Some Particular Evil

Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“ N o!” Charlotte’s sharp retort shocked her husband, her sister, and Elizabeth. Evidently, pregnancy was to have an interesting effect on Charlotte’s usually unflappable demeanour. Mr Collins bowed his apology to his wife and retracted his heretofore outstretched hand, which held a serving fork skewered with boiled mutton. Elizabeth did not blame her friend; she was not too keen on sampling the grey lump of flesh herself.

“My dear Charlotte, I only wish for you to stay well-fed during this most precarious time, for as Lady Catherine says, the first four months are absolutely crucial. The mother must give the most vigilant care to her health. Even a woman such as yourself, who comes from such stout, sturdy country stock, as my distinguished patroness so insightfully noted, must take utmost precaution during this vital period of foetal development. We would not wish to suffer a miscarriage simply because you refuse to follow the regimen of diet and rest Lady Catherine herself so condescendingly prescribed for you! Imagine what Lady Catherine would say if she were to find that?—”

Elizabeth’s cousin did not have the chance to finish his sentence before his wife, whose face had become quite red during his speech, stood so abruptly that her chair flew back and crashed to the floor. He opened his eyes, which had drifted closed during his recitation, to see Charlotte lift her plate into the air and slam it against the table, launching what was left of her soft-boiled egg and toast straight upward.

“I do not give a fig what Lady Catherine recommends or what she thinks! Why, I have half a mind to walk right up to her and…and…stick my finger in her nose! What would your precious Lady Catherine say to that?” At her husband’s horrified gasp, Charlotte marched out of the room, mumbling words Elizabeth would have sworn sounded like odious or perhaps obsequious, leaving a trail of destruction and one very confused Mr Collins in her wake.

Elizabeth could not blame her dear friend. She was shackled for life to a man who cared more for the good opinion and welfare of his employer than that of his wife. Charlotte would have the burden of raising her son or daughter to be balanced and self-assured while her husband was the picture of prideful servility and nonsense. Her friend had admitted that she had lied about her contentment when Elizabeth had first arrived; Charlotte was miserable. But when Elizabeth had made efforts to commiserate with her, she had made it clear she did not wish for sympathy.

Her cousin turned to Maria and herself to defend the rightness of his stance and garner their support. Elizabeth gave him what she hoped was a sympathetic smile and excused herself.

She had not received a second letter from Mr Darcy, and it had been several days since she had sent hers. Elizabeth had been sure he would reply immediately, and his delay was causing her more than a little anxiety. She would make her way to the post office and if he had still not written, she would move on to her next item of enquiry—interviewing Rosings’s housekeeper, Mrs Walker.

To her delight, there waiting in general delivery was a letter with her name on it. She happily gave the postmaster his coin and attempted to calm her racing heart as she made her way back towards the arthritic oak, where she planned to sit and ruminate on Fitzwilliam Darcy’s words for her. When Elizabeth arrived, she was relieved to see there was no Colonel Fitzwilliam loitering about, reading his own letter. She had the tree and its shade to herself, and she would take full advantage of the solitude.

April 20, 1812, Cheapside, London

My dear niece,

I am delighted to inform you that your aunt and I have returned to our house, and all the necessary repairs have been made. What a muddle that was, what with the wet plaster melting into the rugs, but it has been remedied to your aunt’s satisfaction, and we and the children are again safely situated in our own home.

Please do not worry your head over the actions of a common ne’er-do-well, my dear. Wiser persons than yourself—not to demean your own wisdom, dear one—have been taken in by such confidence men as Mr W, and I regret to say that many more may yet be. Let us forget the whole exchange, shall we?

I examined the sketch you so obligingly sent, and I confess I have never seen the like of it. It was quite disturbing to hear the history of how it was obtained, and I am sorry you were made to witness such an unsavoury scene. I believe this lady with whom you visit must be more uncouth than should be assumed by her station. Why, our maid at the inn was more discreet—despite growing up in the bowels of London. Alas, I have learnt that rank and degree of gentility do not necessarily translate into good manners and fine morals. (Remember that dear one—let no man hold you of lesser account because of your birth. You are worth ten of these high-born Ton ladies, and any gentleman who does not recognise your incalculable worth is the most dunderheaded of dolts!)

You spoke of the colonel’s oft seeking your company. I hope you are not entertaining a match there, Niece. I am sure he is the best of men, but he is not for you. He is a terrible flirt, I would assume, and not nearly clever enough for you. Why, I hear the hygiene among army officers is deplorable! No, no. Do not let him charm you, Elizabeth. Nor give him any idea that you might entertain his suit, should he offer it. You must hold out for a gentleman. A gentleman with at least ten thousand a year. A tall one.

I am sorry that you must be privy to the arguments and animosity playing out at Rosings. What a strange turn of events for the ever-sickly Miss de Bourgh to suddenly claim robust health! I have never seen the like. As for the claims that Miss dB stole the necklace from her aunt Lady Anne, that is not surprising. As no one would have reason to inventory her jewels after that lady’s leaving her home, it makes sense that a child of twelve might take the opportunity to appropriate something she admired. Too, her mother’s being so adamantly offended by her wearing it is only logical—it shows a want of character in her daughter, and thereby a fault in her raising, does it not? I would not distress yourself over it; it is probably just a mother-daughter spat and means little in the great scheme of things.

I dearly wish for you to come to London, Elizabeth. Do you not pass through on your way to Hertfordshire? Can you not come to see me for a time before travelling on to Longbourn? Tell me the day on which you will arrive, and I shall meet you at the coaching inn myself.

As for the goings-on here, you must be glad to hear that I have spent my days in healthful exercise. I shall not tell you what sort, to spare your feminine sensibilities, but I will hint that I have returned home many an evening with bruises and sore muscles. It sounds rather horrifying when I put it that way but rest assured—the physical exertion and the association with likeminded fellows have been in every way beneficial. Between visiting my club and conducting necessary business, I find my hours far more full than I expected. It makes the days pass quickly, so I do not complain.

Write me again, dear one. Until we meet again, I remain,

Yours

He did not close with a name, neither his own nor her uncle’s. Only a word.

Yours

Elizabeth revelled in his confession that he was hers for a moment before she comprehended that there were two leaves of paper in her hands. Glancing at the second page, she understood.

April 20, 1812, London

Dearest Elizabeth,

I cannot post the last letter without writing from my heart. To say that your confessions affected me deeply would be the greatest understatement. Can a woman such as yourself truly value my friendship? Is it possible that such wisdom, wit, charm, and beauty might wish to attach herself even in friendship to such an oafish fool? I must confess, I was devastated when I learnt your true opinion of me, but that part heals a bit each time I read your reassuring words. But who could blame you for speaking as you did on that fateful day? While I appreciate that you now know more of my character and choose to think better of me, you had then every reason to believe me selfish and disdainful, for I was. What kindness must dwell in you to forgive such arrogance and presumption. Thank you, darling Elizabeth, for not suspending me in the moment and graciously allowing me to grow in your esteem.

It is no great revelation that I miss you, for as I told you in Kent, my affection runs deep and true. But, for you to say you miss me—can Heaven be so wonderful? Tell me not that I am reading too much into your words, for the thought that the loveliest woman of my acquaintance, the one who holds my heart in her delicate hands, might think of me fondly from afar may be the only thing sustaining me through this desperate and unsure plight in which I find myself.

And unsure, it certainly is. Just this evening, I espied two men at my inn asking after me by name. I do not wish to frighten you, strong though I know you to be, but they were the very men whose whispers you overheard at Rosings. I have made enquiries and now know that I am not a wanted man, not by the courts, at any rate. The charge of treason was a complete fabrication. No doubt they chose such a heinous accusation in hopes that it would discourage my family from coming to my side at Newgate, thus giving the villains time to get to Scotland before anyone realised I had never made it to the prison at all.

Do not worry overmuch, I beg you, for I was not three yards from the men, and they took no note of me. I am still wearing your disguise—my eternal thanks to Jem—and though my hair is growing, I have been spending many hours a day on the rooftop of the inn, and it is considerably lighter as a result of the sunshine. (Tom-Tom and I have our reading lessons there each day, as my room is rather cramped, and the other areas of the inn are far too public. I do not think I mentioned Tom-Tom in my first letter; he is my shadow, my errand-runner, and mayhap my only friend. I believe he will attain nine years in the fall, but his conversation is diverting and engrossing beyond his years.) As I have neither a valet nor a strop, my face is covered in a dark red beard my Irish ancestors would have been quite proud of. I shall be sorry to see it go when I return to Darcy House and my former life.

And you? Please tell me there is hope that I might yet gaze upon your loveliness, Elizabeth. This is my dearest wish—hang Derbyshire, hang all of England! If only I might once more hear your voice.

Of course, you must burn this missive, as it is clearly from me, but I could not refrain from telling you what has been lying on my heart these many days, in hope that it will not overwhelm you. Until I see your sparkling eyes again, I remain?—

Yours, completely,

Fitzwilliam

He was hers. He had made that abundantly clear in his second missive, the one he commanded her to burn after reading. How could she ever do so?

It was his declaration, his whole heart laid out for her on paper. She had begun to feel the honour of his proposal soon after he left, but to understand the depths of his admiration for her—her person, her mind, her heart—this was like honey to her soul, and she wished to keep it with her always.