Chapter 34
Being cast out by her family troubled Caroline Bingley not a bit.
To think that they should all side with the horrid Eliza Bennet over their own blood was insupportable—and revealed they were all of weak character anyway!
In his last act of brotherly concern, Charles had assisted her in finding her own place to live, and she found that much more agreeable.
Decorating it in the most elegant style proved ever so diverting, and she made only the most fashionable, most costly selections.
The result was far superior to anything Eliza Bennet might achieve, to be sure!
Then the bills came due, and she recognised she might have stretched herself a bit. Then more bills came, and she realised she had stretched herself a lot. A few bills more, and she was positively frantic.
For several days, she could not eat, scared from the effects of her mad shopping sprees. She kept adding the amounts, hoping there was some mistake, but there never was.
For a brief, mad moment she wondered whether Darcy actually would consent to keeping her. But no… Perhaps she could find someone to marry her?
She sat back, chewing on her nails and thinking about it.
Her friend Miss Grantley, rapidly consulted, had an immediate solution. “William Redmond-Creigh is said to be seeking a wife.”
“Redmond-Creigh?”
“Very old family from Waterford,” said Miss Grantley with certainty.
“Waterford?” Caroline asked dubiously.
“In Hertfordshire. You must know of it.”
Caroline sniffed. “One cannot know too little about Hertfordshire, though it is close to London. How is it I have not heard of them in town before?”
“The son is here now and simply must marry. His father is reportedly very ill.”
“How old and how ugly is he?”
Miss Grantley shrugged and picked up the large pile of bills that sat on her friend’s writing desk. “Better looking than these are.”
As it stood, Mr Redmond-Creigh was forty-seven but not so very objectionable.
Old family and presumably the money that went with it…
Caroline decided she could do that and then some.
Someone had said he must surely live in a castle, and she rather liked the notion of herself as mistress of a grand castle.
She got herself invited to a dinner where he was present and, with a few words to the host, sat next to him at dinner. Desperation made her throw caution to the side, with any and all arts and allurements employed to her cause.
Her family might have been scandalised except they were not speaking to her, so any embarrassment was of their own doing. When Mr Redmond-Creigh found himself alone in a dark spot after dinner, she left him in no doubt of her intentions, and he, being honourable, thought himself quite in love.
When their hosts had grown alarmed by their absence, Lady Pugh-Dibley, who turned out to be cousin to Mr Redmond-Creigh, did not want scandal in her house and sought them out herself. She found them in a lover’s tangle in the servants’ hall, and with a frown, told her cousin what he needed do.
“Gladly,” the man said warmly.
“And it was as easy as that,” Caroline told Miss Grantley a few days later. “I need no one’s permission, thank you very much, and soon, I shall be mistress of a grand castle in Hertfordshire.”
“Hertfordshire?” Miss Grantley asked.
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Yes! Waterford. Did we not have this conversation just a few days ago?”
“Oh…yes, I daresay we did. Did he say he was from Hertfordshire?”
Caroline paused a moment. “Well…not exactly. He told me about the castle, of course, and the sea…”
“The sea?” Miss Grantley giggled. “What sea is that? I was terrible at my lessons, as you well know, but even I know there is not a sea in Hertfordshire.”
And so when Mr Redmond-Creigh came to call later that day, bearing the licence and other matters needed for the nuptials, he was asked immediately as to the precise location of his family home.
“Why, Waterford my dear. Did we not talk of this just last night?”
“Yes, of course, of course…and Waterford is in, um…?”
“Munster,” he said. “I suppose you could say it is between Dublin and Cork.”
Panic began to flutter in Caroline’s breast. Although she was not certain, none of the names he said sounded like they were in Hertfordshire. Speaking carefully, she asked, “What part of England is that, exactly?”
With a laugh, he chucked her under her chin. “The Irish part, my love. Hope you do not mind a bit of rain!”
As December arrived, Elizabeth found herself increasingly easy when in the company of her husband.
There had been more discussion of their time apart and painful remembrances would occasionally intrude; there were still tears and anger to be dealt with.
But the sorrows did wane, and Elizabeth had no doubt that they would soon be gone for good.
Not forgotten, by any means, but no longer the source of acute misery they once were.
Darcy continued to reply to Elizabeth’s unsent letters, and she continued to read them. She had observed that, with each one, her emotions seemed less engaged, almost as if she were reading about something that happened to someone else a very long time ago.
“Have you read and replied to them all now?” she asked one evening while she got ready for bed. “It seems as though you must have.”
“Most of them several times over. And you? Have you read all my replies?”
“I have.” With a quick smile, she added, “Thank you for doing it.”
“Have you a wish to speak of them?”
“Oh, I do not think so. We have said what needs to be said. Do you agree?”
Darcy considered it a moment. “I think most everything has been said many times over.”
She walked over to where he lounged against her headboard. “So let us burn the lot, shall we?”
Darcy simply looked at her agape.
“We are almost at a new year,” she explained. “The start of our fourth year of marriage, 1815, the hibernal solstice…let us put it all behind us. Knowing those letters remained has weighed on me. I wish them gone for good.”
He gently traced her arm with his hand. “Then let us gather them up in the morning and—”
She gave him a quick kiss. “What if we did it now?”
After a short delay, in which Elizabeth gathered up those letters in her possession and Darcy found those in his, they settled themselves in front of the fire.
Elizabeth tossed them in one by one, enjoying the burst of flame each one engendered.
At last she was down to the end, a single sheet that she did not throw into the fire.
Darcy had risen and extended his arm to help her. “Will you not throw that away too?”
“This one? No, this I think I should like to keep.”
Elizabeth watched as comprehension dawned on her very dignified husband’s face. “Wha—oh…no. That is not…is that…I meant to get rid of that.”
Elizabeth bit her lips to stifle a giggle. “I love it.”
“I was trying to, um…it’s terrible, I know.”
“No, no,” she said immediately. “It is charming, truly delightful.” She could hold back no more, and gales of uncontrollable laughter burst from her. Darcy looked at her in absolute chagrin, then put his hands over his face in mock despair.
“I am certainly no poet. I cannot think what possessed me to attempt a sonnet. I only wished to somehow express to you how much I do love you. My letters seemed so dull and repetitive.”
Elizabeth could not stop her gales of laughter and used her sleeve to dab the mirthful tears from her eyes. “Why be dull? Really, it is truly wonderful. Do not think I laugh because it is poorly done, not at all. I can tell you really love me by the way you compared my eyes to—”
Darcy tried to grab the page from her. “Very well then, enough of that.”
Elizabeth scampered aside quickly, keeping the paper out of her husband’s reach. “My mother has gone on for years about some former suitor of Jane’s who wrote a few verses on her. Just wait until she learns of this ode to me and my eyes! How pleased she will be.”
“Pray, tell no one of this, particularly not your mother!”
“Come now!” Elizabeth pulled herself out from his almost-grasp. “Poetry is the food of love, after all. I am quite flattered and thrilled to have one dedicated to me.”
Darcy groaned. “The pointless nonsense of a non-poet is more likely to starve the love away.” He lunged for her and caught her, picking her up and tossing her on the bed, then diving nearly on top of her.
She attempted to raise the paper above her head, but his arms were so much longer that it was useless to try to avoid him.
She suddenly stopped laughing and looked at him in the eyes quite seriously. “Please let me have it.”
“I can deny you nothing.” Darcy rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. “I cannot think why you would wish to keep it. It looks to be the work of a raving madman. For as much as I do enjoy reading poetry, composing it is another matter entirely. I am humiliated by such a poor effort.”
“Perhaps the result is not what you wished it to be, but I do love it.”
“Because it makes you laugh?”
“No. Well…perhaps a little. I like that you tried to do it for me most of all. I like that it is not—”
“Not poetic? Not interesting or coherent or in any way good?” Darcy rolled off her and lay on his back next to her, covering his face with his arm. “I beg you to please not show it to anyone. Would you wish the world to know you have married a simpleton?”
Elizabeth turned so she was over him. Looking at him, she leant in and kissed him. “It is because it is embarrassing to you that I like it the most. This poem shows me you are willing to make a fool of yourself for me.”
She kissed him again, more lingeringly, and then whispered, “Every woman wishes for a man who is willing to be a fool in love for her.”
Darcy insisted that they spend Christmas in Derbyshire despite the excess of travel involved. Elizabeth did not mind particularly as she was hopeful that snow, similar to that which was seen the year they married, might grace them—she was certain Bennet would love that.