Chapter 3
THREE
AN UNLIKELY HOPE
The sound of the Collinses departing, of the door closing, of the carriage wheels on the gravel, was the most wonderful sound Elizabeth had ever heard until, again, the futility of Jane’s situation struck her.
Indeed, of all of their situations, for who would wish to connect themselves to such a family once their fall from grace became widely known?
She sat in the empty parlour until the sound of the carriage had faded entirely, and then she found, quite without deciding to, that she was crying.
It was not elegant. It was the crying of someone who had been holding a considerable weight for a considerable number of hours and had finally set it down in an empty room where no one would see.
She curled over her stomach and pressed her hand over her mouth, crying for Jane, for the composure of that letter, and for the weeks of false hopes, unanswered prayers, and pure terror behind them.
For the fact that she was here in Kent with a headache and a blank page and no earthly way to reach Mr Bingley, who was in London doing as young men about town did with nary a thought for the disaster he had left behind him in Hertfordshire.
For the particular helplessness of caring enormously about something one could do absolutely nothing about. I cannot even get to her easily!
When he entered the house, she knew not; the first that she was aware of someone else’s presence was the click of the door to the parlour being opened and at once Mr Darcy was with her.
“Oh!” She leapt to her feet, quite forgetting that she was still at the escritoire. The rapidity of her actions toppled the bottle of ink which thankfully was not terribly full but immediately soaked the page upon which she had written nothing. “Oh, how stupid of me.”
She righted the ink and then began to try to use the piece of paper to blot what had spilt. Mr Darcy leant over her, extending what looked to be a very fine linen handkerchief towards her. “Here, this will do better.”
She refused it. “Mr Darcy, I do not mean to get ink stains all over your undoubtedly expensive handkerchief. In any case, I have my own much inferior one.” She removed her own from the pocket of her gown where she had tucked it previously and used it to dab up the rest of the spill, the ink commingling with the tears that kept the cloth damp.
That small calamity managed, she turned to her unwanted intrusion, hoping to send him on his way as quickly as he had come, this man who had played a chief role in Jane’s destruction.
Alas, the moment she turned to him, he exclaimed, “You are very ill! I will send for the physician at once.”
“Oh… No, no,” she said, running a hand over her hair. Likely she did look quite wild. “No. I am not ill, sir.”
“Mrs Collins said you had a migraine.”
“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, I do.”
His expression softened, and he looked almost tender.
How odd! And how odd also was the fact that it enraged her.
Was this what this man called honour? To go about ruining the lives of sweet young women and then behaving as if the aftermath could be answered for with clean handkerchiefs and offers to call for a physician?
He was standing very near to her, and she took a step back. He took another step towards her and extended his hand. “Will you not allow me to be of use to you?”
She laughed, not disguising the bitterness of it. “You have already had too much a hand in my situation, Mr Darcy.”
“Is this because of me?” He looked stricken. He took another step forwards, and she thought if he took another he would be standing on her shoes. “You have been expecting my addresses and believed I was going to disappoint you.”
“What?” Shock made her rear back, and she took the opportunity to place herself well out of his reach. “Expecting your addresses!”
“I pray you will forgive me, my dearest, darling girl. Only I—”
She held up one hand. “Mr Darcy, I assure you there is nothing in this world I have expected less than your addresses. Nor do I wish for them.”
An expression flitted across his countenance. Hurt? Dismay? Surely not. In any case, any hurt she meted unto him was well deserved for what role he had played in her family’s present misfortune.
“You will be very glad you did not extend them anyhow,” she said, then lowered her head. “Forgive me if I do not explain it to you, but I shall say only that in this case the chickens released in November have come home to roost. And it will be to your benefit, I assure you.”
His gaze penetrated her. “I do not understand.”
“Why should you?” She shrugged. “It does not signify. You and your friend will go on living as you always do—”
“Friend? What friend? Fitzwilliam? Has he done something to upset you?” Mr Darcy sighed and glanced heavenwards for a moment. “He can be something of a flirt, and I have warned him against giving expectations—”
“No, no,” she said tiredly. “It is nothing to do with your cousin. Please…I am in no humour to speak of any of this. I am sorry you have come upon me in the state in which you found me but pray go on your way. I will manage this affair on my own.”
For a moment, she believed in her success. He seemed as if he might leave her; he walked towards the door which had been left slightly ajar for propriety’s sake. But no; he closed the door with a firm click and turned back to her.
“I came here this evening to declare myself to you,” he said quietly. “To express to you my ardent love and admiration of you and ask for your hand in marriage.”
It shocked her, such words coming from a man like Mr Darcy—a man who she believed disliked her as much as he disdained all Bennets. But she kept her composure. “I would have said no. And you would have learnt, quickly, to be thankful that I did.”
“I doubt the latter, although only you know if the former is true. Nevertheless…” He walked towards a sofa and indicated she should sit in it. Against all inclination, she found herself doing so. “If you will not accept my hand, please accept my help. Whatever can be done I shall do.”
He sat next to her, angling himself to look directly into her face. She lowered it, unable to bear his scrutiny.
You have no hope without him. You do not even know where to find Mr Bingley, and in any case, he should know the depths to which he has sunk us, even if he does not wish to help us.
She sighed. “Fate is a perverse creature. You are, ironically, likely the only person who could help me and yet in this you are on the other side of the battle.”
“I am on your side of the battle,” he said. “Always.”
“No,” she said. “What you will think now I cannot know, but in the past you have not been. You have disdained my family and it has cost us, one of us and all of us, greatly, in a manner that will shock you deeply.”
“Tell me,” he said. “For I do not doubt that some misunderstanding has arisen.”
She hesitated once more, wondering if she was mad to share this damning secret with him.
No matter what she might say of him, she realised, she did think him trustworthy.
He would not likely wish to help, to undo what he had been so certain needed to be done in November; but she knew she could trust him to be silent.
Perhaps he might even have some solution she had not thought of.
As if he had heard her thoughts, he said, “Whatever you must say will remain in confidence. You have my word as a gentleman on that score.”
Still she hesitated. She cared nothing for Mr Darcy’s good opinion, but to speak so openly of such a family weakness was no easy matter. He already thinks your family very low, so there is nothing to be lost there.
And so she began to speak.