Chapter 28
Elizabeth scarcely made it to her bedchamber, such was her exhaustion from the events of the day. When she arrived, she went at once to a bag she had owned for some time. In it were the letters she had written to Darcy while at Gunnersdale.
These were the letters written but never sent.
Although she had certainly sent an abundance of letters to him, there were wiser days when his continued silence had persuaded her she would do best to cease pestering him with her thoughts.
She knew not why she kept them. They had travelled with her through the dark night in Yorkshire, crushed in the bottom of the pack she carried as she walked endlessly to the town where she would find the stage.
They stayed with her at Upton Park, buried in the recesses of an old trunk—never looked at, never considered, but never discarded.
They moved to the house in Weymouth after Mrs Macy’s death, and they travelled to Pemberley and London—always with her, though never opened.
They were her reminder of how easily fiery passions could be reduced to cold ash, of how a wife who once believed herself beloved could find herself alone and uncared for on a slag heap in Yorkshire.
She wished now that she had discarded them.
She did not think she had the strength to open them and revisit the pain that had guided her hand as she wrote them.
She laid them out like a fan around her on the bed but did nothing more than consider them.
She had just begun to gather them up again when there was a knock at the door and Darcy entered, some familiar-looking pages dangling from his hand.
“No,” she said immediately. “I do not know what you are about with those papers…”
“It is the letters that I kept. Too few, I am ashamed to say. What are these?”
“Letters I wrote to you but did not send. I am going to burn them.”
“No! I want to read them.”
“No,” she protested immediately. “This is not something I want to do.”
He sat down on the bed next to her, looking intently at her. “I do not want to do it either, but…but I think we must.”
“I cannot.”
“Even if, at the end of it, you could be happy? We could be happy?” When she did not reply, he said, “I miss the light in your eyes. I miss your laughter, your teasing.”
For a moment, they stared at each other, both refusing to yield. With a trembling hand, Elizabeth reached over, taking one of his pages. She unfolded it, and her eyes fell on one small bit.
“…wish you to know how very sorry I am for the manner in which I have failed you as a wife…”
“Oh! No.” Elizabeth shoved the page back towards him. “Why do you insist on doing this?”
“Because if we do not confront this and deal with the pain, we can never be rid of it!”
“We can never be rid of it anyway,” she shot back.
“So then, what? We surrender to it all? This is us, forevermore, no trust, no love?”
“I just do not think it necessary to go relive our pain.”
“Have we not tried it your way these many months? I have waited, I have tried to be patient, but you remain unhappy, as do I. I made a dreadful, horrific mistake two years ago, and I have tried, truly I have, to pay for it and to change the horrifying person in me who would do such a thing to the woman he loves beyond all reason. However, you will not let me, will you? No, evidently, you would prefer to keep running from me.”
Elizabeth shook her head in amazement, two spots of pink brightening her cheeks. “You may have changed your tendency towards resentment, but you are still selfish. It is selfish that you should demand—”
He reached out, grabbing her hand. “Look at me.” He waited until she did.
“You and I are two parts of a whole, bound together by the love we once shared, and nothing has ever been right for either of us since we separated. I did something horrible to you, and you have suffered, I realise that, but you are still suffering, as am I, and I want to change that.”
She shook her head vehemently.
He took both of her hands. “Stop hiding from me. Trust me with your unhappiness, please. Tell me you hate me, hit me, rail at me….anything. Your unhappiness has entombed you, Elizabeth, and I want only to set you—the real you—free from it.”
She looked at him for just a moment with the warring of every great emotion reflected in her eyes, until finally, a mask descended. Quietly and firmly, she said, “I am sorry to cause you pain, but I simply cannot do this.”
Wrenching her hands from his grasp, she quickly exited her bedchamber.
Where she went, he knew not, but after an hour had gone by and she had not returned, he concluded that wherever she was, she intended to stay there.
He had spent the time pacing and being miserable at how badly done it had been.
He had hoped he could shake her complacency and induce her to begin to express some sort of emotion.
He had felt they were nearly there, on the precipice, about to leap forward, but then at the last moment, she had retreated.
Darcy had no notion what to do next, but he knew things could not remain this way. At once, his eyes fell upon the letters that were still strewn across Elizabeth’s bed. He regarded them thoughtfully.
She had shared her grief with him after all, had she not? Those letters she had written him, were they not filled with her heart and mind and soul?
He walked over to the bed and slowly gathered them up.
An idea had formed in his head, but he knew not whether it was a good one.
He would answer the letters. He would sit and read each and every painful line and word, and he would understand her, acknowledge her, and reply to her, beginning with the letter written before she left for Yorkshire.
He went into his room and sat at his writing desk, stacking the letters neatly and in order on the top of it.
He prepared his pens and ascertained that he had adequate ink.
Finally, he opened the first letter, and sitting back, he read and pondered every last word of it.
He allowed the memories to come to him unrestrained, and he imagined, as best he could, all that she must have felt going through such events.
It was not easy, by any means, but he persisted through it with great resolve. He had failed her these many years by not being willing to do this, but he would fail her no more. If nothing else, she would know that all these agonising thoughts she had put to paper had at least been shared by him.
He pulled paper from the desk and picked up his pen.
London! Why was she in London? She required a long ramble amid fields and trees and rivers, not people and carriages and noise! Hoping to commune with nature, she turned and went towards the park, her long, determined strides at direct contrast with the other ladies who minced along prettily.
She was highly vexed by his perceptions and presumptions. How extraordinary, after all he had done to her, that he should now feel it his right to demand more from her! She did the best she could and was giving him all that she could.
But her own reason would ever argue against her—and did so now. Not quite true, her heart whispered. You are, as always, withholding the most tender part.
It had always been her way, even with dear Jane. It was easy for her to laugh, tease, complain, or share her vexations, but when it came to the things that truly grieved her? These she held close, to share with no one. Indeed, she scarcely liked to think of them herself.
But Darcy wanted to know her pain, for it had begun to consume her. She knew not whether she was strong enough to continue denying him, particularly if they began having regular arguments the like the one that had just transpired.
After all, she did realise that in her current state, she could not have joy.
She did not have sorrow but neither was there joy.
There was only a medium-sized, neutral sort of…
placidity. She was living in a shell that protected her from her memories but that same shell prohibited felicity from touching her as well.
Did she intend it to be forever this way?
Her thoughts slowed her footsteps as she returned to the house. It was near time for dinner, and she knew not whether she was equal to it.
Mrs Hobbs greeted her at the door. “The master asked me to tell you he has requested a tray this evening. Shall I do the same for you?”
“Please,” Elizabeth agreed. Evidently, Darcy was unequal to seeing her as well.
She went first to the nursery, where Bennet was happily occupied with his own meal, but there was no sign of Darcy.
Saye had given Bennet a puppy earlier that week, a small creature like his Florizel, and Bennet was enthralled.
She entered just in time to find him lying on the floor with his potatoes, wanting to eat them the way his puppy did.
Nurse Harriet was dismayed, but it brought a true laugh to Elizabeth—one that was much needed.
She went then to her own bedchamber, half expecting to find Darcy within.
He was not, but sounds from the adjoining room indicated he might be found there.
Curious, she silently opened the adjoining door just an inch and saw Darcy in a chair by the fire, using a side table for a writing desk and furiously scribbling away.
She wondered what he was doing and why he did not simply go to his study. With a light shrug, she gently closed the door.
After numerous revisions and markings, Darcy set down his pen and leant back in his chair, regarding his letter thoughtfully.
It was not perfect of course, and he wished, not for the first time, that he was better able to express his thoughts and feelings.
Still, it was a good effort, and he hoped it would be a first step for them.
He hoped it would cause her to think better of him, if such a thing were possible.