Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Would you like to have Miss Bennet come to stay with you?”
Elizabeth was bewildered by Mr Darcy’s strange suggestion. She had been playing a Pleyel sonata that Georgiana enjoyed, and she supposed her falling into contemplative silence after she had finished caught Mr Darcy’s attention.
She turned from the instrument to look at him. “What do you mean?” Lydia had only been in the house once in the week since Georgiana’s funeral.
“With Georgiana gone . . . it might enliven you to have a companion, a listener.” He shifted in his seat.
“Miss B—Lydia was kind to me when my sister died. She is a good-natured girl, and although she has a natural self-consequence that strikes me as forward for her age, I can easily tolerate her manner if you want her with you.”
“Lydia and I do not have a good understanding, and we are not sufficiently friends to make me glad to be with her in the same house at such an emotional time.” Lydia was not so much a listener as she was a determined talker.
“You are a naturally animated person, and I fear I am too reserved and grieving too much to be a good companion.”
He dislikes her manner but would still invite Lydia to live with us if it made me happy? She had not appreciated the extent of the generosity Mr Darcy was capable of. He had, in general, tried to show concern for her feelings while he was struggling with his own grief and guilt.
“You have lately been a better—thank you, but Lydia’s liveliness”—bordering on rudeness—“would not suit my manner and my thoughts now.” As much as Lydia tried her patience, Elizabeth loved her dearly and did not want her sister to see her drop dead from a heart paroxysm.
She had no wish, either, to make Mr Darcy unhappy by having such a boisterous presence in the house.
He endured enough, and if there was one part of being a wife she could offer him, it was to help and comfort him, both in prosperity and adversity.
She thought Mr Darcy would now return to his book, but he looked at her earnestly, and she left the instrument to sit by him. After all, it is not as though I have no fondness for him, no interest in his happiness.
“We both thought you would predecease Georgiana,” he began slowly. “Whatever the manner of our agreement upon marrying, you did not suppose you would be left solitary. As oppressive as being a dependent at Longbourn must have been, I worry that the grief and silence here might be more oppressive.”
That is simply not possible. “You are grieving, too, and Lydia’s coming here would not be of any comfort to you.”
“Lydia would not disrupt my peace, and I am not thinking of my own comfort.”
“Then it must be up to me to think of it for you. That is how I can best honour my friendship to your sister. You and I must be a source of comfort and companionship to each other as we mourn Georgiana. She was shy, but once one passed her natural reserve, she was eager for friendship and affection. I loved her immediately, and I can say that about few people. Such a kind girl.” Mr Darcy looked as though he was trying to show a happy countenance when he did not feel it.
“Does it pain you to hear me talk of her?”
“No, nothing could be more gratifying to me than the manner in which you speak of her.” His tone and countenance showed that he meant it.
“No one in Meryton even knew her. She is dead, and you and I loved her. There is no one else I can share the truth with, or better share her memory with. None of her friends, or even our family, would have withheld judgement if they knew the truth of her seduction and of her child.”
“I refuse all right to the compliment. I cannot speak for society as a whole, but would your family have forsaken her because she was seduced by a villain?” Mr Darcy nodded, and Elizabeth supposed he would know best and changed the subject.
“She had such a sweet temperament. She reminded me of Jane.”
“Is your sister shy?”
“No, she is not insecure, or embarrassed, but her nature is quiet. Jane dotes on those she loves and is blind to their faults, and Georgiana was full of the merits of everyone she loved. There is a quiet nobleness in my sister’s manner, similar to yours, that makes me think she and Georgiana might have been friends. ”
Elizabeth hoped she had chosen right by not telling Jane that she was soon to die. Something of her feelings must have shown in her face, because Mr Darcy said, “Do you want to see Jane before—again? I ought not to be seen in town yet, but invite her to—”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, I am resolved. Besides, she is a busy woman with a young family, and I have spent a quarter of every year with her since she married. We know what we mean to one another. There will be nothing left unsaid when I am dead.”
Mr Darcy shifted to face her, and rested his arm across the back of the sofa.
He gave her such a warm look that Elizabeth glanced at the space between them, and to where his shoulder met his arm, and briefly considered moving closer and resting her head there.
What would it be like to be that close to Mr Darcy?
Instead, she began a careful consideration of her own fingernails.
“Mrs Darcy, I know that you do not want anyone to know how ill you are, but that does not mean you cannot see your dearest sister.”
She raised her head sharply. “I cannot strengthen an attachment to Jane that will soon break! Do you think this acceptance, this calmness about my own death, comes easily? To see my sister, whom I love . . . knowing nothing can be done for me . . .”
Mr Darcy’s hand moved off the sofa, hovered, and then pressed lightly against her upper arm before returning to its place. The expressive look in his eyes was scarcely more meaningful a gesture. “You, of course, must make that decision for yourself.”
Elizabeth was struck; when had anyone else in her life said that she could make choices for herself and then given her the power to act on those choices?
“I suppose that,” he went on, “after you are gone, you would not wish me to confess that I had known you would die? Jane will come, of course, and I suspect she would be made angry to know I had kept the truth from your family.”
It had not occurred to her that Mr Darcy would be obligated to, however briefly, continue his acquaintance with her family after she died. “Please make it seem as though you were taken entirely by surprise. However, I think Jane would not be angry with you if you explained my reasons.”
He gave her a sceptical look. “How could she be that munificent and yielding?”
“Munificent and forgiving, yes, but not yielding. Jane is so generous, but firm where she believes she is right.” She looked carefully at her husband and considered his own decided nature.
“I think you would like that about her, if you were ever to know one another. She was firm in her resolution to marry when she did, despite my father’s misgivings. ”
“He thought her too young?”
“Yes, but my mother and aunt Gardiner thought it a good match. Robert was a friend of my uncle’s.
Jane’s determination to have Robert Cuthbert convinced my father.
However, I still believe that a few pretty verses had too powerful an impact on a girl who had not yet outgrown romantic sensibilities. ”
“If music is the food of love, it is not hard to believe that poetry can feed it as well.”
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love, it may. I think Robert’s inclination was rather slight. But thin as it was, it has not weakened, and Jane is happy. Still, if I had to base my marital happiness on a form of literature, poetry would be my last choice.”
“Is poetry not the highest form of literature? ‘Those numbers wherewith heaven and earth are moved, Show weakness speaks in prose, but power in verse.’ There is a considerable value in poetic expression—beyond simply winning a lady’s affections.
Why, poetry is powerful enough even to inspire virtue in people. ”
He was entirely wrong in that assessment, and she did not hesitate to tell him so. “There may be a diverting value to poetry, but no verse can impact the way we live our lives and treat our neighbours the way a well-argued treatise may.”
“A mere prose treatise on ethics could not have the power to deeply affect the person who reads it. Only poetry has the appeal to do that.” Mr Darcy’s eyes glowed with an inner fire when animated, and his sudden interest in arguing with her surprised her.
“Even an intelligent novel might linger in one’s mind longer than rhyming verse. A poem may be beautiful, but its style is too limiting to be inspirational.”
“No, there is far greater scope in verse,” he replied with a smile, “and more elevated language than in a novel.”
“No, novels are the works in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature is conveyed, not poetry. Novels are more than just an ordinary train of life events; they exhibit our principal values.”
“This is the rationalisation from the woman who forced me to listen to a novel with a heroine who threw herself into the Thames to act out her romantic delusions. And that was before it lulled me to sleep.” Mr Darcy did not seem embarrassed at the memory of waking up and realising he had fallen asleep on her shoulder, but at the time he scarcely knew where to look and had immediately left the room.
“Your novel, at best, I could grant you, was a shrewd parody, but not as stirring or affecting as poetry.”
She knew Mr Darcy read a great many things, novels as well as what he would say were more clever books.
He was a sensible, uncommonly intelligent man, but this discussion struck her as peculiar.
“Do you argue with me because you have the opposing opinion and feel the need to defend it, or because you enjoy a debate and think you have a chance of arguing me out of my opinion?”
“Why can not it be both?” he said smilingly.