Mrs. Bingley’s Sister (The Austen Novels)

Chapter 42

Darcy had only visited Sedgwick House briefly that first day, and he had been surprised to see Mrs. Wickham there. He had heard through Fitzwilliam, however, that Wickham had died, likely due to some debts or even cheating at gambling (the rumors were unclear), so in all reality, he shouldn't have been surprised to see her.

What did startle him, of course, was the young lady's coarse bluntness about her deceased husband. He felt a stab of regret for the silly, carefree girl she used to be, having to learn these lessons the most difficult way. He learned she had brought along her five children to the Bingleys and that Jane had insisted on taking them in—Bingley had been less than fond of the situation, it turned out, but he always had difficult time telling Jane no.

"She is an angel, Darcy—what can I refuse her? Could I really turn her poor sister and little nieces and nephews out into the hedgerows?"

"It is a wonder she did not arrive any earlier than Wickham's death," Darcy said, "I am amazed he stayed with her this whole time. Those children are the spitting image of Wickham, though, so it is certain they are indeed all his."

Bingley nodded and shrugged. "I suppose Wickham, for all his unscrupulousness, must have cared for his own children."

"But not enough to leave anything for them to live on, however," Darcy found himself grumbling. Even from beyond the grave, Wickham's irresponsible recklessness managed to incite Darcy's ire.

The Bingley household was technically in mourning for both Mr. Bennet and Wickham, and this meant attending formal dinner parties were out of the question; so Darcy was limited to simply calling on Sedgwick House and only staying for dinner in a more informal manner. Mrs. Bingley seemed to encourage his staying, and Elizabeth also seemed to be very receptive to seeing him.

Mrs. Wickham was interesting—she did not resemble the young, wild girl he met in Hertfordshire so many years ago, but there was still something aloof, something bordering on improper about her general air (although now that she was a widow, these things mattered less and less). She often spoke in a rough, matter-of-fact manner about things, sometimes making everyone else uncomfortable—and in that way, he supposed, she hadn't changed at all very much. But he did notice she seemed older and in a sense, wiser, and at the very least, her open acknowledgment of what kind of man Wickham was had proven to Darcy that she was not nearly as foolish as he had once believed.

He also deeply suspected that she knew about his feelings for Elizabeth, yet he could not quite put his finger onto why he harbored this suspicion. He noticed she would watch them with an attention that was pointed; she would often start a conversation with the two just to turn and abruptly leave it; and she always suggested to him how well Elizabeth looked, despite being in mourning. These things made him wonder if he had an ally in her, and perhaps, in a very odd way, they shared something of a kinship from having both been ill-used by Wickham.

One particular evening, many weeks after the Bingleys had settled at Sedgwick House, Darcy was standing by the window, gazing out after dinner, and Elizabeth was sitting at the writing desk. Mrs. Wickham approached him and began talking, and she informed him of Elizabeth's task at the desk:

"She is writing to your sister, I suppose," she said in a low voice, which startled him, as he wondered how much she knew about Georgiana and Wickham. As if she knew his very thoughts, she quickly said, "Yes, I know about what happened between her and my dear departed husband so very long ago. Wickham admitted it to me once when he was in his cups. He lamented you arriving at Ramsgate before they could elope, the scoundrel. That was one of the nights I could not look at him the same—he admitted he hated you, and how pleasing a revenge it would have been to marry your sister and get her large dowry—"

Darcy made an unpleasant face at this, and she changed subjects with a wave of her hand, "Do not worry, Darcy, I shall never reveal it. I despise the memory of my husband. The only thing he ever did right by me was that he stayed, but I suppose that was for the children; not so much for me."

"He was not a perfect man," Darcy said slowly, "But in his youth, he could have gone another way. We were boyhood friends, as I'm sure you know."

She nodded. "Indeed. He told me many tales of Pemberley. Once we are out of mourning, I should like to see the place. He always said it was the best place in all of England."

This Darcy could not deny, and he smiled to think of it. "I should think it uncanny to admit, but Wickham and I were always in agreement on that, at least.”

There was a lull, and Darcy felt compelled to ask, for some strange reason, “But certainly, you loved the man, did you not? You speak coarsely of him here, but that may be in anger—surely, after time has passed in its duration, you shall a have only the good memories to think upon when you tell your children about their father."

Darcy noticed Elizabeth shift in her seat, her pen stopped moving a moment—but he was sure she couldn't hear what they were speaking on.

"You understand me, I think," Mrs. Wickham replied, "Love is complicated, and yes, I did love him, certainly. Yes, I am angry with him, for leaving me at the mercy of relatives who are better off, who didn't swindle away their good fortune like he did. But we did have our fun, it is true."

She sighed and added wistfully, "I suppose you have found me out—I cannot forget him so soon."

Darcy was silent, but then said, "You still love him, then."

Mrs. Wickham turned to stare out the window. "I cannot forget him. Some women sing praises after a death—such as my dear Mama—even though in life, they might have been sorely vexed by their husband. But I suppose I am endeavoring to shock everyone and do the opposite: sing bitterly of Wickham's misdeeds. But, alas, I cannot forget him so soon, no. No, that I cannot."

Darcy was quiet, and Mrs. Wickham filled the silence with another observation, "But if the role was reversed, and it was I who had died and he who had lived, he might forget me very soon. It would be any man's nature, I suppose."

"It would not be the nature of any man who truly loved."

Mrs. Wickham smiled, and said, "Is that a fact?"

He answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you, as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. It is true that we may always have professions, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take us back into the world—but when we are inevitably come home, and find our house empty, quiet, and confined, our feelings prey upon us. I believe in a true analogy between our bodies and our mental; and as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings, capable of bearing the most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather."

"Your feelings may be the strongest, but the same spirit of analogy will authorize me to assert that ours are the most tender," she rebutted, then added wistfully, "Nay, we shall never agree upon this question."

Darcy nodded but then said in earnest, "All the privilege I can claim for my own sex—and it is not a very enviable one, you need not covet it—is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone."

Darcy spoke here from his heart, thinking of his endless pining for Elizabeth for years without seeing her or even hoping for a chance with her—and to almost reveal as much to her sister, whom he saved from scandal so many years ago, was seemingly the most unthinkable situation in which Darcy might have ever thought to discover himself in.

Mrs. Wickham smiled at him and said, "You are a good soul, Darcy. There is no quarreling with you."

There was a noise from where Elizabeth sat, and she was folding up her letter quite quickly. Darcy's attention was then called by Bingley, and he made his way over, leaving Mrs. Wickham by the window. He and Bingley spoke some, the evening became late, and unfortunately, Darcy was not able to speak with Elizabeth while she remained at the writing desk. Politeness required he depart, and he said his goodbyes to everyone. He left the room and made to exit out the front door, when suddenly from behind him, he heard Elizabeth say, "Mr. Darcy."

He stopped and turned. She cleared her throat and glanced at the footman standing near, before saying, in a rather loud voice, "I have a letter for Georgiana, if you do not mind delivering it when you visit Graingerfield next."

And then to his surprise, she handed him not one letter but two. He put them in his pocket, nodding his head and giving her an assurance he would carry it. She curtsied and then turned on her heel, leaving him. He turned too and departed, nervous and anticipatory as he waited for the carriage to come around, and when he finally got inside, he hastily pulled out the sheets to look.

The first, indeed, was a letter marked for Georgiana. But the other was unmarked—he tore it open as hastily as he could and read it, his heart beating wildly:

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me that I am not too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you with a heart even more your own than when I broke yours some eight years ago. Dare not say that woman forgets sooner than man, that her love has an earlier death. I didn't realize it until I read your letter in Hunsford, but I have loved none but you ever since. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! --

EB

You must go, and I am uncertain of my fate, but I shall be here at Sedgwick.

Such a letter was not to be easily recovered from, and Darcy controlled his manner, resisting the impulse to halt the carriage and run back into Sedgwick. No, no, he must be proper, he must behave with propriety...

...though he had just received a letter from an unmarried woman—propriety be damned!

He banged on the carriage roof, felt the vehicle come to a stop. He opened the door and flew out, practically running back to the estate. He rushed up the steps and barreled through the door, nearly running straight into Mrs. Wickham, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Back again so soon?"

"I need to see Elizabeth," he said with urgency.

Mrs. Wickham smiled slightly and glanced up the grand stairwell. "She may be in her chambers yet. Go—wait on the terrace."

He did as she bid and set off for the terrace attached to the sitting room, grateful he didn't run into either of the Bingleys on his way. He didn't wait long—soon a feminine clearing of the throat caught his attention, and he whipped around to see Elizabeth standing behind him. Her face was flushed, her chest slightly heaving, as if she, too, had run the whole way, and very soon he was on his knees before her, taking her hands in his.

"Elizabeth," he said her name breathlessly, "dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! My affections and wishes are unchanged from what they were eight years ago. I have loved none but you."

She looked at him with a look of longing, and after a moment softly said, whilst squeezing his hands in hers, "If this is true, why did you never say? All these years...you might have talked to me more."

"A man who had felt less, might."

He entreated her with his eyes—begging her to understand. "I tried to see you, and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me."

Here he brought one of her hands to his lips and kissed her palm. "But for your letter just now, I am sure I would have lingered on much longer. Elizabeth, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you, still. Please, be my wife."

Her face was red, but she smiled as she answered, "I love you, too—and I shall."

And how it happened, Darcy didn't know; all he knew was that he was on his feet, and they were sharing a first kiss. His lips pressed to hers and hers pressed back, his hands had hold of hers, and the kiss lingered—

"Pray tell, what is this?"

Bingley's voice forced the two apart, but Darcy kept hold of Elizabeth's hands, preventing her from skirting too far away. Darcy saw Bingley's expression, a laughing one, with Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Wickham standing behind, both smiling.

"It is, indeed, a lovely night," Bingley said laughingly, "But let us come inside and have a drink—for something tells me the two of you have an announcement to make, do you not?"

And with that, Darcy smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled blushingly back, and holding hands, they followed Bingley and Elizabeth's sisters back into Sedgwick House, to celebrate the good news.