Chapter Twenty

Chapter Nineteen

A week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been settled, Mr. Darcy received a letter.

In the preceding week he'd visited the Gardiners twice more, once calling in the morning with Bingley, and once dining with them.

He needed to write a letter to Elizabeth, but every time he sat down before his desk, he could not decide the proper words to begin with. If it was merely an unpleasant task, he would not have allowed himself to be so dilatory. But his honest confusion and fear of making the matter worse kept him thinking.

The letter of this morning, however, showed that Elizabeth had anticipated him, having sent him her own letter, which Darcy had simply not imagined she would do.

Rather than writing Dear Fitzwilliam, or Dear Darcy , or Dear Husband, or even Despised Husband , Elizabeth had conveniently forgotten, no doubt by policy, to place a salutation at the top of the letter. There was space for it, but nothing written.

The news of at least one part of your business in London has been conveyed to me by my family. Though I know that you spoke to Mr. Bingley out of a sense of duty, and your determination to do right, I deeply appreciate the honor that you have shown my family, and the kindness that you showed my sister.

I hope to have a chance to show you a similar kindness, and I greatly look forward to the next time we are in the same location, and when we will be able to converse speak again.

It made me very happy to hear that you called upon my uncle and aunt Gardiner. I hope very much that you liked them, but even if you did not, I am grateful for the condescension and the mark of respect.

As my sister's wedding is in only a month, I would like to travel to see her, and take part in the joyous occasion. Might Georgiana and I travel to London to meet you? Do you intend to be present at the wedding? Georgiana has expressed an interest in seeing Meryton and meeting my family, though I am not sure if it is wise for her to enter the same country that Mr. Wickham is still resident in.

We have spoken at length about him, and it is my opinion that she is no longer in any danger from him, but this is not a matter upon which I am confident. Further, it is a decision that it is your duty to make. A letter from my father — which to be frank rather concerned me — has informed me that Mr. Wickham is a general favorite amongst the households in the neighborhood, and that he is welcome as a matter of course at the entertainments held around.

I have counseled my father to keep my younger sisters as far as possible out of his circle, hinting that I had learned enough information about Mr. Wickham's character from people in this neighborhood to make me concerned. But as we cannot reveal the particulars of the situation, I am afraid that it is impossible for my father to destroy Wickham's credit in the neighborhood. If Georgiana is present in the environs of Meryton for any duration, she will either meet with Mr. Wickham, or it will be obvious to everyone that a strong effort has been made to keep her from his proximity.

But on consideration, that would not lead to any unpleasant rumors about Georgiana — the well-known dislike you hold for him is sufficient to explain why you would refuse to allow your sister to attend any event where he would be present. If you make a specific effort to keep your sister from him, it will show that you have a concern for how he behaves with young females, without saying anything about your sister in particular. This might put the other families in the neighborhood on their guard.

Yet, I still fear that Wickham would conspire to make matters uncomfortable for Georgiana. As Georgiana has become dear to me, I do hope that you will permit me to at least introduce her to all my sisters, even if it must occur in London. I have a little hope that Georgiana's more refined nature might have a positive influence on Lydia and Kitty, while the outgoing habits of my two youngest sisters may be of use as an example to Georgiana. As for Mary, I fear that she will be terribly jealous of Georgiana's superiority at the piano, but perhaps that will be offset when she notes your sister's severely inferior stock of quotations from sermons and improving books.

Oh, but I have written at too much length upon this. I do not know what to say on other matters, except I have read your letter to me many, many times, and that I do appreciate that you spoke to Mr. Bingley, and that I do wish to see you again, and I would hope soon. I hope that I have not earned your implacable resentment, but I sometimes fear that I have — why else would you send no further letter? But then I consider that I have sent no letter in response to the one you sent me the day you left Pemberley.

I think that makes it my duty to take the next step in our correspondence and conversation, and so, flawed as this offering is, it is my letter.

Please reply quickly about the matters around my sister's wedding, and whether I should meet you in London.

We hope to see you again soon.

Your wife,

E Darcy

That was not a confession of love.

But… he had at least made Elizabeth happy.

No, Darcy looked through the letter again. He had in fact made her very happy .

That made Darcy happy, yet he wanted everything from her, he loved her.

And she'd been waiting for a letter from him, a letter he never sent.

All this time he'd been thinking of her, and yet, he'd been thinking about his own perspective. This failure to write to her had once more illustrated his selfish disdain for the feelings of others.

She wanted to see him .

There wasn't a promise of anything more than conversation.

Elizabeth wants to see me .

Slowly, like the sun coming out from beyond the clouds after a terrible storm, Darcy felt his heart quickening and lightening.

She wanted to see him. And she clearly meant to give him an opportunity to show her that he had improved. That would be enough. That must be enough.

He would court her, he would show her that he had listened to her reproofs, he would show her that he was worthy of her… and maybe … maybe she could come to love him.

He could not wait for her to come to London for the wedding. He wanted to see her now. Today.

Of course that was impossible.

She had written several times that she hoped to see him again soon.

She had suggested a plan for when and where they might meet.

That was enough hope for his heart.

Darcy was too agitated to sit, and he strode around his study ten times, pausing to look out the window at the incongruously rainy day outside. The sun was only in his heart, the London weather was as smoggy, muggy, and unpleasant as ordinary.

He loved it.

The weather was beautiful.

He had hope.

But there were practical matters to think about.

If Elizabeth came south, this close to the season, it would make sense for them to stay at Netherfield for a few weeks, and then return to London at the beginning of the season — a period Darcy tended to avoid.

In Darcy's view spending a period of time every year in town was salutary and warranted, and even liked. London had that rare ability in locations to wear out its welcome. Three months was the limit which Darcy liked, and he thought this was a reasonable preference.

Man was meant to live in large spaces. Field, forest, hill and mountain. He was meant to live amongst the livestock he raised, and the crops that fed and clothed him. Humans were not meant to spend the bulk of their time with endless sounds at all hours of the night or day, endless lights that made it hard to see the heavens, and endless parties that made it hard to think.

At six months the season was simply too long. Those men who perpetually spent that much time in London gained a sort of tension to their frames and an emotional strain which must worsen the state of the heart, increase the likelihood of apoplectic attacks, and lead to a variety of ailments both of the spirit and body.

Any more time in a great city than that, and a man ought to be bled regularly for prophylactic purposes.

As for the question of whether Georgiana should be brought into the same neighborhood as Mr. Wickham, Darcy's first instinct was that it was absolutely not to be allowed. Even if he respected Elizabeth's judgement, he could not forget that Georgiana had said that she still loved the man, and he could not forget that she had guarded his portrait and sobbed at its destruction.

There also was a twinge of dislike at the prospect of introducing his sister to Elizabeth's youngest sister — was it not Miss Lydia who was the youngest?

He must trust that Georgiana's character would not be harmed by the influence of a wild girl a year younger than her. He would not offer his wife the insult of saying that her sisters could not meet in terms of equality with his own. And Elizabeth's hope that they would all exert a positive influence on each other might even be realized.

At this point Darcy's introspections were interrupted by the butler giving him the card of his wife's father, Mr. Bennet. After examining the card, Darcy put the letter from Elizabeth into his coat pocket — next to his heart.

"Show them all to the drawing room," Darcy said. "And have Mrs. North cut up another pineapple, and whatever she thinks is best from the kitchens to offer as a light luncheon."

"It is only the gentleman who is present."

That surprised Darcy. "Only Mr. Bennet? — then have him brought up here. I am always at home to any member of my wife's family."

When he'd dined two days before at Mr. Gardiner's, he had been informed that the Bennets would arrive the next evening to stay with the Gardiners. Though he did not look forward to it, he planned to call on them tomorrow, thinking that the most appropriate way to show respect was to give them only one day to recover from the rigor of travel before imposing himself.

And apparently Mr. Bennet had made it his first matter of business after coming to town to call on him.

As soon as the two gentlemen had made their bows, Darcy gestured for him to sit and poured a glass of brandy, and pushed it towards him, and offered a fine box of snuff.

"I would offer you a cigar, but as I dislike the scent, I do not keep any."

Mr. Bennet waved off the snuff saying, "No, no. Snuff makes me sneeze." He took the glass of brandy and sat down.

As he studied the gentleman, Darcy felt a surge of resentment towards him on Elizabeth's behalf. It was strange, as Darcy knew himself to be more centrally involved in Elizabeth's unhappiness than her father.

Bennet's manner suggested that he was uncomfortable as well. Bingley's insistence that the gentleman could be terrifying was quite odd to Darcy. "I heard you were to arrive yesterday. I hope everyone is healthy from the trip? I meant to call to offer my respects tomorrow."

"You did?" Bennet smiled at him, in a sly way, as though his answer amused him.

"Chiefly of course for the pleasure of your family's company," Darcy replied, "but I confess that I also wished to show respect to my wife by doing so."

"I thought as much — if I might offer advice, come around eleven. It is early for a call, but you are family, and they will be eager to leave for the shopping, rather than keep you in conversation for an hour."

"You mean to suggest that I might not wish to speak to your wife for the longest time possible?" Darcy asked, unable to keep his tone from becoming wry.

"Jealousy, Mr. Darcy. Jealousy. You are her favorite now. Far above me in her esteem."

It was difficult to not laugh, and to not start to like the gentleman.

"But I wanted to speak to you in private first," Mr. Bennet added.

Darcy sat straighter.

Mr. Bennet picked up the brandy that Darcy had offered him, sniffed it, and then put it back down on the desk. "I had to come to town to keep my wife in some restraint as she purchased Jane's trousseau — your fault. If you hadn't been in such a hurry, she'd have spent this enthusiasm on Lizzy, and she is sensible enough to have managed Mrs. Bennet better than Jane does."

Darcy did not trust himself to reply. Elizabeth's voice saying that she'd sworn she would not spend more than fifty pounds a year on her clothes, to prove her father wrong about her, echoed in his head.

"You do not look at me with a favorable mien," Mr. Bennet said dryly.

"Elizabeth mentioned an argument that she had with you — I ought naturally take the side of my wife."

"Ah." He took a gulp of the brandy. "You are not the sort of husband who thinks that men should stand together when faced with the displeasure of a woman, simply as a matter of course? — but I no longer take my own side in our dispute. A rare case where one side of an argument was wholly correct, and the other wholly wrong. I am fortunate to have observed such a fantastical event, but unfortunate in that I was the person who was wholly wrong."

Darcy could not keep from smiling. "It is hard to admit being wrong."

"An awful difficulty. Not a pleasant thing at all. I was most convinced of my own self-righteousness — and I did not aid my daughter when she needed my help. That is what torments me… but now we come to the main reason why I called — besides of course for the opportunity to taste your fine brandy."

Darcy tilted his head.

"I had hoped to convince you to intercede for me, to speak a good word to Lizzy on my behalf."

With a sigh Darcy said, "I do not believe that I am at present a person whose counsel she would listen to in such a matter."

"You quarreled," Mr. Bennet said with a slight tone of satisfaction to his voice, as though he had settled a bet with himself favorably. "I thought I'd make my effort to reconcile you two — of course solely for the sake of finding another person to speak my case to Lizzy."

"You ought to speak your own case," Darcy replied flatly.

"Advice that is very much like how I expect you to speak." He shrugged. "I already have, and I have received some amount of forgiveness. More than I deserve. But you are still here in London when you should not be."

"Where should I be?"

"With your wife — to withdraw after a quarrel is not unreasonable, but to stay withdrawn for nearly a month is begging the quarrel to never be resolved."

"It was not a quarrel. She told me—" Darcy swallowed. He had hope. She'd written that she wanted to see him. He had already decided that he would start back for Pemberley the next day, after calling on the Bennets and Gardiners, and collecting anything they wanted to send on to Elizabeth. He did not need to feel as though there was no hope anymore. "I do not know what information you have about this matter, and I do not wish to tell you things Elizabeth told me which she may not wish you to know."

"See, I even approve of that delicacy. Though it does stab my heart that I deserve suspicion in such a matter."

Darcy added, "I do not disagree with you."

"That I deserve suspicion?" Mr. Bennet laughed. "An honest man—"

"I meant that I should return to my wife. Though it is up to her to forgive you, not me."

Bennet blinked several times. Then he laughed. "Is this yet another act in our comedy of errors? Bingley traveled to Longbourn, only to be told Jane was in London. You advised Bingley against marrying Jane, only to be required to make the effort to explain your own mistake. And now I came here in hopes of convincing you to travel back to Pemberley, when you had made that decision already?"

"It seems that none of us achieve our goals in the way we mean to," Darcy said. "The whole does sound quite ridiculous when put that way — though my behavior is the most ridiculous."

"I say mine, and I hope Bingley says that it was his own."

"He seemed to merely think it an amusing joke, and of no cosmic significance. Though Bingley chiefly blames his sisters who did not inform him that Jane had called on him." Darcy used the Christian name of his sister-in-law as a way of claiming his own right to Elizabeth.

Mr. Bennet grinned. "I like him. Hard not to."

"By which you mean that I am easier to dislike?" Darcy replied dryly.

"Oh, enormously! You are a firmer sort of fellow. Now, since I am already here — already took the bull by the horns, or maybe the horns by the bull — did you ever see a bullfight on your grand tour?"

"I did not take one due to my father's final illness."

Mr. Bennet nodded. "A pity." He straightened out his coat cuffs, pressed his lips together, and then polished off the end of his brandy. "Speaking two months too late, might I inquire about your intentions with regards to my daughter."

Darcy laughed. He could not help it. The question was wholly not what he had expected.

In reply Bennet laughed and pushed his glass towards him, and Darcy refilled it and then filled one of his own.

That laughter had eased the tension between the two gentlemen. They cheerfully clinked glasses together.

Darcy drank half of his off and grandly said, "I admire and love your daughter, and I hope to convince her that I have become a man worthy of her admiration. That is all."

"That is all? A good start. And might I inquire further, what kept you in town so long? Your health perhaps?"

"I have been smelling the waters."

"I hate this city," Bennet replied. "But it is better in winter than in summer. And there are so many lovely bookstores. I have a commission from Elizabeth to buy some recent books that she says are not present in your stockpile of knowledge."

Darcy said, "The truth is that I thought she could not love me after she made me understand the ways that I had wronged her. And I could not bear to live with her when I had no hope."

"But now you have hope?"

"She sent me a letter in which she said that she hoped to see me again soon." Darcy shrugged. "That is enough for me at this time."

"You love her."

"I always have, but I only have recently come to fully understand the depth of my feelings."

"Be a brave man and tell her how you truly feel. What do you have to lose? — if you can truly accept my dear, dear daughter as the brave, bright, and clever, shining woman who she is — complete with a family who are not all so admirable as she is." Mr. Bennet laughed deprecatingly, "I can speak well for one of her sisters, but her other sisters, a sillier set of girls do not exist in England, and as for her parents, especially her father, the less said the better — I am not requesting a compliment. I have learned to think rather poorer of myself in the last weeks than is my wont, and I mean to cultivate that humility. In any case. In any case — if you accept Elizabeth the way she truly is, I think you will deserve her, and I believe she will see that you have changed. It is clear in how she writes about you that she thinks very differently of you than she did before your argument."

"What has she said?" Darcy asked instantly.

"No, no." Mr. Bennet wagged a finger. "No, no. Ask her yourself how she thinks of you."

"It would not be gentlemanly," Darcy agreed, though he did desperately wish to know exactly what Mr. Bennet knew of Elizabeth's feelings for him, "to even hint at the contents of a lady's correspondence."

"And now you have punctured me, and with more than merely a flesh wound." Mr. Bennet shrugged. "You've had enough advice from an old, fond man. When do you mean to leave?"

"Tomorrow, I think I shall call on you all at the Gardiners, at the time you suggested, and then directly leave the city from Gracechurch Street."

"Ah, I must then buy those books today, and I can save the cost of having them shipped."

"Tell your whole family to collect whatever you might wish sent on to Elizabeth. I am traveling with only one trunk for my own clothes, and I'll have a whole other one set aside for your use."

Bennet chuckled, and said then, "I know the ways of women. I'll tell them that you set aside half a trunk, and you'll only need to press a few items into your own trunk to make space."

"Do not worry about that. I wish to see Elizabeth happy, and it will delight me to take anything I might. "