39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Thirty-Nine

July 5, 1812 Pemberley Elizabeth

H er headache had abated by the time Elizabeth awoke the next morning. The sunlight coming from her window told her that she had slept far past her usual time, and she hurried to summon Smith. She had never replaced the maid, for Smith’s competency and work ethic pleased Elizabeth. The maid also had an uncanny ability to anticipate her mistress’s every request, a trait that proved her value.

She dressed in another black gown. They were all very much alike: simple, no adornment, and depressing. It did not matter if it was silk, muslin, satin, crepe, or something else. None of them suited Elizabeth’s complexion, and all reminded her constantly of her father’s death.

An empty dining room greeted her. Confused, she summoned Mrs. Reynolds. “Where is everyone?” she asked curiously.

“The Bingleys and the Hursts left directly after breaking their fast, madam,” the housekeeper replied. “The master, too, has departed. He left a note explaining.”

Mrs. Reynolds held out a letter, and Elizabeth took it carefully as if she were afraid that it would attack her. Mrs. Reynolds excused herself, and Elizabeth returned to her rooms to read the letter.

Safe in the privacy of her chamber, she sat in a chair near the window and broke the seal.

Dear Madam,

Be not alarmed at my absence; I have not abandoned you as you doubtlessly believe I shall after our illuminating conversation last night. I received an express this morning taking me to my estate in Wiltshire. There has been some trouble there, and I must see to its resolution in person.

My absence will hopefully grant you the solitude you wish. I am sorry to have imposed upon you, but I would have you know that my affection has been unfeigned. Dismayed as I am to learn that yours was not the equal to mine, I promise you that I shall return and make an attempt to rectify things between us.

To start, I must address the charges you laid at my door. Each was of a very different nature, but my pride and honor demand that I defend myself against them.

The first accusation you leveled at me revolves around your when she was still Miss Bennet. I confess that I do not know her as you do, so all my decisions were based on what I thought myself to be: an impartial observer. I know now that I could never claim such a title, for my preoccupation from the earliest moments tainted all my decisions during my time in Hertfordshire.

Your sister, from all appearances, spoke with everyone around her equally. Her demure and proper behavior ought to have told me that she would not act overtly to express her affection. But that is not the conclusion I came to, as you know.

When Sir William Lucas informed me that the neighborhood expected my friend to marry your sister, I determined to examine her closely. Like me, Bingley wished to marry for love and not prudence. I did not wish him to be taken in. Your sister’s beauty drew him to her immediately upon making her acquaintance, and I feared that Bingley had allowed a pretty face to blind him to her lack of feeling.

Throughout the evening, other circumstances arose, further convincing me that Mrs. Collins would act as your mother dictated, marrying where commanded instead of following her heart. Her loud exclamations at dinner, paired with the lack of propriety shown by your three younger sisters and even your father, convinced me that it would be in Bingley’s best interest to leave Hertfordshire and your sister behind.

Bingley departed the morning following the ball. He had business in town and meant to return in three days. The same morning, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley came to me begging for assistance. Their concerns matched my own, save for one: they held no concern for Jane’s true feelings. You know them well enough that they simply did not wish their brother to attach themselves to a “penniless country nobody.”

It was decided that we would close the house and leave the following day. Miss Bingley claimed she would inform you all of her departure. I was not aware that she had written Mrs. Collins a letter, and so I do not know what it contained. From your words, I assume it disabused your sister of Bingley’s love.

When we reached town, we three attempted to persuade Bingley to abandon Netherfield and your sister, citing all the reasons listed above. He remained unyielding until I told him that, from my observations, Mrs. Collins did not hold him in affection. He scoffed at first, but we eventually prevailed. I am not ashamed of my actions. They were done in the service of my friend. But your claims of officious and prideful intervention are, indeed, correct. I ought not to have declared her unmoved when I had scarcely had three conversations with her since we met.

This, madam, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings in regard to Bingley and your sister. Now, on to the other accusations.

As you are doubtlessly aware, Mr. Wickham and I have known each other for many years. We were raised together. His father was my father’s steward, and he was my father’s godson. As such, he experienced much of the same advantages as I, receiving an education and lifestyle far above his station. The disparity in our positions never bothered either of us until we went off to school. Wickham attended Eton and then Cambridge with me. It was during the early years at university that I first noted a change in my friend. His disgruntled feelings had likely been brewing for years before I noticed his malcontent.

Wickham would disappear at night and then return to our rooms in the early hours of the morning, completely inebriated and senseless. He proved a better scholar of the gaming tables and alehouses than of books. Soon, he began racking up gambling debts and debts of honor. I hid it all from my father, afraid that I would be blamed for allowing my friend to fall so far. After two more years of his behavior, I stopped my attempts to persuade him toward better behavior, and ceased covering his debts. My father dismissed my claims when I tried to explain. He went to his grave believing the best in George Wickham. It is my fault. I should have never hidden his propensities.

After my father’s death, Wickham presented himself to receive his inheritance. I know not what he expected, but the bequest of one thousand pounds and the preferment of a valuable family living upset him. He claimed he ought to have been given more and agreed to relinquish the living in exchange for three thousand pounds. I agreed, and the transaction took place less than a week after my father had been laid to rest. Where he went after, I knew not.

I believed all matters dissolved between us until, three years later, he resurfaced. The living at Kympton had fallen vacant, and he wrote to me asking to have it. He had never taken orders, and his claims of studying the law proved false. I refused, naturally. His reply to my letter held vitriol that I will not repeat here, but I resolved never to deal with him again and burnt the letter after reading it. I washed my hands of him and did not think we would meet again.

I was wrong. Oh, how wrong! Last summer, he intruded upon my notice again in the worst way. My sister and her companion, a woman named Mrs. Younge, were in Ramsgate. I had taken a house there for her, and we were to spend the summer by the sea. After three weeks, business called me away, and I left her in the hands of Mrs. Younge and our faithful servants.

I was away for four weeks, and when my business concluded early, I resolved to surprise my sister. I arrived in Ramsgate not a moment too soon. Georgiana was, indeed, surprised, and wasted no time in confiding in me. It grieved her to hurt me, and out of love, she told me that she was engaged to Wickham and that they had intended to elope the next day.

I waited for Wickham to appear and when he did, I cast him out, threatening him to never breathe a word of the elopement and forbidding him from speaking her name. He disappeared and I did not see him again until that day in Meryton.

You may have believed that my actions drove him to become a thief, but I assure you that he began his escapades long ago. I am sorry he came to such an end.

After all this, I must tell you again that I ardently admire and love you. Though my eyes have now been opened to your true sentiments, I cannot but believe that I will one day own your heart as you own mine. Allow me to prove that I am a man you can love.

Yours,

F.D.

Elizabeth closed the letter and choked back a sob. He has gone , she thought to herself. How am I to make amends now? Her heart ached, and she wiped away tears that had wet her cheeks.

There was nothing for it. Darcy had left. She would have to make do until he came back. When that would be, she did not know. Had he really been called away, or had he gone to Wiltshire on the misapprehension that she did not wish for his company?

After spending time in reflection, she determined to write a reply to his letter, only to realize that she did not have a direction to send it. Thankfully, Mrs. Reynolds supplied the information, and Elizabeth decided that her reply should wait until the morrow. Instead, she left her room and went in search of Jane.

She found her sister in the orangery. This part of the house had been sadly neglected for years, and Elizabeth felt excited at the thought of breathing new life into it. Jane stood by one wall of glass, staring at the clouds that gathered in the sky outside.

“It looks as if it will rain,” she said casually. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, and her serene expression tensed around her eyes.

Elizabeth nodded, saying nothing.

“They have gone.” Jane’s words fell flat and expressionless, but Elizabeth noted her hands tightening on her stomach.

“Darcy left, too,” Elizabeth confessed.

Jane turned to her. “Why? What has happened?”

She turned away, moving to a discarded stool and sitting heavily upon it. “We quarreled. About you, about our family, about Wickham… he knows I do not love him.”

Jane turned to look at her and raised an eyebrow. “You still do not love him? Do you admire him?”

Elizabeth considered her words. “Yes, I do admire him. I like him. I enjoy spending time with him and being in his presence. I love when his humor emerges and when he tugs on my curls.”

“But your heart is not touched?”

She shook her head. “I do not know! What does love feel like? I love you and I love Georgiana, but what I feel for my husband does not feel like that.”

“Love of a spouse is not the same as loving a sister, or an aunt, or an uncle—or even a father.” Jane smiled sadly. “I did not feel for Mr. Collins what I feel for you. In fact, though I grew fond of him, that sentiment was akin to what I might feel for a child or a pet.” She laughed hollowly. “Is that not terrible of me to say? What I felt for Mr. Bingley, on the other hand…” She sighed, turning back toward the window. “That love I still feel. It is constant. It is warmth, light, hope, and joy. And yet I feel as if I have been parted from those sentiments and from him forever.”

Jane briefly explained the nature of her conversation with Mr. Bingley earlier that morning. “So, you see, Lizzy, if he cannot prove to me that he is his own man, I cannot marry him.”

“I think he will surprise you,” Elizabeth said slowly. “He knew regret when he learned of your marriage. Give him a chance to show you he has changed.”

“He will have plenty of time. I am in mourning until next June.” Jane moved away from the window, coming toward Elizabeth. “What will you do? You cannot leave things as they are.”

“I will write to my husband. You know that I am not built for sadness and discontent. I must attempt to make amends. I made him believe that I regret marrying him, and I must correct the misconception.”

“Then you do care for him?” Jane probed.

“Yes. I do. I do not know if I love him yet, but I hold him in high esteem. And I do not regret marrying him, despite all that has occurred.” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself, seeking neither comfort nor warmth. She merely wished for security, and with things so unsettled between her and Darcy, she did not think it likely she would find it. I miss him , she realized suddenly.

“You have a more solid foundation for happiness than I began with, then.” Jane smiled. “Now, I am tired. I did not sleep well and wish to have a rest before luncheon.”

Elizabeth nodded and stood. “I believe I, too, have things to see to.” They departed together, Jane to her chambers and Elizabeth elsewhere.

The next morning, after she felt composed enough, she sat down to write a letter to her husband. She wished with all her heart that he was here so she could tell him what she felt in person, but he was not, and she did not know when he would return.

Dear Fitzwilliam,

I hardly know how to begin. There is so much that needs to be said, and I fear that much of it would be much better said in person. But I cannot wait, for I too desire to resolve the turmoil we have both experienced.

I shall first begin by saying that I have done us both a great disservice. I have been disingenuous and selfish. Do you recall your proposal in April? You came to the parsonage while I had a headache, the cause of which was learning that you had acted to deprive Jane of her future with Mr. Bingley. I needed time to come to terms with the information and wished only for solitude. Yet it was not to be.

You came upon me and began proposing before I understood what was occurring. Your words, spoken so fervently, pierced through the fog caused by the pain in my head. At first, I could scarcely believe that the proud, arrogant man who had insulted me now stood in my sister’s sitting room, professing ardent love and admiration for me. And then you began leveling insults at my family.

How could you propose with so little feeling and so evident a design of insulting me? Those were my thoughts, and I prepared to decline your ‘generous’ offer. At the time, I believed that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry, and that we were entirely unsuited to each other.

And then Charlotte interrupted. I know she did it deliberately, for we spoke of it the next day. By that time, things had gone out of my control, though Jane and Charlotte had convinced me to consider the proposal before dismissing it out of hand. I learned that should I remain unmarried, both my mother and Mr. Collins had declared I would have no place with them. Mrs. Phillips would surely follow my mother’s lead, and I did not believe that burdening my aunt and uncle in London was the correct course, either.

I confess, I resolved to have my father deny his consent. It would save my reputation and your feelings, and none would be the wiser.

Here now, you will learn my ‘mercenary’ nature. When I saw my father, I knew I could not cry off. And so, I resolved to marry you and make the best of the situation I found myself in.

Despise me if you must, sir, but pray, finish this letter first. You see, after we married, I began looking for things to admire in you. I found more than I anticipated and continued finding exemplary qualities. Mixed in with the officious, proud man was a kind master, an attentive brother, and an endearing husband. There are other attributes, too, and I shall tell you each one when you return.

I confess that I do not love you… yet. I am not sure I understand what love is in any other than a familial manner. My feelings for you are complex and so very different that I must certainly be very well on the way. If there is truly chaos in Wiltshire, I shall await your return. But if you left for any other reason, I beg you not to delay. We cannot resolve this if you are not here.

Affectionately yours,

Elizabeth Darcy