Chapter 12 A Bleak Future
by Jeff Bigler
Hunsford Parsonage, Kent
Perhaps it would not be wholly bad to be his wife—after all, Mr Darcy was quite wealthy. And attractive. And respectable. She need never fear that he would embarrass her.
Elizabeth could make a life for herself at his estate in Derbyshire. All of her wants and needs would be provided for, and her future would be secure. Their children, at least, would never suffer for want of consequence in the world.
She would have Pemberley’s extensive library at her disposal and miles of footpaths to walk, with magnificent grounds to admire. Her aunt once told her the village of Lambton was larger than Meryton, and Elizabeth had been happy in Meryton, had she not?
Though she did not love Mr Darcy, many women found contentment in marriages of convenience. Was not her friend Charlotte Collins in one of those marriages? If Charlotte could somehow be content in her life with Mr Collins, surely Elizabeth could do the same with the handsome and rich Mr Darcy.
Some hours later Mr Darcy called at the parsonage. He began: “I have attempted to make you understand how ardently I admire and love you. Each time, something has prevented me, but none of those interventions has diminished the sentiment.”
Had Mr Darcy changed? His arrogance persisted, though it appeared tempered—whether diminished or merely better concealed, she could not tell.
Was Mr Darcy improving, or was she becoming more used to him?
Finally, Mr Darcy finished his speech and spoke the words that wrenched Elizabeth’s stomach: “Will you relieve my suffering and consent to be my wife?”
Elizabeth took a deep breath and steeled herself.
“Yes, Mr Darcy, I will consent to be your wife.” She pulled her hands from his.
The thought of her next words terrified her, but she was more terrified of what might happen if she kept them to herself.
“I am sure that I shall want for nothing that your wealth and influence could provide. But if I am to be your wife, then you must accept me for who I am, not who you might wish me to be.” When she finished speaking, she braced herself for his response.
“Elizabeth,” he pleaded, stepping towards her, “I wish for you to be exactly who you are, no more and no less.”
She drew back. “Are you certain that you mean that, Mr Darcy?” She hesitated, wondering whether she should continue.
“My grandmama once told me that my grandpapa said the same thing when he proposed. She held him to that promise.” She looked Mr Darcy in the eye.
“He eventually came to understand what she meant, but she did not make it easy for him, especially in the beginning.”
She started to say more, but something stopped her. That was most peculiar. There is no one in this room but Mr Darcy and me, yet I feel as though I saw someone motion for me to be silent.
Mr Darcy replied, “I do not flatter myself by expecting marriage to be easy. I promise that I shall do all that is within my power to ensure your contentment, and perhaps to earn your love.” He once again clasped her hands in his. “Shall you like to be married in the church in Meryton, Elizabeth?”
She started at his continued use of her Christian name. If we are to wed, I suppose I shall have to become accustomed to it. “Thank you, Mr Darcy, I would indeed like that. After my father gives his consent, we may have the first banns read the following Sunday.”
That night, Elizabeth found herself unable to sleep.
She lay awake reading, but it had been an hour since she had turned a page, for her thoughts consumed her.
To be a woman means to marry where I must—to make my husband happy and to keep his household, no matter my own feelings.
I had once sworn that I would marry only for the deepest love, but I might spend a lifetime waiting for a love that never came, only to die a spinster and destitute.
I do not love Mr Darcy. I am not sure whether I could ever love the man.
But is it better to live contentedly in a marriage of convenience, or to die poor and alone?
Surely, Mr Darcy is the lesser of two evils, and he claims to love me.
No sooner had the thought formed in Elizabeth’s mind than her candle blew out. She gasped. The shutters are closed, and there is no draught. What, then, extinguished the candle? She drew herself under the coverlet.
A voice answered in her mind: “I did.”
The voice was eerily familiar. The scent of wisteria blossoms suddenly overcame Elizabeth. “Who are you?”
An apparition appeared before her. “In life, I was your grandmama.”
Elizabeth sat bolt upright, mouth agape.
The figure standing before her was translucent, hovering just above the floor, yet its form was clearly Grandmama’s.
Elizabeth’s grandmother had died when she was fourteen, but Grandmama’s gown and bonnet looked just as she remembered.
Her face bore the forbidding expression that foretold an impending punishment, or at least a lecture about her behaviour.
Elizabeth was not afraid because the figure was some sort of spectre; she was afraid because Grandmama was obviously displeased with her.
“You told Mr Darcy that I deliberately made your grandpapa’s life difficult. I did indeed compel your grandpapa to accept and love me for who I am, and there were times when I was not particularly kind about it, but it was done out of love, not out of spite.”
“You loved Grandpapa?”
“I did, just as I always loved you. I loved both of you for who I knew you to be, but not always for how you acted.”
“Then you married for love? Unlike my parents?”
“Your parents also married for love. But your father married your mother for who he wanted her to be. He was blind to her character, and he has never been able to reconcile. All you have ever known is the loveless marriage that your parents now have. The difference is that you would knowingly enter into a loveless marriage from the beginning, and you would be trapped in it for the rest of your life.”
Elizabeth remained in her bed, paralysed. Grandmama was not someone to be trifled with. She recalled a visit from her childhood, when she was punished for cutting all of the flowers from Grandmama’s wisteria plants to make a bouquet. Was their scent meant to be a warning?
“You must allow me to show you the future that you have embraced.”
Was this a request or a command?
Before she had time to ask, the apparition seized one of Elizabeth’s hands and pulled her into a tableau. She was standing next to Mr Darcy at their wedding.
Immediately, she realised that she was not watching the events from the outside; rather, she was Elizabeth in the tableau.
However, she found herself unable to control her actions, as though she watched the events unfold within herself.
She was unable to keep the self that held her captive from mechanically repeating the words, “I Elizabeth Rose Bennet take thee Fitzwilliam Alexander Darcy to my wedded husband…” She was terrified of those words, but she was powerless to stop them, as if she stood in the middle of a street, helplessly watching a carriage come straight towards her.
Her mother had spared no effort or expense to make the wedding breakfast the finest that Meryton had ever seen.
The serving table was laden with every food that a wedding breakfast ought to have: bread, hot rolls, buttered toast, tongue, ham, eggs, and oranges, the latter of which had been procured from an orangery in London at great expense.
There was chocolate at one end of the table and punch at the other.
In the centre sat an ornately decorated wedding-cake, which was sickeningly sweet.
Did her mother have it made so sweet by choice, or did it only taste that way to Elizabeth in contrast to her own bitterness?
The entire parlour was bedecked with exotic flowers that had been brought from a London hothouse, including wisteria.
Mrs Bennet made certain to let every guest know the extent of her efforts.
She regaled everyone who would listen with her tales of the trials and tribulations of creating the perfect wedding breakfast for her now-favourite daughter and her unimaginably wealthy new son.
Elizabeth looked towards her father. Mr Bennet kept himself in the background, allowing his wife to bask in her much-needed attention, whilst taking care not to be part of it himself.
Elizabeth approached him. How was she able to control the Elizabeth that she was inhabiting this time?
Was Grandmama orchestrating it? “Papa, do you love Mama?”
Mr Bennet looked uncomfortable, almost guilty.
He looked towards Mrs Bennet and then back to Elizabeth, clearing his throat.
“I suppose that I must,” he replied at last. “We have been comfortably married these five and twenty years. In that time, I have learnt to navigate her peculiarities and overlook her foibles and shortcomings. Most of the time, my navigations have led to my library, which has provided me with much solace over the years.”
The tableau dissolved, and the familiar scent of wisteria enveloped Elizabeth once again.
“The wedding was how I imagined it. I am glad that Mama and Papa have found a way to be content. I must hope for the same.”
“Have you sunk so low, Lizzy? Did they appear content? Did you not once say that you yourself would marry only for the deepest love?”
Elizabeth froze. Had Grandmama been with her all those years? How could she have known my thoughts from so long ago? And how does she know my own mind when even I am uncertain of it?
“I did say that. But if Mr Collins inherits Longbourn before any of us marries, we shall be cast out. Though Mama’s hysterics about living in the hedgerows must be an exaggeration, my prospects will diminish if I am required to take a position as a companion or governess.
I can be content with Mr Darcy. It is not that dreadful. ”