Duty Demands

by Elaine Owen

  Since that time, Wickham and I have not been able to meet publicly without some show of disdain on my side. He deserves much more.

  This, then, is the entirety of my history with the man. I could speak more of him, of his moral failings and degenerate tendencies, but out of consideration for your feelings and mine and the privacy of others, I will refrain. If Wickham succeeded in making inroads on your affections before you married me, then his revenge is complete indeed.

  I wish I had been master enough of myself last night to explain all this at that time. It is clear to me that you and I entered this marriage with grave misunderstandings about what our life together would be and what we each hoped to gain from it. I fear that you have long been wishing to escape my ungentlemanly presence, and you shall have your desire: I will not impose myself upon you ever again.

  Several crossed out lines blotted the paper after that, but then the closing lines read:

  I will only add, God bless you.

  Your husband,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Elizabeth’s changes of emotion while reading this letter were extreme. She read some parts with her face flushing red in shame, and other parts with wide-eyed horror. One paragraph made her exclaim, “No, this cannot be!” in one tone, and the next paragraph made her cry out the same words with a very different inflection. Her feelings could find no way of settling themselves. At length, she folded the pages together, indignantly shoving them and the envelope inside the pocket of her spencer—but in another moment, she withdrew the letter and scrutinized its pages once more. Anger and resentment washed over her in their turn, followed by guilt, suspicion, and a burning shame.

  Her husband’s anger had not abated since their argument the night before, it seemed. His opening paragraph made it clear that he would not rest until he was satisfied that she had heard his answers to all her criticisms. With a reluctant sense of owing him a fair hearing she determined to read the letter in its entirety, though she seriously doubted that any explanation of his might improve her opinion of him.

  Resentfully she read her husband’s account of the events in Hertfordshire the past winter—his observations of Jane, his objections to her family; his separation of Jane from Bingley, and how he had taken matters into his own hands when he felt his friend was in danger. How gloriously triumphant she felt, to know that her guesses about Darcy’s role in her sister’s life were completely correct! How perceptive she was, knowing that she had correctly judged his prejudice and disdain against those lower than him; if anything, she had given him too much credit. He did not have the slightest reservations or misgivings about his actions.

  With a sense of complete justification, she read the unrepentant words again: I cannot honestly say that I have any regrets. He had not asked her to read his letter; he had demanded it. Her husband was, without a doubt, the most arrogant and condescending man she had ever met. If she had had any doubts before, they were erased now. She could honestly repeat, without a shred of regret, that he was the last man in the world she would ever have married if fate had not forced her hand.

  But when she read how Darcy wrote about Jane’s manners and expressions at Netherfield her confidence faltered slightly. Darcy was wrong, of course; Jane’s feelings had always been more contained than displayed, and it was presumptuous in the extreme for him to think that he knew her thoughts on any subject at all. Still, although Jane felt deeply and sincerely, Elizabeth knew that, to an unknowing observer, her feelings might be open to misinterpretation. Her temper was not such as to give encouragement to an innocent admirer, let alone convince an outsider of her true sentiments.

  However, Darcy’s final paragraph relating to Jane, where he defended his partiality to his sister and denied that it had a role in his separation of Jane and Bingley, she completely discounted. Nobody could be so disinterested when the future happiness of a beloved sister was at risk; Darcy was either attempting to deceive her or had succeeded in deceiving himself. In either case, she could not think well of him for it.

  Elizabeth’s steps had taken her back to the side entrance of Pemberley, and she walked in as unobtrusively as possible, hoping nobody would stop her on her way to her room. She left instructions with the cook that she was not hungry and asked her to inform Mrs. Reynolds that she would appreciate not being disturbed for the rest of the day. Then she took the back stairs to the second floor, where she went into her room and firmly shut the door behind her. A moment later she had removed her spencer, dropping it carelessly on the bed, and sat down at her desk to continue reading.

  When she began to read Darcy’s words about his history with Wickham Elizabeth knew not what to think. Darcy’s words agreed with Wickham’s story in many particulars. His letter confirmed what Wickham had said of his parentage, his early education, his relationship with the old Mr. Darcy as a child, and even some of his early adult years. So far the two tales ran the same; it was not until more recent years that the tales took different paths and Elizabeth was forced to choose between the two. As she compared and contrasted Darcy’s words with what she could recall of Wickham’s words, the differences began to come into sharp relief, and she could not help thinking that there was some great deceit on one side or the other.

  To think that Darcy wanted her to believe that Wickham, the man she had so admired, was so utterly depraved! That he was reckless, a liar, a wastrel, and a seducer! Elizabeth could not credit it. Darcy offered no proof. Though Darcy had laid many charges at Wickham’s door, Wickham had hardly laid fewer at his, and Elizabeth had no clear way of telling the truth of the matter. On either side, it was only accusation and supposition. Her only guide must be her own experiences with both men. She forced herself to set aside the pages of the letter for a minute while she called on those experiences to help her discern the truth of the tale.

  When Wickham had first come to Meryton he had quickly become the favorite of the whole neighborhood. His manners had been flawless, his powers of pleasing those around him unending. Mothers eagerly approved of him, girls primped and smiled to gain his attention, and he had unfailingly made love to them all. Nevertheless, was it possible that something very different lay beneath the smiling face, handsome bearing, and charming manners? What actual good had the man done, to make himself so well accepted and approved in so little time? Nothing, she was forced to admit, and with that thought came a sudden chill. No one had known anything of Wickham before his arrival in the militia; and even his arrival there had been recent, so recent that even Denny, his closest friend, could say little about his history. He had had nothing at all to recommend him beyond being young and handsome—but that had been enough to prejudice the entire neighborhood in his favor.

  To be sure, no one knew of anything good that Darcy or even Bingley had done, either, but then they had other sources to recommend them. Bingley, affable and pleasing, was known to the neighborhood through his connection to Netherfield; his reputation and background had preceded him. Darcy had Bingley and his sisters to vouch for his character, and by all accounts they had been acquaintances of long standing. It would be hard to imagine how the easygoing Bingley would remain friends with someone as haughty and forbidding, not to mention unprincipled, as Wickham had made Darcy out to be.

  Once again Elizabeth forced herself to read the paragraphs describing Wickham’s more recent years, his descent into immoral and indifferent behavior, and his application for the presentation of the living promised to him in the old Mr. Darcy’s will. She had no way of judging his private behavior, of course—but had not even Caroline Bingley warned Elizabeth that Wickham was not as he presented himself? Had the fault all been on Wickham’s side? How she wished she had asked more questions, but at the time she had not been willing to hear anything good about the man she now called husband.

  Darcy’s description of Wickham as a fortune hunter received a certain amount of confirmation by his treatment of Miss King, the young heiress who had been one
of Elizabeth’s acquaintances in Meryton. Before hearing of that lady’s fortune, Wickham’s attentions had been all for Elizabeth, but once the lady’s inheritance was revealed, Wickham had pursued her eagerly: an action that now seemed mercenary in the extreme. If that was true, however, then why had he singled Elizabeth out for so much attention? He must have been deceived as to her father’s fortune, or perhaps her sympathy and interest had merely flattered his vanity enough to gain his interest until a woman with better prospects appeared on the scene.

  Now Elizabeth could see clearly the folly of listening to the lengthy, intimate sort of communications Wickham made to her almost every time they had met. How much personal information he had given to someone he knew so little! How quick he had been to attack and tear down a gentleman who had so little to say of him! And how easily Elizabeth had fallen in line with his goal. Wickham had been happy to disparage Darcy at will when he was with Elizabeth, although he claimed that he would never do so publicly, but within a week of Darcy and Bingley leaving Meryton, the whole neighborhood knew as much of the story as Elizabeth ever did. She suddenly remembered Wickham’s passionate declaration that he would never avoid Darcy’s presence; that Darcy might say as he liked, but he, Wickham, would never waver or flee—and then just a week later he had declined to attend a ball where he knew Darcy would be present.

  This was the man to whom she had listened, sympathized with, secretly admired, and half surrendered her heart to! She had favored this man over her own husband! Gratified and flattered by Wickham’s attentions, and offended by Darcy’s casual dismissal of her person, she had given over any semblance of the sound judgment on which she prided herself. By weighing Wickham in the balance, she had found the truth between the two men—and found herself wanting. She bowed her head in shame.

  Being now convinced of Darcy’s truth in one area made her go back and reconsider the first part of the letter once more. She read his version of the events with Jane again, and this time was forced to give him much more credit than the first time through. Darcy’s criticisms of her family were as accurate as they were hurtful. Though he had hesitated to criticize her father, Elizabeth had to admit that her family’s behavior in the autumn, even that of her beloved father, had not been above reproach. Elizabeth had lately seen in her mother’s and sister’s letters that nothing had improved, either. Loud and undisciplined they had always been and likely would remain. Her mother was and would be avaricious and ambitious, and whatever small restraint there had been on her younger sisters’ behavior, especially Lydia’s, was now gone.

  There was some comfort in realizing that they had not been deceived in Bingley. His affection for Jane had been true. But it was only a small comfort, for this knowledge merely highlighted how much Jane had lost—and most of it had been lost by the actions of her own family.

  With these depressing thoughts, Elizabeth spent the entire day in her rooms. For the first time in their relationship, from their first meeting until now, she was truly afraid to see Darcy. She feared the look of reproach she would see in his eyes, the stern disapproval that would cross his face. She could not bear to think how he would look at her, now that she knew how utterly she had betrayed him. But when the dinner bell sounded she realized had no choice. She would have to face him sooner or later.

  When she entered the dining room, however, her shoulders squared, she was quite alone. Her place was set, along with Georgiana’s, but her husband’s place was empty. Elizabeth could not help asking Mrs. Reynolds, who stood nearby, “Only two places at the table tonight?”

  Mrs. Reynolds looked at her in surprise. “Of course, ma’am. Mr. Darcy left for town this morning.”

  Elizabeth’s hands suddenly clenched the back of her chair. “Did he say how long he would be gone?”

  “No, ma’am. He had sudden business, he said, and had to go at once.” She looked at Elizabeth with ill-disguised curiosity as she left the room.

  A moment later Georgiana came into the dining room as Elizabeth still stood, dismayed, behind her chair. “How odd that Fitzwilliam would have such urgent business and be in such a rush to go away! He would not even wait for the carriage to be prepared.”

  “It was a surprise to me as well,” Elizabeth answered shakily, knowing a response was expected. “I suppose you have no more information than I about what demanded his sudden attention.”

  “No, not at all. He merely said that he had received an important communication, and that he might be required to stay in town for some time.”

  He had not even left a message to tell her he was going. Elizabeth thought again of the look on Darcy’s face the night before, when he had turned and left her room, and suddenly felt an almost physical pain in her chest. Her hands clenched the chair even more tightly. “Did he mention anything about our conversation last night?”

  “No.” Georgiana looked at her curiously. “Were you able to speak to him about Mr. Bingley?”

  “We spoke of many things.” Elizabeth evaded. She gazed at the seat that Darcy would normally occupy. It already looked strangely vacant and forlorn, a silent rebuke to her for her cruel words. “I am afraid your brother may indeed be away for some time.”

  Georgiana looked at her with an odd expression but fortunately asked nothing further, and Elizabeth ate her meal in miserable silence. Darcy had said he would never impose on her again; apparently, he had not been exaggerating.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Elizabeth’s days now dragged by, bogged down in uncertainty over what the future might hold.

  If Darcy had been any other man, she might have given up in despair over the outlook for her marriage, certain that she would be returned to her family in the near future, disgraced for the grievous injury she had caused her husband. But she had begun to understand more of the complex character of the man she had married. He might be angry, his pride deeply wounded, but he was not vengeful. She was safe, she thought, from any public displays of his contempt. But that small consolation did not wipe away the guilt she now felt over the unfair accusations she had made against him.

  When she saw Darcy again she must explain not only that she now understood Wickham’s real character, but also that Wickham had never made inroads on her heart. How it must have stung her husband to realize that Elizabeth had preferred Wickham’s company to his at one time! She must also explain that he had not been entirely mistaken in his assessment of Jane and Bingley; or rather, that his mistaken assessment of her feelings had been understandable. Even Charlotte had not been convinced of Jane’s feelings toward Bingley, and her friendship was of far longer duration than Darcy’s casual acquaintance.

  Above all, she must apologize for her ill-conceived words and convince Darcy that she knew she had sorely misjudged him in certain matters. She could not bear the thought that he had gone away without knowing at least that much.

  However, no matter how much Elizabeth was struggling to maintain her own spirits, she soon became aware that Georgiana was struggling even more.

  During her time at Pemberley, Elizabeth had fancied that Georgiana was improving in self-confidence and assurance almost daily. When Elizabeth first met her, Georgiana had been scarcely brave enough to say a monosyllable in front of her new sister, but that reticence had been disappearing as their intimacy increased. Now for the past two days, since Darcy had gone, Georgiana had lapsed into an even greater tendency to silence than previously. Whole meals passed with barely a word spoken, and Elizabeth sometimes caught a distant, pensive look on the younger girl’s face when she thought nobody was watching. Had Georgiana caught wind of the quarrel between her brother and his wife? If so, she had given no sign; but unless Elizabeth asked her, there was no way of knowing what she might know or guess.

  Elizabeth waited until a time when she could entice Georgiana into the garden to pick flowers and then decided to broach the subject with care, speaking casually as she delicately worked with the shears.

  “Georgiana, I could not help noticing t
hat you have been out of spirits ever since your brother left for town. It must be very hard on you, after being used to his company every day, to be separated once again.”

  Georgiana started and looked at her briefly, but she did not say anything. Elizabeth continued, “Not having any brothers myself, I must admit to being surprised at the strength of the attachment between you and Mr. Darcy.” There was still no response. “I wonder if there is something I might be able to do to help you in his absence.”

  Georgiana looked reluctant to speak, but she finally dared to look at Elizabeth and say, hesitantly, “There is something that has been weighing on my mind, but it is not an easy question to ask.”

  “Ask whatever you will. I will be pleased to answer you, if I can.”

  Georgiana took a deep breath. “Elizabeth, did Fitzwilliam leave because of me?”

  The question was so unexpected that Elizabeth did not quite know how to respond. “Because of you? What do you mean?” Perhaps Georgiana knew more than she had first thought.

  “I mean because of my mistake last summer.”

  Elizabeth looked at her, utterly mystified. “I am not aware of any mistake. What do you mean?”

  “I thought perhaps Fitzwilliam—but never mind. I probably should not speak of it.” She looked down again, her face flushing.

  Though Elizabeth knew she should not ask, burning curiosity made her do so anyway. “Speak of what, Georgiana?”

  “Last summer I met a friend of my brother’s, someone I had known for many years, and I believed that he cared for me. But he did not.” Georgiana stopped and Elizabeth waited for her to continue, but the younger girl was silent.