“Mr. Bennet, I am sure I have no idea what you mean. It is not I who am presuming a thing! It is all here in this letter! Listen! ‘Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.’ What else could it be but a proposal?”
Her husband snatched the letter she had been waving around and scanned the words with widened eyes. “Mrs. Bennet! How much have you read of this letter?”
“Why, I only read the first line before deciding I must know who sent it! I opened it because it’s from London, and I do not know the handwriting. I hoped it might be Miss Bingley, but when I read the first line I determined I must know what gentleman the girl was corresponding with! This must be why she rejected Mr. Collins! So clever of Lizzy!”
“Who else knows of this letter?”
“It has only just arrived. I have not even seen Lizzy. She must be gallivanting-off on a walk. I swear I do not know what such a great man can see in her. But perhaps he may introduce Lydia to a duke!”
“Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Bennet spoke sternly, but was unable to capture her attention. “Fanny! Hear me now, woman. You shall tell no one of this letter. I must speak with Elizabeth.”
“Tell no-one? Mr. Bennet, we are saved! And it is such a fine match! I am perfectly resolved to forget how proud and hateful he is. I must go and tell my sister immediately!”
“You shall go to your rooms until I ask for you, or else you and the girls will lose all pin money for the next six months.” By this time he was ushering her upstairs.
“Mr. Bennet! How dare you? This is no way to treat a wife! I must protest.”
“Whether or not you must, you usually do. Fanny, I will not tell you again, nor shall I justify my actions. Remain in your rooms.” He slammed the door before she could protest further. She let out a huff, but decided it would mean little if her information was delayed a few hours. Instead she drafted a letter to her sister Gardiner.
*****
9:30 am
Elizabeth Bennet crept up the servant’s stairs to her bedroom. The last thing she wanted at present was to be discovered by her mother. She had been unusually troubled this morning before her walk and took little heed of the mud puddles she walked through. My petticoats are six inches deep in mud again, Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth shook her head; she must stop thinking of that arrogant, annoying, frustratingly beautiful man. She chose not to reprimand her thoughts for describing him as beautiful, for it was as true as any description of him. Opening her bedroom door, she had every intention to burn the letter she wrote the night before. Indeed, as she should have after she finished writing. No, I never should have written it at all.
Her eyes grew wide with foreboding when she saw her letter stack gone. The maid must have taken her mail to be sent. Attempting to stave off the alarm rising in her breast, she assured herself that no matter how agitated her mind was last night, she would not have left it on her desk. She must have absently tucked it in a drawer. She had not even sealed it and so there was no mistaking it for a letter to be sent, certainly.
For good measure, she recounted her motions before bed last night. She had sealed and addressed four letters. That fact was entirely perfect, as she had written four letters. No, No, No! She wrote four letters, but only three were meant for the post! Flying down the stairs, she asked the maid if the post had been sent.
“Aye, Miss Elizabeth, and the master has all the letters that came today in his study.”
“Elizabeth!” Just then her father called from his study, before she had a chance to give in to the despair that must naturally follow the situation.
“Yes, Papa?” she asked from the doorway.
“Shut the door and be seated.” Elizabeth looked at her father in confusion and consternation. His tone had a sharpness she seldom heard; it was as though she was being reprimanded for some grave error.
Mr. Bennet looked at his favourite daughter expectantly, but when she said nothing he decided to begin. “It has come to my attention that you have been involved in a secret correspondence with a gentleman of our acquaintance, though I am uncertain he deserves the title gentleman.”
Elizabeth gasped and began to refute the claim, but he interrupted her. “No, Elizabeth, I have indisputable proof. Now, normally such things would point to a secret betrothal, which would be concerning enough, but in this letter—written in your young man’s hand—he denies such a marriage will take place. I must say, for all that we have heard of him and observed, I never believed him so dishonourable as to correspond with a single lady with his name blatantly signed all over it. I suppose he does not have to worry about his reputation, and he must have no fear that I can demand satisfaction.”
“I have not the slightest idea who you mean. I am not corresponding with any gentleman.” The slight blush to Elizabeth’s cheeks betrayed her as she recalled her mislaid letter.
“Do not lie to me.” He pulled out the now-opened letter addressed to his daughter and waved it at her. “Here is the letter from your man, and your maid confirmed a letter to him was sent this morning.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted and was silent. Mr. Bennet considered this sufficient encouragement to continue, “Your mother knows of this and I am uncertain I can keep her silent. At least one maid in the house knows of your correspondence. Heaven only knows what the postman and his clerk have said. I cannot make sense of it. I thought you disliked him, which might explain his actions, but you wrote him. He vows he will not marry you, yet he publicly compromises you.”
After a lengthy pause, he asked very quietly, “Have there been other compromises?”
Elizabeth cried, “Papa! How can you think it of me?”
“What am I meant to think, child?”
Elizabeth still could not credit what she understood from her father’s words and chose to continue her denial, “You have no proof of my alleged letter aside from the maid’s testimony, and I have not read the letter in your hands. I cannot fathom who you mean.”
Her attempt at deceit could not prevail, for her father knew her too well. “I will not play your game, Elizabeth. Now tell me, do you truly hate him, for I think I must appeal to his honour.”
Elizabeth gulped deeply and spoke to her folded hands. She could not meet her father’s eye. “No, I do not hate him. I only wish I could.”
“Very well, that gives me some peace.”
“Papa...surely you have heard how he has treated Mr. Wickham, and I know he has taken Mr. Bingley away from Jane. We cannot hope he will do the honourable thing. If this is known, what shall become of me, of my sisters? How cruel of him!”
“You mailed a letter as well!”
“But I did not mean to!”
“And why not?”
“I cannot respect him! I like him against my will and all reason!”
He laughed heartily and added, “It seems you both love each other against your will.”
Elizabeth’s head sharply lifted at such words, and her eyes flew to the letter Mr. Bennet still held. “Here child, I have kept you in suspense long enough.”
Her hands greedily reached for the letter, and her eyes spoke her thanks. She ran upstairs to her room to read in solitude.
Monday, December 9, 1811
Darcy House, London
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,
Are you shocked at the forwardness of my address? I should hope not, for I dearly love calling you Elizabeth. You will always be my Elizabeth.
In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
Have I shocked you again with my declaration of love? I assure you it is a true, constant love. I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
How have you bewitched me? I have seen the beauties of the first circle and have remained unmoved until I was captivated by your fine eyes dan
cing not in candlelight, but in mirth and obvious joy. I have listened to the most exalted performers in the land, yet it is your performance that plays again in my mind. I have conversed with women educated by the finest masters at the best schools, but not one of them has your unique combination of intelligence, honesty, wit and sweetness. I know many women whom are lauded for their kindness, but I know none who would walk three miles after a storm to nurse a sick sister, or forebear Miss Bingley’s insults with such civility. I have been hunted in ballrooms since my youth, and you are the first woman of my acquaintance to refuse to stand up with me, and certainly the first to not seek my approbation.
This must be the answer. I love you because you are genuine and unaffected. You do not simper or seek to flatter. The ladies of my acquaintance may be draped in the rarest silk and costly gold trinkets, and tout many so-called accomplishments, but they can only repeat my own opinion. They are not authentic. You are the most delightful woman of my acquaintance, the only real woman of my acquaintance, as the others are mere figments of fashionable society.
But to one of these insipid ladies I will have to shackle myself one day to serve my duty to my family. Your connections in trade and the improper behaviour of your family could never find a place in London society. Though I care little for it, I must protect my family’s position for the sake of my sister and my future children. And the ladies of the ton would be most unkind to you. I should hate to see you abused or regret a connection to me, though I rather think you would laugh at their folly instead.
In moments like these I must confess I would gladly cast aside my concerns about your family and connections, if only you showed me some encouragement. Instead you have fallen under Wickham’s spell of charming manners. Tell me, what is it young ladies find irresistible about the reprobate? His ability to gamble away three thousand pounds given in lieu of a valuable living—at his request—in the course of two years? Or is it his attempts to seduce young heiresses into elopement, as he tried with my sister?
I should be angry with you. I should be angry that you are foolish enough to believe his lies, and foolish enough to doubt my honour. You destroyed the pleasure of our dance at Netherfield, which was supposed to offer me a lifetime of memories. Instead you brought up that cad. But I cannot be angry with you. He has deceived many, myself included. I love you entirely, even if you suffer from some misjudgements. I know you by heart – your errors are just further proof of your affectionate character.
I should be angry that you cannot leave my mind for a moment. You have invaded my senses, my every waking hour and each night as well. I want peace and respite from this, Elizabeth! Yet I cannot blame you. It is my weakness that leads me to love a lady unsuitable for my standing. You are not charming, intelligent, witty and beautiful by design. Your enticements are wholly natural and intrinsic.
I am alternately angry and relieved that Miss Bennet does not hold my friend in the same esteem he holds her. If they had married, would I meet with you frequently? Would it be enough to simply keep an acquaintance with you and to satisfy myself with a few lively conversations a year? Would I be forced to see you marry another and bear his children? Or would I claim the honour? And should I try, would you deny me even as you have denied me a dance?
I have made a mess of things, Elizabeth. I cannot see myself through this, though I pride myself in my superior judgment. Since I cannot see clearly, I have run like a coward, hoping the distance would remove the need to find answers, but it has not. You are here with me, Lizzy. You are in my heart.
Perhaps this letter may serve as a balm, and I can regain my composure. Perhaps after this confession I will be able to close my eyes and not see yours laughing at me. It may be that after I conclude this note I will stop searching for your face everywhere I go, remembering your words, and faintly smelling your fragrance.
It may be. I pray it is. And yet my heart tells me there will be none but you residing in it.
Forever yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
By the conclusion Elizabeth’s handkerchief was sodden from her tears.
*****
Tuesday, December 10, 1811
Darcy House, London
10:30 am
Hoping his friend was awake, Darcy sought and found Bingley sulking in the library. The evenings of the last ten days had not been kind to Bingley’s constitution and last night, encouraged by Darcy’s more liberal consumption than usual, Bingley had decidedly overindulged in spirits.
“I had thought to find you in the drawing room,” Darcy ventured quietly, but still his friend winced at his voice.
Bingley shook his head and groaned at the motion, “No, I need quiet, and although your sister plays beautifully, it is not conducive to the ache in my head.”
“I shall have Mrs. Redding fetch some powders...” Darcy began, but Bingley interrupted him.
“Thank you, no. I prefer the pain to anything else I might feel.”
Darcy sat down and wondered how to begin what must be said to his friend. “Bingley, have you thought of returning to Netherfield?”
Bingley cast what looked like a sad puppy’s attempt at a glower: “There is nothing for me in Hertfordshire.”
Darcy cautiously said, “The estate is quite comfortable, and you should experience the winter there before deciding if you shall keep it.”
“I am perfectly resolved to give it up entirely.”
Darcy could see he must apply more pressure. “Is this because of your disappointed hopes with Miss Bennet?”
“You know it is! I cannot bear to see her again knowing…” Bingley’s voice trailed off.
“Ah, but we do not know. I only gave you my impressions and, even if I am correct, it is not hopeless. You could certainly court her and seek to gain her approbation.”
“I thought you believed her mercenary!”
“No,” Darcy stated firmly. He truly did not believe so. “Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth could never be mistaken for mercenary. I believe her heart is not easily touched, but yours seems still engaged. Perhaps you must try harder than you are accustomed to in order to gain her affection.”
Bingley’s brow furrowed in thought. “What of your and Caroline’s other complaints? Her connections are not likely to improve my position in society.”
“As sister to Mrs. Darcy, they will be quite sufficient,” Darcy said, almost smugly.
“Sister to Mrs. Darcy? What are you saying, man?”
Darcy was resolutely silent, but Bingley’s mind was suddenly up to the task, “It must be Miss Elizabeth you fancy! All that staring and disputing. I must tell you that is an odd way to court a woman! And it is you who shall have to try hard to win approbation, for she does not much like you!”
“Does not like me?” Darcy asked incredulously and felt insulted. Perhaps she did not make overt displays of her regard, but Bingley sounds as though he believes she hates me.
Instantly, Bingley was out the door of the library and racing up the stairs to the drawing room. Baffled, but amused, Darcy followed his friend. Georgiana was playing a lively tune, and Bingley grinned at the sound, his head miraculously recovered.
“I thought you felt unwell.” In truth, Darcy was not surprised. Bingley was suddenly much improved at the thought of seeing his angel again. Darcy also felt an unprecedented lightness at the idea of returning to Hertfordshire.
Seeing his friend take up writing supplies, Darcy queried him, “Do you write your housekeeper at Netherfield?”
Bingley looked at Darcy in confusion. “Why should I? I am certain Mrs. Clark has our rooms prepared still. I had not yet written her that I was to remain in Town for the winter. We can eat at the Tavern if there is no meal to be had.”
“To whom do you write then?”
“Caroline, of course. She will wish to see her friends again.”
Darcy recoiled in horror. The last thing he desired was the presence of Miss Bingley as he courted Elizabeth. Characteristically, Bingley did n
ot notice.
“She will not want to leave Town so soon, and she ought to stay here for the Season.”
Bingley furrowed his brow in thought. “I should like to have a hostess.” Bingley looked toward Georgiana.
“Absolutely not! She is too young. And she is not related to you— she could not be your hostess.”
“She is practically another sister.” Seeing Darcy’s glare, he added, “We can sort it out later; it will take either lady too long to pack.”
“When do we leave?”
“Immediately. Darcy, do you really think I can persuade her to love me?”
“Of course, my friend.”
Bingley actually leapt from his chair and let out some kind of whooping sound. At least one of us will feel comfortable with our in-laws, Darcy thought.
Georgiana broke in then, “Mr. Bingley are you planning to propose to Miss Bennet?”
Bingley grinned, “Only as soon as humanly possible!”
“William, please, may I come?”
“Georgiana, I really am uncertain…” between exposing her to the Bennets and the chance of her meeting Wickham, Darcy refused to countenance the opportunity.
“I wish to meet Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”
“Eliza…Miss Elizabeth Bennet? How do you even know of her?”
“Your letters were full of her when you were in Hertfordshire. Or were you too besotted to notice what you wrote?” Georgiana laughed—actually laughed—at her brother, causing Bingley to join in when he noticed his friend’s expression.
“I hardly think mentioning a new acquaintance is…”
“William, really! Your interest was obvious! My only concern is that, while you were enchanted with your debates and her lively mind, I worry she may actually dislike you. I want her for my sister, but I can see you will need my help.”
Darcy had every intention of refuting her claim and commanding her to stay, but she met his gaze with what he knew to be the Darcy spirit of determination, and he conceded. She nearly skipped away to make her plans, and Bingley left with an obvious bounce in his step to order the carriage. As his sister’s words settled in his conscience, it occurred to Darcy he was the only one feeling any trepidation with the scheme. He hoped it was only his continued reservations about the marriage.
One Autumn with Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Anthology Page 9