Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

E very day of the week following, Elizabeth waited for a letter from Darcy—convinced in her heart of hearts that it must come, despite all evidence to the contrary. She had studied the situation from every angle. Perhaps he felt he could not tell the Bingleys before explaining his marriage to the earl? His very powerful, wealthy family had, manifestly, offered significant objection. Perhaps there really was some sort of dreaded injury. Her dreams, when she managed to find any rest, were filled with terror for wondering.

If he had surrendered to his family’s pressure, it did not follow that he would abandon her utterly to face humiliation before her neighbours without a word of explanation.

There was something missing. She knew it must be so.

On Thursday morning, precisely one week after her aborted wedding, Mr Bennet brought Elizabeth into his study. A newspaper lay upon an unusually uncluttered desk. He turned it to face her, so that she could see the article he pointed to.

It was one of the many society columns that London thrived upon. At first she did not see what he meant, lost between the reports of Lord Hargreaves dancing the opening set with Miss Sedgewick at Mrs Johnston’s ball, descriptions of Lady Templeton’s purple silk pelisse, and semi-disguised hints about which ladies had been seen enjoying Sir M’s box at the theatre.

The elegant young Miss Darcy, lately a guest of her uncle, the illustrious Earl of Matlock, has been taken by her brother, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, to enjoy the Festive Season at their home estate, Pemberley, in Derbyshire, where, it is reported, they are slated to participate in its annual St Nicholas Day traditions, including estate celebrations, and distribution of gifts for those children fortunate enough to live within reach of their beneficence. It is rumoured they will soon be joined there by eminent relations, Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter, of Rosings Park estate in Kent.

Mr Bennet would not meet her gaze, probably so that she would not see his pity.

She remembered Miss Bingley’s fugue.

“Well then,” she said, forcing a matter-of-fact tone while her heart broke in silence. “That is that, I suppose.”

The next morning, Elizabeth stood over her packed trunks, ready to depart for London.

Though wholly expecting that any letter she might have received from Mr Darcy would be a letter of rejection and apology, she would have given anything to read it. It was obvious now that the coveted letter—of explanation, regret, something —would not be arriving.

“I think he did write,” she said to Jane. “That express his cousin received would be explained. I think, for some reason, he wanted Colonel Fitzwilliam to justify it to me in person, rather than tell me by letter that he had changed his mind. The colonel did not like me, I am sure of that—but I suppose that any excuse, stated aloud, sounded feeble.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam must have been too embarrassed to relay the message. I think you are correct, Lizzy. It is the only thing that makes a particle of sense.”

“I do not like the colonel, either, but Mr Darcy ought to have told me directly. The blame must be his. Still, I cannot forgive Colonel Fitzwilliam for leaving me to be humiliated on what was supposed to be my wedding day. He could, simply, have forwarded Mr Darcy’s letter.”

“I suppose he did not think it out.” It was weak, and they both knew it.

“I do not think I can bear to return to Longbourn, Jane,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Not for a long while, at any rate.”

Jane nodded sadly. “Papa knew you would feel that way. He says I must return home for Mary’s wedding. I can stay with you in town for a mere couple of weeks.”

“I am grateful he and Mama are letting you go at all.”

“Mama required of me the promise to call upon Miss Bingley. It is the reason she allows my departure. I shall leave my card, but I expect nothing.”

Elizabeth embraced Jane, who, although dealing with her own grief, thought only of her sister’s.

They made their way downstairs; servants were bustling, the Gardiner children had all escaped the nursery and were making a happy noise amongst the trunks being brought down and general mayhem. Lydia was whirling the youngest of them, while Kitty read a story to the eldest. Elizabeth gave them both a kiss.

“How lucky you are to be leaving this dreary little town,” Lydia said. “I have always wanted to go. Please talk Uncle into allowing me to come, too.”

“I am older. I should be allowed to leave before you do,” Kitty countered.

Thankfully, the Gardiner children demanded attention before the squabble could degenerate into argument.

“Lizzy,” Mary called, beckoning somewhat furtively from the doorway. “I have something to show you.”

Elizabeth followed a swiftly moving Mary into their father’s book room. “We must hurry, before Papa returns,” she said.

Mary went directly to the large family Bible, perched, in pride of place, upon its own wooden rostrum. Carefully she thumbed through the pages until she found the one she wanted.

“Look and see,” she said, pointing to a particular verse in John, chapter 12—reading ‘And Jesus, when he had found a young ass, sat thereon; as is written’…except, a thin line had been inked through the word ‘ass’ and the initials FD carefully penned in a delicate script in its stead.

“Oh, Mary,” Elizabeth said, torn between laughter and tears.

“It is the worst thing I could think to do to him,” she said defiantly. “Almost like a curse. No one will ever read it, I suppose, now that I shall be leaving Longbourn soon. But we will know it is there.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, embracing her sister. “You had best not deface any more Bibles, however. Also, I would not tell your soon-to-be husband of this one infraction.”

“Oh, but I have already,” Mary said solemnly, returning the embrace. “He understood. He said that if I felt I must, I could mark his—but that I had to choose one of the Deuteronomy verses. He never preaches from that. And of course, that I must never mention it to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but I would not have regardless. This is our secret.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I thank you both, then. I am sorry to be missing your wedding.”

“It is just as well,” Mary said matter-of-factly. “If you were there, everyone in the neighbourhood would be watching you the entire day, to see how you were bearing up at the wedding of your younger sister—as if you would break down in tears at the sight of my wedding clothes or something. In any event, Uncle Gardiner cannot leave his warehouses again so soon. But Lizzy, you must come to visit us. The ass does not visit, my dear Collins says, but once or twice per year, and probably not until Easter.”

Mary said this as straightforwardly, as gravely, as if it were usual to refer to a person in that manner, and Elizabeth finally felt true mirth for the first time since her not-wedding day. “I shall come then,” she agreed, with equivalent solemnity. “When the ass is not visiting.”

Elizabeth had been gone from Mr Bennet’s home for four days before a letter arrived, addressed to her in a firm script that could only belong to one man. It was a fairly lengthy letter, judging by its thickness.

The resentment Mr Bennet felt at this intrusion was beyond any description. This was a man who had destroyed, possibly forever, the reputation of his favourite daughter. Here was proof, had he wanted it, of breach of promise—but such a suit would further humiliate Elizabeth. Not for any amount would he increase her pain.

Almost, he tossed it into the flames.

His ethics would not quite permit it. The letter was not precisely his—although, since one could make a good case that the betrothal had been broken, it was not precisely Elizabeth’s, either.

Neither, however, did he deem it wise to send it on to his dear daughter. There were two possibilities for its contents—excuse, or apology. Had he meant to actually marry her, or even to face her or her family like a gentleman, he would have come in person. There was no excuse, no apology adequate for the shame Mr Darcy had heaped upon her, regardless. Whatever his justifications, this letter could only be, ultimately, more hurtful.

The best response must be to return it, unopened, unread. It would be a clear signal to the arrogant Fitzwilliam Darcy— we do not accept your apologies, nor your excuses. Tell them to the devil.

Mr Bennet would not hurry right out, however, to return the letter. Let the man wonder, for a week or two, how well his snivelling, cowardly words had been received.