Chapter Ten#2

“Well, I dare say,” Elizabeth interrupted the two of them, the siblings were bickering again, like she did on occasion with Lydia, “I do dare say that I ought to go up to the nursery and give Nell a hand with Emily as she packs. You say she is off tomorrow? I must give her my farewells then. I shall miss the little child.”

“Ha,” Miss Bingley said. “For all the good it does you. Do you really enjoy spending so much time with a child?”

“Not every woman,” Elizabeth replied sourly, “needs to have a maternal instinct.”

It hurt in her gut. Oh Lord. It hurt.

She should have known that he would not return. He would send for Emily. That was what he had said when he left. Why had she expected to see him once more? Why had she expected that he would ride all the way across England just to tell her again that they were good friends and say his farewells.

“I show every care and concern for children who are related to me,” Miss Bingley snapped back. “It is only that I dislike being left, with no warning, with a child who is no relation of mine, and who does not like me.”

A lump in Elizabeth’s throat.

She would scream at Miss Bingley if she continued this conversation.

And it would be wholly preferable to die rather than to cry about Mr. Darcy in front of Miss Bingley.

“It is fortunate,” Elizabeth said curtseying and walking to the door so she could go up to the nursery, “that there are those who are to Emily’s taste. But infants are not discriminating, so you must not take it to heart that she does not like you.”

And yes. She had wanted to show him that, yes , yes, she would have been a good mother to his child.

An act done for its own sake, but it still hurt that he would not see it.

When Elizabeth got up the stairs, there was no one in the hallway. She pressed her head against a cold oak door and settled her nerves.

What juvenile, idiot notion had kept her certain that she would see Darcy again?

She might as well have been convinced that The Monk was an accurate depiction of life in Spain.

When she entered the nursery, and Emily’s cheerful greeting was done, Nell informed her of all the details of their travel plans.

Emily was to be sent in easy stages up to Pemberley. Darcy had written at great length on the care to be taken of her on the road up, which inns they were to stop at, how any milk she received was to be boiled first and left to cool, and advice on how to ensure that bread and fruit had no unhealthful components.

“It is as though the gentleman does not believe any of us have ever cared for a child before.”

“The high-handed gentleman,” Elizabeth replied with a smile. “But at least he is sensible in addition to being active.”

And he hadn’t sent any message to Bingley for him to relay to her in his letter.

That hurt as well, even though she had no reason to expect any such message. Even though it would have been unwise and not respectable if he’d sent anything beyond “and send my greetings to our friends the Bennets, and especially to Miss Bennet”.

Nell chattered on as Elizabeth chiefly amused Emily as the nurse made her preparations for the journey the next day.

Elizabeth had by now a good friendship with Emily’s nurse.

She knew all about the woman’s family, how greatly admired Mr. Darcy was in Pemberley, how Nell missed her husband, who was likely to become the butler if the present gentleman, who was nearly seventy, ever retired. She knew about Nell’s older children who were at Pemberley and how she also missed them, even though Nell was delighted to have her position as Emily’s nurse. It was a position of honour within the household, and she received enough money from it to set aside the fee to apprentice her third son to an apothecary. “The boy loves to ask Mr. Spencer questions, he’d do it for the whole day, if he might. He’s always been a curious lad, and liked to read books about medicines, plants and herbs. And to be an apothecary is a respectable profession, almost as good as an attorney.”

Elizabeth had perhaps sought to make friends with Nell because she wished to imagine that she had married Darcy and was becoming Emily’s second mother. Elizabeth knew it was not true, and she knew that if she cultivated such imaginations, they would hurt her eventually.

However, as she had discovered repeatedly over the past weeks, her mind and heart were not easily governed.

And now that fantasy was wholly ended.

At the end of the morning Elizabeth kissed Emily, hugged her tightly, and said goodbye.

She did not believe that the girl understood that she would not see Li — her name for Elizabeth — the next day. The girl clearly did understand that she would soon see Papa again.

Elizabeth sobbed alone in the Bingley’s carriage on the way home and stood in the cold for several minutes after she’d been left off, recovering her poise and wiping at her eyes before she entered the house.

A final confirmation — as Bingley continued to say nothing — that Miss Darcy had attempted to elope with a fortune hunter came from Mr. Collins. He wrote to Mama, with whom he kept up a consistent correspondence, about how apoplectic Lady Catherine was, because Miss Darcy had eloped with a Mr. Wickham, the godson of Mr. Darcy’s father. Upon hearing this Elizabeth noted in her mind that Miss Bingley’s theory that it was the steward’s son had been correct.

Lady Catherine blamed this on Mr. Darcy, his obstinate refusal to use good sense, or to ask her for advice on how to manage his sister. Emily’s character would certainly be also ruined by the bad management of children that Mr. Darcy had learned from his father.

It was certainly not the Fitzwilliam side of the family that was to blame in this situation.

After she had read the pertinent parts of this letter to her daughters, Mama said to Elizabeth, “I do believe this proves what I once said to Mr. Darcy, that every child needs a mother. If Miss Darcy had not spent most of her life without one, this never would have happened. No girl who had a happy relationship with her mother has ever eloped.”

“I do not believe that is true. What about Miss Smith. You remember when she ran off two years ago?”

Mama sniffed. “I am sure that despite the pretence they made in public, that the girl could not stand her mother. Otherwise, she would not have done such an awful thing to poor Mrs. Smith.”

What could be said to such confidence? Elizabeth turned her face down to hide her smile.

“Lord! If only you had shown parental instincts towards Miss Emily when Mr. Darcy was yet present. He might have realized that the girl needed a mother then . But now he is gone, and I dare say he’ll never come back. And he scared off your other suitor. That… hmmm.” Not even Mama could find a really positive thing to say about Mr. Sykes. “It was most unhandsome of him to not marry you after scaring Mr. Sykes off. I thought you two would settle the issue when you went onto that balcony. You came in with eyes that looked like they’d been scratched by a cat, and Mr. Darcy was gloomier than ever. You never said precisely what happened on that balcony.”

“Mama, we only talked.”

“Heavens! Young women these days. You have no notion of how to behave. You should have embraced him. Given him a kiss. He must be desperate for a woman after so much time since his wife’s death.” Mama looked around, to ensure that none of her younger daughters could hear, and then said in a much too loud stage whisper, “Gentlemen require regular release.”

Elizabeth grimaced and blanched. She wished to hear nothing about the subject from her mother. “Mama! You know you must not speak of such things.”

“Hmph. I sometimes think it would be better if young girls were told all of the details by their mothers before they went into society. I do not know that ignorance really keeps them from misbehaviour. And after all of the books that Mr. Bennet let you read, I’d not be surprised if you think you know more about the subject than you do.”

What could be said to that?

“But you were not nearly forward enough.” Mama shook her head sadly. “You should have kissed him, and then someone would have seen through the window, and you would have had to marry.”

“Or he would have rightly insulted me as the worst sort of fortune hunter and immoral woman.”

“The man knew, deep down, that he needed a wife. But you’ve lost the chance, and it will be another girl. Oh, oh! And if Jane dies in childbirth, Mr. Collins will cast us all out, and we will starve in the hedgerows.”

“Mama, do not be ridiculous,” Elizabeth replied. “When we find ourselves cast out, penniless, with no home or relations, after you have lost your own fortune, and all your siblings have died themselves, we would go into the workhouses. And though I believe the food cannot be pleasant there, and the work would be arduous, we would not starve, and neither would we be in the hedgerows.”

“You care nothing for my nerves!”

It was impossible for Elizabeth to make a reply to that, especially as she was keenly aware that she had just mocked her mother’s, not wholly ridiculous, fears.

“If only you had simply married Mr. Sykes. He was the sure thing. And now Mr. Darcy is gone, and we’ll never see him again.”

That thought did nothing to improve Elizabeth’s spirits. And the advice did much to relieve Elizabeth’s guilt about having been unkind to her mother. So rather than saying anything else that she would be ashamed to admit to Jane that she had said, Elizabeth escaped the room.

Mama followed this conversation with a journey into town, waving her letter from Mr. Collins about, so that she could share her gossip about Mr. Darcy’s sister with everyone. Within two days the whole town was talking about it. However, at the next assembly ball, Mr. Bingley changed the note of the rumours when he absolutely insisted that Miss Darcy was still unmarried, and residing once more at Pemberley.

He had that as specific information from Darcy.

Bingley however could not deny the claim that Miss Darcy had attempted to elope with the steward’s son. Nor that they had spent several nights sleeping together on the road, unchaperoned by anyone but the companion who the world generally believed had been Mr. Wickham’s mistress.

Eventually rumours and tales from those who heard about the story in London came to Meryton. Elizabeth did not put much confidence in any of what she heard on the matter, but she still paid attention to each new detail revealed: The couple had been found and stopped near the border of Scotland, and there had been a serious altercation between Mr. Darcy and his father’s former favourite (all of the stories insisted that Mr. Wickham had been beloved by Mr. Darcy’s father — though the moral drawn from this fact differed with the story teller).

Finally, Bingley’s certain information made clear that Miss Darcy, still in her guise as Miss Dacy — though Elizabeth heard three persons confidently claim that Darcy pretended that a marriage that had been solemnized with vows before the blacksmith had not in fact occurred — lived once more with her brother and niece at Pemberley.

Perhaps Darcy had fought a duel with Mr. Wickham. And perhaps he had been wounded, or maybe he had killed his man, or maybe he had merely wounded the other gentleman. Possibly he’d deloped while Mr. Wickham desperately tried to shoot him through the heart but missed.

Elizabeth guessed that the story of a duel was fictitious, as she did not think that Darcy would fight due to his concern for Emily’s fate. The tale of the supposed duel did become progressively more horrifying and absurd with each of its many retellings.

The vicinity of Meryton, like any neighbourhood of four and twenty families, had an ample amount of small village scandals and delightful tales of reprobate behaviour. But there were not enough great heiresses in a neighbourhood with no great heiresses to draw any terribly handsome fortune hunters — the excellent countenance of Mr. Wickham was another matter all stories agreed on. Such a connection to great society and its far foibles was delightful to nearly all. Thus, the story hung on in general discussion for a long time, even though it was a tale about a girl who had never been seen by anyone, and a gentleman who had been resident for only two months.

Poor, poor Mr. Darcy .

Elizabeth could not stop worrying for him, keeping him in her nightly prayers, and hoping that he would, despite everything, ride back to Longbourn and throw himself at her feet begging her to marry him, despite the scandal that swirled about his name.

It would be dishonest if Elizabeth did not also confess to having a little delight at the thought of how after Darcy had accused her younger sisters of being wild, and her mother of being vulgar, that it was his sister who eloped.

That was not a thought though that Elizabeth dwelt on. First, ‘twas unkind, and she did not wish to be unkind, even in thought, towards Mr. Darcy. Further, she was convinced that a man half as handsome as Mr. Wickham was reputed to be, any one of the lieutenants in the regiment if they were daring enough, could convince Lydia to elope with him.

It was her lack of fortune and the web of social observation in a neighbourhood where everyone knew who she was that made that danger unlikely, not Lydia’s superior virtue.

This was the lesson that Elizabeth drew from the tale: Should she ever marry — a fate that presently felt impossible — and have children, she would never allow the girls to have a period of independence without a watchful parental eye until they were either safely married, or at least nineteen.

Mr. Bingley seemed to understand that Elizabeth always wished to hear news of Darcy when he had it, but there was nothing really to hear. Mr. Darcy was healthy and well. He sent his greetings to all his friends in Meryton — and he was settled in Pemberley.

Settled in Pemberley.

The situation following Mr. Sykes giving up the quest, as it were, was not nearly so unpleasant as Elizabeth had anticipated — her mother assumed that Elizabeth had been disinterested in him because she had hoped to catch a far bigger prize, and Mama even thought that she had nearly succeeded in forcing her prize to strike its colours… and maybe even might succeed still, though the odds appeared unhappy. This was an explanation for Elizabeth’s behaviour that did not disgust her mother’s mercenary heart.

Likely Mama would scream at her and borrow a knife from the kitchen for purposes of murder if she learned that there had been no artifice, no schemes for Darcy’s hand, and that Elizabeth had simply not liked Mr. Sykes.

Mama herself, as she told Elizabeth several times over the following weeks, had not at all been confident that her efforts to ensnare Mr. Bennet would succeed, but she had thrown her whole heart into the effort, as her mother had advised her, and look how happy they had been until his untimely death. If only the entail had not been present… but she was very happy that Jane had been able to marry Mr. Collins, and she loved Mr. Collins as much as she would have loved her own son, if such a person had ever been born.

More, likely.

Even if he ought to give them more money, so that they could hire a proper cook, carriage, and more than one footman.

The result of all these discussions, all this tension, and the simple fact that Elizabeth did not have any person about who she could really talk with or feel in deep sympathy with was that when Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner arrived from London, Elizabeth burst into tears and sobbed on her aunt’s shoulder for a full ten minutes the first time they had a private discussion.

“There, there, there, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “And let us call for tea. I had not realized from your letters that you had been so strongly affected.”

“Mama gives me no peace. And I confess it, my heart has received a bruising. Do not worry, it will heal.”

“You were in love with Mr. Darcy, were you not?”

“I still am.” Elizabeth mournfully sighed. “I keep imagining that he might ride from Pemberley to call. Even though he made clear, on many occasions, that we can be nothing but friends. I accepted that, but it would have been easier if that sad business with his sister had not called him away so suddenly.”

“I was shocked that a Darcy would behave in such a way. But a person’s character is not only a matter of blood and breeding.”

“Poor Darcy. He must feel it so deeply. And he could not have anticipated such a thing. He told me that she was a shy and retiring girl.”

“You cannot continue to hope forever,” Mrs. Gardiner said wisely.

“I will laugh myself into happiness sooner or later.” Elizabeth sighed. “It has been a month. I begin to expect that I shall only be happy again later . I fear I shall never meet a man who has so many good virtues. I should focus on his defects — he is arrogant, high handed, convinced of the rightness of his own path, and dismissive of the worth of those in our situation in life. He spoke slightingly of you and Uncle Gardiner as my connections in trade.”

“All a slender basis on which to establish an enduring hatred for a man who you like very much, when you are honest enough to admit that it is wholly reasonable for a man in his position to see things in such a way.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I do not wish to hate him! No, no, no! I wish to merely feel the platonic affection towards him that he holds towards me.”

Mrs. Gardiner shook her head. “No, no. A book I recently read spoke of how friendships between an unattached woman and a man can be most dangerous. How did it put it? The line struck me as very sensible: A woman should not give way to a pleasing delusion and imagine that she will be satisfied with the friendship of a man she admires and prefers to the rest of the world.”

“I daresay that describes me precisely,” Elizabeth replied. She felt relaxed. The blood thrummed through the veins and arteries more easily. Simply being able to talk with another human being who understood her, like Papa or Darcy did, was a tonic to her soul. “But what physic does this author suggest once one has succumbed to the illness?”

“I believe she chiefly advised to not succumb. To be wise and avoid coming too close to the precipice.”

“Useless, as are all doctors — but here is true medicine. A good cup of tea! Thank you, Mrs. Hill.”

The housekeeper smiled as she set down the tray with the tea things and nodded to both of them. “I am glad to see you in better spirits, Miss Lizzy.”

“Has it been so obvious?” Elizabeth shook her head.

Mrs. Hill smiled, and then said to Mrs. Gardiner, “It has been difficult for the young miss. First the master died and was replaced by that tightfisted clergyman who married Miss Jane. And then that difficulty with that unkempt man who wanted to marry her.”

“You mean Mr. Sykes?”

“A worse fellow I have never seen. He bothered the maids, and I was twice tempted to stab him, even if they’d hang me for it — it shocked me completely when he went away peacefully.”

“I believe,” Elizabeth said, “that he was rather frightened.”

“Is it true that Mr. Darcy challenged him to a duel?”

“Is that the rumour?” Elizabeth asked. “He certainly did not. At least not in my presence.” Then after making a hmm sound, Elizabeth added, “Mr. Sykes feared that he would.”

“I heard him mention more than once after that ball how Mr. Darcy was both skilled with the sword and a gun.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Don’t cry too much, dearie,” Mrs. Hill said. “If he’d not still been heartbroken over that first wife of his, he would have come up to scratch.”

“That was not—” Elizabeth paused. “You know, I daresay he would have.”

This thought made Elizabeth feel enormously more cheerful. He would not have engaged in such a quixotic quest to punish himself for liking the look of other women if he had not loved Anne dearly.

“It is an odd sensation to realize I have lost in a competition with a ghost. But it is salutary to at last realize that I was in such a competition.”

Mrs. Gardiner raised her eyebrows.

Mrs. Hill said, “That Darcy was a fool to let his sadness over a woman who is gone blind him to a perfect living creature who he might have married.”

“Oh, of a certainty,” Elizabeth replied, smiling. “But are we not all fools at times? I am.”

In the end Elizabeth did travel to stay with the Gardiners in London for a period of unspecified length. She eagerly offered herself as a secondary nursemaid and governess for the children, and Mrs. Gardiner told her that she should not worry about being a burden.

There was some discussion of them all traveling to the Lakes in the summer, though Jane wished Elizabeth to be present with her at Hunsford when the time came for her confinement.

In London Elizabeth’s bruised heart had a chance to heal, though it remained a little tender. The children kept her busy and joyous, the parties that Mrs. Gardiner took her to engrossed her in the concerns of a new circle of persons. She had unlimited access to books, even greater because of the amenities of the city, than she enjoyed at Longbourn when Papa was alive. She heard more of the news of the day from Mr. Gardiner, and she often read bits from his newspapers.

Days and evenings filled with plays, operas, visits to Vauxhall, walks about the parks, and a general experience of pleasure.

She was not lonely. Both Mrs. Gardiner and Mr. Gardiner were clever, thoughtful persons, who displayed true gentility. The persons who they dined in circuit with likewise showed a far higher quality of conversation than those Elizabeth satisfied herself with in the country.

Elizabeth did worry that she was a burden, as she knew that neither her mother nor Mr. Collins sent the Gardiners any money to cover her expenses, in the way that Papa used to.

When she mentioned this to Mr. Gardiner, he waved away the thought. “Your fun is not so expensive, and you do a great deal to help with the children and the servants. It makes the house a more pleasant place to have you with us.”

Darcy and thoughts of Darcy receded from Elizabeth’s mind.

No one in the Gardiners’ circle had any close connection to him or spoke often about that elegant and wealthy gentleman with a scandalous sister. And when the time came close for her to travel to Kent to be present during the last month before her sister’s confinement, Elizabeth had begun to notice once more that on occasion these unattached gentlemen had nice smiles, fine hair, and an amusing ability to flirt.

Though her recovery had not progressed so far that any of them could give her flutters in her stomach as Darcy did. Perhaps that too would return in the goodness of time.