Page 15

Elizabeth

E lizabeth sat opposite Darcy in the small family dining room.

Though the summer evening remained light beyond the windows, tradition dictated candles at dinner, and Elizabeth found comfort in the familiar ritual.

The first course had been served and removed, the second presented with quiet efficiency, yet she had scarcely tasted a morsel.

Her thoughts remained tangled in the letters from home, in the unexpected discovery of Wickham’s portrait, in the growing complexity of her situation.

“The fish is excellent,” Darcy remarked, breaking a silence that had stretched uncomfortably long. “Cook has a particular talent with trout.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, though she had hardly registered its flavour. She took a small bite, knowing she ought to make some effort at conversation, yet finding herself uncharacteristically bereft of words.

Darcy studied her face in the flickering candlelight. “The letters from your family,” he began gently, “I gather they contained distressing news?”

Elizabeth set down her fork. “Not news, precisely, but confirmation of what I feared. My departure has caused considerable upheaval.”

“That was perhaps inevitable,” Darcy observed. “Though I imagine their reactions varied.”

“My mother’s letter was particularly…” Elizabeth hesitated, searching for a tactful description, “…vivid in its expression.”

Darcy’s mouth curved slightly. “I suspect Mrs Bennet is not one to conceal her emotions.”

“No, indeed. She has taken to her smelling salts with remarkable frequency, it seems.” Elizabeth paused, then continued with a sigh. “My mother believes I have ruined the family’s reputation by my actions. The Blackfriars have not been silent regarding the broken engagement.”

“What tales do they spread?” Darcy asked, his expression darkening.

“They accuse me of covetous motives and capricious character. Of leading Jonathan astray only to abandon him for a wealthier prospect.” Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with the unfairness of it. “As if I had sought you out with calculation rather than chance.”

“Such accusations reflect poorly on their own character, not yours,” Darcy said. “No person of sense would believe them.”

“Meryton is not overpopulated with persons of sense, I fear,” Elizabeth replied with a rueful smile. “My mother is quite certain our neighbours whisper behind their hands whenever the Bennet name is mentioned. Her only consolation is that I have married into wealth and consequence.”

Elizabeth did not mention her mother’s none too subtle hints about financial assistance, nor her explicit request that Darcy help break the entailment on Longbourn.

Something in her expression must have revealed the omission, for Darcy regarded her with those keen eyes that seemed to perceive more than she wished to share. He did not press, however, but merely nodded and waited for her to continue.

“My father’s letter was more measured,” she said. “He expressed disappointment that I had not confided in him regarding our acquaintance before my departure. He believes he might have arranged matters differently had he known.”

“Would he have?” Darcy asked. “Given what you have told me of the Blackfriars pact, I wonder if your father would have been willing to set it aside, even for a more advantageous match.”

“He admits his fault in not being transparent regarding Longbourn’s finances. That is something, at least.” Elizabeth traced the pattern on her plate with her fork. “He acknowledges he should have accepted my uncle’s assistance rather than pursuing an alliance with the Blackfriars.”

“A painful admission for a proud man,” Darcy observed.

“Indeed.” Elizabeth took a sip of wine. “He declines your offer of a banker’s assistance,” she continued. “He suggests my Uncle Gardiner has arranged matters satisfactorily, though he does not elaborate on the particulars.”

“I am pleased to hear he has accepted help from family, at least,” Darcy replied. “Though my offer remains open should circumstances change.”

Elizabeth nodded, then found to her mortification that tears gathered in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, determined not to give way to emotion at the dinner table, yet found herself unable to master her feelings.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, pressing her napkin to her eyes. “I had not expected to be so affected.”

Darcy set down his knife and reached across the table, his hand covering hers in a gesture of comfort that startled her with its warmth. “There is nothing to forgive. Your concern for your family is natural and commendable.”

Elizabeth stared at their joined hands, struck by the unexpected intimacy of the touch. In their fortnight at Pemberley, they had maintained a careful physical distance, though often she wished for that gentle touch the morning he had wrapped his arm around her.

Yet now his fingers curled around hers, strong and steady, offering silent comfort. The gesture seemed to bridge the careful space they had maintained between them, creating a connection that transcended all they planned for.

Something in Darcy’s expression suggested he might rise from his chair, might come to her side, might offer an embrace of comfort. But the moment passed, and he withdrew his hand, his posture straightening as if to reassert the boundaries of their understanding.

“My own family’s responses have been similarly mixed,” he said. “My Aunt Catherine has written a letter comprising fifteen pages of outrage and recrimination. She suggests I have been bewitched by arts and allurements, and demands I seek an annulment posthaste.”

Despite her distress, Elizabeth could not suppress a small laugh. “Bewitched by arts and allurements? That sounds most dramatic. I fear I possess no such powers, or I should have conjured myself a less wrinkled wedding gown.”

Darcy’s smile was brief but genuine. “My uncle and aunt Matlock express dismay at the hasty nature of our union but are more measured in their response. My cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam writes with his customary good humour that he looks forward to meeting the woman who managed what a parade of eligible young ladies has failed to accomplish for years—namely, leading me to the altar.”

“And your sister?” Elizabeth asked, curious about the young woman Darcy had spoken of with such affection.

“Georgiana writes with joy and excitement,” he replied. “She is eager to meet you.”

“I should like that,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “From your description, she seems a most amiable young woman.”

“She is,” Darcy agreed. “Though painfully shy with strangers. I hope you will be patient with her reserve. She had a rather unfortunate experience some time ago with someone she trusted who most savagely hurt her and she has not yet recovered.” He paused, then added, “In any case, we expected backlash from our families, did we not? Yet I believe in time they will come to accept our situation.”

“Jane also wrote,” Elizabeth remarked. “Though I have not yet read her letter. I find myself reluctant to face even her gentle judgement this evening.”

“You fear her disapproval?” Darcy asked.

“Not precisely. But I could not bear it if she, too, were disappointed in me. My father’s censure is painful enough without adding Jane’s.”

“Perhaps the morning will bring a clearer perspective,” Darcy suggested. “You need not face all challenges at once.”

Elizabeth nodded gratefully, appreciating his understanding. “I shall read her letter tomorrow, when I am better prepared to receive whatever, she may say.”

They finished their meal, the worst of the tension dissolved by their conversation. When the last course had been cleared away, Darcy rose from his chair.

“Would you care to join me in the library for a while?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to retire?”

Elizabeth hesitated. The offer was tempting—Pemberley’s library had quickly become her favourite room in the house, and the prospect of quiet conversation with Darcy held unexpected appeal.

Yet her emotions remained raw from the letters, and she feared further discussion might lead to tears she could no longer contain.

“I think I shall retire,” she said at last. “The day has been rather more taxing than I anticipated.”

“Of course,” Darcy replied. “I shall see you at breakfast, then.”

He escorted her to the foot of the grand staircase and bade her farewell.

***

Once in her chamber, she looked at her sister’s letter, sitting there on the dresser.

Though she had resolved to wait until morning, the sight of Jane’s familiar hand drew her irresistibly.

Sleep would prove elusive with the unopened letter haunting her thoughts.

Reluctantly, she broke the seal and settled into the upholstered chair by the window, drawing her shawl about her shoulders.

Beloved sister,

I cannot pretend to understand fully your decision, but I trust your judgement and know you would not have taken such a step without grave cause. Father and Mother will have told you about the Blackfriars and their responds so I shall not repeat it here.

Pay their falsehoods no mind, dearest sister. Those who truly know you understand your true motives. Indeed, had such motives driven you, you would have acquiesced to the Blackfriars match rather than risk all on an uncertain future.

She wrote for another page about the fallout, about what was being said in town and who was on her side—Charlotte, Maria, some of the townsfolk—and who was against her. Then, her letter took a turn towards normalcy, which Elizabeth appreciated immensely.

On a brighter note, we hear that Netherfield Park is to be let at last for the summer. A gentleman from the north, a Mr Bingley, plans to arrive within the month. Mama is already speculating on his fortune and marital status, as you might imagine.

I miss you terribly, Lizzy. The house seems strangely quiet without your laughter and wit. Write when you can, and know that whatever circumstances led to your marriage, I wish only for your happiness.

Your loving sister, Jane

Elizabeth folded the letter with a sigh, grateful for Jane’s support. She should have read it earlier, for she might have felt less inclined to cry at the dinner table.

Taking a sheet of Pemberley’s fine stationery, she dipped her quill and began to write:

My dearest Jane,

Your letter brought me more comfort than I can express. To know that you, at least, do not condemn my actions lifts a weight I carried.

As to my marriage to Mr Darcy, I can only say that fate intervened in the most unexpected manner.

You would like him, Jane. He is reserved in company but possesses a quiet thoughtfulness I have come to value.

He treats me with unfailing courtesy and consideration, and has opened his home to me with remarkable generosity.

Under different circumstances, I believe we might have formed a true attachment.

As it stands, we are developing a friendship.

Elizabeth paused, quill hovering above the paper as she considered how much to reveal of the growing complexity of her feelings for Darcy.

In their fortnight at Pemberley, she had discovered layers to his character that intrigued and impressed her.

His love for his home and those who depended upon it, his quiet humour that emerged in unguarded moments, his intelligence and breadth of reading—all combined to form a portrait of a man quite different from her initial impression.

She decided against sharing such nebulous reflections and continued on firmer ground:

I made a curious discovery today. Among the portraits in Pemberley’s gallery hangs a likeness of George Wickham.

It seems he was raised alongside Mr Darcy as the son of the old steward.

The housekeeper speaks of him with evident dislike, suggesting he behaved with ingratitude towards the family after the elder Mr Darcy’s death.

You may recall how bitterly Wickham spoke of a gentleman who denied him his inheritance.

I now believe he referred to Mr Darcy, though he never mentioned Pemberley specifically.

I find myself uncertain what to believe.

Wickham possessed such charm and easy manners, yet now that I know Mr Darcy, I find it hard to believe him anymore.

I have not yet mentioned my acquaintance with Wickham to Mr Darcy. I am uncertain whether I should. The coincidence seems too remarkable to ignore, yet I hesitate to introduce a subject that might create tension in our newly established household.

What would you advise, dearest Jane? You have always possessed better judgement in such matters than I.

Give my love to all at Longbourn. Tell Papa that my new home provides an excellent library where I pursue my writing with fresh vigour.

And know, dear sister, that you are ever in my thoughts and heart.

Your loving sister, Elizabeth

Elizabeth set down her quill and moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit grounds of Pemberley.

Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—a woman caught between worlds, between families, between the safe harbour of friendship and the uncertain waters of deeper feeling. What tale was unfolding here?

Was she merely a character in someone else’s design, or might she yet write her own ending?