Chapter 14 #2
“I cannot forgive you for what you should rightfully feel. Might you pardon me for having asked so much? I am truly daunted to have taken so great a portion of your time, your resources, the work of your people—for having inconvenienced you so extremely. I do not rightly know how I could ever thank you. Perhaps this last request may be excused as a poor attempt at doing so. I do not wish you to be subjected to one more moment of discomfort on my behalf.”
By this point, I had melted rather dreadfully, and were I the sort of man who could not contain his feelings, the tears that stung the back of my eyes might have filled them and spilt over.
With a telling catch in my voice, I said, “It has been the privilege of my life to be of service to you. There is not one moment—from Sevenoaks to this place, this table set between us—that I will forget for as long as I live. You deserve so much respect, so much admiration for the manner in which you meet difficulty. I only regret I could not see you through to the very end. It was merely selfish of me to want to see you embraced by the warmth of your family and rushed up the stairs to be offered such comforts as must await you. I should have remembered how much better it is to bow to your wishes than it is to cater to my own.”
She, having no such hard training as a man, briefly put her handkerchief to her eyes. “Forgive me. I do not mean to embarrass you.” She sniffed. “But I do not believe I have ever been so moved as I am just now. I do not deserve what you have said of me, sir.”
“Come,” I said tenderly. “We have gone from bad to worse. What next? Are we to be sobbing out our hearts? Together, we have been through an ordeal which makes this parting all the more difficult. Perhaps we should find something to laugh at.”
She offered me a watery chuckle. “Perhaps we should. Oh! I know,” she said, looking around her, suddenly conscious we were not alone in the room. “Do you suppose we look like an ordinary man and his wife arguing loudly over a meal?”
“Ordinary? I take affront. I would have you know I am the clerk to the undersecretary of the lowest ranking man in Whitehall. And you, my fine lady, are quite out of place to be seen with me.” I did not—I could not—disguise the adoration with which I looked across the table at her.
“Am I? Do you mean because I look like a country maid in all my dirt?”
“Hmm. You must certainly be the beloved daughter of some impoverished squire. You are very wide-eyed just now. But it is as it should be, since you are amazed at how fine a man sits across from you. Ah, there it is at last,” I said, smiling at her.
“What do you mean? My coach, so soon?”
“Your laugh. I have missed it the whole of the afternoon.”
I then paused to glance at my watch. I had only minutes remaining, and by some wild impulse emboldened by the unnatural honesty of our conversation, I said, “I wonder if I could ask of you a very great favour, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Of me? Of course you must,” she said, “though I cannot imagine whatever you would ask is so very great.”
“Only you can decide how much of an imposition it would be. But would you allow me to bring your trunk in person and introduce myself to your family?”
“Truly? Of course! You must come if you are willing.” She hesitated. “You are aware my uncle is in trade?”
“I am. And I wonder if I might bring my sister if she is in London by then?”
“I would like to meet her, sir. I have heard so much about her as to feel I almost know her.”
“Very little of what you heard from Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst is true of Georgiana. She is painfully shy. Which brings me to the real favour I wish to ask of you. Upon meeting her, would you consider taking up a correspondence with her?”
“Would she welcome such presumption?”
“She is quite lonely, I am afraid.”
“No. How can she be?”
“Not everyone is at ease in company. You do not suffer from such an affliction, but in general, I believe she is often miserable.”
“But what should I write to her about?”
“Anything, really. A note now and then. You can write of the weather, of the crops and animals, of the fields and trees in Hertfordshire. You can gently lampoon your neighbours, as is your gift, and describe to her any homely pursuit you are engaged in. Simple things seem to please her most, and though she may struggle to reply in kind, I am certain Georgiana would welcome such a friend as you.”
“And if you are wrong? Would she be writing to me out of obligation? Other than Charlotte, I only write to family, and they have no choice but to maintain the connexion. I do not know the way of extricating your sister from the acquaintance should she be reluctant to engage with me.”
“It is simple, really. When letters between people dwindle from one a week to once a month, and then there is a spell of no letters, some smattering of apologies and excuses, you might find that soon enough, you will hear from one another only at Christmas and eventually even that will fall away. But in my sister’s case, I do not believe she would find your letters as onerous as you believe.
You would sooner wish to stop writing than she. It is a very great favour, I know.”
“It is the least you could ask of me, sir. I am still in your debt and will strive to make payments in the liveliness of my notes to Miss Darcy.”
I stood then, for the ostler had come to tell us Miss Elizabeth’s coach was ready.
“Tell me your uncle’s address,” I said, and when she did, I took her to the coach, gave directions to the coachman, helped her up to the seat, placed the carpet bag beside her, and though I wished to say something, I stood before her—mute, stricken, and struggling to smile.
She seemed unequal to verbalising a farewell herself, offering in return only a brave little smile. With the greatest reluctance, I then shut the door and watched her coach disappear into the strange, smoky gloom that surrounds London on any given night.