Page 31 of Beyond Pride, Past Prejudice

“I wish to ask you but one thing,” Mrs Gardiner said, still trying to grasp what Elizabeth truly felt. Since their return from the Darcys’, neither she nor Jane had succeeded in drawing a single word from her regarding her actual state of mind.

“Anything,” replied Elizabeth with a smile. They were alone in the drawing-room, enjoying a brief moment of quiet after breakfast.

“Never make promises that are hard to keep,” her aunt answered, watching her closely.

Elizabeth flushed slightly, for it was difficult to hide from her aunt, to conceal the emptiness that had seized her heart when she had realised Mr Darcy was not at home—despite suspecting that he might have known of her visit.

“Why do I feel you are not speaking of that promise alone?”

“Because I am not. I speak of the passionate way you sometimes view life…and answer important questions.”

“Passion is not a fault,” Elizabeth said with a sad smile.

“Not unless it is accompanied by anger!”

“I made my mea culpa —to all of you and to him, in the end. That was the general idea of the letter I left in the tray.”

These last words were spoken with a restrained fury yet cloaked in deep sorrow.

“You expected him to be at home,” said Mrs Gardiner gently.

“I do not wish to speak of it,” Elizabeth responded, and only the crease that appeared on her brow revealed how tormented she was. But Mrs Gardiner, her concern for Elizabeth unwavering, did not relent, hoping that being only the two of them, her niece might finally open her heart.

“What was it you wished to ask me?” Elizabeth enquired at last, hoping to change the subject.

“I wished to ask if you would come with us to Bath.”

“I still have to reflect on that,” Elizabeth replied, but Mrs Gardiner sensed that her tone lacked firmness.

She looked at her niece, who was staring fixedly at the carpet—an unusual posture for Elizabeth, who typically met the eyes of others with confidence, sometimes even with a trace of arrogance, mainly when she intended to oppose them in conversation.

“Are you inclined to come or not?”

“Not,” Elizabeth answered with honesty. “Do you not see what a paradoxical situation I find myself in? I was the one who firmly declared I would never marry him, only to find myself now struggling to be seen by the very man who once confessed his love and asked for my hand.”

“Does this mean you have given up?”

“It means I need time. I need to return to Longbourn and, in the quiet of my home, reflect upon what I feel—and only then, after some time has passed, begin to make plans…if I still feel like making plans once I am at Longbourn.”

“I hope it is unnecessary to hide yourself away at Longbourn to gather your thoughts. Today’s visit to Lady Oakham may offer you some clarity, which I can see you need.”

“I do not know what Lady Oakham could possibly tell me. Mr Darcy’s message was clear.

And we cannot even pretend he was unaware of my visit, considering that I found myself in the midst of a plan to win him back from the moment I arrived in London.

I am certain Miss Darcy told him of my intention to call. ”

“A plan to which you agreed the moment you realised you loved him.”

“Yes—in a manner as desperate as Jane making visits to Mr Bingley’s home.”

“I believe you can see how far your situation is from Jane’s. In your case, it is Mr Darcy’s own family who desire your union,” Mrs Gardiner said, preparing to withdraw.

Left alone, Elizabeth stepped into the generous garden, the reason her uncle had long hesitated to move to another part of town, though Mrs Gardiner, whether openly or secretly, had wished to do so.

Spring had arrived almost without notice that year.

Although it was her favourite season, Elizabeth, swept up in the turmoil of recent events, had forgotten to look around her, to feel the world awakening, the greening of nature returning.

The air was still cool, but she wrapped herself in a thick wool shawl left on a garden chair and made her way towards the far end of the garden, a little more at ease, thinking again of that walk across the fields to Netherfield—the hem of her dress muddied, worried for Jane’s illness yet prepared to face those whom she believed she had nothing in common with.

And the first things she had seen then were Mr Darcy’s eyes and his amused expression, which even then conveyed admiration, for now, more than six months later, she could at last read his face clearly.

Lady Oakham had been right: he had admired her, perhaps not from the beginning but certainly long before his departure.

She stopped, placing a hand over her heart, only then realising she had been striding around the garden’s paths in near circles, as though physical exertion might banish the sorrow from her chest. How had she failed to see the truth?

That morning, Elizabeth had not told Mrs Gardiner the central matter—the truth she carried in her heart yet felt no need to share, not with her aunt nor with Jane.

Since her arrival in London, she had written to Charlotte daily, believing her friend to be the most rational of all—precisely because she remained unentangled in the passions surrounding Mr Darcy and thus might help her to decide which path to follow.

In recent days, it had begun to feel as though it were not her aunt, nor Lady Oakham, nor Miss Darcy involved in the efforts to win Mr Darcy’s affection—but rather her mother, crafting a scheme as ill-conceived as that devised for Jane and just as likely to end in disappointment.

All their attempts—the theatre, the visit to his home, the letter she now half-regretted writing—were part of a plan, and she was certain he understood it as such.

But instead of being amused by her exploits, as he had been that morning at Netherfield when she had arrived with her petticoats six inches deep in mud, he had given her every indication that all was finished between them.

It was the same conclusion Charlotte had reached in her letter the day before—without yet knowing about the message Elizabeth had left in a correspondence tray in the hall—judging only from Elizabeth’s recitation of what had transpired at the theatre.

Mr Darcy had closed that chapter, and whatever Elizabeth might attempt now seemed but an inelegant effort to win him back.

Yet Charlotte’s rather stern letter—urging her plainly to return to Longbourn and leave everything behind—though it startled her into clarity, did not lead her to a decision.

Mr Darcy could be blamed for many faults; however, he was undeniably an honest man—too honest, perhaps—one who did not trifle with affections as some men did.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Oakham, and even the shy Miss Darcy had all assured her of this in their own ways.

It had been the first time he had ever proposed marriage to anyone.

And as her aunt had said, she was likely the only woman in England who would have refused him.

Even if his feelings had not wholly vanished in the last weeks, it seemed he had resolved to forget her, and she no longer knew whether it was worth fighting for him. Besides, fighting an obviously lost battle was something she could not do.