Chapter 43

Mr Darcy stared at her in astonishment. Elizabeth could not blame him. But her tongue, once unfettered, had a mind and will of its own. She had thought to explain about Peter Harrington and Jane’s earlier disappointment so that he could understand her guilt and why it was her fault that her sister’s confidence was low. Jane had asked for one thing—for Elizabeth to stay a few more paltry days at a house party so that Mr Bingley might be allowed to fall in love unencumbered by gaucherie and vulgarity from the Bennet sisters.

It had not been too much to ask, and Elizabeth ought to have swallowed her pride and waited out the week, writing to her uncle in the meanwhile so he could plan a defence. But she had refused, failing Jane once again, and now her sister suffered for it.

She had never meant to bring up Mr Simpson.

“A marriage proposal? From whom?”

“I have run on for a long while—you must surely be sick to death of hearing my sorry tales.”

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, one finger tipping her chin up to look him in the eye. “Do not you dare leave this conversation without providing details, after that tantalising tit-bit.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the attraction between them blazed, as it so easily did.

She remembered again, now, why she had deserted Jane. It had nothing at all to do with lawsuits, and everything to do with her hopeless feelings for this man.

“Must I?”

“Oh, you certainly must,” he assured.

He might as well know the full extent of her own foolishness. But it was beyond embarrassing.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to think, to put some sort of order into her chaotic recollections. “Shortly after Mr Harrington was whisked away to his uncle’s, a Mr Duncan Simpson took Purvis Lodge—a lovely estate only ten miles from Longbourn. Of course, the neighbourhood was quite interested in him, for no one knew much about him except that he was Scottish. His charming accent made him interesting to speak with and about. My mother soon learnt his particulars—a gentleman not long past his thirty-fifth birthday, whose wife had recently died of a fever. Being childless, grief-stricken, and coincidentally very wealthy, he had decided to move to a quiet retreat, in a new country—a new life. He picked the area, he said, after a random stop at Meryton’s finest coaching inn. Of course, the young ladies were in a fever to gain his attention.”

“Somehow, I cannot imagine you in a ‘fever’, as you say.”

She smiled at that. “No, I suppose not. But he was very popular, becoming great friends with most of the neighbourhood in general. Mama was very pleased when Mr Simpson seemed to single me out for his attention. I was not very interested, but neither was I uninterested. His manner and address were good, and he seemed well able to afford a wife and family. I was interested enough to want to know him better. That was a difficulty, however.”

“Knowing Mr Simpson?”

She nodded pensively. “How is one to make that happen? Shall we talk of feelings during a country dance? During a game of vingt-et-un, with all one’s neighbours watching?”

“Yes,” he agreed, fervently enough to surprise her. “Before company, anyone can be who and what we want them to be.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed. “And Mr Simpson was very good at that.”

“At being who you wanted?”

She wondered if she could even explain properly—how it was, why she had acted as she had. It seemed very long ago now, almost as if it had happened to another person. Yet, even now, when she tried to remember, a mixture of gloom and nausea filled her. Can I still not talk of it, a year and a half later? But, in what seemed an odd motion, Mr Darcy pulled off one of his gloves. He reached for her hand again, firmly clasping it within his own. Skin to skin, she could feel the warmth of him, the strength of his hold. It somehow gave her the courage to keep speaking.

“A letter arrived from Mr Harrington, the worst one ever, I thought. My father read it aloud at dinner with much mirth and teasing. Jane appeared as though she were being tortured through every word of it. My mother threatened to tell Mrs Harrington just how foolish she was to separate her son from the neighbourhood—from me. It was awful.”

Mr Darcy murmured soft agreement; she took a deep breath, and got out the rest.

“That evening I went to a party at my aunt’s, and to my astonishment, Mr Simpson asked me if he might speak to my father about a betrothal. In it, I saw the sudden escape from all my problems, without considering any new ones. Once he heard word of the betrothal, surely Peter would never write again and Mama would drop her proposed enmity with his parents. An engaged couple is granted more freedom—I could surely come to know Mr Simpson very well before any wedding took place. My father, once confident of my agreement, happily approved the union, especially after Mr Simpson reassured him that my lack of fortune was not a problem.” She looked up at Mr Darcy. “May we walk? I find I cannot sit calmly and give a recital of it all. I have never explained everything aloud before this, not even to my uncle.”

He let go her hand, rising instantly, giving her his arm. When she took it, he covered her hand with his.

“I promised to stay in sight of the house so I could be easily found, if needed. Do you think it has been an hour yet? Should we start back?”

“Surely it has only been a very few moments? I find when I am with you, however, my sense of time disappears,” he said gallantly.

She smiled at his flattery.

“We will walk in plain sight of the house,” he assured her. “I am certain it has not yet been an hour, even if it has been more than the five minutes my heart feels it to be.”

He broke hers, by speaking to her this way. But then, if he cared for her—which she knew he must—it would seem sad to him, too, that she should be so absurdly unsuitable. For a few minutes, they walked in companionable silence. How would it be, she wondered, if all had been different? If Papa were still alive, and she was still a proud daughter of Longbourn? Would she, then, have had the trust and confidence to accept Mr Darcy’s proposal?

But it was not to be considered; Papa was gone, and Elizabeth was, as Mr Darcy himself had named her—however unknowingly—a ‘penny-a-liner’, a reporter who did not work directly for the newspaper but who was paid by the word. It described her position perfectly. Her life had gone down a different path, and all the regrets in the world would not call it back.

“Did you? Come to know Mr Simpson, I mean,” he asked after several quiet moments.

She considered. “Not really. He urged speed, telling me he wished to begin life anew, to start a family as soon as might be—to truly leave his grief behind. He was persuasive, I was ambivalent, and before I knew it, the wedding was set for the earliest possible date—a mere three weeks after his proposal. Beyond the haste at which events were proceeding, I found him enigmatic. He did not want to talk about his past, his home, or anything before taking Purvis Lodge. I attributed it to his grief over his losses, but I was very concerned about our future, and desperate for more time in which to adapt. The week before the wedding, very tempted to create a delay, I even spoke to Mr Lloyd—who owns The George, in Meryton—enquiring as to how one made arrangements to take the post to London. I pretended I was only curious but, when I learnt that a person must buy a ticket from either Mr Lloyd or another of his employees, I knew it would be futile. Had I tried, someone would have been sure to send for my father.”

“The disagreeable aspect of living in a small country neighbourhood, I suppose.”

“Yes. However, later, when Jane and I made our escape from Longbourn, I bought tickets directly from Mr Lloyd. I do not even think I had the proper fare. He only asked if we were for my uncle’s, and helped us board the correct coach that would bring us to the inn nearest Gracechurch Street. Everyone knew my cousin had come to inherit, you see, and my mother’s diminished opinion of me was no secret.”

He squeezed her hand briefly where it rested on his arm. “Well then. Thank God for Mr Lloyd and small country villages.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“So, you did not escape to London or cry off your engagement, but decided to marry the little-known Scottish suitor, after all?”

“Yes,” she said. “I had given my word, you see.”

“I can see that, yes.”

She truly thought he did.

“There were not many at our wedding ceremony—although there was to be the most enormous wedding breakfast afterwards,” she continued. “There was only my family, my aunt and uncle Philips, and my aunt and uncle Gardiner, and our good friends, Sir William Lucas and his family. I did not think much of it when the Lucases brought an elderly cousin of theirs who was staying with them, for we all meant to go to Longbourn directly after for the breakfast with the rest of the neighbourhood.”

It was difficult, sharing this last, humiliating conclusion. A part of her knew that had she not been so fatigued and careworn, she would not have said any of it. He gave her hand another comforting squeeze, just as if he understood.

“Mr Simpson took his place at the front of the church. I had just taken my father’s arm for him to escort me to my bridegroom, when Sir William’s cousin stood from his pew. He called out, ‘Duncan Craig, what the devil are you doing here? I thought you were dead!’”

“What?” Mr Darcy stopped in his tracks. “Do you mean, he was not who he said he was?”

“He most certainly was not,” she replied, and after a moment, they continued walking. “There was something of a scene after that, with accusations and denials, ending with my father punching Mr Simpson, better known as Duncan Craig, right there in the nave. Craig was a well-known tradesman living in Edinburgh apparently, with a wife and three children, and had pretended his own death at sea. Meanwhile, he had absconded to England with a good deal of his fortune, thinking to take up a new identity as a gentleman of fashion and leisure, with a shiny new wife of good birth to give himself a polish—but one with not enough of a fortune to look too closely into his roots. If not for Sir William’s cousin, who lived in Edinburgh and had met him once and heard of the supposed tragedy, I would even now be married to a bigamist and probably be none the wiser.”

“Living a lie,” he said, and she nodded.

“He departed the area in the middle of the night, and my friend Charlotte Lucas wrote me later that he returned to his wife, as if from the dead, with a story of injury and memory loss. Her father’s cousin never said anything in Edinburgh, for his children’s sake. So all is well that ends well, I suppose.”

“Except that he deeply embarrassed you, exposed you to gossip and ridicule, and while you were recovering, there was an accident and your father died.” There was tightly controlled anger in his deep voice.

“Yes.”

There had been a generous settlement very much in her favour—but of course, it had been signed by a man who did not exist. It would never have protected her, had the discovery come later, with her children born illegitimate. Even now, she sometimes woke in the night in a cold sweat, thinking of it. “The Harrington sisters were especially cruel, wanting me to be thought of as soiled goods so that there was no chance of their brother resuming his pursuit. Most of the neighbourhood was much kinder to me, however, treating it as a great joke and a lucky escape. Unfortunately, my mother had done a good deal of crowing about my success in winning ‘Mr Simpson’ in the first place, which her friends liked to remind her about. She took the humiliation poorly. Then there were the bills for my wedding clothes and the breakfast, which, although Papa did not blame me, he grumbled about. And then…then he was dead.”

He had died, Collins had arrived, Pennywithers had been born. Life could be very awful and very strange, at times.

While still in full view of Pemberley, they happened at that moment to be passing beneath a large, shady oak, its branches temporarily shielding them from sight. Mr Darcy did an unexpectedly wonderful thing. Pausing, he turned her to face him. “I am sorry,” he said, and gathered her into his arms. He simply held her there for some moments, comforting and consoling her, his arms strong and secure, his shoulders broad enough to take on any trouble.

For a few minutes, she allowed it—so sweet, so soothing. He was so formidable; her slight weight pressed against him, perfectly content. Everything he represented whispered safety, peace, and comfort. But it was not long before the sparks ignited once more between them, ever ready to flame, heating the very air they breathed. She looked up at him, and wished he would kiss her again. He looked down at her, at her lips, and she knew he wanted to.

An impossible, improbable love.

“I-I had better return to Jane,” she said, unable to prevent the breathless quality of her voice. Hastily, she nearly ran back to the house.