Chapter 33

The Great North Road

Heading South

Wednesday, 27th August, 1812

The party had left Doncaster at dawn and was now trundling south, with the vague hope of reaching Petersborough. It would mean a long day of travel and changing the horses frequently, but even if they did not quite make it to Petersborough, if they only achieved Stamford, they would be able to make their way to Longbourn by the end of the following day.

Elizabeth was certain that she was even more eager than her father to arrive at Longbourn. Mr. Bennet was not a great traveler and longed for his library, but he was currently speaking with Captain Scofield about some obscure battle which had taken place some six years earlier and seemed content enough.

She had not seen much of Lydia in the last days since the girl and her new husband continued to ride with Mrs. Greenfield, but the new Lady Harding appeared happy in her marriage. That was wonderful and also provoked a strange twist of envy in Elizabeth's heart.

She realized that she envied her sister her marriage. She was passionately in love with Fitzwilliam Darcy, and if Lady Catherine had not interfered, it was possible that she would have wed the master of Pemberley in Gretna Green, alongside her sister. Even now, assured as she was of his love, she worried that something might happen to break the engagement, that her hopes and dreams would be dashed by the interference of others.

It occurred to her to grieve over Fitzwilliam's sorrows of the previous year. He had genuinely, if rather immaturely, loved her when he offered for her hand in the Hunsford parsonage.

She had refused his offer with passion and incivility, and now that she herself burned with longing for her fiancé, she was aware of how great a pain it must have been to have his hopes and dreams for a happy marriage dashed by her furious and intemperate refusal.

She did not regret her refusal, only the manner of it. Both she and Darcy had matured substantially in the last months. The anguish surrounding Lydia's elopement had been powerful and agonizing, but she had grown, and so had the man whom she would, she hoped, marry in the near future.

Soon she would stand before God and man and pledge her commitment to Mr. Darcy.

She could hardly wait.

/

Pemberley

The river beside the path splashed and burbled and rushed along to eddy into calm pools before dashing on its merry way again, providing a pleasing backdrop of sound to the ubiquitous birdsong. Ornamental bushes and lush trees hung heavy with dark green leaves, insects chirring and whispering among them. A squirrel hopped across the gravel trail.

Caroline Bingley walked with one gloved hand lying lightly on the arm of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Conversation was desultory, he content to enjoy the sights and sounds of England, she considering the events that had transpired of late. It was as though some invisible burden had been lifted from her soul that she had never truly realized was there. Her determination to marry high in society no longer weighing her down, preying on her peace. It would take time, she knew, to detangle within herself which of her tastes and her nature were genuinely her own and which she had assumed from her mother and her teachers in her bid to marry up. But already, she had started, and she felt the more at ease for it.

It was still rooted deeply in her to think first of a man's wealth and connections when she looked at him; to judge everyone by their social standing; to see them as a set of numbers, a cold calculation of their social worth. But it was an impulse she was trying to fight, to look beyond the parameters imposed by their sphere, to see character and compatibility. She had few friends, she realized – connections, yes; school-friends she still wrote to maintain her foothold in society. But she could not think of anyone – save, perhaps, Louisa – with whom she would be comfortable sharing her innermost worries and cares. It would be nice, she mused, to have friends; people whose companionship she truly enjoyed, rather than seeing visits as tedious step stones to higher ranks.

She had fully grasped the truth of Colonel Fitzwilliam's bold words to her. She would not enjoy being Mrs. Darcy and mistress of Pemberley. The estate was large, sprawling, grand, beautiful, and soothing to the soul. Caroline Bingley had been built for a life of bright lights and glitter and dazzling parties, balls and squeezes and keeping late hours. She would be utterly miserable buried in the country for most of the year, far from Town and its excitements.

Better, Caroline acknowledged, to marry a man, perhaps of lower rank or lesser wealth, whom she could respect, whose company she would enjoy. She even dared contemplate the idea of a man who would smile to see her enter the breakfast room in the mornings. Her own parents had taken their vows seriously. Mr. and Mrs. Bingley had been unfailingly civil and faithful to one another, and Mrs. Bingley had enjoyed the results of her husband's business acumen. But they had not liked each other much and had not sought the other one out to while away tedious hours. Mr. Bingley had been an easygoing man, willing to submit to his wife's ambition for their children, but for himself he had preferred his ledgers and the family's country holidays.

A frisson of guilt snuck down Caroline's spine every time she outright contemplated giving up on her promise to her dying mother, but she would no longer pursue a course she was becoming more and more convinced was wrong. Though she and Colonel Fitzwilliam were pursuing a friendship now, she was well aware that they might discover they did not suit. He was, after all, accustomed to a grim and grueling way of life. Even as the son of an earl, and thus entitled to certain rights and privileges more than mere privates, he had endured privation and hunger, cold and lashing wet. On the contrary, Caroline herself was used to fine food and fine clothes and fine candles, and she was not ashamed to admit that she greatly enjoyed the niceties of life. It had rendered them both with very different perspectives on those around them, as well. Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke in glowing terms of the men under his command, with the highest respect and affection for the good men who served alongside him, with no regard to their rank.

Caroline uneasily contemplated her own behavior towards those of lesser standing. Jane Bennet might have truly been a friend, as she was both sweet and kind, and Caroline had genuinely enjoyed her company for a time. But she had invariably looked down on the woman, conscious of her own greater wealth and sophistication and education. She had always considered herself the Darcys' equal, and the Bennets below them, and once she had flattered herself that Mr. Darcy thought the same. Whether that was once true or not now no longer mattered; it was obvious that he at least judged pert Lizzy Bennet as his equal. It seemed almost certain that he and Colonel Fitzwilliam were in the right, and Caroline could stand to learn from them.