcy, it would be wrong to tell others. However, I knew in my heart that there was more to it. The idea that I may have a child was a matter of such importance and so overwhelming, I did not know how to say it. I feared that, by proclaiming it, I would unleash something too great before it was necessary. And so, in cowardice, I kept it to myself.

  This correspondence done, I was overwhelmed by fatigue and wearily took myself to my chamber where I climbed atop my bed and promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, it was to see Mr Darcy sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading some letters.

  “Elizabeth, I am worried about all of this sleeping during the day. Are you quite well?” he asked as he saw me begin to stir.

  “Yes, I am well. I think the ball must have tired me. I am fine. Thank you for being concerned.” I added the last by way of a peace offering after our argument in the carriage. He did not seem to understand and answered me sharply.

  “You do not need to thank me for being concerned for you. But if you are ill, then you should say so.”

  I thought better of continuing this discussion and called for tea, which Hannah brought to my bedside in very short order. I poured Mr Darcy a cup, but he did not leap to drink it.

  “Am I right, sir, that you are not fond of tea?”

  “Yes, I am not as fond as some. I believe you are?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “And you find this to your taste, I hope?”

  My tongue lingered on my answer. “Yes.” The inanity of our discussion at that moment threatened to engulf me. I knew, despite myself, that I loved him. I loved him for reasons I could not name and much to my surprise. I loved him and needed to be loved in return. When it had started and where it had come from, I knew not. It would seem I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. And yet, I felt misery and frustration that between us we could manage nothing better than a discussion of tea. I, who could converse well with anyone, had been bested by Mr Darcy when I desired his good conversation more than that of any other. In my desperation to discuss something meaningful, I surprised myself with my forwardness.

  “Tell me about Mr Wickham.”

  He turned to me with a start. “Wickham? What has brought this on?”

  “Nothing, but I would like to know why you have such a low view of him, and, well, you did promise me that you would explain. Do you remember?”

  He coughed and looked about him. “Yes. What do you want to know?”

  “There is no need to be ill-tempered about it. I am interested in how you came to dislike him. That is all.”

  “Well, if you insist, Elizabeth. But I hope you shall not have need to know that George Wickham is a man to be avoided. I very much hope you shall not be troubled by him again.”

  “Yes, I doubt I shall ever see him again, for how could our paths cross? You may call it historical interest if you will, Fitzwilliam. But I would still like to know. Especially since, if I am right, you were trying to tell me when…” I paused and looked down at my hands. I did not feel equal to mentioning the Netherfield ball, and so I did not. “I believe that you may have tried to tell me before. You promised me, and so, yes, I do wish to know.”

  “Very well. I hardly know where to begin…because…of course, I do not know what he has said to you. But maybe it is for the best that you do not tell me.”

  With this, he stood abruptly and took a noisy breath. I sat in silence as he paced to the fireplace and leaned against it; the light of the flame flickered against his profile.

  “George Wickham is the son of my father’s steward, who was an excellent man and very well respected hereabouts. He was greatly missed when he died about ten years ago. My father was Wickham’s godfather and had always taken a great interest in him. He provided for him to be educated as a gentleman, and to my father’s eyes, he always appeared to be very much thriving on it. For myself, I was once very close to George. We played together as boys, and I considered him a friend—at times, almost a brother. But as we grew older, we grew apart. Being the same age, we went up to Cambridge in the same term, but there our lives diverged dramatically. By that time, George Wickham’s habits were as dissolute as his manners were engaging and well—I cannot tell you the details, Elizabeth. But suffice to say, neither his father nor mine would have been proud of the way in which he conducted himself when far from home. In any case, it transpired that his father was not long for the world, and after he died, my own father took George even more under his wing. He had long intended George for the church, taking the view that it was an ideal occupation for an educated man of no fortune. George went along with this idea, although he and I knew how unsuited he was. When five years ago my father died, his will provided, as we all expected, that George should be entitled to the living at Kympton as soon as it fell vacant. My heart was heavy as I knew he would be a poor guide to his flock, but there it was. It was my father’s wish, and I could see no way forward but to honour it. As it turned out, however, George had other ideas and disavowed any interest at all in the church or the parish. He requested and he was granted the sum of three thousand pounds in place of the living. He expressed an interest in studying the law. I hoped rather than believed him to be in earnest, and I handed him a cheque for the agreed sum, praying some good would come of it. What he did with the funds and how he lived, I knew not…”

  He looked at me and then looked away, his eyes seemingly searching for some missing thing. He clenched his fists and exhaled. His body was tense, and his face was troubled. I nodded, hoping to reassure him, and he moved towards me. Our tea by this time was quite cold, and I leaned over, touching his hand with mine as he drew near.

  “Yes?”

  “I knew not. I did not expect to see him again, and I was shocked that he surfaced in Meryton with the militia. I assume he squandered the money I conferred on him, for there is no other reasonable conclusion.”

  He stopped, and his silence told me he had reached the end of his tale. I knew in my bones that he was in earnest. It was a shock to realise I did not question his honesty. I thought of Mr Wickham’s willingness to besmirch Fitzwilliam upon his first meeting with me, and I also thought of his avoidance of meeting him at Netherfield. The remembrance of scanning the Netherfield ballroom upon my arrival, longing for a dance with Mr Wickham, came back to me, and I was greatly ashamed. I had been a fool. I had judged a man—two men—at great speed, with little thought, and quite incorrectly. Fitzwilliam’s revelations to me seemed to have given him no comfort. He looked about in a distracted manner, and there was stress in his face and hands.

  “Now, I understand. Thank you for telling me.” I took a great risk and kissed his head, for which I was rewarded with a pale smile and an odd look.

  But just as I thought he might kiss me in return, he stood and said, “I shall leave you now, Elizabeth,” then bolted from the room like a rabbit from a trap.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day was a fine one, so I set out to visit the Ashbys. Hannah accompanied me, and together we trudged through the woods with baskets of plenty from the Pemberley kitchens. Being a native of Derbyshire, an excellent walker, and a long-term servant to the Darcys, she knew all the be
st routes and which parts of the path were less slippery after rain. As the cottage appeared before me, I found I had enjoyed her company so much that I hardly registered that we had walked for an hour to get there. I knocked upon the door in good spirits, hopeful that the visit of Dr Worthing, which I knew to have been the week before, had been helpful. After some little wait, the door was answered by young George.

  “Good morning, George. Is your Mama at home?”

  He gulped and stared at Hannah, seemingly lost for words. His big eyes looked about the room, and he appeared to be on the verge of shutting the door on us when a great screaming cry issued from within. Hannah knelt to meet his eyes.

  “George, do not be afraid. Is that your mama? Where is she, my lovey?”

  “She’s abed miss,” he said, pointing at the little door on the other side of the room.

  With that, and not a little trepidation, Hannah and I sprang into the cottage and, knocking lightly, entered the other room. There was but one tiny window, and although it was only early spring, it felt hot within. The place was modest, and the air dank. My eyes struggled to focus in the dimness. A simple bed stood in the middle of the room on a hard wooden floor, and upon it was Mrs Ashby. Kneeling with her arms outstretched and her head hanging down, she groaned, roared, and let out odd sounds quite unlike speech. She appeared to me as an animal caged in the tiny room. She looked up at the light from the door and, seeing me, appeared to be horrified. “Mrs Darcy!” Having said this, she gasped and seemed to lose the power of speech altogether.

  Hannah rapidly took charge. “George, you understand your Mama’s time is come, don’t you? Do you know who usually assists her?”

  “Old Mrs Cutler, miss, from over Alderedge way. Edward is running there now, miss.”

  “And where is your papa, George?”