23
After calming down, Elizabeth decided she had better remain in her chamber and make a serious attempt to work out what she really wanted. She recalled Darcy’s remark on lacking his usual confidant , and realised that it applied to herself as well. She needed Jane, who was 1000 miles away. It was possible however to take up pen and paper as if writing to her sister, and in this way clarify her thoughts.
The problem, she now realised, was that she had become fascinated with Darcy, and developed an overwhelming sense that they belonged together. Where this had begun she could not say. Perhaps after he had forgiven her for burning his letter. Or during their subsequent conversations. But even these explanations felt wrong. The mind played tricks. It sought comfort rather than truth. Could it be, was it remotely possible, that her attraction dated much earlier—in fact, all the way back to their first meeting?
Setting aside her pen, she looked into the distance. In her mind’s eye she saw the Assembly Rooms at Meryton as the party from Netherfield arrived. Bingley. Caroline. The Hursts. And beside them, tall, proud, handsome, thoughtful, the kind of gentleman she had dreamed of ever since coming out—but never met.
Was there a chance he would approach her? It was unlikely. But his friend seemed taken with Jane. And then, all of a sudden, hope! Darcy hovering nearby. His friend joining him.
‘Come Darcy, I must have you dance … There is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty …’
‘She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt ME.’
He was not comfortable at social gatherings. Fine. He was discerning in choosing partners. Also fine. He thought she was not good enough …
Not fine.
Disappointing. Humiliating. Unforgiveable.
Two possibilities. Perhaps he was correct, and she was unworthy of him. Or he was flawed and unworthy of her.
Not a difficult choice.
And thereafter, everything Darcy did had been viewed through this distorting lens, to such a degree that she had condemned her ideal prince at the very moment he had declared his love for her.
Now, at last, Elizabeth saw clearly. She wanted him. Deep down she always had. She had fought this feeling so as to cover up the errors at Hunsford that had led to such a catastrophe for her family.
Was it conceivable he still loved her?
Unlikely, of course. Four years had passed. The manner of her rejection had upset him. The Bennets were tainted by Lydia’s disgrace. Elizabeth had recovered a measure of respect, even friendship, after her apology. But Darcy had never shown any desire to renew his advances. On the contrary, he had reminded her of the promise at the start of his letter. There would be no unwelcome attentions.
But what if he realised that his attentions were precisely what she wanted?
For a few seconds a flame of hope flickered. Then, like an icy blast, reality reasserted itself. Elizabeth felt a debt of gratitude to the Selborns. They had treated a paid employee like one of their family. She had worn fine clothes, attended concerts and balls, travelled through the cities of Europe, met with princes, at their expense, while receiving a salary she could pass to her family. All of this had been conceded willingly because they appreciated her as a loyal companion and friend to the gifted, temperamental young lady who was now generally expected to marry Darcy, to the great delight of Georgiana. At the same time she, Elizabeth, had cultivated a relationship with a respected and worthy young man who was anxiously hoping to gain her hand—a happy outcome also generally expected.
The future had been written. Everyone in their group wanted and expected it.
And it was not a disaster, after all. As Mrs Lindale she could expect a comfortable, pleasant and interesting life, in which her family would no longer suffer poverty. Meanwhile Pemberley would acquire a lively and beautiful mistress and, no doubt, a family of talented and equally beautiful children.
Elizabeth rose from the bureau. A conclusion had been reached; there was no need to write more.
I know at last what I want …
But I cannot have it.
‘Are you all right, Lizzy?’ Justina breezed in and placed an arm on her shoulder. ‘Mother said you felt poorly.’
Elizabeth blushed, hoping this untruth had not spread too far. ‘Much better now.’
‘I ordered piles of sheet music. And a gown! We could get one for you in the same style. Clean lines. Ornament is out of fashion here.’
‘You were with the Darcys?’
‘Of course. Georgiana ordered a new dress. And oh yes, we bumped into your charming Count Rietberg in the royal park, and he said there will be an event this evening in honour of Salieri, given by his pupils, including Herr Schubert. It’s private, but the count manage to sneak us in.’
‘Exciting for you.’
‘You too, if you’re feeling up to it.’ Justina studied her with concern. ‘What’s the matter? You should be happy!’
Elizabeth wondered how much Justina knew. ‘Why?’
‘We are in Vienna after all.’
‘True.’ Elizabeth straightened her back and managed a smile. ‘Shall we go down?’
They had tea, and spent an hour with Miss Darcy in the music room, trying out new pieces. It was heartening for Elizabeth to witness her companions so content—the result perhaps of a successful shopping trip. But a knot in her stomach reminded her of a second reason. Darcy had remained attentive to Justina. A happy outcome was anticipated, one that would delight Georgiana as well.
A messenger called with unfortunate news. Salieri had politely declined Rietberg’s request. The evening was for his pupils and ex-pupils alone. But an alternative presented itself. Lord Selborn returned from his latest negotiation in good spirits. An agreement had been signed setting a date, still confidential, for a congress that would include France, so maintaining momentum for peace and stability in Europe. As a celebration, they had been invited to Prince Metternich’s box at the Burgtheater that evening for a performance of Beethoven’s Fidelio.
The opera was to start in two hours, so preparations had to begin straight away. Out came their best gowns; maids attended to their hair; a light snack was taken, supper being postponed until after the performance. Caught up in this cheerful confusion, Elizabeth felt her mood lighten. For now at least she could let the social whirl carry her along.
The grand box was shared with Metternich’s family, including his wife Princess Eleonore, and Count Rietberg. The principals paired off, Lady Selborn joining the princess at the front, Metternich and Lord Selborn whispering in the shadows further back. Justina sat next to Darcy, while Rietberg with a grin joined Elizabeth and Georgiana in the second row. Looking round for Edmund Lindale, Elizabeth spotted him with Johann Koch, near Lord Selborn: evidently business and pleasure were to be combined.
Elizabeth had never seen Fidelio, sung naturally enough in German; fortunately, Count Rietberg was ready with explanations at pauses between arias. The first act she found laboured as it slowly set the scene, including a sub-plot in which a jailor’s daughter fell in love with a woman dressed as a boy—an absurdity blessed with a most exquisite quartet of voices. Eventually the interval arrived, and while people stretched their legs, Lindale greeted her.
She sat beside him, and he asked, ‘Feeling better?’
For a moment she was nonplussed, before recalling the so-called headache. ‘Much. Thank you.’
‘Have you had time to reflect?’
‘Have you?’
‘My wishes are unchanged.’
She felt a wave of guilt, and touched his arm. ‘A day or two more, Edmund.’
His expression softened, perhaps at her use of his first name. ‘Of course.’
‘May I ask …’ She looked round to check Lord Selborn and Metternich had left. ‘What we are celebrating?’
‘A plan to secure peace.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It all stems from the revolution in France, which has struck terror into the aristocracy all over Europe. Republican ideas attract the middle classes, who would prefer to be governed by professionals than by a simpleton who thinks he has a divine right to rule. But revolution led to tyranny in France and war across Europe—in short, a disaster, mitigated by only one consequence: the alliance among countries threatened by Bonaparte. We want to preserve this alliance by arranging regular congresses, and in this way keep the peace in the decades that follow.’
‘Why should kings behave more sensibly now than they did before?’
‘Because they have experienced vulnerability. No longer can they spend fortunes raising armies to fight their neighbours. They invest instead in militias and secret police to resist internal rebellion.’
She met his eye, fascinated. ‘You are not an aristocrat or a landowner. You also appear sceptical of the divine right of kings.’
He smiled. ‘Between you and me, I think it absurd. But primogeniture does at least prevent conflicts over succession. If the alternative is civil war, perhaps we do better to suffer the occasional villain or halfwit …’
Metternich’s voice sounded from the corridor, and Lindale broke off, putting a finger to his lips.
Elizabeth returned to her seat with her mind buzzing—a common result of conversations with Lindale. It occurred to her that she had never imagined what marriage to this ambitious young man might be like. She was familiar with the landowning gentry, and supposed that the future Mrs Darcy would enjoy a similar lifestyle on a grander scale. Lindale came from a lower stratum, but unlike Darcy, was in daily contact with the governing elite. She would know of plans months before they appeared in the newspapers. She would have opportunities to speak with politicians and perhaps influence them. In Vienna she had seen women play precisely this role, salonnieres like Julie Zichy, Karoline Pichler, and Fanny von Arnstein.
The second act began, and it was not long before these musings were swept away by the drama unfolding on stage. A man unjustly imprisoned by a tyrant languished in a dark cell. His wife, pretending to be a boy, discovered he was still alive, and risked her life protecting him. Victory was achieved, good triumphed over bad, and the couple sang a joyful duet that brought tears to Elizabeth’s eyes. It was not only the theme of lovers reunited that affected her, but the emergence from a dungeon into daylight.
It had been a bleak summer but one day the sun would return. She had passed the morning in despair, but she might stumble on a way of escaping her predicament.
‘Moving, is it not?’ Count Rietberg smiled.
She dabbed her eyes. ‘Intensely.’
‘O namenlose Freude,’ he said. ‘Oh boundless joy. When all seems lost, a miracle can happen. An illusion, perhaps, but it keeps us striving. What say you, Fraulein Darcy?’