Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
E ach time Darcy had woken in the same guest chamber at Rosings just two months prior had held the promise of possibly seeing Elizabeth. Waking to find the first rays of sunlight slip into his room brought with it the sadness that she was not there—he would not find her on the familiar paths or in the glade.
He found himself at the stables at dawn, needing a long ride, though he had spent the last four days riding hard towards Kent. His body did not desire more time in the saddle, but his mind craved motion—and so he found himself winding his way through the woods of Kent and stopping in the glade that held precious memories for him.
The early summer had changed its appearance, but he could almost see and feel the moments shared with Elizabeth—her hair peeking out from under her bonnet, her face tipped towards the sun. Being there was as painful as it was reinvigorating. His purpose was clear and simple: he must find a way back to her, back to the way it felt to be with her in Kent. Back to the smiles shared only with him. And, God help him, back to holding her in his arms.
Possessed by his memories, he found himself walking away from the glade and towards the parsonage, with his horse following closely behind. When the fork in the path came, he kept on, walking farther from Rosings. It was on those paths that they had shared so much of themselves. Amongst those trees, with her by his side, he had begun to hope for something different for his future than he had previously allowed himself to believe was possible—a partnership, a love match. The grip she had on him had only grown every day, and eventually, it was on these paths that he had found himself deeply and ardently in love with her.
The sun had risen further in the sky as he approached the parsonage. There was movement in the garden, yet it was too early for visitors, so Darcy turned quietly to take the lane back to Rosings.
He rounded a bend and at once found himself standing face to face with Mr Bennet. Both men remained quiet as they took the measure of one another, and finally Darcy found his voice and greeted the gentleman.
“Mr Bennet.”
The older man raised his eyebrows and did not favour Darcy with a bow, only a terse and slowly enunciated, “Mr Darcy.”
It was clear to Darcy that he was the last gentleman in the world that Mr Bennet would favour meeting unexpectedly. What could he say to Elizabeth’s father to improve his opinion of him? Had Mr Bennet read his letter of apology? His claim that his intentions were honourable? He did not want to upset the man further, for he knew Mr Bennet could either help or hinder his future with Elizabeth .
“Good morning, sir,” Darcy finally began, “I hope your family is well.”
Mr Bennet cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “I find it hard to believe that you have any consideration for my family.”
“I must apologise for my behaviour this past April, sir—as well as that of my aunt, for her threats and interference. I am sure it does appear that I have given little consideration to your family, though that would be furthest from the truth.”
“Do you and your friend travel the country with the intention of breaking young ladies’ hearts or is it a natural consequence of your wealth and status?”
“I apologise for any consequences your family has suffered for being acquainted with Mr Bingley and myself. Perhaps when he returns to Netherfield—”
“He broke the lease; a Mr Raleigh has moved into Netherfield and thankfully brought a wife with him.”
Bingley broke the lease? That was a shock. While Darcy had understood that Bingley had made a choice not to pursue Miss Bennet, the breaking of the lease felt more final than Darcy had imagined. So, his friend would not be returning to Hertfordshire—ever.
Suddenly, Darcy remembered to reply, “Mr Harold Raleigh?”
“Wonderful,” Mr Bennet said slowly, his expression revealing he found the news nothing of the sort. “I should have known you would be acquainted with the man. Should I expect your visit to our fair county soon?”
“My plans are not fixed, sir.”
“With all due respect, Mr Darcy, I should like to know if you plan to visit, for the protection of my daughter.”
“Sir, your daughter has no reason to fear my presence. ”
“Has she not?”
“My intentions were honourable; they still are. Lady Catherine is under the impression—”
“That you are betrothed to her daughter?”
Darcy cleared his throat and responded, “Yes, sir. She is. Though it is not the truth. I am engaged to no one. My cousin and I have no intention of marrying. I assure you.”
Mr Bennet only pursed his lips and dragged his hand across his brow.
Darcy was tempted to leave the man be and to save this conversation for another day, but he steeled himself to his purpose. He sent a silent prayer up to God that the truth could remedy what had been broken.
“I love your daughter, Mr Bennet. If she would agree to be my wife, I would be the happiest man in the world.”
Some sentiment registered in the man’s eyes, but Darcy was too unfamiliar with him to recognise it. Mr Bennet excelled at keeping his emotions under regulation. Elizabeth shared his intelligence, but of her feelings, he felt certain he could recognise them at only a glance. Her expressive eyes left him with few questions regarding her state of mind. Mr Bennet was another species altogether. He was all indifference and control.
When Darcy thought Elizabeth’s father would say no more, the man surprised him by smirking and responding, “I was under the impression that my daughter thought very little of you. I would wager half of Hertfordshire was aware of her disdain last autumn.”
Darcy nodded. “I would like to imagine I have subsequently changed her mind.”
Mr Bennet raised his eyebrows and responded lightly, “I suppose time will tell.” He tipped his hat to Darcy and walked the way from which he had come.
Jaw clenched and heels dug in roughly, Darcy rode hard back to Rosings. To say that the conversation had frustrated him was a vast understatement. It was rare that he let anyone see his temper, nor such vulnerability. Attempting to avoid his aunt, he made his way to the library once he had changed out of his riding clothes.
To his surprise, Darcy found both of his cousins within, their heads bent over a piece of paper laid on a table on the far side of the room.
“Darcy!” Anne called. “Come and see.”
“What are you two up to?”
Anne surprised him with her energy and genuine smile, giggling as he drew near to see what it was that brought them both such amusement.
“Are you really such a romantic, Cousin?” Anne asked him as he approached.
Fitzwilliam clapped him on the back and handed him a letter. It was an unfamiliar handwriting, but feminine to be sure. It did not take long to figure out what he was holding. It was Mrs Collins’s account of Darcy and Elizabeth’s time together in Kent, followed by a distinctly untrained handwriting—written sloppily with inaccurate spelling. The second writer included specifics from someone who had watched them in the woods, including far more details than Darcy had before expected to find his aunt in possession of. Darcy flushed with embarrassment and took in his cousins’ pleased smirks.
“Where did you find this?” Darcy asked.
Fitzwilliam responded, “Anne was shocked to learn about her mother’s blackmail, and she offered to lend me her most excellent skills in espionage today to ensure a clear path to happiness is made available to you.”
Darcy shot Fitzwilliam a curious glance. Had he really spoken so freely of the matter to Anne of all people? It had taken two days on the road before even Darcy had divulged the entirety to Fitzwilliam. Long days of travel favour confessions when you are in the presence of a career military man.
“I found it in my mother’s safe,” Anne replied.
“But where is the other? Lady Catherine claimed a copy was made.”
“Oh, she always says there are copies, but she only has one safe,” Anne said confidently. “This was all I found.”
“Always? Are you saying her ladyship frequently threatens family members with humiliating documents meant to ruin them?” Darcy asked.
With an impertinent grin, Anne said, “You are not the first, I assure you.”
The sounds of a carriage roused Elizabeth from her reading. She turned her face to the window to see that it was her father returned home. Uncertainty prevailed, and she remained in the drawing room, unsure of his welcome. He had been gone nearly a fortnight, and Elizabeth’s concerns about what he found in Kent had grown daily. Perhaps the gossip of her liaisons with Mr Darcy truly had spread throughout the area? Her father surely would not remain in Lady Catherine’s realm by choice.
It was not long before Mrs Hill sought her out and informed her that her father desired an audience with her in his book room.
Elizabeth opened the door and entered, showing a quiet deference to her father in her greeting. Keeping her eyes averted, she curtseyed and took the seat before his desk.
“Where are your mother and your sisters?”
“They are shopping, sir. The Raleighs have announced that they will host a ball at the end of the month.”
Her father sighed, “And you, my only sensible daughter, stays behind? Should you not desire new lace and ribbons as well?”
“I was unaware that I was allowed out of the house. I have continued to obey your restrictions.”
He sighed. “Oh those.” He waved his hand in the air. “I believe we can safely say your restrictions are lifted. Can I trust you, Elizabeth?”
“Of course you can, Papa.” She released her own sigh, but of relief.
He nodded. “I am certain your mother can be roused to organise another shopping trip for ribbons and lace for you as well.”
“I have a new gown from London.”
Mr Bennet nodded, having lost interest in the subject of gowns, and pulled a letter from his jacket.
“Mrs Collins asked that I carry this note for you.”
He held out the missive, and Elizabeth took it by rote. A message from Charlotte might once have brought her joy, but now? She set the letter upon her lap and stared at the handwriting that had once been so familiar—a sign of home and comfort and the deepest friendship. She looked at her father curiously, hoping he might divulge what had kept him so long on his travels.
At length, her father cleared his throat and simply said, “Take your letter and go, my dear.”
Elizabeth smiled at the affectionate language and nodded in response. It was definitely an improvement upon their recent exchanges.
Desirous of privacy, Elizabeth took the letter out into the garden to a bench nestled amongst the rose bushes.
Hunsford Parsonage, Kent
June 7, 1812
Dear Elizabeth,
I hope this letter finds you and your family in good health. Please thank your father once again for his assistance in returning me to Kent and for his aid in the aftermath of that arrival. As you may have already heard, Mr Collins was recently the victim of an accident with a horse. He was kicked rather violently, and I do believe it is a miracle that he still lives. Far be it from me to understand what plans God still has for my husband, as they are yet unknown to me.
Mr Collins is still abed and will be for some time. Mr Bennet, along with my father and Maria, were kind enough to stay through the worst of it. A fever nearly took him in the first few days.
Lady Catherine generously sent her own personal physician to see to Mr Collins, and the gentleman has reported that my husband will recover but may never regain his ability to speak. The doctor says we are fortunate he was kicked in the throat and not in the head. Should my husband be able to voice his opinion, I am unsure whether he would agree.
A curate has stepped in, taking up my husband’s duties to the parish. Lady Catherine has already indicated that she will give over the parsonage to the gentleman permanently once Mr Collins is able to be moved. The physician advises we shall be able to leave the parsonage in four weeks’ time.
Mr Collins and I will enjoy a small cottage among her ladyship’s tenants. His position will be in name only until we one day return to Hertfordshire. I confess I am greatly relieved by her generosity. Lady Catherine also tells me there is much a parson’s wife can do for the poor but worthy parishioners, and I shall endeavour to do so.
My father and Maria will remain in Kent for some time to help oversee the care of my husband and our removal to a new home. My mother has sent lengthy letters with healthful instructions and has even offered to leave my great aunt’s bedside to assist me, but I have told her to stay. I have it all in hand.
And now I shall come to my point. My dear friend, this is the first letter I have written since my marriage that was not dictated by my husband but written in my own hand and containing my own words. I feel at once saddened by our circumstances and also encouraged by little matters such as this opportunity to tell you how sorry I am for the last time we spoke.
I hope you will accept my most sincere apologies for my words and actions of late. I have been outside myself, a stranger to my own thoughts, feelings, and deeds. I cannot explain it, and I shall not excuse it. I was wrong, and I beg you to forgive me one day. Just this morning, I was fortunate enough to have an opportunity to apologise to Mr Darcy when he came to call at the parsonage, and it brought me hope .
The best I can think to explain it is to say that I was resentful of your bravery and good fortune, and now I find I am only ashamed of myself. I will do better, Eliza.
I will understand if you do not write. But I do hope you will.
Your humble friend,
Charlotte Collins
The letter was more alarming than Elizabeth could have ever imagined. Mr Collins permanently injured, Mr Darcy’s presence in Kent, and Charlotte apologising—it was all too much. How could so much shocking news be found in one letter?
First and foremost on her mind was Mr Darcy. He was there! Elizabeth’s heart leapt at the notion that Mr Darcy may have received her letter and gone to Kent. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply at the thought of the constancy of his affection, though she could think of no reason to imagine their paths would cross again. Either way, she was grateful and comforted to know that he may have been there on her behalf. Of course, he could have already been there, visiting Miss de Bourgh. What a tangled muddle her heart was, vacillating from pleasure to disappointment in rapid succession.
Mr Darcy being in Kent also meant that her father may have seen him. She suddenly turned her eyes towards the house, looking to her father’s book room. She winced, imagining how badly that meeting might have gone. Could Mr Darcy have mentioned her letter to her father? Surely not. But there was a possibility the two gentlemen met, and she wondered if her father would divulge it to her.
And Charlotte—she was unsure what to think of her old friend. Sorrow for her provoked Elizabeth’s compassion, but it did not reduce the pain Charlotte had inflicted upon her life so callously, even eagerly. Charlotte would be in significantly reduced circumstances, living off the charity of a woman who could as easily deny it as approve it, yet Elizabeth could feel the hopefulness in her friend’s letter. Perhaps she would find some peace now.
Could she forgive her? She had no notion whether it was possible. Her anger towards Charlotte had not yet abated, and certainly not her resentment towards Mr Collins. Though, what did it signify? The man held less power than he ever had before and would never speak ill to her again, nor anyone for that matter.
Tears began to well in her eyes as she wrestled with all the emotions the letter had wrought. She flushed with embarrassment and quickly wiped her eyes with her handkerchief when she noticed Lydia’s approach.
“Are you well?” Lydia asked kindly as she joined her on the bench.
“Yes, thank you. Only a little overwhelmed. I have had a letter from Charlotte.”
“Oh, la! Do not tell me you are weeping over Mr Collins’s injuries! That gentleman got his just deserts, if you ask me!”
“Lydia!” Elizabeth scolded, all while subduing her own laughter.
“Charlotte will be much happier now; do you not think?”
Elizabeth felt certain her sister was right but was not interested in discussing Charlotte. “How did you know about his injuries?”
“I have had it in letters from both Mrs Jacobson and Miss de Bourgh.”
“And you did not think to share the news?”
“And add to our mother’s anxieties?” Lydia asked with wide eyed surprise. “What if he died from his injuries, and we had to search for another heir? I would rather not see our mother take to her bed and instead keep her focused on the upcoming ball. Do you think it will be as grand as Mr Bingley’s ball?”
Elizabeth was amused by her sister’s quick leaps from one topic to another, so casual in her responses, though exhibiting an astute intuition as it pertained to their mother. “Surely grander,” Elizabeth responded. She wrapped her arm around her sister’s elbow and pulled her up from the bench to return to the house. Surely her sister had more news from Kent within these letters, and she would do her best to wrestle the information from her.
“I return to London tomorrow,” Darcy announced to the breakfast room, both cousins dining with him looking up at his announcement. He had stayed three days, for appearances only, and had no interest in remaining when he was not required. With all his aunt’s requests and estate needs tended to a short few months prior, there were only so many days he could bear to sit with her ladyship at meals listening to her wedding plans for him.
“Such a short visit. My mother will be sad to hear it,” Anne said.
“But not you, Anne?” Fitzwilliam responded lightly.
“Of course, I shall be sad to see you both go. Though I shall find solace in my letter writing, shall I not?” she said with a gleam in her eye.
Darcy chuckled and returned his attention to his plate. “I shall look forward to it,” he replied evenly .
“I think I am of a mind to stay,” Fitzwilliam said casually, and Darcy returned his attention to him.
“Stay in Kent?”
Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair and sighed, “I have a letter to return to my barracks in a month’s time. If you will not go to Pemberley, I think I should rather remain in the country for these last weeks of freedom, if you do not mind.”
Darcy nodded in agreement, though surprised that his cousin would choose to remain at Rosings.
“Perhaps I may help Anne compose her next letter? Surely her ladyship would not object to my interference.”
Darcy smiled but turned a serious look on Anne. “Are you certain you do not want me to speak to your mother about our intentions before I leave? I would feel infinitely better about leaving—”
Anne waved his offer away, “I would rather she should remain in the dark for now. She will know soon enough. Leave it be. She has been rather cheerful as of late, with our regular correspondence and your quick return to Rosings. I should not rejoice to see her reaction when you tell her that her plans will not come to fruition.”
“Just so,” Fitzwilliam added. “I shall like to be an ocean away when she receives the news.”
“As you wish,” Darcy responded before rising from his chair.
He was free to tell Lady Catherine to stand down now that the letter was turned to ash. He had enjoyed watching the incriminating document burn. For one, it was humiliating. He had burned red with embarrassment reading it even alone in his chamber. The manner in which their interactions had been written on paper had cheapened what he knew to be meaningful and affectionate exchanges. In addition to freeing him from his humiliation, he knew now that Elizabeth was safe—from it and any repercussions it would have wrought.
He turned his head over his shoulder as he was leaving. He saw Anne shiver and Fitzwilliam responded attentively, “Are you cold? Shall I call for Mrs Jenkinson to bring you a shawl?”
“Thank you, no. I shall only require another cup of tea, if you please.” And Fitzwilliam obliged her.
Darcy shook his head at their antics and kindness. He too felt a strange pull to remain at Rosings, shocking though the notion was. It had been his most pleasing visit to date, thanks to Anne’s helpful interference. But remain, he could not. He had responsibilities elsewhere.