CHAPTER 71 #3
Elizabeth folded the letter once, too sharply, then unfolded it again because refusing to look at a sentence had never yet corrected it.
"My mother advises me," she said, with great care, "to be sure to give you a son."
Fitzwilliam went very still.
"She says gentlemen generally prefer sons, whatever they may say before the event."
He came to her at once, but did not take the letter until she let him.
"Elizabeth, no."
"No preference?"
"None that can stand beside your safety."
She looked down at the letter again. "That is not quite the same question."
"It is the only answer that matters to me."
She wanted to believe him too much, which made belief difficult.
"You have been heir to Pemberley all your life."
"Yes," he said. "And being wanted for an heir did not make the place easier."
That answer undid more than the letter had done.
Below them, Pemberley continued in its great, unsettled life: rooms being opened, curtains taken down, servants crossing passages, workmen summoned, fires ordered, bells examined, the whole weight of land and house and inheritance moving around one future child.
Elizabeth thought of George Darcy's finger touching the nursery room on the plan.
A house should know where its future is to sleep.
A child should not be required to earn the right by sex before birth.
"If we have a son, I shall love him," Fitzwilliam said. "If we have a daughter, I shall love her. If the child has your temper, I shall require fortitude. But I will not have you made anxious by the notion that your first duty is to satisfy an estate."
Her smile was small, but real. "You have been an heir too long to say such things lightly."
"I say them because I have been an heir too long."
"No child of mine," she said, "shall be born apologising. Nor performing. Nor being useful before it can hold up its head."
His hand closed over hers. "No."
She drew a breath, and the worst of Mrs. Bennet's sentence retreated a little.
"If she makes herself loud in my thoughts again," Elizabeth said, "I shall blame you."
"I had hoped for some other office."
"You may answer her there."
"That I can do."
"Repeatedly?"
"As often as required."
She considered this, then nodded. "That may prove useful."
He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Then I am content."
Mrs. Bennet's letter was completed later with less injury because the worst had already declared itself.
There were hopes of visiting, complaints of distance, suspicion that Jane might have known first, advice on flannel, and a postscript concerning Lydia's bonnet which was so unrelated to heirs that Elizabeth almost forgave it.
She did not answer immediately.
By late afternoon, rain had come over the hills.
It was not violent, but steady, softening the heat and bringing with it the scent of wet stone, leaves, and summer earth.
Elizabeth had moved from the writing table to the window, where she sat with a shawl about her shoulders and the western apartments' plan open across her lap.
Jane's letter had been folded into her writing case.
Mrs. Bennet's had been put aside unanswered.
When the horse came hard up the sweep, Fitzwilliam was speaking to Mrs. Reynolds about guest rooms for the Bingleys.
He stopped mid-sentence.
Elizabeth knew before the servant entered.
The letter was from Richard.
It was addressed to Fitzwilliam. He did not break the seal until he had brought it to her chair. After Mrs. Bennet's letter, Elizabeth felt the courtesy more than she wished to show.
"Read it," she said.
He opened it.
His face changed on the first line.
Elizabeth held out her hand. "Together."
He sat beside her.
They read.
Darcy,
We are too late.
Fitzwilliam's hand tightened once and then stilled.
Anne was married to Sir Edmund Wester by special licence on Tuesday morning, two days before we reached Rosings.
She is of age. The licence appears regular; the clergyman correct; the witnesses inconveniently respectable; and the forms, so far as my father has yet discovered, observed.
Everything has been done in the manner most calculated to make outrage useless.
Elizabeth felt the words settle like cold water.
My aunt attempted, upon arrival, to do all that could be expected of her by anyone who knows her.
Mrs. Wickham was ordered from the house; Mrs. Jesper dismissed; Wickham forbidden the doors, park, stables, parish road, and several counties not commonly under my aunt's authority.
Sir Edmund received every command with a civility so perfect that I wished him less well-bred.
Rosings, he reminded us, is now his wife's home, and he could not permit persons attached to Mrs. Wester's comfort to be expelled upon agitation and accusation, however natural the agitation might be.
Elizabeth's fingers found Fitzwilliam's wrist.
He did not look at her, but his hand turned beneath hers.
Mrs. Jesper remains for the present. Mrs. Wickham remains. George Wickham was not in the house when we arrived, and Sir Edmund professes uncertainty as to his direction. Of John Wickham we have no news.
My aunt was not silent long. My father was.
I begin to think that silence will prove more troublesome to Sir Edmund than my aunt's speeches, but I do not deceive myself.
There is no immediate remedy that can be forced without Anne herself.
Rosings has not ceased to be vulnerable because my aunt has been insulted.
It has only ceased to be governed by her outrage.
"That is very Richard," Elizabeth said softly.
"It is also very true."
They read on.
You will ask, as I did, why Sir Edmund and not Wickham.
The answer, I think, is partly respectability and partly Anne herself.
She could not bear Wickham. Even my aunt, with all her blindness, could hardly have been brought to call him tolerable; and Anne, who submits to many things, recoiled whenever his name was brought near her.
Sir Edmund is another matter. He is quiet, titled, attentive, and civil enough to make distrust look uncharitable.
Wickham opened the way; Sir Edmund could walk through it without looking like an intruder.
Elizabeth stopped there.
"That is it," she said.
Fitzwilliam's jaw tightened. "Wickham did not lose Anne. He sold the door."
"Or thought he had," Elizabeth said.
They looked back at the letter.
But I do not believe for one moment that the Wickhams assisted Sir Edmund from benevolence, family feeling, or any sudden concern for Anne's comfort.
Some bargain has been made. My father believes it; I believe it; and Sir Edmund's civility grows most perfect whenever the question approaches money. I cannot yet discover the terms.
Rain moved softly against the glass.
The worst of it is Anne herself. I had prepared for tears, terror, or that dull obedience which is almost worse than either.
Instead, she looks--God help us--easier than I have seen her in years.
Pale, certainly; quiet, certainly; but not wretched.
Sir Edmund speaks to her gently, asks after her comfort, and does not answer for her when she speaks.
Whether this is kindness, policy, or the good manners of a man satisfied with his bargain, I cannot yet tell.
Elizabeth read the paragraph twice.
Anne looks easier.
It may be that Sir Edmund has done the cleverest thing possible: he has not offered Anne liberty, but he has offered her a gentler dependence than my aunt's.
For a woman trained as Anne has been trained, that may feel very like rescue.
She has fortune enough to be independent, but not the practice of being so; and my aunt, who would have guarded every acre of Rosings like a fortress, never taught its mistress how to hold a door against someone she wished not to offend.
Elizabeth's hand stilled on the page.