Page 24 of Mistress of Pemberley

“Life will soon return to usual,” Georgiana said one week after the wedding, glancing around the breakfast table, where Darcy, Mr Bennet, Elizabeth, Richard, and Mr Gardiner were seated.

Earlier that morning, Mr Gardiner had entered triumphantly, followed by two men carrying the wheeled chair he had finally found after days of relentless searching.

“The Gouty Chair,” he announced with a pride that suggested he had fashioned it himself. It was made of mahogany, with brass fittings and black upholstery, built in the style of a Windsor chair. “It is a comfortable winged chair and…” he paused for effect, as though awaiting the roll of a drum, “it is self-propelled by hand cranks.”

The room erupted in cheerful exclamations, though to Darcy’s disappointment, Elizabeth was quick to remind him that he was not permitted to move on his own and thus would not be able to manoeuvre the chair unaided. Yet, that hardly mattered—there was always someone beside him.

All the carpets had been removed from the ground floor, the boards beneath polished to a fine sheen, and Elizabeth insisted on testing the chair herself. They were obliged to push her through every door and along every passage to ensure there were no obstacles in its path. Then John, who was taller and more stoutly built than Darcy, was made to sit in it as well, just to confirm its sturdiness. Mr Gardiner was declared the hero of the day, for it was clear that Darcy’s life would be vastly improved.

“The Gouty Chair!” Darcy laughed, amused by the irony, for such chairs were initially designed for those afflicted with gout. “It is certain that if I remain motionless in it long enough, I shall develop gout myself.” Yet, in truth, he was satisfied. Before Elizabeth’s arrival, he had resigned himself to the belief that he would die swiftly; then, when life persisted, he had imagined he would remain bedridden until his final days. But she had altered everything—with her ideas, her resolve, and her boundless hope.

From Longbourn came increasingly desperate letters from Mrs Bennet, who suffered not so much from the absence of her husband as from the agony of being excluded from the Darcy household. But Elizabeth decided, for now, that the visitors they already had were sufficient. Especially since, immediately after moving to the ground floor, Darcy began talking about Bingley and Lord Stafford, his closest friends—a sign that he considered the idea of them visiting him.

Hearing Mr Bingley’s name, Elizabeth had looked at him with some surprise, perhaps even a hint of suspicion.

“Bingley is my good friend, and I have received countless messages of encouragement from him. Now that I feel more human and no longer appear an invalid, I can receive my closest friends. I told Richard as much, and he was only waiting for a sign from me.” He looked at her, a serious expression on his face. “Elizabeth, I could tell you that I regret what happened in Hertfordshire or what I said in Kent, but it would be a lie. I feel nothing, for today, I am a different man. You asked me to change my opinion of Miss Bennet, but your plea did not make me do so—it happened the first time I spoke to her. The man I am today wishes to correct the mistakes of the man I was yesterday. I am certain that eventually Bingley and Miss Bennet will meet, even under our roof, but—”

“But?” she asked, curious, moved, and happy.

“But I would not have you place too much hope upon it. I cannot control Bingley’s feelings. I gave him advice that he was free to disregard—after all, advice is nothing more than words.”

“I know. I shall say nothing to Jane. They will meet by chance one day, and things will unfold as they wish without our interference. In the end, we are not quite so terrible as you once believed,” she teased, tapping his hand lightly.

“Your father is a balm to my soul,” Darcy whispered, and she held back her tears, so powerful was the emotion he conveyed to her. This new sentiment he bore for her father was the most precious gift he could have given her.

∞∞∞

Darcy spent an hour each morning in the library with Mr Bennet, and no matter how much Elizabeth attempted to uncover the nature of their conversations, she was unsuccessful. Yet, the truth was something else entirely—her curiosity was nothing but a game, a feigned frustration at their secrecy, for in reality, she was content. She sensed that her father was offering Darcy something beyond measure that no one in the house could—that hour was when he allowed himself to grieve, to be troubled, to acknowledge his regrets for the life he had lost, even though he still lived.

“I am so grateful to you, Papa,” she told him when it became evident that Mr Bennet intended to remain with them for some time.

“Nonsense, Lizzy. I have discovered the pleasure of being useful. I dare say I have also evolved through this tragic affair, and you and Darcy have guided me along a path I have seldom walked.”

“I know you dislike being away from Longbourn.”

But Mr Bennet dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “The library here more than compensates for any regret or inconvenience.” He smiled at her, his tone as wry as ever, poised between jest and sincerity. Then, drawing her into an embrace, he whispered in her ear, “It is an immense pleasure to be of service to you both, the bravest people I know.”

Richard, too, visited daily. He had grown accustomed to having breakfast with them, as his home was but a few streets away. In this way, whatever Darcy desired, Richard ensured it was done. Occasionally, Elizabeth, feigning being too busy with daily problems, would say, “Ask Richard,” merely to see the satisfaction with which the two conspired over some scheme.

She also had secrets with Richard, spoken in hushed tones, far from the rest of the family.

“It was him. It was Wickham,” Richard whispered one evening. They were in the library; the colonel had called at that late hour expressly to secure a moment of privacy.

“That criminal who shot Darcy was held in Marshalsea Prison, in Southwark, just south of the Thames. But the conditions there are appalling, so I promised to move him to Fleet Prison, which is somewhat more tolerable, provided he told me the truth of what happened.”

“And?” Elizabeth asked. A chill ran through her, a thread of fear and revulsion. She wanted desperately for the colonel’s suspicions to be unfounded. It would be too dreadful if Darcy’s predicament had been caused by a man whom she—and all of Hertfordshire—had once regarded as a gentleman, a man welcomed into their homes, whom she had, for a time, even admired.

“He, as I have already told you, along with a few companions, all deserters, hid in London for a time, but when some of them were captured, the rest sought refuge in the woods of Hertfordshire. The militia stationed in Meryton were called on to aid in their capture. The authorities in London wished to send them back to the front lines. They would be no use rotting in prison.”

“Wickham was involved in this…action as well?”

“Yes. The scoundrel admitted that someone within the militia paid him one hundred pounds—”

“One hundred!” Elizabeth gasped in horror. It was a significant sum, one that suggested the man who sought Darcy’s death had a grave and pressing reason.

“It was him,” the colonel said grimly. “But proving it is difficult. According to the description, he was a tall, dark-haired officer with a light complexion—such a man could be any among those stationed there.”

“But how many knew Darcy? And more than that, how many despised him enough to wish him dead? Sometimes I wish we could forget everything,” Elizabeth murmured, but Richard shook his head firmly.

“I do not believe that would be wise. Wickham is a criminal, and I doubt anything will change him for the better.”

“You are right,” she conceded, and then a chilling thought struck her—that man, the one who had perhaps wished for her husband’s death, was still in Hertfordshire, welcomed into the homes of their friends. There was only one thing Elizabeth had managed to achieve through her father: after revealing to Mr Bennet the villainy Wickham had inflicted upon Miss Darcy, he had immediately written a letter, forbidding that man from ever being received into their houses—either Longbourn or the Phillipses’ home.

Mr Bennet, already greatly annoyed by the militia officers, had sent a strongly worded letter to his brother-in-law, urging him to speak to the two sisters, Mrs Bennet and Mrs Phillips, and make them understand that a man who had harmed the Darcys could no longer be admitted into their homes. After all, the two families were now bound together through Elizabeth.

“It is dangerous to let matters lie, but for the moment, I do not know what more can be done. One thing is certain—he must have learnt that Darcy did not die, that his plan failed, and I cannot help but wonder what else he may be plotting.”

That Wickham had found out was beyond a doubt, for the news Elizabeth had written to her mother and sisters must have become a topic of discussion. He had likely heard of her marriage as well, though he could not have known the true extent of Darcy’s condition, for beyond their closest family, no one did. They had all agreed to maintain that illusion—that Darcy was still convalescing but gravely affected by the incident.

The wheelchair now allowed him to receive visitors, and a few close friends had already expressed their wish to see him.

“This is not the way he would have lived his life. I know it well,” Richard said, watching with quiet satisfaction as everything around them gradually returned to its usual course, “but I am so grateful that you are in his life.”

“He is pressing me to leave for Pemberley,” Elizabeth said, not striving to conceal the deep unease the plan stirred in her. Not only would she have to leave him alone for a longer period, but she would also be tasked with overseeing an estate she knew little about.

Richard sighed, for he, too, dreaded the thought of her leaving Darcy alone. Still, he understood why Darcy wanted Elizabeth to take charge of the estate’s affairs while he was still alive. He was granting her authority through his role as master of the house and estate.

“I married him to take all burdens from his shoulders…but it is so difficult to leave,” Elizabeth said.

“We shall look after him, I promise. And besides, you heard the man—he wants some of his friends to visit him. That is a marvellous plan that will keep him busy.”

Elizabeth nodded absently. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her love, and the thought of leaving him—of perhaps never seeing him again—terrified her. But in the end, this had been their agreement, and when she had made it, her foolish heart had remained silent, unaware of the love buried so deeply within her that she had not even felt it.

“I shall go,” she said at last.

“Yes, my dear. Looking around at what you have done here, I do not doubt you will know what to do at Pemberley,” the colonel said.

“Tomorrow, our steward, Mr Balfour, and Pemberley’s housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, will arrive here in London. Darcy wanted to introduce them to me himself.”

“That is a wise decision. He wants to make it clear that you are the mistress, and what better way to do that than to bring them to London. Then you will not travel alone.”

Richard kissed her hand before turning to leave, but he paused in the doorway, and looking at her, he said, “It has been such a pleasure to meet your father. You are such an extraordinary family!”

Elizabeth smiled as she watched him retreat across the darkened entrance hall. His compliment had been his way of saying he was sorry for what had happened in Kent. He had even apologised for his cousin, who had once been so against her family. But looking around the library she loved passionately, she could not remember a single feeling she had had for Darcy in the past. All she knew was that incredible love that had blossomed in her heart like his mother’s exquisite flowers. Yet she still hesitated to tell him how she felt before leaving for Pemberley.