Chapter 16 #2
She shook her head, but Elizabeth smiled. She rose and said goodnight. When she was near the door, Mr Darcy called to her. “What literature would you choose?”
“Choose for what?”
He leant back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a self-satisfied smile as though he thought her going to bed meant he had won this debate. “On what form of literature would you base your chance at marital happiness if not poetry?”
“A good satire, perhaps.” She met his smile, and then left.
As much as they mourned Georgiana, as much as Elizabeth was often brought low by the thought of her impending death, they had no need for Lydia here.
Darcy rode across the country in quest of tranquillity.
Today, the last day in June, was a fortnight since he buried his sister.
He could now reconcile himself with knowing that she would never have been cured and every day she lived had increased her suffering.
Any who suggested that her death was a blessing still had no heart, but at least now Darcy could find comfort in knowing her pain was over.
Regardless of what Mrs Darcy says, I cannot forgive myself for wishing for a miscarriage of my own nephew. He did not want forgiveness for wanting Wickham dead; nothing could convince him that the villain did not deserve whatever punishment that could be meted out.
Still, Darcy’s anger at himself had lessened after confessing to his wife the burden of what happened.
She understood how much Georgiana loved her unborn child, and Mrs Darcy’s love for Georgiana outweighed any esteem she had for him.
He knew enough of Mrs Darcy’s forthright disposition to be certain that had she hated him for hoping his sister would miscarry her child, she would have acknowledged it.
Instead, they had grown more comfortable with one another.
She was still often sad, naturally. She mourned a friend for whom she had given up her home, however happily.
And the strain of knowing that any step she took, any stair she climbed, any word she spoke, could be her last must often rob her of all presence of mind.
He no longer agreed that not telling her family about her impending death was for the best; however, it was not his place to circumvent the wishes of the dying.
Darcy could understand her wanting something to control, of having the power of choice over her own life.
It was time to return from his bracing ride and write more letters. I am so tired of writing about Madeira, a place I have only read about and seen a drawing of.
Now their content had shifted to mourning notices. Darcy did not want to think about how the next round of letters he would receive would invariably have questions about his return to England.
Before Darcy could proceed to his study, the housemaid said he had a caller.
Other than a few neighbours who waited on him when he first let the house, no one had called for him.
He scarcely even nodded to anyone after church until he married Mrs Darcy.
After considering having the maid say he was not at home, he checked if his black armband was still in place and entered the parlour to see Mrs Darcy listening to Sir William Lucas run on.
Mrs Darcy had changed into her mourning gown to receive his caller.
It looked as though it had been dyed by inexperienced hands; there must have also been something wrong with the dye for the colour to be so mottled.
He thought of Mrs Collins refusing to forward any money for her to have a new gown on her wedding or for the ball, and it angered him to think of all the small indignities Mrs Darcy had suffered.
He would order black bombazine for her to make a proper mourning gown; Mrs Darcy would only complain about the expense if he suggested she do it.
“It is good to see you out of the house,” exclaimed Sir William. “Of course, Miss Darcy’s loss must be strongly felt, very strongly felt, but it would not do to let your careful keeping of your sister’s memory leave a gentleman isolated.”
Darcy looked at his wife, who gave him a sympathetic smile. Not entirely isolated. “Thank you, sir. If you called on a matter of business, would you care to—”
“No, Mrs Darcy may hear. She has been so good as to keep me company this quarter hour. She knows your habits. She was certain you would return from your ride by half past, and here you are.”
Darcy glanced at Mrs Darcy, who gave him a small shrug. Sir William was grinning, and Darcy feared the man was fit to burst with whatever he wished to say. “I have the good fortune to formally admit you to the Meryton Whist Club!”
Sir William looked as though this enthusiastic pronouncement deserved a round of applause, or perhaps a pretty speech of gratitude. While Darcy was struggling with how to politely say he had no desire to join, his guest went into raptures.
“It is a weekly club, sixteen members, all likable fellows, chosen from respectable inhabitants of the neighbourhood. You see, Mr Copeland went away, and we now need another gentleman. The assembly never fails to be animated, and we are all determined players. We dine at half past five and then play. I assure you, no one leaves before the club breaks up.”
His guest still had an expectant smile, and before Darcy could dash his hopes and refuse, Mrs Darcy spoke. “I believe my father was a member of your club.”
“Yes, a tenacious player he was. Besides, Meryton could not have a whist club without the master of Longbourn!” Sir William’s face suddenly contorted with worry.
“I mean, your father was a talented player who enjoyed our weekly games. We meet not only to talk, but to play cards, you understand. The beauty of the game is destroyed if it is made simple for the sake of—Our members must be ready to play against any manner of strategy employed, and be skilled enough oneself to partner with anyone . . .”
Mrs Darcy’s eyes were bright with mirth. “I understand you perfectly. And I daresay, Mr Collins would not feel slighted. I do not think he enjoys whist.”
“I am relieved to hear you say that! Still, it would be best if we did not speak of it before Mr Collins, out of deference to his feelings. Now, Mr Darcy, what say you? We meet on Thursdays.”
“I am afraid that I am no card player, sir.”
“Nonsense! Every new member must undergo a preliminary examination to see that he is proficient before admission, and I have no hesitation in saying you are a fine player.”
“How are you certain?” Mrs Darcy asked. “I thought that Mr Darcy, due to his sister’s illness, did not mix with the neighbourhood.”
“True, but thrice over those six months I had the pleasure in securing Mr Darcy for an evening, and on those occasions, he played whist. You were at the most recent evening shortly after your return from town. Mr Darcy played with myself, Mr Long, and Mr Collins, and he managed to win five tricks despite being partnered with—despite not having luck that evening.”
Mrs Darcy now looked as though she would give anything she had to be able to laugh freely at Mr Collins’s expense. “How kind of you to invite Mr Darcy. I know he wishes to establish himself now that, sadly, he need not devote himself to Miss Darcy’s health.”
He caught Mrs Darcy’s eye, and she raised an eyebrow.
Being involved in the reciprocal responsibilities of this club would establish his character, and likely prevent anyone from conjecturing further about him and his sister.
Their little whist club served to form and strengthen social bonds, and he would appear singular if he refused.
It shall only be until Michaelmas, and it will make Mrs Darcy happy.
“I accept, thank you.”
“Capital! Thursdays at the inn, the Crown, near the toll gate.”
As though Meryton boasted a dozen coaching inns, and he might at half past five on Thursday be wandering through the market town wondering where he ought to be on whist club night. Darcy only nodded.
Sir William rose and gave him a courtly bow. “I know you are mourning, but you are still a newlywed man. As in love with your wife as you must be, I am glad you are willing to spare her charming company to join us. You must be very happy together, all things considered.”
He saw his wife blush and turn away. Sir William could not have known how his gallantry affected them.
The word love seemed to hang in the air, and it felt as though it might choke him if he did not speak into the silence.
Darcy supposed a newly or even a happily married man would now say something courteous about loving his wife and still being able to join in a gentlemen’s weekly card game.
“It is impossible to be happier than I am in a wife.” He rose, avoided looking at Mrs Darcy, and tried to usher his guest toward the door. Sir William did begin the process of leaving, but his attentiveness was by no means over.
“Yes, of course you love Mrs Darcy, and she has a great affection for you as well. How could you not love the brightest jewel in Hertfordshire?”
“Indeed.” Sir William still looked at him expectantly. “I do . . . love. . . Mrs Darcy.” More lies.
“As she loves you! We shall see you in two days, half past five! Good day, Mrs Darcy.”
When they were alone, they stared at one another in embarrassed, uncomfortable silence.
It was, at least, embarrassing to him. He assumed her pink cheeks and averted gaze were from embarrassment at not loving her husband.
He was not in love with his wife, but it was not as though he specifically did not love her, as though dislike or hatred was the opposite emotion for being not in love.
“I am exceedingly sorry if what I said to Sir William . . .” Disappointed you? Insulted you?
“It was said with the view of passing off an awkward moment.” She smiled one of her smiles that did not reach her eyes. “I am surprised that for so forthright a man you were able to say that you were happy let alone—”