Chapter Eight
On one of those surprisingly warm days in October, when one might sit about outside if cautious, and when the air is clear, and the leaves are orange and brown, the remaining birds swirl about, and there is a mulch of leaves underfoot where they have not been cleared, Elizabeth went out with a thick wool blanket to sit on a swing in the portion of the garden that faced towards the hill rather than the approach to the house.
This was two weeks after she had reached her fifteenth birthday.
Elizabeth felt quite warm, and the breeze was pleasant rather than freezing.
The sun shined on her face, and the blanket and her coat protected her from the cold.
She picked up a fallen leaf to hold on her lap.
From ancient memory she filled in the image of the orange leaves and the flitting birds.
Elizabeth pushed back and forth on the swing with one foot, hearing the squeaking of the swing with every motion. The aged texture of the wood was pleasant to run her fingers over, and it was kept sanded down so that there was no risk of her catching splinters.
Miss Wilson was quite busy these days finishing all of the subjects that she hoped to teach Georgiana before she was sent south.
But, since Elizabeth’s education had been declared complete by joint decision of Miss Wilson and Mr. Darcy, there was nothing to do.
Elizabeth did not like that.
Over the years, especially as she had quit insisting on climbing trees and become more ladylike and superficially biddable, Sarah had been less insistent on keeping Elizabeth under close supervision when she was not in the nursery.
Thus, Elizabeth was tolerably certain that she was at present wholly alone.
They were already packing both her things and Georgiana’s, for their separate journeys.
Elizabeth rather wanted to cry. It was harder than she had ever remembered to keep her spirits up and to remain cheerful under unpleasant circumstances.
She thought that the chief part of the difficulty was that she knew she must stay cheerful for Jane’s sake.
It would be wholly unfair to her sister to have a doleful countenance in the week before her wedding.
Being cheerful for her own sake, and because she was in fact a cheerful person was easier than being cheerful to avoid ruining a wedding to a Wickham.
Mr. Darcy was more cheerful than Elizabeth could ever remember him, and he was slowly dying. Elizabeth ought to expect as much from herself.
She looked up towards the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the pond and stables.
But Elizabeth of course could not see who was walking towards her, so she turned away.
Likely it was one of the grooms, though Elizabeth was rather surprised that one was coming through the portion of the park with seats and tables, and varied entertainments, that were in regular use by the family.
The footsteps stopped about ten feet from her, and before Elizabeth asked who it was, a strong, familiar, and beloved voice said, “Lizzy Bennet, what are you doing sitting outdoors in the middle of October?”
Elizabeth immediately leapt to her feet. “Fitzwilliam! Oh, we have missed you so much!”
She stepped up towards him but felt some awkwardness as she knew he must be even more insistent now that she was fifteen about maintaining proprieties.
Embracing him would not be terribly proper.
The growth of Elizabeth’s bosom that had occurred over the past months made even Elizabeth think that there was something to his notion that she was becoming a woman, and that they must therefore behave differently together.
However, he crossed that boundary, and gave her a brief hug, and a kiss on her forehead. “I am glad to see you. I have missed you terribly as well.”
“You see how perfectly warm it is. And that blanket is quite thick. I am perfectly healthy.”
He took her hand. “How is he? Prepare me. How does his illness progress?”
“He wishes to present himself as unchanged,” Elizabeth replied. “But you can hear it in the voice. It is weaker every week. And he sits far more often. I have heard it remarked how much thinner his face is. He does not eat a great deal.”
“Oh, God.” That pained voice.
“Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth stepped forward to embrace him. “You must feel—”
He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Later. Later. I cannot cry yet. Not before I see him. I must stiffen myself. You know how he hates to see any emotion in those around him.”
“I will wait here,” Elizabeth said, “until you have spoken with him. Then you can relieve your emotions freely.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Like Mama. But at least I shall see him.” A pause.
Fitzwilliam took several deep breaths. “I am well. I will be well enough to see him and speak with him. But Lizzy, promise you will not remain out here if the weather becomes poor. There are some clouds in the east, and I do not know how long he will keep me.”
“Go, do not worry, you’ll find me well enough if I must retreat indoors.”
Fitzwilliam did not move. Elizabeth blindly reached towards him and found his wrist. She squeezed his arm. “You wish to see him. Store up your memories. I have confidence in you. And you’ll make him proud.”
“I never make him proud,” Fitzwilliam replied. “But I shall do what I can.” He then embraced her again, more tightly, and then with a convulsive movement pulled away, and quickly marched himself to the back entrance to the house.
Elizabeth returned to the swing.
Though she ached with sympathy for Fitzwilliam and the awfulness of what he must be feeling at present, she could not help but feel happy that he was back.
The world seemed a decidedly better place with him here.
At least she would not be abandoned by all those who understood her, and who she could freely speak her heart to once Georgiana was gone.
Further, Elizabeth felt no small resentment towards Mr. Darcy on behalf of Fitzwilliam.
There was a period lasting perhaps longer than an hour before Fitzwilliam returned outside.
The clouds had blocked the sun, and the air was chillier and there were occasional sharp gusts of wind, but Elizabeth still felt pleasant enough once she had folded and wrapped the blanket around herself more tightly.
He came out and sat next to her. “Oh, Lizzy! Even with how you prepared me, it was such a shock to see him. I hope I kept it from my face. I made every effort. He is so wasted, so changed from June. One can scarce recognize him. He speaks of time, of hopes for months more, I hardly know if I believe it—I believe he meant to die without me seeing him again. But though he wishes to make it easier for him, I must be here. I must.”
“I know.”
“He was angry that I returned without delay—I had not been in St. Petersburg for two days when the letter reached me, and I took ship the day after. I could scarce convince Bingley to remain, even though he was having a grand time until the news reached us. How could I do anything else? How could he expect me to revel with Russian princes while he is dying?”
“I know.”
“He must wish for me to be here. He must. Yes, he must. And there is so much he busies himself with. So many burdens I can take upon myself. He can give himself liberty to enjoy what time he has left.”
“You know that his work upon the estate and at business is what he loves to do. He does not want any burden that he can bear taken from his shoulders. You are like him in that way.”
“You are right. Oh, but Lord, I wish I could do something. It was so hard to keep my face. You are right, his voice, it is so much less than what it was. The boom, the vibrancy, the depth. All gone. He is wasting away, half—”
And then Fitzwilliam turned to her, and he sobbed for some minutes into her shoulder, while Elizabeth held him, much like she would hold Georgiana when she cried at night from a nightmare or unhappiness about being sent away to school.
But the great size of his frame made the experience wholly different.
Afterwards, Fitzwilliam sat himself up and rustled in his pocket for what Elizabeth thought must be a handkerchief.
He sniffled and blew and said, “Lizzy, I can cry with you. Jove, in front of anyone else, it would be impossible. Even alone, I think. I looked forward to seeing you, the whole way sailing back. I knew I would feel more comfortable when I saw you. And now I shall try to take what advice you would always give, by your example more than your words, and seek to be as cheerful as I can be. Papa does as well.”
Elizabeth was touched by this speech.
Fitzwilliam took several deep breaths. In and out. In and out. “And felicitations upon your birthday. There is a present for you that I purchased in Denmark that shall come in a day or two with my trunks.”
“Oh, and what is it?”
“No, no.” There was now a smile in Fitzwilliam’s voice. “It is to be a surprise—you look very well, Lizzy. You are much grown since the summer.”
This made the girl blush. But Elizabeth did not treat that with any seriousness. Some part of her was quite afraid of what she might begin to think if she did.
“I ought to see Georgiana. I do not even know if she knows that I am returned. I snuck in to see Papa without having myself announced. Come with me; it is now too cold to remain outside.”
As she stood up and took Fitzwilliam’s arm, Elizabeth asked, “Do you think you can convince your father to abandon this scheme of sending Georgiana off to some school as soon as the wedding happens?”
“Which wedding?” Fitzwilliam asked. “I did not know there is to be a wedding, and what has Georgiana to do with it at all?”
“Jane and Wickham,” Elizabeth replied. “I am surprised Mr. Darcy did not mention it during his conversation with you, as I think he is more delighted by it than the couple themselves.”
Fitzwilliam was utterly quiet as they walked up to the entrance to the house. As soon as they stepped indoors, he said in precise tones, “Miss Bennet and George Wickham are to marry? Do I understand you correctly?”
“Jane, and your father’s godson. Surely you didn’t think that Jane would be marrying old Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth laughed at the notion.
“I thought nothing of the sort. Jane is to marry George? Your sister? Miss Bennet and him? And my father has given his permission.”
“I don’t think there is any other Jane about. Jane said that your father arranged it. He called them to his study after he announced his illness and simply told them that they now would marry, and before he died, and what the arrangements for how they would live would be.”
Fitzwilliam was quiet.
A sick suspicion began to grow in Elizabeth’s chest.
Why did he care so much about hearing that Jane would be married?
He said at last, “No, no. I cannot let this happen. I cannot let Miss Bennet marry him.”
He must be in love with Jane.
Simply speaking the idea to herself was enough to make it seem certain in Elizabeth’s mind.
Everyone said she was so beautiful. Fitzwilliam could see her. Jane’s voice was beautiful. And her manners soft and always ladylike, and always what they should be. Damn her. She was always so lucky. And now even Fitzwilliam loved her.
Had Elizabeth been able to claw her sister’s face at this instant, she happily would have.
What doubt she had on the question of whether he was in love with Jane was removed when Fitzwilliam added, “I should have spoken before I left! If only I had! I thought there would be ample time when I returned. This is my punishment for such hesitation and delay. But nothing has yet happened that cannot be changed. I am glad that I have returned in time. Lizzy, I must speak to my father immediately.”
He not only loved her. He was so driven by that feeling that he still hoped to marry her, even after he knew that she was engaged to another man. That was what Elizabeth believed this meant.
Fitzwilliam took another deep breath to settle himself, and then he quickly walked away.
Possibly had he not been so absorbed by the immediate necessity of an unpleasant conversation with his father, he would have noticed the odd expression on Lizzy’s face.
But he was so absorbed, and it of course did not occur to him that Elizabeth Bennet was presently both realizing the full strength of her admiration for him and feeling a sharper burn of jealousy than she had imagined possible.
Damn, damn, damn Jane.
Jane hadn’t even tried to attract Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth knew that. She had simply been herself. It wouldn’t be right for Elizabeth to hate her.
Or to murder her in her bed.
Ridiculous. The blind girl falling in love with the heir of the great house.
And everyone said that Fitzwilliam was particularly handsome. That was not fair to the rest of the world. As a blind woman, she had a duty to fall in love with someone particularly ugly, since it could not bother her.
She was sure she would marry someone particularly hideous, but also clever in their conversation someday, after she had somehow learned to again see Fitzwilliam merely as a friend.
Elizabeth tried to remember her father’s voice. She imagined him teasing her, making fun of her.
It really was, if she thought about it in the correct way, quite funny that she had fallen in love with a man who was in love with Jane. Quite ironic.
It would be best for Jane.
Yes, yes, if Fitzwilliam could convince Jane to end her engagement with Wickham, and then married her for himself, Elizabeth was sure that Jane would be far happier.
Anyone would be happy married to Fitzwilliam.
He was so kind, so thoughtful, so intelligent, and he often needed someone to comfort him.
Could Jane do that? Could Jane understand him?
Oh, oh. Elizabeth wished that he had settled his affections on anyone, anyone in the world but her own sister. That pain was too much for her to take.
And damn Jane, damn her for her good fortune, her beauty, her working eyes, and…and…Fitzwilliam would not like her to hate Jane. She must be happy for them all.
Elizabeth cried in the hallway and then wiped her eyes and snotty nose off on the scratchy wool blanket.
She went up to the nursery. Even if Georgiana’s lessons were likely not finished for the day, the nursery would be the first place Fitzwilliam would come to look for her and Georgie when he finished speaking to his father.
Unless he spoke first with Jane. And then nothing would ever, ever, ever be the same again.