13
Justina sat up in bed, a candle still alight at her side, as Elizabeth softly entered.
‘What have you been doing? It’s past midnight.’
Disrobing, Elizabeth said vaguely, ‘I went to the lounge for some mulled wine.’
‘Why not have it brought here? We could have shared.’
‘I needed to speak with someone.’
‘I see, a midnight tryst. With Mr Lindale if I’m any good at guessing.’
‘Justina, not now. I’ll tell you tomorrow.’
Lady Justina must have seen Elizabeth’s distress, since she relented, and blew out the candle.
Elizabeth lay down, half dozing, but as the wine wore off, her confused thoughts settled, revealing a past that had been transformed like a landscape after a tornado. For four years she had seen Darcy as a principal agent of her family’s decent into poverty and disgrace. So firm was this view that she had continued to malign him even after learning, just an hour earlier, the incontrovertible basis of his animosity towards Wickham. But now, in the calm of the chamber, a new viewpoint took shape, quiet but insistent, demanding to be heard …
Darcy had told her all she needed to know about Wickham. Moreover, he had done so at considerable risk to his family’s reputation, by relying on her discretion. True, he could have spoken with Mr Bennet earlier. But this omission was not the direct cause of Lydia’s elopement and its tragic aftermath. Because she, Elizabeth, had been warned in time to prevent the disaster. On returning to Longbourn she could have warned her father—not mentioning Georgiana, but confiding enough to make the danger plain, after which events would have unfolded very differently. Lydia would not have been allowed to go to Brighton. Mr Bennet would have lived, they would still have Longbourn, and in all probability, Bingley would have returned to marry Jane.
And all this because she had stupidly thrown Darcy’s letter into the fire, to escape the relatively mild vexation of reading more of his insults and self-justifying humbug.
She, Elizabeth, was the villain!
In the greatest distress of her life she lay awake, reliving past actions in imagination, as if trying to make them turn out differently. Only Justina’s presence at her side kept her from sobbing, or pacing the room. The disgust and hatred she had felt for Darcy had taken a new direction, and what was worse, she saw no possibility of atonement. Nothing could reverse her father’s death and the loss of Longbourn. She might even lose her position with the Selborns, if they learned of her family’s disgrace.
Morning came at last, and Elizabeth struggled to improve her appearance with almond bloom and rouge, and to follow the conversation at breakfast. Count Rosicky had invited a man named Václav Tomá?ek to join them later in the morning. Known informally as the Musical Pope of Prague, Tomá?ek had an international reputation as composer and teacher, especially for the piano. He knew Beethoven, and the poet Goethe. He was maestro of choice for any aspiring pianist in the aristocracy—including Angelika von Kutscha.
Tomá?ek duly arrived, a puffy, red-faced man in his forties, carefully groomed, and pompous in manner. Coffee was served in the lounge, where people gathered to witness his master class. First Miss Darcy performed a Mozart sonata, almost perfectly in Elizabeth’s opinion, but it turned out there was plenty to correct, and Tomá?ek replayed passages himself to demonstrate his points. The lesson ended with warm praise for Georgiana, and a round of applause. It was now Justina’s turn, and out came the score of the Waldstein.
The sun was making a rare appearance, and as Justina opened the sonata with her usual bravura, Elizabeth quietly joined Darcy at the back of the room.
‘May we talk now? In the garden?’
He nodded. ‘Let’s listen awhile first.’
Tomá?ek held up a hand at the end of the first section, and in a mixture of German and halting English started picking holes in the performance. Having been gentle with Georgiana, he was now severe, even sarcastic. Among the onlookers Elizabeth noticed whispers and frowns, and she watched Justina closely, expecting her to give the pompous musician a piece of her mind, and storm out. But nothing of the sort happened. Even when the maestro’s rendering was clearly inferior to her own, Justina remained respectful, saw what he was aiming at, then played the passage even better. It was another side to Justina, showing how seriously she pursued excellence.
Darcy touched Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Now?’
They drifted off, unnoticed, and went to a small garden by the forecourt, where two benches overlooked lawns and flower beds with a hedge giving privacy.
‘You want to go after Wickham,’ Darcy said.
Seated beside Darcy, Elizabeth watched servants passing back and forth, sprucing up a coach. They were too far away to hear, and probably did not speak English in any case.
‘Yes.’ She faced him. ‘But first, let me apologise for my behaviour last night. I hardly slept from shame. I see now that the responsibility for my family’s misfortune is entirely my own. The truth is that I took an irrational dislike to you, and in consequence believed Mr Wickham’s claims on very little evidence, and neglected your warnings.’
She waited, fearing a haughty response, but instead he replied quietly, ‘It is curious, but I too lay awake, remorseful for not warning your father. I was not, as you may think, indifferent to your family. I simply did not perceive the danger. Why would a man like Wickham pursue a young lady with such an insignificant dowry?’
He sighed, and moved by his sympathy, Elizabeth felt all bitterness towards him fade, overtaken by a torrent of remorse and grief. She managed for a few moments to retain poise, but it was too much, and burying head in hands she surrendered and cried her heart out. She had a sense Darcy was watching, but he remained gravely silent until she emerged, embarrassed that servants might be watching, and fumbled for a handkerchief.
‘I’m sorry.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Truly, Miss Elizabeth, you are too severe on yourself. We both erred, you in burning the letter, I in not warning your father. But how could either of us have foreseen the consequences?’
Elizabeth nodded, and as they sat for a while in silence, she felt her despair lift, and realised that she was seeing a new side to Darcy, either because he had changed, or because she was no longer blinded by prejudice. This was not a man too vain to admit fault. His response had been analytical rather than emotional, but this was arguably a virtue: life had to go on, and remorse by itself achieved nothing.
Eventually she smiled at him, eager to show she had regained composure. ‘You have been kind, Mr Darcy, much more than I deserve after so roundly abusing you. You are also responding far more sensibly and rationally than I—for which I shall try to forgive you.’
He smiled back. ‘It’s pleasing to see the return of your usual self. Can we be practical now?’
‘Wickham?’
‘Yes.’ He thought a moment. ‘I suspect the music lessons will continue another hour, since Tomá?ek is obviously fascinated by Lady Justina’s talent, and has still to put Baroness von Kutscha through her paces. Why not simply leave now, in my carriage? I will bring my valet Burgess as well as my driver, so you should have adequate protection if we meet with an unfriendly reception.’