Georgiana lifted her chin. “My sentiments exactly.”
Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a glance, and Georgiana—Ana—smiled at them.
“You said I had a choice, Fitzwilliam, and this is it: you, Lizzy, and Pemberley. You are my choice.”
What could he do, this man who had for so many years lived under the misapprehension that he—because he was educated, proud and wealthy—ought to have absolute control over his feelings, his family, and all else that fell under his domain?
He could do nothing—nothing except hold open his arms and be grateful for fate and the irrepressible free will of those he loved best.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Though born to happiness, raised with laughter, and married into joy, Elizabeth Darcy would in the course of a long life face her fair share of difficulties. Her father’s death had already provided her with one such trial, and the future, though unwritten except in pages too sacred to be herein copied, contained challenges, as well. One did not embrace life as Elizabeth did without feeling the many lumps and bruises hidden beneath the cloak of good fortune.
The fortnight spent in Hertfordshire that June of 18____ would hardly qualify as one of the more distressing periods of her life, and yet still it contained so many jolts and surprises as to make the memory of that fortnight one she did not often care to revisit.
Elizabeth arrived at Purvis Lodge with every expectation of inconvenience and unhappiness. The former she met—the attics being not the only part of Purvis Lodge that made living with Fanny Bennet a challenge—but the latter was conspicuously absent.
Oh, Kitty was most definitely annoyed (for really, if Lydia had been planning on eloping, she ought to have at least asked to take Kitty’s favorite ribbons), and Mary was as unsatisfied with the behavior of her family as always (elopement being nothing more than a confirmation of her long-held belief that Lydia was as silly and vain a girl as had ever lived). But they were not unhappy, not precisely. They shed no more tears than usual, and were quite able to continue their daily tasks of lecturing and practicing (Mary), complaining and walking into town (Kitty), and reading (that being the one pastime the middle daughters shared, though whether one might lump Mrs. Radcliffe’s tales and Mr. Fordyce’s sermons in the same category, simply because they both used paper, glue and ink to reach their audiences, I cannot say). Lydia’s absence seemed to them nothing more than another example of events happening around, rather than to, them.
As for Mrs. Bennet, she had upon reflection grown rather cheerful about her youngest daughter’s future. “After all, she will be married!” And as marriage represented the ultimate goal of any respectable young lady, Mrs. Bennet could not be too grieved that Lydia had achieved this goal in a less than respectable fashion, for really, was it not the end, rather than the means, that mattered?
Mrs. Bennet was disappointed that she had been robbed of yet another opportunity of giving a wedding breakfast (for Jane and Lizzy had been so inconsiderate as to insist on a double wedding, which doubled nothing except the number of brides and grooms, and in fact halved the number of celebrations that might be held on behalf of said brides and grooms), but this regret only made her more determined to see her remaining daughters married well (by which she meant separately, and in a church where she could be present; she had lowered her standards on all other fronts).
And so, Elizabeth found her family in surprisingly good spirits, a fact that would have made her happier if the reason for her visit had been anything other than the elopement of the youngest member of the household. As it was, she had come to Purvis Lodge only because she supposed her mother and sisters would require soothing and assistance as they waited in suspense for Lydia’s return. Yet they seemed perfectly capable of going about their daily business without her, and Elizabeth found herself wishing she had gone to London with Darcy, Ana, and her uncle Gardiner.
“But what have you done to discover Lydia’s whereabouts?” Elizabeth asked her mother soon after she and Margaret Gardiner had been ushered into the drawing room. Kitty had taken the children outside to enjoy their freedom after several days of dull carriage rides.
“Done?” Mrs. Bennet waved a hand. “What can be done except wait for her return? I am disappointed that your husband did not accompany you, Lizzy. Mr. Darcy might have enjoyed seeing what we have done to improve Bennet Lodge, which—though hardly comparable to Longbourn—has its charms.”
“My husband, Mama, is in London trying to find Lydia!” Elizabeth said, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of her voice. How this woman, whose nerves acted up with the slightest provocation, could sit so calmly at a time such as this, Elizabeth could not understand. Then again, Fanny Bennet had not recently witnessed a beloved sister throwing away all her hopes for a successful London season for the sake her brother and his wife. Ana’s self sacrifice appeared all the more noble in comparison with Lydia’s actions, and Elizabeth seethed each time she thought of her youngest sister cavorting with George Wickham while those who had been hurt most by him sought to find them.
“But they have gone to Gretna Green,” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head. “Why ever would they go to London?”
Perhaps because he does not in fact mean to marry her, Elizabeth only just kept herself from saying aloud.
“What news has Mr. Bingley learned from Colonel Forster?” she asked instead.
Her mother shrugged. “You will have to ask dear Bingley. He and Jane have said nothing to me about any of this business when they visit each day. I suppose Jane is troubled by the news, and Bingley does not want to upset her, in her delicate condition. He is such a considerate husband!” Mrs. Bennet paused. “I do not suppose you have any news to share, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth sighed. “No, Mama, I have no news of that sort to share.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Bennet paused, and then, leaning forward, whispered, “Since it is only the three of us married ladies present, you will not mind if I say to you, Lizzy, that I hope you are not turning your husband away. I know there are women who find it unpleasant, and yet it is your duty.”
Despite all the fear and resentment such an accusation stirred in her, Elizabeth could not help but laugh at the absurdity of being scolded for acting missish with her husband.
“This is a serious topic, Lizzy!”
“If only you had considered other topics to be equally serious—such as Lydia’s comportment these past months—we might all be happier.”
Elizabeth spoke with just enough good humor to take the sting out of the words.
“I hardly see how Lydia’s comportment has anything to do with your marriage, Lizzy.”
“And I hardly see how my marriage has anything to do with Lydia—except, of course, in the small matter of my husband working to ensure her happiness, despite all the harm her would-be husband has done him in the past—and yet here we are, each of us discussing matters that the other has no wish to continue discussing.”
“Tell me, Fanny,” said Margaret, who shot Elizabeth a warning glance before reaching across the tea table to take her sister-in-law’s hand in her own, “how is your sister? And all your friends in Meryton?”
Elizabeth ought to have been grateful that her mother was so easily diverted, for now they might spend the hour until Jane and Bingley were set to arrive for dinner in some measure of peace (if her mother’s prattle could be called that). Yet she found herself restless and, despite the teasing tone she had used with her mother, increasingly resentful. That Lydia’s actions resulted in part from Fanny Bennet’s benign neglect was an unavoidable fact. Elizabeth could have forgiven her mother’s laxity (for discipline had not been a strong point for either her parents), but her indifference now was inexcusable, not least of all because it had upended Elizabeth’s expectations and robbed her of an opportunity to feel useful.
Elizabeth’s only refuge was, as it so often had been during her youth, the outdoors. Here, at least, she could be of some help, for Kitty was apparently unpractic
ed in the ways of hide-and-seek and was grateful for a reprieve from a game she neither understood nor liked. After counting to thirty—Elizabeth should only have counted to ten, for she did not know the grounds of Purvis as she knew the parks and lanes around Longbourn—she wandered through the small garden at the back of the house, talking with Kitty while poking about the plants in hopes of discovering a curly-headed flower or a scrub-nosed shrub amongst the overgrown garden.
“Does not Mama have John mind the garden?” she asked her sister, who shrugged and said that they did not often come into the garden.
“There,” said Kitty, pointing to one of the windows, “is our bedroom, and you can see how the trellis and ivy made an ideal ladder for Lydia’s escape.” She sighed. “I wish that I had such a romantic tale to tell as Lydia will.”
Elizabeth turned sharply to her sister. “You cannot mean to say that Lydia climbed out of the window!”
“That is what she wrote in her note to me, which I only found the next morning. Though, the more I consider the matter, the more I doubt her story.” Kitty went to the wall, tried climbing the trellis, and promptly broke the decrepit wood at the bottom of it.
“Oh! Who knew our sister could be so deceitful?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Who indeed.”
“She said that we would one day laugh over the story of her climbing out of the window to join the most dashing officer in Meryton. But when I see her next, I certainly will not be laughing!”
“Oh, Lizzy!” cried Lottie, who jumped out from behind a nearby bush. “You are even worse at hide-and-seek than Kitty! What is wrong with everyone these days?”
“I beg your forgiveness, my dearest Lottie,” said Elizabeth, scooping the girl in her arms and tickling her until the girl’s frown had been thoroughly erased. Her laughter brought the boys out of hiding, and the party went inside in hopes of finding some biscuits and tea to tide them over until dinner.
This pattern—simmering arguments with her mother, followed by escapes outdoors with her cousins—gave structure to six of the slowest days that Elizabeth could ever remember. At least Jane and Bingley came each and every evening for dinner, giving everyone a reason to gather happily for an hour. Even the children, who at home would have been sent to the nursery for their dinner, were allowed to join the meal, for they as much as anyone needed the effortless joy that seemed to radiate from both Bingleys. If only they had news to give substance to their joy—but alas, they had learned nothing of import from Colonel Forster except that he himself had never seen Wickham after his resignation from the militia a month ago.
“It is unfortunate that only Denny, and not Forster, saw Wickham,” said Bingley one evening, when the children had gone to bed. “Colonel Forster would have had Wickham taken into custody for the many debts he owed the militia, not to mention the tradesmen in town.”
“What about Mr. Denny?” Elizabeth asked, leaning forward. “Perhaps he has some idea of his friend’s whereabouts now?”
Bingley shook his head sadly. “Denny has taken a leave to deal with some family matters in London. He left the very afternoon he met Wickham; if he had not mentioned it to Mrs. Forster, we might not have known that Wickham had come here at all.”
With no clues to be found in Meryton, the party could only wait eagerly for news from Darcy—or Lydia herself, though they had resigned themselves to hearing nothing from her until she had been discovered by Darcy, Mr. Gardiner, or Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had sent word from Matlock that he would soon be on his way to Gretna Green.
When Darcy’s first letter had arrived, two evenings after Elizabeth’s own arrival at Purvis Lodge, the entire family gathered around the dining room table to hear it read. It was, in fact, more a note than letter, containing only a few curt sentences indicating that he, Gardiner, and Ana were all in health and that they had not yet had any luck locating Lydia or Wickham.
Elizabeth told herself to be grateful that he had not written more, for she would hardly have wanted to share a letter full of tender sentiments with the rest of her family. And yet, she could not be as practical as she instructed herself to be. This absence from Darcy—the first since they had been married, aside from those dreadful days after her father’s funeral, when she had been absent in mind, if not body—distressed her more than she cared to admit. Since she could not be with him during this anxious time, his words would have to suffice. But what paltry words they were; though a letter arrived every evening, he wrote only of their progress—or lack thereof—locating Lydia.
At least she had Ana’s one lengthy letter to assure her that Darcy was as well as could be expected—and that she, Ana, was despite all the recent upheaval, quite sanguine. “Though my uncle and his family are disappointed in my decision,” she wrote in an elegant hand, “I find myself strangely glad to be back at Darcy House. I had thought the place might only remind me of less cheerful times, particularly now, and yet I am glad to have a purpose here—to make my brother eat and sleep, as he would do neither, I fear, if it meant he might prowl London and write letters to goodness knows who all night long. I regret writing these words, as I am certain this admission will cause you alarm, but you know Fitzwilliam well enough to understand that he does best when he is active, and that his throwing himself into the search for your sister makes it all the more likely that she will be found, and soon.”
Elizabeth could hardly have expected her husband—preoccupied as he was—to write her a love letter of the sort he had sent during their courtship, and still, she could not help but hope, each time she tore the seal, that the words inside would give some indication of his regard beyond the generic “Yours truly” at the end.
She loved her husband too well to suppose he was angry with her for matters outside her control; he would not blame her for Lydia’s behavior, and in any case, this scandal could no longer harm them as once it might have, for Ana had chosen of her own free will to return to the Darcy household, and Lord Matlock was unlikely to make a fuss, especially if it meant admitting a familial connection to a ruined young woman like Lydia Bennet. No, he would simply cut them all, even the niece who reminded him so strongly of his beloved sister Anne.
In many respects, then, Elizabeth had no cause to believe that she had lost Darcy’s regard. Love, however, rarely inspires rational thought, and separation (for all its so-called ability to make the heart grow fonder) is fertile ground for fear. Perhaps she was not good enough to be Mrs. Darcy, as his family, Miss Bingley, and all the other critics had claimed. Had she herself not warned him, that night in the music room of Netherfield, against believing himself in love with her? What had he really known of her in those few days of their courtship? He had believed her witty and resilient—and yet she had nearly collapsed under the weight of her grief after her father’s death, had been unable to manage a simple dinner party with the Bingleys, and had made a fool of herself in front of Lord Matlock.
If their love had been formed in that crucible of last autumn—her father’s illness; his sister’s removal—could it not be undone by this latest crisis?
By the seventh day of her stay, nothing—not dear Jane’s kindness, her young cousins’ playfulness, her aunt’s steady warmth, or the silliness of her mother and sisters—could keep these fears at bay. The only person, aside from Darcy, who had any hope of returning Elizabeth to herself lay in a cold grave five miles to the east, and so she set out, early the next morning, to walk where she ought to have visited immediately upon her arrival.
It was not that she had forgotten her father. Indeed, she had seen him in so many subtle ways since her return: in the mended bust of Socrates that now graced the entrance hall of Purvis Lodge; in the way Mary narrowed her eyes as she concentrated on one of the many piano sonatas she played each day; and especially in the stairwell that Elizabeth had raced down, her hair loose and wild from a wedding night interrupted, in hopes of reaching Longbourn before it was too late.
She had been too late, and now again she felt
she was tardy, for had she been a more dutiful daughter, she would have called the carriage on the day after her arrival and visited the gravesite. Even on this day, she ought to have at least called the carriage, for five miles each way (even on this fine, dry day) would leave her disheveled when she finally returned to Purvis. But she looked forward to a day away from the house, and so went down to the kitchens just after dawn, asked the scullery maid to pack a small basket of bread, cheese, and fruit, and then set out.
As she followed the stream that crawled gently across the meadows between Purvis and the main road, Elizabeth picked as many wildflowers as her basket would allow, and tried to give more attention to the butterflies and birds than the guilty thoughts flitting through her mind. She could think of no good reason that she had avoided her father’s grave. Oh, there was the fact that the church cemetery bordered the grounds of Longbourn, where she might very well meet Mr. Collins. But this inconvenience surely would not have prevented her from traveling to the grave, if she had really wanted to do so.
No, the truth was that she did not want to see her father’s grave. Once had been enough. When she thought of Thomas Bennet, she did not see a marble headstone etched with indelible dates and pious scripture; she instead pictured a gentleman in his study, finding refuge in the books he loved and, when no refuge could be found, laughing at the absurdity of the world outside.
And so, when she finally reached the gravesite, she sat with her back to the tombstone, closed her eyes, and thought of her father as she had loved him best. How long she sat there, she could not say; by the time she rose and brushed off her skirts, the sun had climbed overhead. Only when she placed her flowers against the cold stone did she cry, and even then just a few tears quickly dashed away.
“Cousin Elizabeth!”
The call came from behind her, and she smiled down at the flowers. “Well, Papa, this will be amusing, yes?”
“Mr. Collins,” she said, turning to face him. “How do you do, Sir?”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 39