Chapter 2
ELIZABETH
I did not regret it immediately.
Regret would have required a certainty I no longer possessed.
Since my arrival in Kent, my certainties had come undone one after another.
Charlotte was not unhappy—at least not in the simple way I had imagined.
Mr Collins remained ridiculous, but she had gained a house, a position, a future that no longer depended on her father's health or her brothers' generosity.
Jane suffered with a gentleness that rendered her grief almost invisible.
My father laughed at my mother's imprudence without ever truly preparing for his daughters' future.
And Mr Darcy loved me.
This thought should have been the least believable of all. It had become the only one I could not doubt.
I stayed alone for a long time after he left.
The room still held his presence: the chair he had circled, the carpet where he had paused, the very air still charged with the conviction of his words.
His proposal had been proud, offensive, almost unbearable.
He had offered me marriage like a man crossing an abyss with me at the bottom.
Yet I had accepted.
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
“What a brilliant proof of constancy, Elizabeth.”
My voice sounded strange in the empty drawing room.
I could have refused. I had many reasons to. Jane. His manner at Meryton. His evident contempt for my family. The stories that had fed my poor opinion of him. Every memory had surfaced while he spoke. I had felt the words of refusal forming—incisive, just, almost delicious.
Then I had thought of Longbourn.
Of the letter I had received three days earlier, in which my mother described with her usual lightness a new pain in my father's chest. He had mocked the general concern and refused to consult the Meryton physician any longer.
The episode was probably nothing serious.
Yet for the first time, I had seen with cruel clarity what would happen if he died.
Mr Collins would take possession of the house.
My mother and sisters would depend on marriages still uncertain, on the impossible task of stretching five thousand pounds among five daughters, and on the help of relations who already had their own burdens.
Jane could hope to marry the man she loved, if that man found the courage to return.
Mary had no prospects. Kitty did not yet understand the threat.
Lydia, who had just turned eighteen, treated it as one more reason to enjoy the present.
I had always sworn never to marry a man without loving him.
The world had never promised me this requirement would be reasonable.
It was mine alone, born as much from my affection for Jane as from my horror of my parents' marriage.
I wanted to laugh with the man who would share my life.
I wanted to esteem him enough not to seek refuge in another room every day.
At Hunsford, I did not love Mr Darcy.
But he was not indifferent to me.
I hated to admit it. His glances had troubled me before I understood why.
His presence irritated me because I noticed it.
The way he occupied a room, his silence, that severe attention he fixed on me—all of it had followed me even on my walks.
At Rosings, I knew when he entered without needing to turn my head.
I felt his gaze on my neck, on my hands, on my face.
His love was real, powerful, almost frightening. Perhaps I had based part of my judgment on incomplete facts. Perhaps my anger would subside if he repaired the wrong done to Jane. Perhaps this man who had just allowed himself to be contradicted possessed more humility than he knew how to show.
These perhapses had been enough.
The door opened before I could gather my thoughts. Charlotte entered, removed her gloves, and stopped when she saw me.
“Lizzy? You are very pale.”
“It was raining. I didn't dare go out.”
“Rain doesn't usually stop you from walking.”
I let out a brief laugh.
Charlotte set her bonnet on the table, frowning suddenly.
“Mr Darcy was here.”
It was not a question. She had always observed more than she let on.
“Yes.”
“And something happened.”
I stood, then sat down again at once. My legs felt less steady than they had minutes before.
“Charlotte, he asked me to marry him.”
My friend did not move.
“Mr Darcy.”
“The very same. With all the modesty he’s known for.”
“And you refused him.”
I looked at the fire.
“No.”
The silence that followed was more expressive than the most violent exclamation from my mother.
“You accepted?”
“Subject to my father’s consent.”
Charlotte came to sit across from me.
“Will you be able to respect him?”
The question surprised me more than if she had spoken of love.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then why give your word?”
“Because I may have been mistaken about him. Because he loves me with a constancy few men could match. Because Longbourn will never belong to us. Because Jane has suffered, and I am tired of seeing our future depend on the decisions of men who do not consult us.”
“By marrying the one who decided for Jane?”
I pressed my lips together.
“He has promised not to interfere again after sending a letter to Mr Bingley.”
“A promise made to obtain your consent does not erase the act.”
“No. But it will allow me to see whether he keeps his word.”
Charlotte regarded me with that tranquil lucidity that made her remarks difficult to dismiss.
“The world does not require a woman to love the man she marries, Lizzy. It chiefly asks of her a well-kept house, a character he can bear. You have always wanted more for your married life. To matter more.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Perhaps I was proud to believe I would have the right to it.”
“That is not pride. But your choice does not rest solely on what Mr Darcy is today. It rests on the man you still hope to discover.”
I thought of his lips on my hand, of the fervor contained in his voice when he had spoken my name.
“I believe he exists.”
“Then you are taking a greater risk than I did when I married Mr Collins. I knew exactly what I could expect from him.”
“That is a rather discouraging way to defend marriage.”
“I am not defending it. I am describing it.”
Her frankness drew a smile from me that disappeared almost immediately.
“If he withdrew his offer,” she asked, “would you regret only the security lost?”
I looked at the fire.
“No.”
The word was too quick to be prudent.
Charlotte heard it.
“Then Longbourn is not the only reason for your yes.”
“I esteem him more than I would wish. I do not want him to disappear from my life. And when he comes near me…”
Heat rose to my cheeks.
Charlotte had the kindness not to smile.
“I will be a good wife,” I continued. “I will respect his responsibilities, his estate, his sister. I will not humiliate him. I will give him all the affection I am capable of.”
“A reasonable wife may not suffice for a man who loves you with such violence.”
I had not wanted to think about that part of marriage. Yet my body had thought of it as soon as Mr Darcy approached. The breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark coat. The pressure of his fingers around mine. His mouth, so severe when he was silent, pressed to my glove.
I was ignorant, not blind.
“I do not fear his desire,” I said.
“Then only take care not to let fear or duty choose for you.”
I could find no jest capable of answering her very judicious words.
That night, I slept little. I imagined Pemberley without having seen it. I imagined Georgiana Darcy, who was said to be shy, sometimes cold. I imagined my mother in a drawing room where each armchair was probably worth more than our silverware. I imagined Mr Darcy at the door of my chamber.
This last image returned too often.
I knew almost nothing of what passed between a husband and his wife, beyond the vague and embarrassed warnings a mother was supposed to offer before the wedding.
Mrs Bennet spoke of marriage as a social victory.
Charlotte described it as an arrangement of rooms, schedules, and silences.
Jane, if she knew more, had never confided it to me.
Mr Darcy would be neither vague nor indifferent.
I sensed it without reason. He was restrained in the world, but his feelings were not. He had fought his desire to marry me until that struggle made his declaration almost brutal. What would become of that intensity when the Church and the law had bound us?
I turned my face into the pillow.
Part of me was afraid.
Another part remembered his hand around mine.
In the morning, a note arrived from Rosings. The firm handwriting left no doubt as to its author.
“My dear Elizabeth,
I request permission to call at the parsonage at eleven o'clock, so that we may discuss the journey to Longbourn and the manner in which I shall seek your father's consent. I am not unaware that my happiness makes me impatient. I shall endeavor, however, to announce or decide nothing without you.
F. Darcy”
My dear Elizabeth.
I read those words twice.
He had already heeded one of my conditions. Or perhaps I was only seeing, for the first time, the man behind the pride.
I took up a pen.
I did not write that I loved him.
Nor did I write that I did not love him.
I confirmed the hour of his visit.