Page 18 of It Taught Me to Hope

A pensive Elizabeth Bennet sat with her sister the following morning at Longbourn, wondering at the new understanding she had of Mr. Darcy. Mary appeared to recognize that Elizabeth was ruled by deep thoughts that morning, the likes of which it would take her some time to work through. Therefore, she played with her child, inducing his broad grins, his fists and feet striking out at random in his joy, as Elizabeth pondered on what she had learned the previous evening. After a time of this, Elizabeth sighed, which gave Mary the opening to comment on it.

“Of us all, you were always the one most prone to deep contemplation.” Mary offered a wry grin. “Even when I read Fordyce and other such works, I do not think I ever gave them much true thought.”

“With that, I would disagree, Mary.”

“You may, if you like. I recall enough examples of rolled eyes and huffs of annoyance when I spouted my homilies to understand what you all thought of them.”

Elizabeth gave her sister an amused grin. “You did sound a little pompous when delivering them.”

The sisters released their mirth together. If the Mary of five years ago could see the Mary of today, she would not have understood her, for Mary had not been one to laugh at her own follies. It was a symptom of how much she had changed, especially since her marriage to Mr. Hardwick.

“I will say, however,” continued Elizabeth, “that while your memorized homilies were sometimes a little too practiced, I never thought you were incapable of deep thought. What you believed—what you still believe today, regardless of the alteration in the way you say it—you did not achieve without many hours spent pondering.”

Mary agreed without protest. “We have strayed from my initial intention when I spoke. It appears you have some weighty thoughts in mind, and if I am not mistaken, they concern a certain gentleman of our acquaintance. Do you wish to share?”

“It is nothing weighty,” replied Elizabeth, her mind returning to what had ruled her thoughts that morning. “Last night, during my dances with Mr. Darcy, I realized I had never understood his feelings for me.”

A pregnant pause ensued, Mary, waiting for Elizabeth to elaborate while Elizabeth was not certain what to say next. It was for the best that Mary waited, for Elizabeth did not think she would have understood what she meant to say had Mary not allowed her the opportunity to consider.

“When Mr. Darcy left the parlor at Hunsford,” said Elizabeth, a halting start after far too long a pause, “I was certain he would learn to congratulate himself on the narrowness of his escape. His letter reinforced that opinion, for while I thought better of him after he revealed Mr. Wickham’s character to me, it seemed he was already coming to regret me less.”

“The fact of his return six years later gives the lie to that supposition.”

A nod was Elizabeth’s response while she tried to find the words to say what she felt.

“It does. Yet at the same time, Mr. Darcy’s explanation of the sense of incompleteness made sense to me; I did not consider the state of his feelings—or perhaps it is better to say that I misjudged him yet again.”

“Lizzy,” said Mary, her tone chiding. “That is nothing less than nonsensical. Yes, I understand how Mr. Darcy might have held back because of this, but only deep feeling could have provoked it in the first place.”

“That is true,” agreed Elizabeth. “It is only that I glimpsed the true measure of his regard for the first time last night, and it has astonished me. Perhaps you might say that I have been blind, and you may be correct. However, I will assert the impression he gave when he came, the haughtiness with which he offered himself to me, and the intervening years, even if I understood him better, did not lend to the notion that he still harbored affection in his heart for me.”

“And since his coming?”

“Since he came, I have battled shock at his reappearance. I became reconciled to his intentions in that time, and more so since I rejected Mr. Mason, but it never occurred to me to wonder at the state of his heart.”

Mary showed her a measure of her dry humor. “That is astonishing, for a woman who has always determined to marry for only the deepest love. Did you suppose that love was necessary only on your part?”

“Not at all,” protested Elizabeth. “And yes, I must suppose you may account me blind because of it.”

“Then what will you do now?”

“What can I do?” Elizabeth shook off her rhetorical question. “There appears to be no other course but to allow the gentleman to make his case, accept his affection for what it is, and see if he will claim my heart in return.”

“For my part, I think that Mr. Darcy has changed. Yet, I expect he has always been a decent gentleman, for all that he did not portray himself to good advantage when he first came.”

Elizabeth nodded, but she did not respond, for another thought had come into her mind, one she had not considered before. Mary, the excellent sister that she was, recognized this and allowed Elizabeth to think free of questions and did not interrupt her thoughts.

“It has occurred to me,” said Elizabeth when she was ready, “that I might have done better to accept his first proposal. Or perhaps I might have replied with more temperance and allowed him to make his case free of rancor and with an open mind.”

Elizabeth’s comment startled Mary. “Do you suppose you could have accepted him then?”

“That is the queer part,” said Elizabeth, “for I can see no scenario under which accepting such a proposal was at all possible, unless perhaps Papa had passed leaving us all at the mercy of Mr. Collins.”

“Then why do you suggest accepting him now?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “It is only that Mr. Darcy has shown himself to be much more than I had ever thought. You said it yourself—he has always been a good sort of man, regardless of the picture he shows the world. If I had accepted him or accepted even the notion of an alliance with him, I would have understood his character sooner and avoided the suspense.”

“If you will forgive me, Lizzy,” said Mary, “I think you had the right of it six years ago.”

“Oh?”

“It seems to me that the business between you is what provoked Mr. Darcy to become a better man to a certain degree. Had you not humbled him, he might have continued in his pride and arrogance, never seeing the need to change.”

“Which may have poisoned any alliance we tried to make,” said Elizabeth, understanding Mary’s point.

“Exactly.”

“You are wise, Mary,” said Elizabeth, smiling at her sister.

That discussion did not end Elizabeth’s meditation on the subject, for she had much on which to think, a task easier to undertake when she was alone. While Mary remained at Longbourn, Elizabeth gave her sister the courtesy of her attention, though when Mary left her alone, she fell back into thoughts of Mr. Darcy, the changes in the gentleman, his regard for her, and, perhaps more importantly, her growing regard for him.

The matter of her new understanding of his respect for her Elizabeth put aside, knowing that she could think about it for days on end and not comprehend why she had not noticed it before. It was a myriad of reasons, all part of a forest of trees blocking any sight of the plain that lay beyond, each of which had seemed so important at the time but now appeared to be nothing more than her prejudicial and ridiculous antipathy for him.

Of the last subject they had considered, Elizabeth could not but suppose Mary had the right of it. As wasted as these past six years now seemed to Elizabeth, if one considered nothing more than the business between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, she could not argue the rightness of refusing him. Mr. Darcy continuing in his haughty ways, even if he had shown his regard in ways she could understand, was not a recipe for provoking her love for him.

And there was another matter to consider, one Elizabeth could not push to the side. The Mr. Darcy known to her now knew something of Lydia’s fall and had chosen to ignore it in favor of his affection for her. Had Elizabeth accepted him or even accepted the potential of a match with him, Lydia would still have gone to Brighton, eloped with Mr. Wickham, and disappeared from their family forever, leaving ruin in her wake. The Bennets had not endured the neighborhood’s censure for long after the event, a blessing to be certain, but Elizabeth could not imagine Mr. Darcy’s regard surviving the near reality of Lydia’s ruin, especially as her paramour was none other than Mr. Darcy’s hated rival.

Try as she might, however, Elizabeth could not quite put the subject to rest. The question of what Mr. Darcy thought on the subject would not leave her, and she determined to put it to the gentleman.

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F OR A MOMENT WHEN MISS Bennet raised the subject, Darcy panicked, wondering if she were about to send him on his way. The moment passed, however, and Darcy listened with all the gravity he possessed, for he had thought on this subject many times over the years. It is, perhaps, human nature to wish for something one could not have, to wish for a different outcome, or to return to the point one erred and alter it, hoping for a better future. During those long years in which all hope was lost, he had returned to the question many times over, wondering how matters might be different if he had acted better from the start.

“I cannot say that you are incorrect, Miss Bennet.” Darcy offered her a smile, though one he suspected carried the pain of long years of rejection. “It will not surprise you to learn that I wish you had accepted me then, or that I wished it many times since. What I cannot say is how matters would have proceeded if you had. Finding immediate contentment was a possibility, but without a true understanding of each other, our future was not at all certain.”

“That was my conclusion too,” said she, smiling at him and skipping ahead on the path a little.

When Darcy visited in Georgiana’s company that morning, they suggested a walk in the environs of Longbourn and the village, and as Darcy had expected, Miss Bennet was not of a mind to refuse such a proposal. Though the season was warm and summer almost upon them, Darcy had taken little note of their surroundings as they walked the paths so familiar to her, for his focus was on her. It was difficult to consider anything else when she was nearby. Georgiana followed along behind them, staying close enough to be included in the conversation when the occasion permitted, but far enough away to give them some privacy.

“I had some notion,” said she when she turned back to him, “of our overcoming all obstacles that lay in our path, but that is no guarantee.”

“What in life is assured?” asked Darcy. “To own the truth, I would like to think the same, but I cannot be certain. The man I was before I received your reproofs might not have taken such blows well. I wish to trust in my better nature, but I do not know.”

“Perhaps it is best to consider the benefits.”

Darcy regarded her broad smile, wondering at this woman’s resilience, a strength that Darcy had often thought he did not possess since the light of Elizabeth went out of his life. “What benefits might those be?”

“That time, uncertainty, and our experiences have forged us into something new,” replied she. “Something I would like to think is better than what we were before. Should we now come to a meeting of our minds, I cannot but suppose we will be more resilient to the trials of life.”

“ Is it possible? Even though I am heartened by the progress we have made, I will still say that I am uncertain of our future together.”

“Everything is uncertain, Mr. Darcy. We have a better chance than I ever thought possible. Let us be content for the moment and welcome the chance placed before us.”

For some time, they continued on their way, their pace slow as they enjoyed each other’s company and the pleasant silence between them. There had been a time, mused Darcy, when silence had often persisted between them, for Darcy remembered a particular time at Netherfield Park when he had fought to resist her allure and had sat for thirty minutes alone in her company reading and refusing to so much as look in her direction. Then there were all the times he had been tongue-tied in her presence, saying nothing because he could do nothing more than gaze at her in wonder. During the years of their separation, Darcy had thought many times about what he would say should he ever find himself near her again; he had not thought to stay silent, for every moment with her must be precious, and not thrown aside.

Yet here he was, enjoying the simple pleasure of walking together without feeling the need to fill every moment of quiet with some mark of wisdom or banter. It felt far more comfortable than it had six years before, and to that, he attributed their increased comfort, better knowledge, and her understanding of his purpose. As he recalled from the assembly, Miss Bennet was not the only one who understood him better.

“Sir William diverted me,” said Darcy. “I had not thought him observant enough to see our closer connection unless Mrs. Collins spoke of it.”

Miss Bennet laughed. “The way he interrupted us did put me in mind of another interruption during the ball at Netherfield. That time I do not suppose he had much notion of our connection, for he was far more interested in Jane and Mr. Bingley.”

“And yet, he spoke the truth about my bewitching dance partner. Tell me, Miss Bennet—should I sue for your hand and receive your consent, will you ask him to stand in your father’s stead?”

“No, indeed,” said Miss Bennet, appearing quite diverted. “Sir William is a good sort of gentleman, though his civility becomes a little tiresome but the only one I would ask to stand for my father is my Uncle Gardiner.”

Darcy regarded her with interest. “Is this the infamous uncle of whom Miss Bingley had much to say?”

“Now you are referring to her as Miss Bingley!” exclaimed Miss Bennet.

“Since you insist on it, I must avoid confusion.”

“The answer to your question is yes, Mr. Darcy. That Miss Bingley had much to say of him, though she was never so fortunate as to claim an acquaintance, is not at all surprising.”

“Tell me something of your relations, Miss Bennet. We spoke of your aunt’s connection to Lambton, but I do not recall you saying much else about them.”

For some time thereafter, Miss Bennet obliged him, her comments concerning her uncle and aunt testament to her high opinion of them. Mr. Gardiner was an importer, and a successful one at that, having amassed a substantial fortune over his years in trade. Some in society thought Darcy disdained such men, but anyone who remembered his friendship with Bingley knew the truth.

“Does your uncle have any aspiration to rise in society?” asked Darcy when Miss Bennet had spoken for some time.

“I cannot say, Mr. Darcy,” replied Miss Bennet. “When we were yet under the threat of the entail, my uncle could have supported us, though he was not a wealthy man then. In the years since, his business has expanded and he has moved his growing family to a more affluent district, though not the highest London offers. My aunt would like to live in Derbyshire again, which may prompt him to look for estates, but he has said nothing of this to me.”

“Should he wish it,” said Darcy, “I should be happy to act as his agent in the neighborhood. I know of no properties for sale near Lambton, but if one casts their net out a little further there should be others.”

Miss Bennet beamed at him. “Then I shall inform him.”

They continued in this vein, Miss Bennet speaking of her uncle and his family, his eldest daughter who Miss Bennet adored and was becoming quite a handful. Darcy could not help but tease her for corrupting her uncle’s children, to which Miss Bennet responded with exaggerated innocence. Then their conversation turned again to their estates, the crops they grew and the other sources of income they possessed, and Miss Bennet’s attempts to improve the property. This last was a matter of some interest to Darcy, and he asked further about it.

“The estate was never a matter of much concern or interest to my father, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bennet smiled and offered him a helpless shrug. “There comes a time in every child’s life when they must confront the knowledge that their parents are not the paragons of virtue they saw in their childish devotion. My mother’s faults were far more noticeable, and I discovered them first, but I was not blind to my father’s imperfections.”

“He was not suited to estate management?” asked Darcy. “I confess I spoke to him but little, but he informed me as an intelligent man.”

“Papa was intelligent to be certain,” agreed Miss Bennet. “I always thought he was better suited to be an instructor at a university than a gentleman. Whether or not this is true, I am confronted near daily with the evidence of his neglect of the estate, though I have corrected it for the most part. Papa could have done better had he wished it, but he lived on an estate he would not leave to his posterity, and determined it was useless to improve it to any extent. When necessary, Papa did what he must, but his endeavors were always overdue and often insufficient.”

It was a short-sighted stance. On an estate that would not devolve to his children and having five daughters and a wife for whom to provide, Mr. Bennet would have done better to save every penny he could to ensure their eventual support. There was no reason to say as much out loud, for Miss Bennet had confessed to her understanding of her father’s faults, and Darcy had no wish to dwell on the failures of others.

“Since Papa passed away and the estate came to me,” said Miss Bennet, “I have done my best to manage it to see its fortunes improve. While I cannot suppose Longbourn will equal your venerable estate in the time that I have, I wish to leave a more prosperous future to my heir, who at present is Mary’s son.”

They both understood her reference to the estate’s present heir, so Darcy did not think he needed to say anything on that subject. For that matter, Darcy had been willing to marry her when he thought she had nothing as a young woman of twenty, so Longbourn did not fit into his calculations at all. If she wished, Darcy would not object to young Master Hardwick retaining his position and would support her if she left it to her sister’s husband should Darcy persuade her to marry him. The more he considered it, the more it made sense, though there was no reason to speak of it now.

“For that matter,” said Miss Bennet, this time a teasing note in her voice, “I might wonder how you remained a bachelor all these years, despite our unresolved status. You have spoken of the need to sire an heir, but you have done nothing about it.”

“To own the truth, I had thought to leave Pemberley to one of Georgiana’s sons.”

“Do you not have your long and illustrious family name to protect?”

Darcy nodded. “Yes, I do. So long as Georgiana has more than one son to reach adulthood, there is no impediment. All that is required is for him to be of moral character, and for him to take on the Darcy name should he inherit.”

Miss Bennet looked at him with interest, though she did not respond.

“If Georgiana’s family cannot meet those conditions, there are some other Darcy relations to whom I could leave Pemberley, though they are distant and not well known to me. There are several occasions in my family’s history that we have perpetuated our name by such devices.”

“Yes, I suppose you must be correct.” Miss Elizabeth offered a shrug. “Such matters must be of greater concern to those in high society, I suppose. I doubt anyone outside my immediate family will care when the name ‘Bennet’ dies out at Longbourn.”

“Do you suppose Mr. Hardwick would consent to take your family name should you leave Longbourn to him?”

Miss Bennet laughed. “He might, though I cannot say. His elder brother will inherit the family property and already has a family of his own, so Michael has no duty to uphold.”

“There is another option,” said Darcy, a bit of daring with which he now felt comfortable. “Should you marry me , and we have more than one son, that son could also take on your maiden name. Even if we leave it to a daughter, we could stipulate the same to the man she marries, assuming he has no duty to his family.”

“You give me much to think on, sir,” said Miss Bennet, appearing to be contemplating it already. “I never considered the possibility of continuing my family name at Longbourn. If he were alive, I wonder if even my father might be agreeable to the notion.”

“I suspect he would,” said Darcy. “Men must consider such things more than women, who resign their maiden name to take the name of their husband. When he was a younger man, your father must have wished for an heir of his own.”

“Yes, he did, for I heard him comment on the subject more than once. Then the unfortunate weight of five daughters born in succession beat his ambitions into the dust, and my mother’s shrieking voice drove him into his study.”

This was another subject Darcy would not touch, not if his life depended on it. Darcy had never had a positive opinion of Mrs. Bennet, for the woman had been loud, obnoxious, and all but uncouth in his experience. That her behavior was a facet of her fear of the entail was something Darcy did not misunderstand, nor did Miss Bennet’s complicated feelings for the woman who had birthed her escape his notice. One did not speak in ill terms of the dead, and not to a close connection, so Darcy kept his own counsel.

“There is another aspect of this, of course.”

Miss Bennet looked at him with interest.

“My remaining a bachelor,” clarified Darcy. “For you see, Miss Bennet, though I claimed the unresolved situation between us, the truth is that you ruined me for anyone else.”

“Oh?” asked she.

Darcy detected a distinct lack of surprise.

“Yes. All I have told you was the truth, but it was not everything. For some time after we parted for the last time, I thought to get about the business of finding a wife, for it would help me forget about you. It was fruitless, however, for I looked on the notion of an alliance with any other woman with distaste. In time, I became comfortable with the situation as it was, though I suppose being comfortable is not the proper term. Resigned, perhaps?”

“If you were,” said Miss Bennet, regarding him with the warmest expression he had ever seen directed at him, “then I suppose I must thank you for that. It is because you could not consider another woman that I now have an opportunity I almost threw away. Nothing may come of our connection now, but I must think there is a chance, and it is increasing. I never thought I would marry.”

“No?” asked Darcy. “You have much to give a man, and I do not mean the estate you now own.”

Miss Bennet shrugged. “You know of my intention to marry for naught but love. If I cannot have it, I prefer to remain as I am, for I cannot think of anything more disagreeable than to marry without affection.”

“Then my task is clear.”

She grinned at him. “Was it not before? You did not misunderstand my wishes.”

“It was. But now I understand it better. I shall not fail you, Miss Bennet.”

They walked on, so close as to be touching. Darcy wished he could take her hand and hold it in his, perhaps to show his regard with no need for speech. Such was not done, so he contented himself with his position by her side. It was a place he never wished to leave.