Page 14 of Mistress of Pemberley

Elizabeth stood still in the doorway, clutching the letter she had just received tightly in her hand, her gaze fixed on Mr Darcy as he mounted his horse and rode away without looking back. Uncontrollable tears welled up in her eyes, watching him depart. The colonel turned his head several times as they receded into the distance, but Elizabeth could not clearly see his expression through her misty eyes.

She could not understand why she had felt such pain at seeing Mr Darcy departing forever from her life. A day ago, refusing his proposal had seemed the right thing to do, the only possible answer. At the same time, her tone and words had only matched the horrible declaration that was more about him disdaining her family than about love or marriage. She had felt angry but at peace with what she had done.

Then, in the freezing morning, unknown feelings and emotions overwhelmed her, and she felt an ache in her heart.

Making a considerable effort to prevent showing what was happening inside her, Elizabeth composed herself when Charlotte and Maria appeared on the porch, their curiosity piqued by the unexpected visitors.

“Lizzy, what has happened?” Charlotte asked, worried, for although the two gentlemen had seen her and her sister, they had not stopped to greet them, choosing instead to depart before their arrival. Although three weeks had passed since Lady Catherine’s guests had arrived and all meetings had unfolded with perfect decorum, Charlotte still feared a quarrel between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy.

“Nothing. The gentlemen send their apologies for not waiting to greet you, my dear. They are in haste to leave for London.”

“So suddenly?” Charlotte asked, still suspicious.

Elizabeth refrained from saying anything further. Before her stood Mr Collins’s wife, not her childhood friend Charlotte Lucas. The letter she had hastily tucked into her pocket burned her, yet she could not share what had transpired the day before, nor could she speak of Mr Darcy’s written words that she was dying to read.

“Have you received a letter?” Charlotte asked, and Elizabeth was relieved she had not noticed that the missive had been handed to her by Mr Darcy himself.

“I wrote to my uncle asking him to send a carriage. It is time for me to leave as well.”

“When?” Charlotte asked with such eagerness that Elizabeth could only conclude she was looking forward to her departure.

“In a few days. I shall prepare, but my uncle is not certain when exactly the carriage will arrive—likely in three or four days.”

She saw Charlotte exhale with unmistakable relief; she made no effort to conceal it, and Elizabeth could no longer trouble herself to be excessively polite. The few remaining days would be dedicated to herself, doing what she pleased. But at that moment, her only wish was to read the letter.

∞∞∞

It took her two hours to read and reread the letter, and there was no emotion she did not experience in the process. From regret to fury, passing through immense compassion for Miss Darcy, who had endured an ordeal because of the man Meryton had once considered a gentleman but who, in truth, was nothing more than a scoundrel.

She now understood why her brother had remarked several times that Miss Darcy had significantly matured over the past year.

Miss Darcy was the sole regret Elizabeth felt without hesitation or doubt. She had wished to continue their friendship, finally admitting that the ladies from Longbourn could have learnt a lot from the natural yet timid young woman who exuded intelligence and elegance without any hint of arrogance. Elizabeth had never seen her dressed in anything other than fashionable attire, lending her that regal air that Elizabeth confessed she herself lacked.

It seemed she had focused entirely on Miss Darcy, forgetting the rest of the letter, but it was not true. Slipping away as she had done some months earlier at Longbourn, she left the house without informing anyone. Yet, this time, she was certain not to encounter Mr Darcy along the paths of Rosings Park. He would already be nearing London, carrying with him the anger that emanated from his letter and a total absence of remorse for what he had said to her. It seemed he did not even regret her refusal, as if it had not affected him. More than that, it seemed that, although he had lost the battle for her, he had won the battle within himself, for she would not become his wife. It was a complicated situation… He was a complicated man, and, in the end, as strange as it might seem, she liked that about him.

His appearance had shocked her; that severe expression on his face did not alter for a moment when he handed her his letter. For a time, she thought it was Miss Darcy she missed and the friendship that might have continued between them. But in the bright noon sunlight, Elizabeth admitted she wished she might encounter him again and speak in a different tone. She felt no forgiveness in her heart and would likely not feel such a thing soon. But she acknowledged that she had spoken to him terribly as well.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice she had approached the steps of the great house, where a carriage was waiting. She was about to turn back when a voice stopped her. It was Lady Catherine calling to her. Surprised, Elizabeth drew closer. A servant extended his hand to help her ladyship into the carriage, but the elderly lady turned to her before placing her foot on the step. “They have left, if it is them you are seeking.”

“No, your ladyship. We said our goodbyes yesterday,” Elizabeth replied, blushing, for the truth was entirely different.

“Come, get into the carriage. Accompany me to Hunsford,” Lady Catherine said in a commanding tone. The request was so unexpected that Elizabeth complied. Without further thought, she climbed into the carriage while Lady Catherine instructed her servant, “Go to the Parsonage and tell Mrs Collins that Miss Bennet has left with me.”

Elizabeth blushed once more, but this time with something that felt like satisfaction, for in some way, this was her small revenge against Mrs Collins, who had forever removed her friend Charlotte Lucas from her life. Certainly, her departure with their revered patroness would spark lively discussions and, more amusingly, profound fears in both Collinses.

Above all, she wanted to forget the bitter taste left by the letter, no matter how certain she was that she had acted correctly the day before. The image of Mr Darcy handing her the letter lingered for a while. It was not the face of a happy man, but his arrogant demeanour prevented her from feeling pity for him.

They had been travelling for a few moments when Lady Catherine exclaimed, “I eagerly await the day Fitzwilliam takes over Rosings!” Elizabeth’s astonishment grew. She had wondered from the beginning why Lady Catherine had summoned her to join her, but it seemed clear that the older woman knew nothing of the marriage proposal. For if she had known, the vaguely amiable tone with which she had extended the invitation would likely not have existed. Lady Catherine was not a woman who concealed herself behind polite words. Accustomed to giving orders, she demanded answers directly, without a trace of subtlety.

During the dinners at Rosings, Elizabeth had heard about the supposed plan that Lady Catherine and Mr Darcy’s mother had allegedly devised when their children were young—to unite them in marriage. However, no one in the room had responded to those notions, not even when Mr Darcy himself had been present. To Elizabeth, the idea seemed more like a family legend than a tangible reality of any significance. Besides, Miss de Bourgh was so far removed from the kind of wife anyone might imagine for a man as stylish and dynamic as Mr Darcy that the story carried an air of jest.

Seated before Lady Catherine, Elizabeth suddenly realised, with neither the passion nor the anger she had felt since yesterday, that Mr Darcy had indeed proposed to her. She was tempted to disclose it for a fleeting moment, but she refrained from doing so, knowing that nothing good could come of such a revelation. Instead, to continue the conversation, she remarked in a neutral tone, “Miss de Bourgh is, like my sister Jane, exceedingly shy.”

“Indeed!” Lady Catherine exclaimed with a trace of irritation. “I do not know from whom she inherited such a flaw. For shyness is indeed a flaw. I have told her countless times to be bolder. Especially when Fitzwilliam is here.”

Elizabeth tried not to smile, feeling like she was speaking to her mother. Nearly the exact words had been said to Jane on countless occasions. And perhaps both women were right; neither Miss de Bourgh nor Jane was the sort of woman to seek a man’s attention. However, in Jane’s case, her extreme beauty made her presence impossible to overlook. Poor Miss de Bourgh did not even have that advantage.

“I manage a large estate—ten thousand acres, plus three-thousand parkland. I do not idle for a moment in spring or autumn. I know every corner of my land, who farms it, and how much I am owed. I often find myself in disputes with tenants inclined to diminish my rightful share. I am now on my way to see my solicitor because they have concocted yet another problem. Tenants often have some land of their own, whether inherited or purchased. But they tend to forget the precise boundaries when it borders my estate. Every year, I bring in a surveyor from London to verify them.”

“It sounds like a demanding responsibility,” Elizabeth said with genuine admiration.

“Indeed, but I manage it well. Still, Anne must marry, for she could never undertake what I do.”

Lady Catherine’s tone was marked by arrogance, but there was truth in her words.

“I would have brought her, but she is always unwell. I sometimes consider finding her a husband from among the local gentry. Fitzwilliam’s estate is even larger, and I imagine it will be difficult for him to oversee both.”

Elizabeth wondered why Lady Catherine had not considered Colonel Fitzwilliam. Yet even in his case, however willing he might have been to marry for wealth, Miss de Bourgh was hardly a suitable match for a lively officer accustomed to a quite different sort of life and company. Looking at Lady Catherine she could not but observe that even in prominent families, marriage posed significant problems. Mr Darcy’s aversion to her mother’s behaviour appeared somewhat exaggerated when his aunt spoke of her daughter’s marriage as though it were a mere transaction.

The day turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. A visit to the solicitor, where Lady Catherine resolved some questions regarding the purchase of a plot of land and other legal matters, the ease with which she disposed of a sum of money more significant than Elizabeth had ever seen at once, the firmness when she dealt with a tenant—all made it clear why Longbourn was perpetually on the brink of disaster. Her father did not possess Lady Catherine’s ability to resolve matters decisively and to his family’s advantage.

Throughout this time, Lady Catherine spoke to her about the estate and the house, the care of the park, and even the stables, about which she knew detailed information, proving she often visited them. The severe image Elizabeth had formed of her began to fade, replaced by this energetic and evidently intelligent woman who managed the house, the estate, and the lives of its people on her own.

Elizabeth dreamt of having that kind of life, but Lady Catherine was a widow. She smiled bitterly to herself, thinking that to be a widow, she would first have to be married—and she had just refused a proposal. Then she scolded herself for such a wicked thought. Regardless of her feelings for Mr Darcy, she wished him a long life alongside a woman just as aloof as himself.

“Come in and play the pianoforte for me,” said Lady Catherine, awakening from the slumber that had overtaken her as soon as they had left Hunsford. Although the invitation carried the commanding tone she was accustomed to using with everyone around her, it somehow sounded different. After a day spent together and many discussions about how Lady Catherine managed her affairs, a different kind of bond had formed between them.

Elizabeth complied willingly, for the pianoforte at Rosings was indeed the finest instrument she had ever played.

That strangely pleasant day ended with a smile, for when Mr Collins brusquely asked what had transpired between her and Lady Catherine, Elizabeth replied enigmatically and succinctly, “A relationship that was, at times, pleasant.”

Once she arrived in her room, she realised that the past two days had been some of the most tormenting and pleasant at the same time. A marriage proposal, a letter from a gentleman, and an extended visit to the Rosings estate were undoubtedly remarkable events that had influenced her view of life. She wished to reflect deeply on each moment, yet, strangely—and perhaps for the first time—she felt no desire to share the occurrences of the day with anyone.

At the writing table where, in recent weeks, she had penned letters to her aunt, her father, or Jane, she now would have written but one letter—to Mr Darcy. Of course, she could never bring herself to actually do such a thing, but it was certain that, on that very night, she wrote it in her mind, reproaching him and reproaching herself. After all, they might never have married, but they could at least have remained friends. However, that state of relative reconciliation vanished at dawn when she remembered that it was due to him that Mr Bingley had abandoned Jane.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth spent the following days almost entirely at Rosings. She played the pianoforte alone or with Miss de Bourgh, and later they spent hours discussing books in the library. It was an unexpectedly agreeable surprise, for the timid young lady with whom she had exchanged only a few words over the past two months turned out to be an avid reader.

In that peculiar atmosphere that was not entirely devoid of charm—amid Lady Catherine’s orders, the music room, and her conversations with Anne de Bourgh—Elizabeth delayed calling for the carriage to take her to London. Yet she packed her belongings, partly to reassure Charlotte, who seemed increasingly eager to be left alone with her husband and sister…and, of course, with the inhabitants of Rosings.

Thus, a few days later, when Charlotte knocked on her door after breakfast, Elizabeth was surprised to hear her announce in a sharp voice that the carriage had arrived.

“The servant is waiting in the hall,” Charlotte cried and glanced hurriedly around the room to ensure Elizabeth’s belongings were not scattered and felt reassured upon seeing the packed trunk.

“Why did you not mention that it was coming today?” she continued, not reproachfully but in the flat tone that had characterised their conversations of late.

Elizabeth made no reply, just as puzzled as Charlotte. Descending the stairs, she recalled what her letters to Jane and Mrs Gardiner had contained, confident she had not requested a carriage.

The mystery deepened when she saw an unfamiliar servant waiting for her in the hall.

She cast a reproachful look at Charlotte, for at Longbourn, any strange servant accompanying a guest or coming alone was invited into the kitchen to warm himself or cool off and provided with food and drink. Such courtesies, however, did not seem to be part of the Collins household’s customs. Overlooking these habits, Elizabeth invited the man into the kitchen. He politely declined, handed her a letter, and informed her that he would await a reply in the carriage.

“What reply is he expecting?” Charlotte asked rather irritably. “Whether you are leaving? He has come all this way and you plan to stay?”

Elizabeth did not hear her. Looking at the letter, she did not recognise the handwriting. Then, seeing the name, a wave of heat engulfed her from head to toe, so surprising was the sender. But she kept her composure and made her way to her room under Charlotte’s watchful eyes, though not before saying, “It is from Aunt Gardiner. Jane is unwell.”

“Jane is always unwell,” Charlotte replied with marked indifference, and to Elizabeth’s relief, she did not follow her upstairs.

Once in her room, Elizabeth hurriedly shut the door, reopened the letter, and read the sender’s name again as if she might have been mistaken. Miss Darcy’s handwriting was flawless, but as she read the brief lines, Elizabeth noticed that the ink was smudged in places—clear signs of tears that had fallen uncontrollably as the letter was written.

Dear Miss Bennet,

The day after we arrived home, my brother was shot while returning from his club. He lost a lot of blood and was unconscious for two days, but yesterday afternoon, when he spoke for the first time, he said only one thing: “Please, write to Miss Bennet and ask her to come. We need her.”

The physician has been unequivocal: Fitzwilliam is in a critical state; he cannot be moved at all. Any movement is life threatening, and his only wish is for you to visit us.

I join my brother in his plea and ask you to come. I do not know for what reason he calls upon you, but I, for my part, need a clear mind such as yours to help me through the days ahead. It is all I can write for now.

I have sent a maid along with the carriage to accompany you.

Hoping that we shall meet again soon. Yours desperately,

Georgiana Darcy

The letter unsettled Elizabeth profoundly, to the core of her being, shattering her world—a world that, until then, might not have been entirely beautiful but had at least been familiar. She looked about herself, and the worry and pain she felt made everything seem distant, cold, and terrifying.

It was curious if not strange for the Darcys to seek her help when they had a family of their own—uncles, cousins, aunts—but she did not linger on that thought.

In a matter of moments, her decision was made. She could be capricious and unforgiving, stubborn, proud, or prejudiced—she had many flaws—but the instant someone sought her help, she was ready to assist. There was no need for reflection, no need to make plans or ask too many questions. In that dramatic situation, two people with whom she had shared pleasant moments were in need of her, and she did not hesitate to give them her aid.

For now, her main problem was dealing with Charlotte and the others she must take her leave of in Kent; she must not let them see her profound distress.

Fortunately, Charlotte did not return to help her gather her belongings or share those last moments together; that was the last good thing that happened in that house she was leaving without a trace of regret.

Within an hour, the carriage departed from the Parsonage, but when she closed her eyes, resting her head against the cushions, she did not remember clearly what had happened before her departure. Charlotte, Maria, and Mr Collins were shadows she had left behind, their words or gestures bearing no importance.

She briefly stopped at Rosings to bid farewell to Lady Catherine, who knew nothing about what had happened in London—that was obvious. She behaved like she always did, forbidding Elizabeth to leave in the first moment but then saying goodbye in an almost amiable tone. Elizabeth revealed nothing about Mr Darcy; It was not her duty to inform his family. Lady Catherine unexpectedly waved as she left the room, and Anne de Bourgh offered her a pale but regretful smile.

Then she climbed into the carriage, and the journey into the unknown began.