Chapter 14

“L et them stay,” Elizabeth continued, looking at her father. “After all, what transpired is hardly a secret.”

“I have but one question,” Jane said.

“Of course, please ask.”

“Did Mr Darcy, at any point, convey that Mr Bingley was in love with me when he left?”

“Would such information have the power to mend your heart?” Mr Bennet asked. Although the day had been about Elizabeth, he was relieved to finally engage in a rational conversation with Jane concerning Mr Bingley.

“Mend? I cannot say, but at the very least, it might bring me some peace.”

“Why?” Mary interjected, perplexed. “You have already lost him, and if he departed still loving you, he is weak and persuadable, which would make the pain even more acute—”

“Enough, Mary!” Elizabeth cried, her fear of causing Jane further distress still fresh in her mind.

“No, I wish to hear everything that you have to say. For me, it was also a significant conversation—the first coherent one that I could endure.”

“Allow me to conclude my story, then I shall address your questions,” Elizabeth said.

Silence briefly descended upon them. Alongside the tension that had permeated their discussion, they also enjoyed what was happening in the library.

“In Kent, I encountered his aunt—”

“Lady Catherine,” Jane interposed.

“Not only her,” Elizabeth responded, striving not to sound reproachful, wondering whether Jane had read any of her letters from Kent.

“Mrs Barstow,” Mary supplied, as she always read every letter she came across in the house more than once.

“Yes, Mrs Barstow is related to Mr Darcy’s father. Her father and Mr Darcy’s grandfather were brothers.”

“A close kinship!” Mr Bennet remarked.

“And, like many families, they were far from perfect. One brother inherited the family’s wealth while the other had to forge his own path in life.”

“An entail of sorts,” Mr Bennet mused.

“Indeed. I can only attest that Mrs Barstow is the opposite of Lady Catherine. Despite the age difference, we instantly formed a bond, and…she regarded me with more than mere friendship. She believed I was the wife Mr Darcy required, deploring his terrible proposal, and persuading me to meet him regardless of what had happened between us.”

Elizabeth paused once more, deciding not to divulge everything, not even to her father. Lady Amelia had no place in their conversation.

“We met at the theatre, and our conduct was…respectable—”

“You love him!” Jane exclaimed, truly observing her sister, perhaps for the first time in months.

“Too late, but that does not diminish the intensity of my sentiments,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Now you comprehend me,” Jane affirmed.

“I have always understood you, Jane. I have always had faith in your noble intentions and beautiful soul. That is one of the reasons I rejected Mr Darcy’s proposal—I could not imagine a life with someone who did not respect, if not cherish, my family.”

“You refused him because he proposed in an abominable fashion and because you did not love him,” Jane persisted. They all looked at her, surprised by her frustrated and angry tone, each of them struggling to grasp the cause of her emotions.

“You are mistaken. I would have contemplated his proposal had he not played a role in your unhappiness.”

“But you just said you did not love him then.”

“My soul was shrouded in anger upon discovering his actions at Netherfield. I could not think clearly or make a rational decision.”

“Enough!” Mr Bennet interjected, attempting to mediate an impending argument that threatened to obstruct their discourse. “Carry on, Elizabeth! Fight in your room when you are alone!”

Elizabeth tempered the strange frustration that Jane’s words had ignited and continued her story not looking at her older sister.

“Following his proposal, the very next day, he penned a long missive to me—”

“He wrote you a letter?” Mary gasped, astonished by such audacity.

“Silence, Mary! What ails you girls? Let Elizabeth speak,” Mr Bennet admonished before realising the need to intervene. “Mr Darcy requested your sister’s hand in marriage. Even though she rejected his proposal, their relationship warranted such a gesture…but why do I even bother? I have always advised you to disregard the frivolous rules that our era appears to create at an accelerated pace.”

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, shocked by her father’s counsel. “You have never said that to me!”

“Yet Papa is right. He came and personally presented me with that letter. And, I suppose, that was when I realised that I was in love with him…even before reading his letter…as strange as that might seem. After briefly meeting at the theatre, advised by Mrs Barstow and Aunt Gardiner, I replied to his letter to explain my refusal. I was invited to call on Miss Darcy and Mrs Barstow, and I carried the letter with me—”

“You visited his house?” Mr Bennet asked.

“Yes, invited by Miss Darcy. Mrs Barstow hoped that he would make an appearance, affording me the opportunity to deliver the letter.”

Elizabeth paused; it was impossible to forget the emotions she had experienced on that afternoon when she first visited his home. His splendid residence could have been hers had she been cleverer, calmer, or more understanding. Or had she listened to her heart above all else, as Jane surely would have done. Her reproach was not directed at Jane but at herself. She did not need to close her eyes to remember, for his house had seared itself into her memory forever.

As the carriage halted before the elegant three-storey house, under the canopy adorned with coloured glass and supported by Greek columns, even Mrs Gardiner had sighed in admiration…and regret.

“Visiting Rosings was the first time I entered a mansion that resembled the grand royal palaces we have seen in town, but his London residence is…a home. Warm and inviting and…and when we entered the drawing-room, I was shocked to find a pianoforte with Miss Darcy’s music scattered all about. Mrs Barstow affectionately reprimanded her, but that was precisely what endeared it to me—the sensation of a real home, where people took pleasure in spending their time. Imagine the generous sash windows, welcoming an abundance of natural light, affording views of a garden that was beginning to bloom, with the trees sporting hints of green!” Elizabeth said, overwhelmed by memories.

She had admired everything—the exquisite furnishings, the pastel-coloured wallpaper that harmoniously matched the upholstery of the chairs and sofas. For a fleeting moment, she imagined herself descending to the garden to pick flowers to arrange in delicate vases.

“I never dreamt of being rich…I had always hoped to have a contented life with a husband who could serve as a pa rson in a modest rectory or as a solicitor, like Uncle Phillips. However, gazing upon his residence, I had to accept that I also regretted the life he could have provided.”

“I have never contemplated Mr Bingley in such a manner!” Jane confessed.

“I know, but some time ago, Papa advised me not to fall in love but to pursue it. That implies contemplating the life one would build with a man. I never anticipated uttering these words but building a life with the master of that house…that would have been the perfect pursuit of happiness. I was engulfed in admiration and regret. I longed to see him in that setting as he truly was. Not in the Meryton ballroom, nor even in the opulence of Rosings, but there, in his home, amidst his family and possessions—”

“One remains unchanged, regardless of the setting!” Jane declared with obvious reproach.

“You are wrong, Jane. Consider Papa. He is the man we know and adore, but only here, in his library, and occasionally in our drawing-room or dining-room. I yearned to witness Mr Darcy there, engrossed in a book left upon a small table, scrutinising the door of a delicate cabinet that failed to close properly—”

Elizabeth paused, her emotions overwhelming her, as she recalled waiting for Mr Darcy, imagining him entering that room where he spent his afternoons with family and friends.

“I was certain he would come—”

“Did he?” Mary asked impatiently, reflecting, perhaps for the first time in her life, on love as a natural sentiment that conquers the soul, mind, and heart, rather than as a mere passage in a book. It was Elizabeth’s tale of love, yet Mary was grateful to be present, glimpsing the depths of her sister’s feelings.

“I do not know what occurred during that hour I waited for him. He knew that I was coming, and I considered his presence would be a sign that he was beginning to forgive me. The ladies conversed, I uttered the occasional word, but my heart clung to the door. It thudded incessantly in a frenzied rhythm each time someone entered, yet it was always just the butler or a maid. After an hour had elapsed, Mrs Gardiner rose, signalling our departure.”

“He did not come,” Mary lamented.

“No, and for me, that marked the end.”

Still immersed in profound emotion, Mr Bennet’s laughter roused them from their reverie. They stared at him, shocked.

“My dear, if only matters were as simple as you imagine! Mr Darcy is a powerful man, in command of his own destiny. Your refusal deeply wounded him, for I am sure he never imagined encountering a woman who could spurn his hand. He is not like Mr Collins, who cast his net over Longbourn but remained relatively unperturbed when none of you wished to marry him…because he cast his net with indifference towards the catch. Mr Darcy, on the other hand, was that formidable and conceited hunter who wanted just one deer—”

“Oh, Papa, what a horrible metaphor!” Elizabeth exclaimed, although she found it both amusing and enlightening.

“His disappointment was profound, but I assure you, he did not give up.”

“Then why did he not come? I had to leave the letter in the hall.”

“He refrained from appearing because he is not yet prepared to demonstrate that he has forgotten you…even if, in his heart, it is possible he achieved that for a time.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Elizabeth protested.

“Thank you, my dear daughter, for placing trust in the man your father is!”

They looked at Mr Bennet in astonishment, as they had forgotten indeed that their father was not solely a parent but someone who had once loved, suffered, and lived the life of a man, rather than that of a father.

“What is happening here?” a voice called from the doorway, and they turned in surprise to see Mrs Bennet, who was clearly vexed that they were conversing without her within her own home.

“Nothing, my dear. The girls just came to invite me for a stroll.”

And indeed, they all stepped out into the gentle May sunshine.

“He responded to you,” Mr Bennet whispered to Elizabeth.

“Yes, how did you know that?”

“The radiant glow that has enveloped your beautiful face since yesterday afternoon.”

Elizabeth merely smiled, taking her father’s arm. He did not need further details, while Elizabeth longed to peruse the letter once more. For perhaps the tenth time.