Page 36 of Lizzie’s Spirit
“So deftly done,” said Elizabeth, “you’ve captured all of the principal buildings. Do you see, Mr. Darcy, there’s Mr. Campbell’s house and the hospital?” She spoke to the artist, “Sir, you must ensure Mr. Darcy’s coat is coloured blue!”
“But my coat is corbeau, Miss Elizabeth, why blue?”
“Blue is my favourite colour, and this man’s painting will endure, whereas we shall fade from memory. Thus I would see you attired as you should, so people will look at this drawing and say, ‘Yes, Mr. Darcy was an elegant and handsome man!’ ”
Darcy blushed. To mask his embarrassment, he asked the artist his name.
“Joseph Lycett, sir. Under instruction from Governor Macquarie to draw a folio of scenes of Sydney and New South Wales.”
“Ah, the forger! Keep your talents for such as this, and we shan’t meet in the courtroom. Good day to you.
“Come, Miss Elizabeth, let us continue our perambulation. I find I enjoy this wooing.”
They continued on for some while until Elizabeth paused.
“I must correct you, Mr. Darcy, for we cannot continue this wooing as you said.”
He stumbled. A look of consternation and dismay crossed his face; taking Elizabeth’s gloved hand in his, he exclaimed, “But Elizabeth, we suit so well—how have I aroused your displeasure?”
“I shouldn’t tease you so. My dear William, we do suit so very well; we’re the most well-suited people in the whole world. Of course I’ll marry you! We no longer need to maintain the charade of our merely courting—all who encounter us know such to be a lie.”
“And when did you come to your senses? For I greatly wish we were wed.”
Elizabeth’s spirits again rose to playfulness: “The artist called me your wife , and I excessively liked the idea of it!”
She looked to him with bright, widened eyes.
“Would it be so improper if we were to kiss to seal our betrothal?” Elizabeth tilted her head, her jaunty hat shading her face, a flush of pink colouring her cheeks.
Darcy’s lips of their own volition sought hers; he felt their warmth, their soft moistness, and her tongue hesitantly caressing his. Should his heart be beating so?
***
“Shall we set a date, Mr. Darcy? Perchance we should visit with the Rev. William Cowper, who is rector for St. Phillip’s Church, and talk to him. But it must be after Mrs. Putland has left the colony—I’ll not have her disrupt my Wedding Day!”
Darcy took both her hands in his. Being formally betrothed, it was quite proper to take the liberty. “Stay composed, dearest Elizabeth; soon she’ll be gone.”
“Oh, William, that you should be forced to put up with my tantrum; truly, she does provoke me at every turn. But you are correct; I believe they board the Hindostan at the end of April. Can we fix the 15th of May? It would be a year to the day I departed London for the journey to Portsmouth and thence to New Holland.”
***
The rain had cleared from the day before, and a warm autumn sun already spirited away the last vestiges of moisture from the ground. The crisp, late morning air held a certain freshness, a lingering scent of eucalyptus and callistemon.
“Some wine, Miss Bennet?”
“Certainly, Mr. Darcy, but could you water it for me? I find the wine unadulterated too strong for my taste.” He poured some wine followed by a little water into her cup, but she, somewhat unguarded, did not hold it steady.
“Take care, sir, you may spill it!” She lay back onto the rug, which was laid upon the lawn of the Governor’s Park.
Elizabeth was a little light-headed: not because of the wine, of which she had only sipped, but because of her delight in her present circumstance.
She laughed: “My decorum has vanished, sir, but the day is so beautiful, I find I care not. Are not the girls wonders for making this picnick!”
Some distance away, five of the older girls from the orphanage were having their own feast of cold meats, bread and butter. Near to them sat Sgt. Monogan and Harshita, their little boy, now eleven months old, playing in the grass.
“Oh, look! There are Mrs. Bent, Henry, and Beth on the wharf. Quickly, I must meet with them!”
Gathering up her skirts, Elizabeth ran down the hill, Darcy following behind.
“Mrs. Bent,” said Elizabeth, “are you boarding the Hindostan today?”
“Miss Bennet, ‘tis so good to see you. We called at the orphanage, but they said you were gone out walking with Mr. Darcy.”
“No, we were having a picnick—in the Governor’s Park.
” She turned to the children who ran to her; Elizabeth knelt and took them in her arms, trying to remain cheerful.
Seeing the little ones broke her heart. Seven months they had spent together; they were as dear to her as if they were her own children.
“Miss Lisbet, can me and Beth sleep with you? I’m not too big tho’ now I’m five.”
“Dearest Henry, I must stay here in Sydney…”
His face crumpled, and tears ran down his cheeks, dampening the muslin of Elizabeth’s morning dress. He hugged her more tightly: “You must come… you must… you must!”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Bent, but she also was sniffing, a handkerchief wiping her moist eyes. “I did not have the heart to tell them you were staying. To come all this way, seven months at sea! And Mr. Bent and I so ill. And now, to return after just five months; ‘tis almost too much to bear.”
Elizabeth stood to comfort the lady; the children still clutched Elizabeth’s legs.
She took Mrs. Bent’s hands in hers and said, “You’re a strong woman, Mrs. Bent…
Eliza. So much falls to you. To care for Mr. Bent, your beautiful children, and th e babe you carry.
You shall be in my prayers.” But having seen much pain and sorrow as midwife, Elizabeth did not say, ‘ Fear not, for God is with you .’ Of that, she knew not the truth of it.
The barge drew up to the wharf. Elizabeth and Darcy assisted Mrs. Bent and the children into the boat.
Still crying, the children waved as the sailors, chanting, pulled away.
Elizabeth waved back; she felt Darcy’s arms steady her as she slumped against him, powerless to relieve Mrs. Bent and the children of their sorrow at leaving and the prospect of another five-month voyage to England—shorter than the outward journey, for they were to travel via Cape Horn, with favourable winds, in just four months—but so long for little children.
With good fortune, the babe would come once Mrs. Bent was in England. Elizabeth dearly wished it so.
Elizabeth and Darcy turned to walk back along the wharf.
After they reached the shore, Ensign Huey came up and handed Darcy a message.
The ensign shuffled his feet and refused to look at Elizabeth.
It appeared that time had not reduced his resentment of her declining to listen to his addresses; indeed, his good opinion of himself and his hurt pride had only magnified.
Though Elizabeth suffered from the uncomfortable feelings necessitated by being the object of another’s pique, in truth this was an episode she had almost forgotten and was determined, at least on her part, to let it remain forgot .
“Colonel O’Connell wishes to see me with some urgency,” said Darcy.
“Miss Bennet, forgive me, but I must go immediately to his apartments.” Darcy took her hand, kissed it, and then left with the ensign who had come on horseback, leading another.
Elizabeth watched as he rode up the lane, turned into Bridge Street, and was lost to sight.
She felt hollow, bereft. She knew Mr. Bent’s ill health had forced his resigning from his government position.
But to attempt the return journey with two young children and a pregnant wife; to spend months in the company of Commodore Bligh and his daughter, both of whom he strongly disliked.
This was beyond cruel; this was a madness born of a desperation to see England once again.
Elizabeth had noted his pallor, his tiredness, and the shortness of breath—the warm, dry air of New South Wales had not cured him; certainly, the smog of London and the dampness of that country would make it worse.
He was dying and wished to return home. That she could understand, but to inflict the journey on his wife and children—with the added fear of his dying during the voyage— that was unforgivable.
Darcy waited while Ensign Huey went to announce him to Colonel O’Connell. The ensign was barely civil to him, displaying a sullenness that was unfitting for his role as secretary to O’Connell.
“Colonel, I believe you wish to see me? But before we talk of your need, I must speak plainly. Ensign Huey, as you know, accompanied us on the Hindostan from the Cape.” The colonel made to speak, but Darcy continued with some abruptness.
“You may not be aware, however, that the ensign made an unwanted address to Miss Bennet, and she refused to listen to him as was her prerogative. With my engagement to the lady, he has become sullen and uncivil. This I cannot accept. He disrespects my office and also the lady, who has done him no harm other than yielding to her own preference. On board, she gave him no encouragement beyond that of convivial and polite conversation. He was mistaken as to her lightness of spirit, her wit and her turn of phrase—they were not directed to him. We all had the benefit of her vivacity and bonhomie . His youth and lack of maturity have turned sour and will do him no favours, and also that of your command.”