Page 25 of Done for the Best (Engaged to Mr Darcy #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

A LITTLE SEA-BATHING

B righton was an exciting place, thrumming with the activity of the military regiments that made it their temporary home and the ladies and gentlemen who came to the seaside on holiday. Elizabeth was intrigued by it from the first time she saw the neatly aligned rows of army tents on the very outskirts of the town. She could never have imagined such a variety of people, or such activity. Everywhere she looked, there were people gathered, talking, laughing, watching the soldiers on their exercises. How good it was, she thought, to be in a place rightly unknown to her, and be among people with whom she did not share lost memories.

Even though her heart would always prefer a ramble through the countryside, by the time their first se’nnight in Brighton had passed, she had fallen in love with walks along the Promenade and the coast. The variety of persons she beheld was enough to keep any student of character busy for weeks; she even caught sight of the famed sea-dipper Martha Gunn, now advanced in her years and yet still active in her trade. Elizabeth did think it might be nice to be dipped, but within a week of her stay she had already learnt of soldiers who lingered about to catch a glimpse of the ladies in their post-bathed state. She knew not if it was true, or if they ever actually saw anything, but she would not risk it.

Strangely, no matter where she turned, she was reminded of Darcy. She saw him in every man who passed, regardless of how slight the provocation. One man had on boots with a certain scuff, and she thought Darcy’s boots had had a similar scuff once. Another gentleman she saw had a certain way of tapping his walking stick while he walked that was very much like Darcy’s way of tapping his.

And with these thoughts always crept another: Have I been absurd? In refusing to forgive him, had she cost herself something very dear?

Though she could not remember her behaviour on the evening of Darcy’s proposal, she had read and re-read his letter often enough to know that she had certainly not been a credit to herself. She had always been quick to anger, this she had long known, but she had learnt at an early age to control her tongue. Evidently that control had failed her on the night he proposed.

Even though he had angered her, his feelings were just. Jane had appeared indifferent, and her nearest relations, while dear to her, had behaved abominably. ‘ They were positively the worst I have ever seen them’ was what Jane said of the matter, and for Jane to say so was remarkable indeed. Elizabeth was thankful not to remember any of it, but she could imagine enough to make her blush and to forgive Darcy his judgment of them.

But these things were all nothing to his deception of her. His deception which, most peculiarly, had begun to feel rather unimportant, no matter how it had struck her at first. In acknowledging the wisdom of his discernment in other matters, she began to own that he might have been correct. Perhaps it was best that she had been permitted to believe herself engaged. Perhaps it would have been too much a shock to learn the truth, especially since she had been occupied with falling in love.

A remembrance bestirred her feelings: the day she had nearly had leeches applied to her. The practice was commonplace, but no one from among her acquaintance had ever seemed to benefit from it. Moreover, common as it might be, the treatment had never happened to her before, and the intense trepidation she felt on beholding the jar of them had nearly made her swoon. Dr Hughes had meant to treat her aggressively; she overheard him telling Charlotte she would need to be bled thrice each day with as many as twenty leeches, for a week if not longer. Dr Hughes told her it would not hurt, but imagining sitting for as long as an hour, watching such ugly creatures feeding upon her? Even now she shuddered at the notion.

And then she had heard Darcy running through the house, footsteps like righteous thunder, to make the man stop. My own Lancelot , she had thought at the time. Charlotte had revealed later that Miss de Bourgh said he had run at terrific speed from Rosings the moment he felt Elizabeth needed him.

She considered the gentlemen she had seen earlier that day. Fine gentlemen, according to their dress and their carriages, who strolled about with equally fine ladies on their arms. She could not imagine those gentlemen so much as bending to retrieve a dropped handkerchief much less running full speed to argue with a country physician about his patient.

Seated at the dressing table in the bedchamber she shared with Lydia, she closed her eyes briefly. It was not wrong for her to have been distressed. It had been upsetting enough to discover that she had forgotten a year of her life. And on top of that, to find she had been wilfully misled? ’Twas agony! And yet…

It had been done for her own good, or at least those who had done it had believed so. Was wrongdoing still wrong if it was done with good intention?

It made her head ache, merely trying to sort it all out, but one thing she knew for certain: the love she felt for Darcy was stronger than her dismay, and her belief in his goodness held sway over all.

Into this reverie, Lydia intruded, flinging open the door to their bedchamber and standing with her mouth theatrically agape. “You are not even dressed! Mrs Hamilton means to take us to the party in half an hour!”

The social engagements of Brighton are positively wearying , Elizabeth mused a short while later. She had dressed herself with due haste, knowing how Lydia could be if she felt any sort of fun was happening without her. Her hair was nothing to be proud of, and she wore simple jewellery better suited to daytime, but in truth, she could not much care. What did it signify? She wanted none of these soldiers, did she?

The ladies—Elizabeth, Lydia, Mrs Forster, and Mrs Forster’s mother, Mrs Hamilton—attended balls, sometimes more than one, every night save Sunday, when it would have been unseemly to hold a ball even in Brighton. There was the theatre and concerts, but Lydia had little interest in those, and Elizabeth did not press the point. As it was, she attended her own sort of theatre, sitting among the matrons and spinsters on the side of most of the ballrooms, watching people. It was drama enough to see the lovemaking and the quarrels and to hear gossip about persons wholly unknown to her. There was never any shortage of gossip; Brighton was every bit as wild as rumoured, and she heard tales of ruined reputations almost nightly.

Elizabeth saw Mr Wickham once or twice, and although he had been the architect of her stay in Brighton, he did not behave in any sort of overfamiliar way. It was to his credit, she thought, that he did not presume too much on an acquaintance that she did not remember.

Almost as if her musings had summoned him, he came to her, two other soldiers in tow. Of the three, Mr Wickham was undeniably the handsomest, but the other two—one tall with almost black hair, the other short with pale brown hair—looked well enough, too.

“Miss Bennet, how are you tonight? I must say the sea air seems to be agreeing with you.”

“Good evening, Mr Wickham, and yes, I daresay the reports of the charms of the seaside have not been conflated. I find it very healthful.” She eyed his two companions and then enquired, somewhat sheepishly, “Will you introduce me to your friends? Or do I already know them?”

The men chuckled and the taller one spoke. “We are already acquainted, Miss Bennet, but we have heard of your illness and wish only to express our sympathy and become reacquainted.”

Mr Wickham presented them then as a Lieutenant Denny and Captain Carter. Elizabeth found them to be very pleasant men and much enjoyed the conversation—until Mr Denny mentioned Darcy.

“I understand Mr Bingley has lately purchased Netherfield for his home. I do hope it will not require you to spend more time in the company of his friends!” He chuckled.

“I do not remember Mr Bingley’s friends or sisters,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “But I do hope his wife will be an agreeable addition to the ladies of the neighbourhood.”

“You do not remember his friends? But I had understood that Mr Darcy rather—oof!” Mr Denny grunted as Mr Wickham gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs, followed by a few hushed words. Mr Denny looked immediately abashed.

“I do not know what you might have heard, Mr Denny,” said Elizabeth evenly, “but Mr Darcy and I are merely friends.”

“Of course,” said Mr Wickham warmly. “Darcy would not know what to do with such a vivacious beauty as yourself.”

“He always looked to me as if he might like to try though,” said Captain Carter in a voice he no doubt believed was low enough for Mr Denny’s ears only. When he perceived that Elizabeth had heard him, he flushed and said, “Forgive me. His interest in you was apparent to many of us last autumn.”

Elizabeth had no idea what to say and merely nodded.

Mr Wickham shook his head and shot a look at Captain Carter that seemed disgusted. Turning back to Elizabeth, he said, “I am going to take these fellows off before their wagging tongues get us all into trouble.”

The three men all bowed and left her to her thoughts. It had pained her a little to admit that there was no connexion between herself and Darcy. Her eye drifted across the crowded room. She could still see the top of Mr Denny’s dark head—his hair was darker than Darcy’s, but he seemed to be of similar height, at least enough that she could imagine looking across a crowded room and seeing Darcy standing there. Standing there, and perhaps turning, seeing her, and smiling. Or doing that thing he did where he did not quite smile, but just sort of…warmed. Somehow it had always seemed more special.

So even the soldiers had observed his attentions to her last autumn. Attentions which had been met with spite, if her sister’s report was accurate. Mary, who often sat unnoticed on the edges of ballrooms, had told her that at the ball at Netherfield, Elizabeth had agreed, unhappily, to dance with Darcy. According to Mary’s report, Charlotte had tried to console her, telling her she might find him agreeable, and Elizabeth had replied by saying, ‘ That would be the greatest misfortune of all!—To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!—Do not wish me such an evil.’ Mary had added, very primly, that Elizabeth ought not to be determined to hate any person.

You were evidently determined to hate him then and still carry your prejudice now.

Her musings continued late into the night. While Lydia slumbered, Elizabeth crept from the bed and went to the closet, withdrawing her valise. Within was the perfume, as well as a small packet of unopened letters, letters sent by Darcy. She first indulged in a smell of her perfume, then took up the few on top, carefully tucking the others away.

Happily, the moonlight was sufficient for her to read by, for Lydia would have thrown a fit had she lit a lamp. She sat on the floor, her back to the window, and began to read.

My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth

I write with little hope that this missive will be read more than any other, but alas it seems there is little else for me to do. I do not imagine you would see me if I travelled to Longbourn, nor do I think an invitation to come to London as Georgiana’s friend would be accepted.

Thus, again do I write to plead my case, and to beg your forgiveness. It was not my object to deceive you into marrying me. I cannot tell you how many times I thought, ‘Today, today shall be the day that I tell her.’ And yet one obstacle after another arose, and before I knew it, it was too far gone.

I will never deny that the leanings of my own heart were part of this. The physician was asking me to do that which I already wished to do; that is, to be your suitor. There was nothing I wanted more, save to be your husband. To be as we were, in the country in spring and in love—could anything be finer? ‘Yes’, I can almost hear you say, ‘there could be something finer, and that is for all parties to have had a complete understanding of the business.’

And to this I can only reply, forgive me. I never intended you any harm, only good.

You say you cannot trust me, but that is not true. You can trust me to always have your best interests at heart. You can trust that I will always love you. You can trust that given any chance to make you happy, I shall do it.

My heart resides within your hands, and I remain, faithfully yours,

FD

She sighed. For however he might say the wrong thing when he speaks, he surely can compose a lovely letter.

In another of the letters, he spoke of his treatment of the Gardiners.

As a child I was taught what wasright,but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. I was spoilt by my parents, who allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; towishat least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Your lesson in this regard shall not go unheeded. Even if I never see or speak to you again, you have humbled me, and taught me a lesson, and I shall be forever grateful to you for it.

She looked at the date on that one; it seemed it was the last that had arrived before the perfume. It sounded as if he had begun to resolve himself to their separation, to regard it as permanent. And is that what you want? Truly?

At once a yawn overtook her, and she realised she must go to bed, else suffer dear consequences the next day. Another day, another party , she mused and got to her feet. Returning Darcy’s letters to their hiding place, she climbed into bed next to her sister, and hoped sleep would find her quickly.