Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Fifteen

As the evening progressed, Elizabeth began to feel anxious for her husband's continued absence. Odd thoughts ran through her mind about what he might have possibly decided to do with himself, intermixed with the image of him lying in a ditch muddy and soaked with a broken neck, while the grotesquely oversized horse that he insisted was perfectly docile, docilely chewed the grass nearby, wholly unconcerned by the fate of his master.

Of course, more likely by far he had decided to not return — the only question was for how long would he remain absent. The other question, since no question ever lives alone, was what would she tell Georgiana. And also, how would she live, and how would she manage herself, if Mr. Darcy never returned to Pemberley, never again.

Don't be ridiculous. Of course he will return to Pemberley, he loves the estate.

At present, Elizabeth could not keep herself from being ridiculous.

Just before she had determined to become truly alarmed, the letters that Mr. Darcy had thrown out into the world by messenger presented themselves to the inhabitants of his estate.

The first, fully public note, announced that he had sudden and unavoidable business in London, and that he would immediately travel south to attend to it. He gave the directions of the inn where his valet, his clothes, and the light traveling carriage were to meet him.

Very like Mr. Darcy, to be willing to bother everyone in such a way.

It also irked Elizabeth that Mrs. Reynolds efficiently managed the whole task without having even the slightest call to ask Elizabeth for aid in arranging the detailed logistics of her husband's escape from her presence.

He was running away.

That, she supposed, was the power of the husband — he was free to go where he wished, to do as he pleased, and she could not tell him nay.

Though, of course, Elizabeth was by no means sure that she wanted to keep him from removing himself. He had after all ruined Jane and Bingley's happiness, and she should be eager to have him as far away from herself as possible due to that.

This was a line of thought which, while familiar, did not have any conviction. Weak woman that she was, Elizabeth imagined her sister's weepy face often replaced by the equally imagined feel of Darcy's hands on her sides, his hungry lips, the way his body felt when he lay atop her, and she squeezed him tighter, and they truly, for a short time, cleaved to each other and became one flesh.

That thought alone was enough to make her long for him to return for the evening.

When the note was shown to Georgiana, the sweet dear rose from her piano practice and frowned. "I wonder what business could be so sudden. It is quite unusual, and it must be very important to have drawn him. But when would he have received a letter? On the road do you think?"

"I think," Elizabeth said, rather shamefacedly, "that he chooses to go to London."

This led to the receipt of a blank stare, before Georgiana exclaimed, "Oh! You mean that he is still angry with you? But would he leave Pemberley for such a cause? — I do not believe it."

"I scarcely can myself," Elizabeth said.

"What did you chiefly argue about?"

This was painful for Elizabeth to speak upon, but Georgiana had this afternoon exposed her deepest secrets, so Elizabeth ought to say what she could without exposing Darcy to his sister's censure. It was Darcy's place, more than her own, to tell Georgiana, if he decided to do so, about how he had kissed her while drunk, and that they had married then to avoid scandal and protect honor and reputation.

As Elizabeth frowned and thought, she knew the silence was awkward, and that she needed to say something.

"I believe you know Mr. Bingley?" At Georgiana's nod, Elizabeth said, "It had seemed likely that he and my sister would have made a match of it, and my sister had fallen in love with Mr. Bingley—"

"Oh, how wonderful!" Georgiana exclaimed.

Elizabeth shook her head. "The match fell through, and Bingley disappeared from Netherfield right after my engagement with Mr. Darcy was established, and none of us knew why. Then he stood with your brother at the wedding and refused to look at my sister the whole time. I learned yesterday that your brother had counseled Mr. Bingley strongly against marrying my sister, and that this was the reason he had left — that was the principal source of our quarrel."

"But… why would he do that? Surely there must be some misunderstanding."

Elizabeth looked at the thick letter she had received from Mr. Darcy, and she said, "It is possible — no, likely — that the answer will be in here."

By agreement so that Elizabeth could read the letter, Elizabeth went to a seat in the drawing room, and Georgiana returned to her piano practice. It was a piece that was terribly complicated, yet deeply beautiful, and Elizabeth luxuriated in the notes dripping elegantly through the lovely song.

It was a little uncomfortable to not tell Georgiana more — but Elizabeth simply did not want to tell Georgiana that she had not chosen to marry Mr. Darcy.

Partly because to say that would shock Georgiana… but also, Elizabeth realized that in a weird way, like having a wound lanced and drained allowed the injury to begin to heal, she was no longer angry at Darcy.

When she began her perusal of Darcy's letter, the simple fact was that it was impossible for her to not be touched by Darcy's admission that he had acted wrongly when he kissed her, and his open claim that he had misunderstood her.

Perhaps she ought to be enraged, to be angry, since this misunderstanding had changed so much of her life. But she liked Darcy too much at this point to not be delighted in part of her soul that he could not resist her. Besides, she remembered that evening.

Yes, it had been unconsciously done, but she had hoped to be kissed by him.

The anger that had been disarmed by his apology did come back in part with what he wrote about Jane and Bingley. He had truly thought Jane to be indifferent?

He had watched them together for an hour, and on that basis believed himself to be wisely and responsibly acting in the interests of his friend to end his attachment?

Did it matter that he had determined to do this before they were forced to marry?

No!

And besides, once he knew that they were to marry, should he not have begun to adopt her interests as his own? Should he not have tried to encourage the match of his new sister with an eligible gentleman?

He always expected her to treat his family as though they mattered, while he cared nothing for her own.

Yes, the woman left her house and went to her husband's, but it was unfair to expect her to disdain her dear uncle, while Darcy had no obligation to disdain his snobbish and clothing obsessed cousins.

No, no, no.

Quickly skimming through the end of what he wrote about Jane and Bingley, Elizabeth then turned to what he wrote about Mr. Wickham.

After her conversation with Georgiana this afternoon, there was nothing that surprised her, though there were added details that she had not anticipated.

The end of the letter put Elizabeth in a rather better mood with Mr. Darcy. She at once reread his description of his actions on the night of the Netherfield ball with a less prejudiced air.

Charlotte had repeatedly suggested to Elizabeth that Jane ought to show more emotion. Had she not said, "If she wishes to catch him, she ought to show more than she feels?" — but Darcy ought not have interfered in his friend's life in such a way. Who was he to decide how Jane felt?

After having had nothing for lunch, except the melted chocolate and some biscuits, Elizabeth found herself ravenous when dinner was announced. Georgiana asked as they ate if the letter had given her an explanation for Darcy's behavior.

"It seems," Elizabeth said, "that he was wholly convinced that my sister was indifferent to Mr. Bingley because she did not smile at him warmly enough while he watched."

Georgiana nodded seriously as she worked on her pea soup. "And he wished to protect Mr. Bingley from a marriage with unequal affections, even though it was to your sister?"

"It was not any business of his who Mr. Bingley marries."

"Oh, but Fitzwilliam is always like that, trying to help and care for people when he thinks he may help, even if he does not have a duty to do so."

Elizabeth grimaced.

"Oh, but it was your sister who was hurt! He should have asked you. You could have told him that she loved Mr. Bingley."

Unexpectedly to both of them Elizabeth laughed. "He certainly should have asked me."

At the time, asking her would have been the last thing on Darcy's mind. Still, he should have.

Before falling asleep, Elizabeth read the letter yet again.

And the next morning, she read it for a fourth time.

It was only then that she began to reach an emotional equipoise.

She was of course very ill once more the next morning.

Counting up the days, her monthlies were at least four weeks late.

And she missed Mr. Darcy. She considered sending him a letter to inform him about the likely delicacy of her condition, but it was still early to do so, and she wished to tell him in person.

Elizabeth busied herself with the daily tasks of the estate, planning menus with Mrs. Reynolds, preparing events for the wives of the tenants, making calls on the families around the neighborhood, offering money from her own funds to help repair a house that had been partially burned down during drunken revelries on Christmas day, preparing relief baskets for the poor of the community.

She also took long walks with Georgiana, where they talked about everything — except of course Wickham.

She became friends with two of the carriage dogs, and one of the hunting hounds.

Mostly she waited.

And then she received a wholly unexpected letter.

It was brought into the breakfast room on a silver platter. A letter from her father, Mr. Bennet.

Elizabeth stared at it long enough that Georgiana asked if anything was the matter.

She imagined that her face would not have been more foreboding if it had been a black envelope announcing a death.

Her father.

What could he have to say to her?

She opened it up.

Dearest Lizzy,

It was too much.

Elizabeth nearly threw the letter in the fire. She felt an incandescent rage vibrate through her chest. She was not his dearest Lizzy anymore.

Slow, deep breaths. The thing her father had taught her when she needed to let go of her rage. She ought to read the letter.

I wronged you terribly.

It is not easy for a man such as myself to admit to a mistake. In general, it is far too easy to simply let the matter lie, and never write anything, but I miss you too dearly to not try to mend matters as far as I can.

Our conversation after Mr. Darcy came to ask for your hand in marriage has played in my mind endlessly for the past month. I was too harsh. I did not allow you to speak. And I said things in my anger that I desperately wish could be unsaid. They cannot, and I know you must be rightfully furious at me for having spoken to you in such a way.

For a time, I comforted myself with the notion that you would learn in time that it had been a mistake to trap Mr. Darcy in such a manner that he would not be a comfortable husband for you. But that does not comfort me, for I wish more than anything else, more than for my own happiness for you to find happiness.

I should have spoken with kindness and offered support.

You are still my daughter, my clever daughter who sat on my lap when tiny, and who I have always loved to talk with, loved to see smile, and I have loved to watch you grow in knowledge, capability, and beauty. I miss you. And, even if you never forgive me for what I said to you, you are still my daughter, and you will always have a dear place in my heart.

When you trapped Mr. Darcy into marriage, you behaved in a way that was most surprising to me, and I still can scarcely reconcile it with my notion of your general character. Had even Lydia done it, I would have scarcely credited the case. That it was you — with the tale proven by both your mother's eyes and Mr. Darcy's rage at being trapped into marriage, left me in a state I had never been in before.

I had always been used to approving of you, and this sudden change left me in a state of unhappiness. I should have turned my anger and unhappiness at myself for having failed you as a father, and not upon you for having acted in such a way.

What you did to secure Mr. Darcy was unwise and not morally sound. But it is for your conscience to bother you about the immorality, not mine. Except insofar as you risked a scandal that could have harmed your sisters, it is not my business to judge you. I do not want to be your judge, I want to be your loving father.

I worry a great deal for you.

My dearest hope is that you and Mr. Darcy have become reconciled to each other, that you have come to authentically like him, and he to forgive you for what you did, and that he has come to understand you for the jewel and treasure that you are. But my fear is that this is an unreasonable hope, he does not seem like a man who easily forgives.

But my speculations are idle — if there is ever any way, material or spiritual, in which I can aid you do not hesitate to ask. If you need me to hide you away from your husband, you need but ask. If you wish me to send you books upon the subject of how to gain the affections of a man, you need but ask. If you wish me to visit, you need but ask, and if you wish me to never visit, I will not without your permission.

Your father,

T Bennet

Lord!

He at least was very right that he should have listened to her.

Then maybe he would not still be in such a state of confusion.

And what contrasts of emotion and frustration. He apologized for what he had called her, he said he should have listened to her, he admitted freely that he had done wrong — she never expected such.

And yet he was still convinced that she was fundamentally what appearances claimed her to be — a woman who had employed seductive whiles to convince an honorable man to kiss her in the view of witnesses, so that he would have no choice but to marry her — all the while risking great scandal to her family if the scheme failed to succeed.

She picked up the letter to read it again, but she could not manage to start. She stuffed the papers into her pocket and donned her coat and tight-laced boots to venture into the cold for a long circuitous walk.

She begged Georgiana to excuse her from their usual walk, as she must think upon the news from home. While still not giving Georgiana the details of how she had come to marry Darcy — or the misunderstandings that had stood between them — she had previously given her friend the understanding that she was very unhappy with her father due to his reaction to her engagement.

She did not want to forgive him.

It was the coldest day for weeks, and each breath gusted into a small mist.

So that was why Mr. Darcy had never been implacably resentful of her.

Some lines in Papa's letter let her realize fully a fact about her husband that she had already known.

Oh, for a certainty, he had been resentful during the engagement and perhaps the first week of marriage, before the pleasure of their shared bed and his return to Pemberley had worn that away, but never implacably so.

This was because he had married to please himself.

A fair trade he'd thought. "I give the fortune hunter my fortune, and I gain in turn the woman who I have become infatuated with."

Except she had never wanted what he offered.

That must have been a shock to him.

Poor Mr. Darcy. How he must have felt during their argument. Poor, poor man.

When she'd been out for about an hour, pacing a circle through a favorite grove of hers in the hill behind the house, Georgiana came out to see her and waved.

"Are you well, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth shrugged.

Georgiana watched how she hurried back and forth. "Have you been walking that fast this whole hour? — it is cold, you should come in." Seeing that Elizabeth did come to follow her, Georgiana added in a sing-song tone, "Mulled wine and chocolate."

"Not yet."

"Do you wish to speak about it?"

"What right does he have to ask me to forgive him! He was my father. He shouldn't need to be forgiven."

"Come, come." Georgiana hurried next to Elizabeth and stuck her arm through Elizabeth's. "Let's walk together a little."

Elizabeth did not pull away.

There were several minutes of silence, and then Georgiana asked, "What did your father do to make you so mad?"

"He thought I was a fortune hunter. He accused me of using… I didn't even want to marry your brother at the time. It was all a mistake."

"What was?"

"Everything! We were in a room — arguing about Mr. Wickham of all persons, I believe — and then… then he looked at me in a way, and we stopped speaking, and… he kissed me."

"What?" Georgiana was rather shocked by this part of the story, clearly. There was a reason Elizabeth had not told her before now.

"He believed I wished him to… despite everything, I rather did — this may be difficult for you to hear, Georgie, but your brother is a very handsome man."

Georgiana laughed. "No, no, no! Nothing on that subject!"

"At the time I thought I disliked him."

"What?" Another equally screechy response of shock from her friend.

"You may recall that story of how he had said I was not pretty enough to tempt him the first time we met."

Long pause.

A slow nod from Georgiana. "That was… you did not think of it as a joke."

"No, and at the time Mr. Darcy kissed me, I believed a lie Mr. Wickham had told about him, and further… he is very disdainful of those he sees below him. He still is." Elizabeth frowned, thinking of how he had refused to meet with her aunt and uncle.

"He is not!" Georgiana replied hotly.

Elizabeth waved her hand. "I… let me speak clearer. Your brother is very kind to those who are his dependents. But amongst the gentry, it was clear in Meryton that he did not like to circulate as an equal with those who are independent gentlemen and gentlewomen, but who are not in his sphere. I think I know half of it — he has always been convinced that anyone who comes to him with friendship must wish to take advantage of him and use him in some way. No wonder he was such dear friends with Mr. Bingley, since Bingley is so friendly to everyone that he could not imagine that his friendliness was from any other motive than being friendly."

Georgiana laughed. "That is very like Bingley." Georgiana then lapsed into thought, her lips pressed tight. "It is true! Wickham wished to take advantage of me. Many people do."

"Why have you never thought I was a fortune hunter? I at least do not think you have."

"My brother would not have married someone who principally cared for his fortune. He is too wise."

Elizabeth laughed sharply at that.

The few birds who had not left for winter, and which perched amongst the branches, took off fluttering at the sound.

"He is," Georgiana replied stiffly. " You don't. You dislike it."

"I…" There wasn't really much to say to that. "I do not dislike Darcy's fortune…"

"You do. It is present every time you think about spending money on anything but the pleasure of others. Your face twists up in a certain way, and you say, ‘Yes, but I hardly think that is really necessary.' — half the time you talk to Mrs. Reynolds you say that. Do you not understand yourself? Prior to this argument about your sister and Mr. Bingley the only time you ever argued with Fitzwilliam was because you would not spend more on dresses."

"I… ah… I still insist it is not his wealth as such that I dislike."

"Then spending it." Georgiana waved her hand to dismiss the distinction. "Or you are frightened that people will think you only married my brother for his fortune, so you wish to prove that was not your motive — oh . Your father said that to you? And that is why it touches you to the quick?"

Elizabeth pursed her lips.

"Slow down," Georgiana said. "I can scarcely keep up with you when you pace so fast."

"It is odd, since you have longer legs." Elizabeth forced her pace to a stroll.

"You aren't, and you know you aren't, and I know you aren't, and my brother knows you aren't," Georgiana said.

Mr. Darcy certainly knew that now . "Papa should have known."

They were both silent for a while.

Elizabeth added. "Even now , he doesn't know. Papa apologized for what he said, but he also wrote that he can barely reconcile my having used my feminine allurements to entice a man into marriage for his fortune with his understanding of my character. He should have realized that it wasn't in my character to do that ."

By the end Elizabeth was nearly shouting. Any birds that had settled back on their perches flapped away once more.

Georgiana squeezed her arm.

After they'd walked on a good ways, Georgiana said quietly, "My Papa should not have died when he did. He was barely past fifty."

That night Elizabeth sat down next to a small desk in the drawing room, while Georgiana played cheerful melodies to encourage her.

Dear Papa,

I was terribly insulted, injured, and hurt.

Not because of what you said, but far more because I did not deserve any of it.

The solution to the mystery of how my character allowed me to behave in such a manner is simple: I did not. There was no scheme, just animal attraction, coincidence, and too much wine. He kissed me out of a drunken impulse because he had come to admire me greatly.

I permitted that kiss because without knowing it myself, I had come to admire him — I perhaps ought to have realized that I had a strong interest in him from how often I thought fiercely upon my dislike for him. Do they not say that hate is oft close to love?

It was an accident, not a scheme, that led Mama and Lady Lucas to open the door before we had come to our senses. If we had a minute more alone, I think Mr. Darcy would have angrily offered marriage to me — angrily because while he admired me, he is still fully conscious that I am a bad match in material terms, and I would have refused him, because I did not know his virtues then.

That is the true story of what happened.

I am still angry at you.

Your apology cannot wipe away my memory of what you said, and of the way that when I turned to you, when I needed your protection, when I was more unhappy and scared than I ever had been in my life, that you stabbed me. I never expected you to behave in such a way, and it is irrefutable that you did in fact speak to me with harshness, scorn, and insults when I needed you.

Elizabeth stared at the blackness behind the window. Georgiana had started an Irish jig.

It made her think of a dance.

Up and down, hop and hop. Back and forth. Twirling in the line, holding hands, the hard breathing after a fast dance.

Darcy's eyes when they'd danced.

She could feel his hand in hers, the way he had approached her and Charlotte and asked for her hand for the next set with a small bow. The fascination he'd held for her. The brightness in his eyes, the way that his fitted coat had displayed his figure, and how the white breeches clung to his muscular legs.

Elizabeth shook herself and stared down at the letter.

It was harsh, but Papa had been harsh as well.

Papa, I do not mean to refuse your apology, but to say I do not know if I can rely upon you.

I miss you, and I also wish that everything said during those days could be unsaid, but it cannot.

So let us take the matter slowly — write back to me, tell me the gossip of Meryton, and the small things that happen. What interesting character sketches have you drawn? What jokes have amused you? How is the house without Jane present? Do Lydia and Kitty still run after the officers? Is Mama still happy due to my marriage?

I do not know what will happen in my marriage to Mr. Darcy. We quarreled recently, in part about matters that would only cause pain if they were known more widely, and in part about how we had understood the events that led to our marriage very differently. I confess to hoping that we will find our way to an accommodation again, but I do not know where his mind is.

I beg you not to tell this to Mama, for I hold it very premature for a general announcement, but I am with child. Mr. Darcy does not yet know, as we quarreled on the same day that I became fairly certain on the matter.

I have come to love Pemberley.

The neighbors are eager to become my friends, and Miss Darcy has become more, a dear friend, and another sister of my heart. With the help of her and her piano masters, I have enormously improved at play.

As for reading, the library here is like nothing I have ever seen before, not even in town. It is in a vast room that has two stories full of bookshelves, with a massive globe, a huge and pleasant fireplace, lovely chairs, tables and reading stands, and more than ten thousand books. Some of them are very old, and very fine. There is a manuscript copy of one of Cicero's works that was copied out by hand before Gutenberg's invention spread widely, and a copy of Shakespeare's famed first folio.

Papa, I miss you too,

Your daughter,

E Darc y