Chapter 12 #4
The word had been on his lips before, but it sounded different to her in that moment.
It was not the proud, inflexible duty she had once mocked in him, cold and abstract and pleased with its own hardness.
He had, in the space of an hour, risked a hurt for her without a thought, and was now preparing to take upon himself the disagreeable business of a ruined farm so that others might be the safer for it.
“I am sorry,” she said, after a little pause. “For Pemberley’s sake, and for ours.”
“For yours.” He glanced down at her quickly, as if the words had surprised him.
“You know you have been of great use to us here,” she said, forcing herself to keep her tone light. “Georgiana will be sadly missed, and Longbourn has grown very much accustomed to your judgement. We shall all feel the loss of it.”
He looked away again. “You do me more honour than I deserve. However, my tenants have as much claim upon me as any one here. I must go and set matters to rights, if I can.”
They walked on a few steps without speaking.
Elizabeth’s hand still rested on his arm.
The sleeve beneath her glove was rough with dried mud where the stone had struck it.
The knowledge that he would soon be gone, that the man who had, without an instant’s hesitation, put himself between her and danger would shortly be at a distance of many miles, sat strangely with the idea she had so long cherished of him as only proud and overbearing.
It was not a reflection to be pursued with comfort whilst she yet leant on his arm.
She turned the conversation, with an effort, to Georgiana’s prospects at home and to the damage on the Pemberley farms, asking whether the tenants would suffer greatly and how soon the buildings might be repaired.
Yet even as they spoke of barns and tenants and housekeepers, the recollection of his arm about her and the steadiness with which he had faced the frightened horse would not be entirely driven away.
Later, when she was alone in her room, she found it impossible to recall, with any degree of calmness, the exact moment when he had caught her up.
She knew only that, in the instant of danger, he had put himself between her and it without a thought.
His heart had pounded under her cheek. For one dizzy second, the whole world had narrowed to the strength of his arm about her and the shelter of his body.
It was no use telling herself that any gentleman would have done as much. She could not persuade herself that every man would have moved with that resolute promptness, or borne the blow without so much as a glance at his own hurt.
She had once accused him—if not in words, yet fully in her own mind—of caring only for his own pride and consequence. It was hard to reconcile that accusation with the recollection of the man who had made his body a shield for hers.
To Pemberley
Darcy kept his word and spoke to Mr. Bennet that evening in the library.
The substance of their conference was soon known.
In two or three days, the Pemberley party must be on their way towards London, and thence into Derbyshire, if the damage on the lower farms was to be repaired before the worst of the winter made it impossible.
The news, once made known, produced in the drawing-room a sufficient bustle.
Mrs. Bennet protested that she was “quite desolate” at the thought of losing such company and such music.
Kitty and Lydia bewailed the departure of the carriage and the loss of future rides.
Mary moralised on the uncertainty of earthly comforts.
Mrs. Annesley, who had heard it all before Georgiana came down, sat a little apart with her work, listening with an air of calm attention that served, without a word, to check the loudest expressions of despair.
When Mrs. Bennet declared that she should “never hold up her head again” after losing Miss Darcy, Mrs. Annesley only said, in her mildest tone, that she had seen many removals in families where affection was very strong, “and yet, somehow, the heads were held up still, and the friends met again in better weather.” The quiet humour of it made Elizabeth look up.
Even Mrs. Bennet was obliged to laugh and own that perhaps she might bear to survive till the spring.
Georgiana, seated on the sofa with Jane on one side and Elizabeth on the other, smiled as well as she could on their kindness. Her eyes, however, were often drawn to Mrs. Annesley, whose composed countenance seemed to give permission to be sorry without being overthrown.
“I shall be very sorry to go,” she said, when Kitty declared that the house would be quite dull without her. “Longbourn has been more than a home to me. But Fitzwilliam is right. We cannot leave every thing at Pemberley to be settled by letters.”
“I tell Miss Darcy,” Mrs. Annesley added, with a little smile in Georgiana’s direction, “that there is a season for being the guest, and a season for being the hostess. She has done the one very prettily. It is time she practised the other.”
The remark, delivered with gentle gravity turned the talk from lamentations to conjectures about Pemberley, its woods and waters and tenants, and how very much they all must be longing for Miss Darcy’s return.
“There are several good horses in the stables,” Georgiana said. “My brother rides a great deal, and I go out with him when the weather allows. The hills are steep in places, but the views are worth the climb.”
“And the lanes?” Kitty asked eagerly. “You must have lovely lanes, if there are hills and woods.”
“There are lanes through the woods and along the river,” Georgiana answered. “My brother has planted a great many trees since he came of age. I think you would like the walks very much, Miss Kitty. They are not fashionable, but they are pleasant.”
Mary, who had been listening with more attention than she shewed, said, “I have heard Pemberley spoken of as a very extensive estate. Does not so much property make the responsibility rather serious? I should imagine the condition of the cottages and tenants to be of more real consequence than any prospect.”
“My brother thinks so too,” Georgiana replied, her face brightening. “He is often with the steward, and he will ride out in the worst weather to see that a roof is sound or a road passable. Mrs. Reynolds says she never knew a master so particular about cottages.”
Jane’s enquiry was gentler. “And the house itself?” she asked. “Is it very magnificent, or chiefly comfortable?”
“Both, I hope,” Georgiana said, with a little laugh. “It is large, and strangers sometimes say it looks grand, but to me it is only—home. Mrs. Reynolds is proud of the picture gallery. I like best the rooms where my mother used to sit, and the little parlour that looks over the south lawn.”
“And the library?” Elizabeth asked. “You told me it was large, but I could not learn from you whether it was as well chosen as it is extensive.”
Georgiana’s eyes turned, almost unconsciously, towards Darcy, who had drawn near enough to hear them. “You must ask my brother,” she said. “He will not admit that any part of Pemberley owes its merits to himself.”
Darcy, thus appealed to, said only, “I hope you will judge for yourself one day, Miss Elizabeth. If Mr. Bennet can be persuaded to trust you so far north. My sister is very much in earnest in wishing for your visit.”
The speech produced another little burst of exclamation from Mrs. Bennet, and Mrs. Annesley’s quiet smile returned.
Elizabeth, feeling every eye upon her, could only bend over her work and resolve, with all the composure she could command, that she would not allow herself to form any expectations at all.
Later, when the clamour of lamentation below had a little subsided, a message came from Georgiana, begging that Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, and Miss Mary would, if they were at leisure, come to her room for a few minutes.
They found her by the fire, her writing-desk open before her and a half-finished letter lying on it. Her cloak lay across the bed, as if she had tried it on and then set it aside in distaste.
“I wished to speak to you without everybody listening,” she said, with a shy smile, when they had drawn their chairs near.
“Fitzwilliam has been talking with Mr. Bennet. He means that we should go as soon as the roads are a little better. The lower farm has suffered more than we knew, and he cannot bear to leave it all to Mr. Harding.”
“He has also given me leave,”—her colour rose a little— “to say what I have been thinking for some days. I should be very, very happy, if Mr. Bennet could be persuaded to spare you to us in the north, when the season and your convenience allow it. Fitzwilliam says that, if the roads and your father permit, Pemberley can be made ready for visitors as soon as the spring is a little advanced. He approves, quite seriously, my inviting you, and has promised to do all in his power to prevail with your father.”
Jane looked both gratified, and a little confused.
“You are very good to think so much of us,” she said.
“Nothing could give me more pleasure than to see you in your own home, and I am sure my father would be rejoiced to trust us to Mr. Darcy’s care.
Only… I cannot be certain where I may be, later in the year. ”
Georgiana’s eyes brightened. “Because of Mr. Bingley?” she said softly, then checked herself, colouring. “Forgive me. I ought not—”
Jane, though still blushing, smiled. “You have guessed more than has yet been said. I have reason to believe that my being in Hertfordshire may not be left entirely to my own choice.”
“Then at least you and Miss Mary must come,” Georgiana said, turning to Elizabeth with earnestness.
“You have both done more for me than I can ever tell. I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again. Fitzwilliam says that, if your father consents, he will take it as one of his greatest advantages that Pemberley should be known to you as we have known Longbourn.”
Elizabeth could not answer at once. The notion of Darcy’s great house in the north, and of herself walking in its woods as she had walked in Longbourn’s lanes, came upon her with a force that took away her breath.
That he should desire Mr. Bennet to trust her to his care, not from any notion of obligation, but because he thought his sister happier in her company, sat strangely beside all she had once believed of his pride.
She promised, at last, that, if her father allowed it, nothing but illness should prevent her keeping such an engagement.
Mary remained with Georgiana when Elizabeth returned to the family in the drawing room. Georgiana's hands lay still in her lap. Mary, quiet and calm, glanced at her companion and saw the distant look in her eyes, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched together.
“You are thinking of him,” Mary said quietly. It was not a question.
Georgiana started, colour flooding her cheeks. “I—forgive me, I should attend—”
“You need not apologise.” Mary shook her head. “May I speak plainly?”
Georgiana nodded, though her gaze dropped to her hands.
“You yet believe,” Mary said, her tone as measured as ever, “that his death is somehow your fault. That if you had acted differently—escaped sooner, perhaps, or remained silent longer—he would yet be alive.”
The words hung in the air between them. Georgiana's breath caught.
“I know it is illogical,” she whispered. “I know I did not—that I could not have—but I cannot stop thinking that if I had only—”
“It is not illogical,” Mary interrupted gently.
“It is entirely natural, given what you have endured. You were taken captive by a man who sought to harm you. You were desperate. You learnt of his death in circumstances that caused confusion. You feel ashamed of circumstances over which you had no control.” She paused, letting each point settle.
“That is not a single grief. It is many griefs, all tangled together with terror and shame. The mind cannot easily separate one thread from another.”
Georgiana's eyes filled. “I thought myself wicked for feeling relief that he was gone. And then I thought myself more wicked still for knowing I might have caused it.”
“You are not wicked,” Mary said, with the same quiet firmness she brought to a difficult passage of music.
“You are human. What you experienced—a sham marriage, an escape in the cold, terror that he might capture you again—these are extremities that most people never face in the whole course of their lives. You have faced them all in the space of a few weeks, and you are only sixteen.” She leant forward slightly.
“Do you imagine that such experiences may be tidily set aside, like a book returned to its shelf? They cannot. The mind requires time to make sense of what the heart cannot yet accept.”
“How much time?” Georgiana's voice was small.
“I do not know,” Mary admitted. “But I have observed that wounds of the spirit, like wounds of the body, heal slowly. They require patience. They require care. And they require us to be gentle with ourselves when we discover they are not yet mended.” She reached out and touched Georgiana's hand briefly.
“You will have days when you feel you are recovered. You will have other days when the grief returns, sharp as ever. It is the nature of healing.”
Georgiana drew a shaky breath. “Elizabeth said something similar. But she said it with such warmth, such assurance that all would be well—”
“And you could not believe it,” Mary finished. “Because warmth and assurance, however kindly meant, cannot reach the part of you that is still afraid.”
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
“I cannot promise you will never think of him again. There is little comfort to be had in such memories. But you are not alone in carrying this burden. You need not be composed or brave or anything other than what you are. And when the dark thoughts come—as they will—you may remember how we played music together until they passed.” She straightened the music before them.
“Do you recall what you said at Christmas? When you play, you need think about—nothing else. Only the next measure.”
Georgiana's lips trembled into a smile. “Only the notes in order.”
“Just so,” Mary said. “And time, Georgiana, will do the rest.”