Chapter 34 Remorse
At eight o’clock the following morning, Jane and Elizabeth sat in the drawing room, awaiting the arrival of Mr. Bingley’s carriage, while Thomas Bennet remained in his office, reflecting upon Jane’s unexpected betrothal.
When the knocker sounded at the door, he exerted himself to go to his daughters and bid them farewell.
The four young people stood within the entrance hall, the gentlemen waiting while Jane and Elizabeth donned their bonnets and outer garments.
He observed the manner in which Mr. Bingley regarded his daughter Jane, yet what impressed him more was the attention with which the typically reticent Mr. Darcy attended Elizabeth.
The gentleman held her pelisse, then took up her gloves and handed them to her.
He remained standing nearby while she drew them on.
What struck Thomas Bennet most was the expression on the gentleman’s countenance. There was unmistakable warmth and ardor. Bennet was convinced the man was deeply in love with Elizabeth.
Then he stiffened. The gentleman had spoken neither to her nor to her father of any intention of courtship. If he had no design of marrying her, what then was his purpose?
A chill passed through him. Might this wealthy gentleman be of the sort who trifled with a country girl’s affections, compromised her, and then disappeared without consequence? His mouth tightened.
As these thoughts occupied him, Darcy caught sight of Thomas Bennet and bowed. “Mr. Bennet.”
Charles Bingley, turning, also offered a bow and a greeting.
Bennet inclined his head in return. “Gentlemen. Ought I to send a servant to accompany my daughters as chaperone?”
Mr. Bingley was quick to answer. “No, sir. Miss Darcy is with us, as well as her maid. They are seated in the carriage.”
“Very good, Mr. Bingley. I am relieved to hear it.”
He stepped toward Jane and took her hand. “Goodbye, Jane.”
Then he turned to Elizabeth. “Goodbye, Lizzy. Take care among the undeserving.”
She laughed. “Papa, whatever can you mean? I go to Uncle Edward and Aunt Maddie. They are entirely deserving.”
Bennet lifted his eyes to Mr. Darcy, who colored and looked aside.
He had caught the gentleman’s gaze fixed upon Elizabeth yet again.
Such attention would be welcome if an engagement were intended, but in the absence of any declared purpose, Bennet found it disquieting.
Was it a mistake to permit Lizzy to travel in his company?
They proceeded to the carriage. When Mr. Bingley opened the door, Bennet observed Miss Darcy, an innocent appearing girl, and an older woman seated beside her. Both sisters were handed in, and the carriage pulled away, flanked by the two gentlemen mounted on horseback.
Elizabeth was safe, in company with decent men. He remained at the door and watched until they disappeared from view.
When he entered the house, the stillness struck him. It was quiet in a manner to which he was unaccustomed. He paused in the hall, unmoving, listening to the silence.
After a moment, he turned again, took his hat from its peg, and collected his gloves, then stepped outside. He looked first down the lane where his daughters had gone. Then he glanced the other way and resolved to walk toward Meryton.
As he proceeded along the lane, he realized he had not walked that path on foot since he was seventeen. A faint smile touched his face as a fond memory came to mind.
Miss Harriet Trent had been upon his arm, and he had been escorting her home.
He could see her as she had been then, lively and bright, laughing as she argued her point.
He had left her at the front entrance of her father’s house and had turned for home.
When he glanced back before leaving the street, she stood at the window, waving to him.
The smile deepened.
Without intention, his steps carried him toward that same house. It was now occupied by her brother, Simon Trent, who resided there with his wife and children.
When he reached the house, he lifted his eyes to the second floor.
The window stood open to the morning air, yet no figure appeared there.
He turned back toward High Street and followed it until he came to Meadow Lane.
Within two houses of her present residence, he paused beneath the shade of a large oak and regarded the front of her home.
He remained there several minutes before he saw her at the window. She looked out and raised her hand in greeting. He returned the gesture.
Soon afterward, she emerged from the front door and stood waiting.
As he crossed the street, he saw in her expression, in the laughing eyes, the girl she had been those many years ago.
He crossed into the gate, and he took the hand she extended to him.
“Thomas, I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Hettie.”
“Pray, come in. I shall order the tea tray.”
He followed her into the parlor and seated himself where she directed. After giving instructions for tea, she turned toward him.
“How do you go on, Thomas? I heard you were very ill.”
“I have been ill. This is the first time I have been out. But the house is exceedingly quiet. At times, I feel as though it is inhabited by her spirit.”
“What do you mean? You are saying the house is inhabited by the spirit of Frances?”
“I see her in every room. In her favorite chair. At the door of my study. Passing along the hall toward her bedchamber. I hear her voice when the grocer’s order is delayed and when Hill cannot be found.”
He accepted the teacup she offered and tasted the lemon cake that accompanied it.
“This is excellent, Hettie. Thank you.”
She took up her own teacup and took a sip. “Tell me about your ghost.”
“I confess I was driven from my house this morning. Jane and Lizzy departed for London to order a wedding gown for Jane. Mr. Bingley offered for her yesterday.”
Mrs. Talbot smiled. “Congratulations, Thomas. Now you shall have two daughters who will not be left to wander the hedgerows.”
He laughed, quiet, restrained. “Yes, nor will Frances. That was her constant refrain.”
His voice faltered. Tears gathered in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks.
“I heard her voice just now, fretting over the hedgerows. You knew her well enough to have heard her, too.”
Mrs. Talbot regarded him with curiosity. “So, you find that the common happenings of the day, the simple experiences and passing circumstances, bring her vividly to your mind?”
“Yes. I am surrounded by memories, and not all of them are pleasant. In truth, Hettie, much of what she said or did tried my patience beyond measure.”
“Thomas, are you burdened by guilt?”
He drew his handkerchief across his face.
“I am. Once I came to know my wife, I did not like her. Yet I love my daughters and am thankful that I married and had a family. Still, I mocked Frances throughout the three-and-twenty years of our marriage. I showed her little respect and spent most of my time in my study with the door closed. It was a shield against her shrill voice and endless complaints and reproaches.”
She rose from her chair and moved to sit beside him. Taking his hand, she pressed it within her own.
“You were faithful to her in the ways that mattered. You provided for her. You kept your vows. I never heard that you strayed or sought comfort elsewhere.”
He sighed. “No. She unmanned me. I had no inclination to seek another.”
She regarded him with concern. “What brought you to my door today, Thomas?”
“My daughters departed this morning, and the house has become still. It is silent in a manner that unsettles me. I had no desire to remain there. I felt compelled to leave.”
“Have you been to see Lydia?” she asked.
He lifted his eyes. “No. She resides on the Isle of Wight. It is more than one hundred miles to the south.”
“Perhaps, after Jane is married, you might travel to see her. Removing yourself from that house may bring you relief.”
“How did you endure the loss of your husband?”
“My granddaughter was my salvation. I devoted all my time and affection to Mary, and we have been happy.”
She pressed his hand. “Thomas, you must have known. You must have perceived that my marriage was not a happy one.”
He looked at her but said nothing.
“Now that they are both gone, I desire to confess what I have long carried in my heart. I am sorry that I left you. We have both suffered on account of it.” She sighed.
“Matthew was a man of seven and twenty, and when he paid me his attentions, I began to regard you as a mere, inexperienced boy. You were only seventeen. He captivated me. Yet within a few weeks of our marriage, I perceived that we were ill-suited. We found little to say to one another. He did not like to read anything, nor did he care to discuss the classics or any ancient author, not even a newspaper. He would not discuss current affairs or local happenings. He was reticent by nature, and I did not come to understand that until we had already been married some months.”
Her brows drew together, and her eyes saddened.
“I recall the first occasion upon which I questioned him concerning Cicero. I was reading De Republica and asked him a question about morality. He took offense at the idea that I should be engaged in such a work. In truth, he was displeased that I could read Latin at all. It was then that I understood that he believed women ought not to be educated in matters he considered the province of men. From that moment, I knew we were incompatible.”
Bennet glanced toward the shelves that lined the room. “And these volumes?”
She followed his gesture. “They belonged to my father. As Simon had no interest in them, Papa left them to me. When I informed my husband that many were ancient and of value, some being first editions, he had the glass cabinets constructed to preserve them. I could read them only in his absence, and during our marriage, he was seldom away.”
Her expression altered.
“And then there was the accident.”