Page 23 of The Power of Refusal

A s the carriage crested a hill, the Alton parsonage came into view; a tidy, stone building of two stories nestled among rolling green fields. The gardens were neat, showing Mary’s hand in their pristine rows and carefully planned order. A flutter of anticipation replaced some of Elizabeth’s melancholy as she caught sight of her beloved younger sister waiting by the gate.

Stepping from the carriage on legs stiff from travel, Elizabeth’s spirits lifted. The fresh country air, rich with the scent of blooming flowers and newly mown hay, invigorated her senses. Mary offered an awkward embrace, her expanded girth making an obstacle between the two. Elizabeth felt some of her misery fade as she absorbed the welcome, noting the softness in Mary’s usually stern features and the quiet joy radiating from her eyes.

“Lizzy,” Mary murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so glad you have come.”

In the weeks that followed, Elizabeth found solace in the quiet routines of the parsonage. Mrs Couper the elder, mother to Mary’s husband, lived in the parsonage, her dour expression and critical eye tempering every joy. Elizabeth and Mary spent long afternoons in the back parlour, whilst the elder Mrs Couper sat in the main drawing room. Mary’s fingers danced over piano keys whilst Elizabeth stitched tiny garments for the impending arrival. Their conversations, once stilted by Mary’s moralistic lectures, now flowed with surprising ease, at least when it was just the two of them. Elizabeth discovered a newfound appreciation for her sister’s steady nature and practical wisdom.

As Mary’s time drew near, Elizabeth was caught up in anticipation. She helped prepare the nursery, lining drawers with lavender and folding tiny muslin garments. The sisters often sat in the garden, shelling peas or trimming roses, their laughter mingling with the buzzing of bees and the distant bleating of sheep.

Mrs Couper tutted her disapproval when Mary’s exhaustion kept her home from church. She scarcely contained her vexation upon learning that her daughter-in-law’s delicate condition had rendered her unequal to Sunday worship. The elderly lady’s lips pursed in a most disapproving manner, her weathered countenance a tableau of stern judgement.

“In my day,” Mrs Couper proclaimed with no small measure of hauteur, “we did not allow the mere discomfort of impending motherhood to keep us from our Christian duties. Why, I recall attending services on the very morn my boy was born!”

Despite her mother-in-law’s protestations, Mary remained abed, her swollen form a testament to the imminent arrival of the newest Couper. The gentle rise and fall of the counterpane betrayed her exhaustion, her face pale against the crisp linens.

Elizabeth stepped into the breach with admirable alacrity. She bustled about the house, her skirts swishing as she tended to Mary’s needs and mollified her mother-in-law’s ruffled feathers. She prepared a tray of weak tea and dry toast for Mary, whilst simultaneously arranging for Mrs Couper’s customary pre-service repast.

As the church bells tolled, calling the faithful to worship, Mrs Couper sat ramrod straight in the parson’s pew, her prayer book clutched tightly in gnarled hands, muttering about the decline of propriety in modern times and scowling at the vocal baby in the pew behind.

∞∞∞

Since Georgiana’s marriage and her exhortation for Darcy to marry one day too, his ache for Elizabeth intensified with each passing day. Unable to let the matter rest, Darcy determined he must see for himself whether Elizabeth was now the wife of the parson of St Lawrence church in Alton. He fabricated an excuse to leave London. With a hastily packed saddlebag, he rode alone to Alton, the rhythmic clop of his horse’s hooves matching his turbulent heartbeat. At the town’s finest inn, he registered anonymously, tossing and turning through a restless night.

Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear. Darcy’s boots crunched on the gravel path as he approached St Lawrence Church. His critical eye caught the crumbling mortar between stones and the alarming screech of hinges as he pulled open the heavy oak door. How had that man employed the funds he had sent if not to repair that infernal noise?

Inside, the air hung thick with the mingled odours of beeswax candles, musty hymnals, and the earthy smell of the assembled congregation. Darcy slipped into a rear pew, the smooth, worn wood cool beneath him. From his vantage point, he surveyed the pulpit, and the front pew reserved for the parson’s family.

Two women occupied the bench. The elder, white-haired and rail-thin, wore an expression of perpetual disapproval. Her hawkish gaze silenced a young man’s too-loud whispers. Beside her sat a figure whose familiar posture caused Darcy’s heart to race, his palms suddenly damp with sweat.

She wore a deep green cloak, its rich colour a stark contrast to her simple, unadorned bonnet, perfectly fitting for a parson’s wife. A wayward lock of chestnut hair had escaped its pins, curling invitingly at her nape. Darcy inhaled sharply as she turned her head, the curve of her cheek unmistakable. That rosy, glowing complexion that had haunted his dreams was mere yards away, tantalizingly close yet impossibly distant.

The floorboards creaked as the parson emerged, a tall, angular fellow with thinning hair. Darcy barely registered the scripture, his attention fixed solely on the figure before him. As the congregation rose to sing, he strained to pick out her voice amidst the cacophony of off-key warblers surrounding him.

During the sermon, Darcy grew restless, willing her to turn. He needed to see her face, to confirm that all hope was truly lost. A child’s wail pierced the air, and she turned, offering a sympathetic smile to the flustered mother. Darcy’s stomach lurched violently. It was undeniably Elizabeth.

For a fleeting moment, joy threatened to overtake him, a smile tugging at his lips. He quickly ducked his head, heart pounding, lest Mrs Couper recognise him in her husband’s congregation. How could he possibly explain his presence? How could he speak to her knowing she was lost to him?

In furtive glances around the bobbing heads before him, Darcy drank in her beloved features. She was nearly unchanged, those fine eyes still captivated him, her beauty undiminished. She appeared content, her warm expression radiating kindness. Though it pained him grievously, he must reconcile himself to her new situation as the parson's wife, and find what comfort he could her apparent health and security.

As the congregation rose to pray, bile scorched Darcy’s throat. A wave of heat washed over him, his chest constricting painfully. Under cover of rustling fabric and shuffling feet, he slipped from the pew. Careful not to disturb the squealing hinges of the church door, he escaped into the brisk morning air.

Gasping, Darcy doubled over, willing himself not to retch up his hearty inn breakfast.

Once the nausea subsided, he straightened, his legs unsteady as he mounted his horse. The familiar motions of riding offered little comfort as he urged his mount toward London. To his dismay, hot tears blurred his vision, forcing him to fumble for his handkerchief. With a ragged breath, he steadied himself against the onslaught of misery.

It was done. Seated in the space reserved for the parson’s family, she attended to her husband’s sermon. She was indeed married, extinguishing his last flicker of hope. He vowed to ensure the parsonage would never want for necessities, regardless of the parish’s income.

Though his heart lay shattered, he would find a way to be grateful for her continued health and happiness. He would persevere, even as each breath felt like agony.

∞∞∞

As the congregation took their seats after the first hymn, a plaintive wail pierced through the hallowed air. A babe, no more than a few months old, had begun to cry in the arms of its young mother, seated several rows behind.

Mrs Couper’s reaction was as swift as it was severe. Her thin lips pursed into a moue of displeasure, and she turned her head with a sharp jerk, fixing the hapless mother with a glare that could have curdled milk. “In my day,” she hissed to Elizabeth, her voice barely above a whisper yet laden with reproach, “children were seen and not heard, particularly in the house of God.”

Elizabeth, however, felt her heart soften at the sound. Her eyes, warm with empathy, sought out the flustered mother who was now attempting to quiet her child. As she turned to smile at Mrs Thomas, whose little one making his annoyance heard, her heart nearly stopped.

There, several pews behind and to her left, was a tall figure with dark, wavy hair. The set of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head—everything about him evoked Mr Darcy. Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat, her hands trembling as she gripped her prayer book.

Throughout the remainder of the service, she could not concentrate on Mr Couper’s words. She longed to allow her gaze to drift back to the gentleman, though she could not fully see him from her position. Her mind raced with possibilities. Had he sought her out? Was this a chance encounter? What would she say to him?

As the final notes of the organ faded away, Elizabeth’s heart pounded with anticipation.

She rose quickly, intending to make her way to him before he could leave. But as the congregation began to file out, she was unable to find him in the crowd.

Frustrated, she forced herself to join Mr Couper in greeting the crush of people, all the whilst searching faces and straining to catch a glimpse of that tall figure. Outside the church at last, she scanned the churchyard, looking for him among the clusters of parishioners engaged in their usual post-service conversations.

“Mr Darcy,” she sighed, earning curious glances from nearby churchgoers. But there was no sign of him. Elizabeth sunk onto a nearby bench, her emotions a mix of disappointment and self-recrimination. Had she imagined it all? Was her longing for him so strong that she now saw him where he could not be?

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Enough,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “You must forget him, Lizzy. This foolishness cannot continue.”

Opening her eyes, she gazed at the simple stone church, its weathered walls a testament to endurance. She tried to draw strength from its solidity, to steady her resolve.

“Mr Darcy is part of your past,” she told herself firmly. “It is time to look to the future, whatever it may hold.”

With a final, wistful glance around the now-emptying churchyard, Elizabeth rose and began the walk back to the parsonage. Each step felt heavy, as if she were leaving behind not just the church, but the last lingering hopes of a future with Mr Darcy.

As she walked, she forced herself to focus on the beauty of the day—the gentle breeze rustling the leaves, the warmth of the sun on her face, the cheerful songs of birds in the hedgerows. She would throw herself into helping Mary with the baby, she decided. She would write long letters to Jane and immerse herself in books. She would find contentment in the simple pleasures of country life. She would forge a future as a maiden aunt and a secret artist and resign herself to the peripatetic existence of a poor relation.

And yet, try as she might to banish him from her thoughts, the image of that tall, proud figure in the church pew lingered, a bittersweet reminder of what might have been.

∞∞∞

Mary’s labour began. Mrs Couper, despite her years of experience, proved to be more of a hindrance than a help. She paced the drawing room, her cane tapping an erratic rhythm on the polished floors, pausing only to offer unsolicited and often outdated advice.

“In my day,” she proclaimed for the umpteenth time, her voice shrill with agitation, “we didn’t make such a fuss. Why, I delivered my child with nary a whimper!”

Elizabeth, her face pale with concern, hovered uncertainly at the foot of the stairs. As an unmarried lady, this was unfamiliar territory. She was torn between her desire to aid her sister-in-law and the propriety that dictated her distance from such matters.

“Ought I fetch more linens, Mrs Couper?” Elizabeth ventured, wringing her hands.

The elderly matriarch scoffed. “Linens? Pah! What Mary needs is to stop this caterwauling and comport herself with dignity. Go up there and tell her to bite down on a leather strap. That’ll quiet her.”

Elizabeth blanched at the suggestion, her eyes wide with horror. “Surely, ma’am, we should offer comfort rather than—”

“Comfort?” Mrs Couper interrupted, her tone dripping with disdain. “Childbirth is not meant to be comfortable, girl. It is a woman’s duty and burden to bear.”

At that moment, a particularly sharp cry from Mary echoed through the house, causing Elizabeth to start and Mrs Couper to cluck her tongue disapprovingly.

The midwife, a stout woman named Mrs Danvers, appeared at the top of the stairs. Her face ruddy and damp with exertion, she called out, “Miss Elizabeth! Be a good lass and fetch us some cool water and fresh rags, will ye?”

Elizabeth, grateful for clear direction, nodded eagerly and hurried towards the kitchen.

Mrs Couper, however, was not to be sidelined. She hobbled towards the stairs, her face set with grim determination. “I shall attend to Mary myself,” she declared. “Heaven knows she needs a firm hand to guide her through this ordeal.”

Mrs Danvers, with the resolve of a general, intercepted the elderly lady at the foot of the stairs. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs Couper, but the poor lamb’s in a right state. Why don’t ye make yerself comfortable and see the kitchen girl brews up a nice tonic for after? That’d be a right help, it would. Rest now.”

As Mrs Couper sputtered indignantly, Elizabeth reappeared with the requested items. Mrs Danvers nodded reassuringly.

“There’s a good girl. Come on up with me, Miss Elizabeth. Ye can lend a hand with yer sister. A kind face’ll do ’er a world of good, it will.” Elizabeth, both terrified and determined, ascended the stairs, leaving Mrs Couper below, muttering about the decline of proper birthing practices and the weakness of modern women.

As Elizabeth entered Mary’s chamber, the reality of childbirth struck her full force. She gathered her strength, resolving to be the calm and supportive presence that Mary so desperately needed. Elizabeth held her sister’s hand through the long night, whispering encouragement and wiping her brow. As dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, a tiny cry heralded the arrival of Mary’s daughter.

Elizabeth cradled her niece, marvelling at the perfection of tiny fingers and the downy softness of newborn skin. As she gazed into the infant’s unfocused eyes, she felt a profound shift within herself. The ache of lost love remained, but it was tempered now by a new understanding of life’s unexpected joys and the enduring bonds of family. She would fill her life with the nieces and nephews her sisters bore, if she would never have a child of her own.

Mary, exhausted but radiant, reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Thank you, sister,” she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude and a depth of feeling Elizabeth rarely seen in her most pragmatic sibling.