Chapter Seven #2
They sat together for some minutes more on the planter, Darcy’s arm around Elizabeth, and she leaned against him, as though she were still a small child.
Even though she was not so small anymore, Elizabeth took great comfort from his warmth and great size, and the strength of his arm.
She never felt like she was alone and helpless when he was near.
Darcy said when he went to get up, “Lizzy, you must know, you must understand—you are not ugly. I am not saying this to comfort you with a sweet dishonesty, but to help you to understand a true fact of some importance. Do not think as though you are, and do not expect men to treat you as though you are.”
“I know that—”
“You do not know. If only you could see yourself, you would know very differently. Your scars hardly signify.”
Elizabeth was able to hear Fitzwilliam make his partings the next day with tolerable self-control. She was not fond of crying where others could see her, so she did not. But she did cry, and she was angry at herself for growing older, and Fitzwilliam for making so much of it.
The months of summer passed in a normal enough manner, except that Fitzwilliam was not there, and Elizabeth was sad for that reason.
Even in that, there was reason to hope for future happiness.
Georgiana and Elizabeth both agreed that it was very likely that Fitzwilliam would stay at Pemberley for most of the year once he had returned, now that he was graduated.
Wickham hung endlessly about Jane, making it impossible for Elizabeth to speak to her sister at any time except for if she went to her rooms in the evening.
Elizabeth and Georgiana continued to play upon the piano, and Elizabeth was happy to find that there was little jealousy in herself as Georgiana’s abilities came to overtake her own. Elizabeth probably was a little better still at the piano, but she was four years older.
When she listened to Georgiana play Beethoven or Bach, Elizabeth frequently cried.
But Georgiana’s voice was nothing to Elizabeth’s, and so they were well matched for the duets that they entertained the drawing room with. Mr. Darcy sometimes called them down to perform when he had other families for dinner. This was something that he’d never done before this year.
Fitzwilliam’s long letters to Georgiana always included the promised messages to Elizabeth, and with Georgiana’s help, Elizabeth directly wrote her own messages to him into her letters.
So, it was almost like they still were exchanging letters, and that was not near so terrible as she had imagined it would be.
Mr. Darcy though was different.
Elizabeth could not precisely say in what manner, but his voice had changed, and it was now weaker and less resonant. He spent an unusual amount of time in private, and several times he did not call them to the drawing room on a day when no one visited.
It was a hot year, and near the middle of September, Mr. Darcy travelled south to London for two weeks.
When he returned, he spoke very little for the next several days, and he kept himself closeted with Mr. Wickham for many hours each day. Elizabeth thought that there was a dreadful anxious feeling in the air, and Georgiana felt it as well.
Mr. Darcy had travelled south to consult several eminent physicians upon an advancing ailment.
The information that he had received from his physician in Derbyshire had been of the most concerning nature, but that old friend had suggested he visit two distinguished medical gentlemen in London, to see if they could offer hope.
They did not.
The crisis was not likely to be immediate, he could expect another four months of life at least, and might hope for six months, or even a year. But it was exceedingly unlikely that he would see two more Christmases.
It was odd to Mr. Darcy that he was not more unhappy.
He had always expected that he would face his doom with calmness, but he had not anticipated that it would be without much feeling at all.
Certainly, it was not a matter for joy, but he had no urge to cry, to rage against the heavens, or to be maudlin.
He would have his strength until he did not.
After he was an invalid, he would live for as long as he did.
And then he would die.
There was no reason for emotion.
His upright behavior had built for himself a fine mansion in heaven, and he would go to finally see it.
Fitzwilliam was a worthy heir. A great successor.
A man who might be superior to his father.
Tall, clever, dutiful, and determined. Kind as shown by his consistent support for the blind girl, though Mr. Darcy did not see that as having so much importance.
Fitzwilliam read too much, and thought too much, but Mr. Darcy had already seen that his son knew to put aside such things when there was an important responsibility.
From London he wrote a letter to Fitzwilliam. He had in fact thought about not doing so, but a stray thought recalled how the boy had been after Lady Anne died. It would not be kind to him for this to come as a complete surprise.
Mr. Darcy did not wish for his son to lose the benefit of his travels on the continent, a journey on which Mr. Darcy had laid out more than a thousand pounds to ensure that all aspects of it would be properly grand.
A voyage that was the more interesting, though less polishing, for being in Russia and Sweden rather than France and the German princedoms—he insisted to Fitzwilliam that there was no need for him to worry at present, and that he likely would live for many months more, and that there would be ample time for Fitzwilliam to finish his travels before returning.
Even if he should die before Fitzwilliam returned, all important matters could be postponed or managed tolerably by Mr. Wickham.
This Mr. Darcy mentioned in his letter, to make certain that Fitzwilliam would not have any anxiety on account of his duties to the estate that would cause him to return early.
Mr. Darcy could see no other consideration that would do so.
Despite what he wrote to his son, Mr. Darcy had concerns about Mr. Wickham.
Since the death of his wife, his old friend had begun to drink heavily, eat less, and neglect his own care.
He had abandoned all business except that which connected to the Darcy estate, which allowed the other chief lawyer in the neighborhood, Mr. Clarke, to expand his practice.
While he still fulfilled his duties with the same precision, cleverness, and attention to detail that had always marked his old friend’s work, Mr. Darcy saw that much had died in him with Mrs. Wickham.
Upon returning to Pemberley, Mr. Darcy immediately spoke with Mr. Wickham about his predicted doom. His old friend had been the only man, besides his doctors, who had been informed about his condition, and the gentleman had expected the news which his friend gave him.
“Soon, soon there will only be the new generation.” That was what Mr. Wickham said, and he poured Mr. Darcy a glass of brandy so that they could toast the new generation. “I’ll not be long for this world after you are gone.”
“Do not say that,” Mr. Darcy replied with some concern.
“No, no, I feel it in my bones. These bones are old. I am five years your senior, and I have lived too long. I’ll have no reason to live when my dearest friend is gone, and my wife gone as well.”
“What about George?”
“George. Lord, he is such a difficult son. Too much like my wife. Too much like her. But he neither listens to me, nor depends upon me. I’ll not drag out my life for him.”
“You surely do not mean to kill yourself!” Mr. Darcy replied with great concern.
“No, no. Nothing to peril my immortal soul. But I barely remember to eat at present, and I drink too much. I’ll not force myself to give what care I still do to my body when you are gone.”
“You ought to.” Mr. Darcy replied, “I have always loved you. It makes me sadder to hear you say this than it does to know that I shall die. You know that.”
“And I have loved you, sincerely. But our times come. It is the Almighty who chooses.”
“At least you have George. And at least he is a man.”
“He gives me debts to deal with. Just like his mother.” Mr. Wickham replied, “I’d hoped to set a little aside for him now that she is gone. But it shall not be possible.”
“But not so much?” Mr. Darcy asked. “I mean to do a great deal for him. You need not worry.”
“I do not, and I shall not. No, my worries for my son are of a different nature. But I am old, old. I cannot choose but be old. Like old Falstaff said, we have heard the chimes at midnight.”
Mr. Wickham drank back the rest of his tumbler and poured himself another.
“That we have, that we have, that we have in faith.” Mr. Darcy echoed what he thought was the line replying to Falstaff.
He sipped at the brandy. The nature of his illness made it such that he found the consumption of alcohol extremely unpleasant. But there was nowhere he would prefer to be, and there was no one who he would rather be with, than his dearest living friend.
His life had been good. He had lived as he ought to, and there was nothing to regret. Not in any way.
“I mean to,” Mr. Darcy said, “give George the ability to marry Jane immediately. I do not wish to make them wait. I wish to see them happily married, settled near and enjoying the joy of married life while I am still alive and able to find delight in the sight of their happiness. I think there is nothing else that I can wish now.”
Mr. Wickham was quiet. He drank the rest of his liquor.