Without Undue Pride

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Darcy hesitated before entering the hall to meet Elizabeth. He would take her to Bakewell to receive her pension, and he hoped the drive would not be filled with mortification, painful silences, or awkwardness after last night.

He had never known a woman to so resent feme covert. Some women never even considered that her legal rights were mostly subsumed by those of her husband when she wed. It was under her husband’s protection and cover she lived the rest of her life. She no longer legally existed. A married woman could not own property, or enter into a contract, or keep a salary for herself. She did not even own her own body.

It went deeper than legalities for Elizabeth. The men in her life had not abused her, stolen from her, struck her, or debased her. They had neglected her. She had been under the wing of her father, a husband, her husband’s family as a woman was supposed to, and was left penniless, unsupported, and perhaps without custody of her unborn child.

He sighed with a hand on the library door, reluctant to open it but knowing avoiding her was impossible. He loved her, but she was so caught up in the past that she could not now consider a future with him .

Would it make any difference to her if he told her his feelings and made the offers that she hinted she would not accept? Was she ready to hear that their marriage could be different from her first? Would knowing for certain that he loved her persuade her to change her mind?

He wished his cousin was here to give him advice, to tease him for his stupidity and goad him into action. But, of course, to wish for Fitzwilliam to be alive would mean Darcy would not be in love with Elizabeth. He felt guilty although he had done nothing wrong, and he missed his best friend’s guidance and banter, even while he felt relieved that his grief was no longer as deep as it had been.

If his feelings were in a tumult of confusion, what in heaven did Elizabeth feel?

Darcy entered the hall and saw Elizabeth dressed for a drive, her gaze pointedly out the window. She scarcely looked at him when he greeted her.

They were silent beyond meaningless pleasantries on the drive to the bank. Although content with a comfortable silence, he could not stand for the return drive to be as quiet. Casting about for something to say, he said after handing her carefully back into the curricle, “I read in the papers this morning that the French raised the siege of Cádiz three days ago, on the twenty-fourth.”

Elizabeth said nothing, although he knew she heard him. Keeping his eyes on the road as he drove them out of Bakewell, he added, “It had been under siege for two years but still held. It is incredible. The consequences for Wellington’s defence of Portugal and the entire war on the peninsula can only be imagined if Cádiz and the south of Spain failed to hold.”

“The patriotic reply would be to say how glad I am that my husband helped to defend us against the French. But I don’t care about lines and divisions and sieges and defences. He did not have to die.” She hefted her coin purse. “I have twenty pounds in return for Cádiz’s security.”

That was a terrible conversation. Painful silence would have been better. Darcy urged the horses a little faster. Elizabeth was widowed with a meagre income, and it occurred to him that any money she ever had would be granted to her by men. Women of her station could not work and also be considered respectable, and a married woman did not have a right to her own income if she did have employment. A daughter of a gentleman was given a fortune by her father to encourage another man to provide for her and her children. One would hope the father and the husband would be generous and invest wisely, but that was not always the case—and it was the woman who then suffered.

Elizabeth’s tone was not bitter, but it seemed to him that she had some right to feel that way.

When they returned, Elizabeth allowed the groom to hand her down, and she hurried into the house, probably to talk with Miss Lucas and have nothing to do with another man for as long as possible.

Sighing, he entered after her and was stopped by the butler with the letters, and one was from Spain with a name he did not recognise. Darcy took it into the library and tore it open to read.

Seville, August 14, 1811

Dear Sir,

I have only just discovered your letter to Major Hamilton from 10 th ultimo. I regret to inform you that my husband died. He fell behind in the march to Seville, and although I carried his knapsack and musket, he could go no farther and died of his illness a month ago.

I reviewed the major’s effects and found no copy of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s last will and testament. They were close friends and, had the colonel written one, I am certain he would have asked Major Hamilton to witness it. I realise, of course, that my testimony is insufficient for Mrs Fitzwilliam’s purposes.

There was a lieutenant in their battalion who was an attorney’s clerk and prepared documents for both soldiers and officers. My new husband tells me Lieutenant Clinton is also dead, and his widow is no longer with the regiment. To my knowledge, Mrs Clinton did not remarry. She may have remained in Cádiz or returned to his family in Portsmouth.

For Mrs Fitzwilliam’s sake, I hope Mrs Clinton can be found, and she has possession of any documents her husband was copying. Mrs Fitzwilliam is a lively and good-natured woman who was far braver than I was. I, too, was left destitute after the death of a husband, but I found my security in a swift marriage to Captain Parsons. Please pass on my regrets to Mrs Fitzwilliam and tell her I welcome her letters.

I remain your servant,

Mary Parsons

Darcy sat for a while with this distressing news. It was a setback, and it likely meant that the fate of Elizabeth’s child would not be settled before it arrived, if it ever could be. Milton would move through the courts beginning in November, if it was a boy. If this Mrs Clinton did not have the original will that her husband had been copying, he did not know where else to turn.

Folding the letter carefully, he went to climb the stairs to speak to Elizabeth.

He would say he had a letter from Spain, and she would look up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Darcy did not have the heart to break hers all over again. But that voluntary insincerity would ruin something in his own character. A strict honesty toward himself and others was the only way to live his life.

To be anything less than honest with Elizabeth would counteract every devotion of friendship between them, if not all the other deeper feelings he held for her, and that would hurt him more.

When he entered, he appeared to interrupt Miss Lucas reading aloud while Elizabeth continued to sew tiny things whose exact purpose he could not discern.

“Miss Lucas, forgive me, but I need to speak privately with Mrs Fitzwilliam. It concerns news from Spain.” Miss Lucas first looked to Elizabeth to ask if she wanted her to stay or to leave. He admired her friend’s loyalty, and perhaps Elizabeth would prefer a friend by her side rather than be tête-à-tête with him.

But Elizabeth asked if her friend wanted a break from reading, and Miss Lucas took the hint and said she would walk in the garden. When the door closed, Elizabeth said eagerly, “What news? ”

He hoped he had collected his features enough so that she was not expecting him to produce Fitzwilliam’s will. It was best to say it clearly and directly. “Major Hamilton is dead. And, far worse for us, his widow says the clerk who was likely copying your husband’s will is also dead.”

She tried to keep a calm countenance, but her lip trembled and soon her fair face was covered in tears.

“Elizabeth, please do not cry,” he entreated, sitting down next to her. “This clerk’s widow is still in Spain, or possibly even in England. We might find Fitzwilliam’s will amongst his things. I know you are afraid?—”

“Afraid?” she said in a startlingly calm voice. “Afraid was how I felt in Spain when I was hungry, alone, and despondent. But this? This certainty that, if I have a boy, Lord Milton will have all legal right to rip him from my arms? This is despair, Darcy!”

“I can only imagine how you are feeling, but?—”

“No, you cannot!” she cried. “Despair is impossible to imagine if you have never felt it. It is beyond grief. Beyond fear.”

He could not pretend to know what it was like to have your child taken from you. Even if someone had tried to remove Georgiana from his guardianship, it would not cut through his soul the same way.

“I will still try to find this Mrs Clinton to learn if Fitzwilliam’s will is amongst her husband’s documents.”

“We do not even know if he wrote a last will and testament before the battle!” Elizabeth took a heaving breath. “He might have completely abandoned me,” she seethed. “Lord Milton could take my son, and my own husband did not bother to grant me the right to keep him.”

She turned away and buried her face in her hands. It did not sound like she was sobbing, only taking deep breaths and trying to calm herself while her raging heart broke.

Darcy got up and walked about the room. She might wish for his absence, but he could not leave while she was in such a state. He wished he could resolve all of her problems and give her and her child all the happiness they deserved .

Stopping suddenly in his walk, he turned toward her. He could solve all of her problems. If Elizabeth remarried, her second husband could petition the Court of Chancery for guardianship of her son. And it was not as though she had no feelings for him and they would suffer some marriage of convenience with unequal affections. He could preserve her from want, provide her with money, raise her child.

No one had been there to aid her before, but he was here now.

He had been resolved not to speak, or at least not until Elizabeth had given up the idea that she would not remarry. But marrying him could resolve everything. She would not have to fear privation, or losing custody, or even fear not having a marriage of passion and companionship.

He sat next to her on the sofa. “I must speak, for I cannot pass another day without you knowing how ardently I admire and love you.”

Elizabeth’s mouth fell open, and he pressed on. “I had wanted to wait to ask you to marry me until you had more fully recovered from your losses, until after your year of mourning was up or your child was born. But now I see no reason to wait when our marriage would settle all of your difficulties regarding your fortune and custody of your child. In these past three months, I have come to admire your courage, your spirit, your humour, and, if you will accept my hand, I promise to love you devotedly for the rest of my days.”

Darcy felt like his heart stopped beating as Elizabeth’s complexion turned pale. “I won’t marry again,” she whispered, with a look of misery on her face. “I am grateful, so grateful for your feelings, your offers, but to accept them is impossible, especially if it is done for selfish motives.”

He had expected to need to convince her, but her outright refusal still stung his pride. Darcy took her hand in his. “What is selfish about accepting my hand? You need a husband, and I want to be your husband. Solving all of your problems by marrying me is merely an additional advantage to the match.”

“I need a husband?” she repeated. “Another man to entrust with my entire life, and the life of my child? Do you understand that I mean my life ?” She snatched her hand from his. “My safety, my finances, my reputation, everything I am as a human being, I put into my husband’s care and control. And my husband invested poorly and lost everything. I had no say in his investment decisions. He did not even grant me the right to keep my child. His family abandoned me. The men whom I was supposed to rely on left me in a garrison under siege, with no way home. Why would I trust another man with absolutely everything that I am?”

Darcy took her face in his hands, as though to physically capture all her attention. “Because he loves you. He loves you and would never forsake you.” Had he assumed wrongly? Was all the genuine affection only on his side? “Tell me you feel nothing for me, that you do not love me, and I will walk out that door.”

He could trust in their friendship, built slowly and steadily these past three months; she would not lie to him.

“Darcy, I love you better than any person in the world.”

He kissed her, with more urgency than he had yesterday. She kissed him back, making whimpering noises in the back of her throat that sent shudders of lust through him. She slipped her hands around his neck, pressing close. He loved the way she explored his lips, pressing, nibbling, and tasting.

His arms wound around her, holding her tightly, revelling in the way her fingers now ran through his hair. “This is wonderful,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Stop,” she whispered. He dropped his hands and leant away from her.

“I am sorry,” Elizabeth said hoarsely, standing and taking a few steps from him. “My affections will always remain yours, but to marry you is impossible. And I would not condemn you, condemn either of us, to an unsanctioned union. It would go against our principles. Please, please do not tempt me and kiss me again.”

Darcy fixed his eyes on her face as doubt and disbelief settled in his mind. Did she still mean to refuse him?

“It has been nearly six months since your husband died on the battlefield, and I know you have mourned him. But you also spent months in Spain wondering how you would eat, how you would get home, how you would care for your child when it came, and fearing what else you would suffer. I can solve all of your concerns over your child and your maintenance, and you never need to be without money or connexions or affection ever again.”

She shook her head unhappily, as though he were a pupil who was behind. “It is not that simple. And all that I experienced is not to be recovered from lightly.”

He stood and went to her side. “Of course not, but is that a reason to be alone?”

“I can do it alone!” she cried. In a calmer voice, she added, “Your money and position are not a reason to marry you.”

He could argue that it would be for love and devotion, but that argument had not proved strong enough thus far. As she stood across from him, it was easy for anyone to note how near to her time she really was.

“I can provide for you and your child,” he said quickly. “If we were married, I could petition the Court of Chancery to be its guardian. Milton would have no stronger a claim than I would if we were married. Elizabeth, as your husband, I can make certain we keep custody of your child.”

She refused to look at him, but kept her gaze on her stomach as she brought a hand to it. He wondered if the baby had kicked again or she was simply reassuring herself that they were there.

He had never thought about the role of a father before, only in the vaguest sense, only that he would do whatever was required of him. Now, he could more easily envision a little boy with his cousin’s features and Elizabeth’s spirit. He would commit himself to that child as much as he would to its mother.

“Your child needs a father,” he said gently. “Someone to teach him to ride, to tell him stories about Fitzwilliam, to oversee his education, and to make certain he knows how to love and treat a woman, so his wife and daughters are never in the position you were in.”

A faint gasp escaped her lips and her eyes softened. He hoped she believed him. “I might have a girl,” she said, as though this would make all his declarations and promises moot.

“Then I will teach her to ride, tell her stories about Fitzwilliam, oversee her education, and make certain she knows she is loved so well that she will never settle for a man who won’t admire and respect her.”

He saw her wavering and came forward to take her hands again. “Are you so against marrying again that you would forsake what we feel for one another? I can resolve everything that burdens you.”

Elizabeth threw off his hands and now looked furious. “You want me to shelter under your laurels. Maybe I need to plant my own tree. I want to, and I am capable of it. I have gone from one man’s protection to another’s. My father’s home, my husband’s, yours. I trusted a husband only to be disappointed. I won’t be controlled again. I don’t want to confine myself to yet another man!”

“I don’t want to shut you from all the world. I want to marry you!”

“I refuse to need anyone again,” she said firmly, “not even you.”

This stopped him cold. There was nothing else he could say, and to continue to plead his case would only show that he did not respect her enough to believe what she told him. Elizabeth was a rational creature who knew her own mind, and she did not want him.

He could not even bring himself to speak before quitting the room with a shattered heart.

“Eliza, what is the matter? You have not been yourself this morning.”

“To speak of it would only revive melancholy reflections.” Or send her into another fit of tears.

After a sympathetic sigh, Charlotte asked, “Are you missing Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

Elizabeth looked at the door to the breakfast room. Darcy had not come down. He was avoiding her. It was likely for the best, but how could she stand to remain in his house until after her baby came? She had hurt him, and their close relationship must now be over.

“Eliza?” Charlotte called her attention again. “I asked you to confide in me. Is he much on your mind today?”

She gave a brief nod. It was better to have Charlotte think she was missing her late husband rather than thinking over her regrets that she fell in love with his cousin. No, she did not regret loving Darcy, but she regretted all the misery attending to it. He was generous, knowledgeable, good in principles, and the most loyal man she had ever known, but remarriage was out of the question.

She thought she had judged wisely when she trusted her first husband to provide for her, and look what happened. Marriage was simply not worth the risk.

“You know, few people truly disapprove of second attachments,” Charlotte said carefully. “The general opinion of those with any common sense is that second attachments are pardonable, and from what you have said, Colonel Fitzwilliam was a reasonable man with an informed mind.”

“He was, but I am not pursuing a second attachment.”

It was fear of losing her autonomy that kept her from accepting Darcy, not a fear of disrespecting Fitzwilliam’s memory. She could not confess that she had refused such a splendid offer of marriage from a man who loved her and her child.

Charlotte might hate her for throwing away such an opportunity when a subservient marriage was the only future Charlotte could imagine for herself, or for any woman. Or Charlotte might think Elizabeth intended to encourage Darcy more by protesting against his proposals, and then Charlotte would do all she could to push her into Darcy’s arms.

Being in Darcy’s arms was a tempting thought, especially since she no longer only had romantic imaginings of what such a relationship would entail. She felt a heat rise in her cheeks. There was no sense wondering about being with Darcy, about sharing his bed along with his life. She might now be poor and might have to fight for her child all alone, but that was still better than committing herself into the care of another man, was it not?

Elizabeth blew out a breath and forced herself to smile at her friend. “Why do we not take a turn in the garden before it gets too hot?”

She and Charlotte set aside their napkins and rose as Darcy entered with an air more stately than usual. He was dressed for riding and had his gloves and hat in his hand. They stared at one another in painful silence while Charlotte greeted him, completely unaware of the heartache that Elizabeth felt was now stifling the room.

They both suffered the misery of disappointment in love, and they both had to hide it from everyone they held dear.

“Do you ride this morning, Mr Darcy?” Charlotte asked.

“In a way,” he answered. “I am going to Ramsgate to visit Georgiana.”

“Ramsgate!” Charlotte cried, sharing a surprised look with Elizabeth. “We thought you were not going until next week, on the third of September, if I recall.”

Darcy answered her while looking directly at Elizabeth. “I want to know how my sister is faring. There is no reason to put off my visit. And perhaps you ladies need a little relief from having a man always around.”

Charlotte smiled and demurred, thinking it was a polite joke, but Elizabeth shook her head. If anyone was to leave Pemberley, it was her. “This is your house,” she breathed. “I?—”

“And you are always welcome in it,” he said firmly. “Always.”

She could not cry. He was leaving to spare both of their feelings, but he still wanted her to have her child here. He would not resent her even for breaking his heart. Surely, it was the baby that made her ready to cry at his generosity.

“I will return in three weeks,” he said, more to Charlotte than her, “or perhaps a little longer. I will visit Georgiana for a week and then visit our friends at Netherfield. If any of your families near Meryton have letters or parcels for you, I will bring them when I return.”

Charlotte was saying all the well-mannered nothings of gratitude and civility while Elizabeth’s thoughts were in a whirl. His leaving was for the best. She had been too reliant on Darcy’s company, his friendship, his kindness. With all of their inappropriate feelings of love and her rejection weighing on them, this separation was wise.

If it was wise, why did it hurt so much?

“Goodbye, Mrs Fitzwilliam,” he said gently. “I wish you—you both,” he corrected with a downward glance and shy smile, “good health.”

“Darcy,” she whispered, offering her hand and wishing Charlotte was not here to witness her farewell, “I am sorry for everything.”

“Let us be forever silent on that point.” There was a finality in his voice that struck her. He bowed over her hand, parted from Charlotte, and was gone.

It was selfish of her to indulge in a friendship with him now, and this parting was in the best interests and happiness of both of them. Darcy was embarrassed and dejected, and he would solve that by avoiding her. His feelings of love would likely fade, and by the time he returned he would be enough recovered to reside in the same house again.

What about my feelings? She could be neither too free nor too reserved with him when he returned, but what if her love had not abated by the time he returned at the end of September?

He would act honourably toward his cousin’s neglected wife, but their close relationship was over. Any love he once held for her must naturally sink after her refusal. Even though she loved him, putting herself under his power, being a wife again, could never make her happy.

If she had not conquered these feelings by the time Darcy was due to return, she would have to leave Pemberley.