Chapter 34 Remorse #2
Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I felt guilt for every moment in which I had harbored resentment toward him, for every time I had wished I had not married him. I was unsettled for nearly two years. Then, one day, I understood that it had all been beyond my control. The accident, the loss of my husband, the loss of my daughter, none of it lay within my power. I accepted the life before me and resolved to live it as fully as I could.”
She reached to the small table between them and took up a volume. “I am reading this at present. Sophocles.”
He smiled. “I am engaged with The Aeneid.”
“Virgil,” she said, laughing. “I read his works two years ago, but I remember arguing with you over Virgil when we were young... and innocent.”
They spoke then of their preferred passages and authors until Bennet observed that the light had altered and shadows lay long across the room. He consulted his pocket watch.
“Hettie, it grows late. I have been here three hours.”
She regarded him frankly. “And what of it? There is no one awaiting you at home, nor any here who would object. Will you dine with Mary and me? You need not return to change. If you remain, we shall forgo formal dress, that you may feel entirely at ease.”
He smiled. “Very well. I shall be honored to dine at your table, Hettie. Yet before I lose this opportunity, you must answer me this. Why did you leave me? Was it only because I was young and the attentions of an older man prevailed upon you, or did I weary you with my devotion to the classics?”
She was silent for a moment. “I was never weary of your company. I did not understand the depth of my affection for you until weeks into my marriage, and by then it was too late. I made a tolerable life, and I am grateful for Hannah. Our daughter was our center, and Mary has been my comfort these seventeen years. Leaving you was the greatest mistake of my life. I have known much unhappiness without you.”
After consideration, he said, “I endured an unhappy marriage as well, for we were ill-suited. Yet does it follow that, had you and I married, we should have lived in perfect contentment? Because we did not share a life as husband and wife, we cannot know what might have been. I am tempted to imagine it would have been ideal because we were well-matched and never lacked for conversation. Yet life would have intruded. Circumstances might have set us at odds for reasons we cannot now foresee.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps. Yet perhaps not. We never quarreled, Thomas. Do you remember the hours upon Oakham Mount? We spent every spare moment together. At times, we read in silence, sitting beside one another. At others, we debated a difficult passage. There were evenings when we sat without speaking, looking out over the valley. We might have been one of those couples who marry for love.”
After some moments, he said, “Perhaps. I have taken great pleasure in our conversation today. I have not known such enjoyment in many years. Hettie, I shall dine with you and Mary, yet there is time for me to return home and change. I will inform Hill that I shall not be present for dinner and then return in my carriage. I should like to hear you read from Sophocles, as you were used to do.”
She smiled. “Very well, Thomas. We shall expect you.”
He walked slowly home to Longbourn in the warmth of the early afternoon, absorbed in thought as he considered what his life might have been had he married Hettie.
She had borne only one child. Was the want of more children owing to her constitution, or to her husband's?
Had they been unable to conceive, or had their marriage been so ill-suited that they did not come together after they conceived Hannah?
He had not possessed the luxury of indifference. He had been required to produce an heir or leave his wife and daughters without provision. Frances had understood that necessity, and they had both made the attempt, yet no son had come. A male heir had not been allotted to them.
If he had formed a closer acquaintance with his cousin when Collins was still a young boy, perhaps that connection might have softened much of the anxiety Frances endured over the years.
He now questioned how much of her ill temper had sprung from fear for the future.
He struck at a small stone upon the road as he walked.
No, she had indeed been unsettled by uncertainty, yet she had also been a fractious woman by nature.
Might they have spoken more openly of their differences and fashioned a happier life for themselves and their daughters? Guilt stirred. Lizzy and Mary had borne the greater share of Frannie’s sharpness, and he might have intervened on their behalf.
He recalled Lizzy pleading with him to interfere in Lydia’s affairs. He felt shame when he remembered how he had dismissed her appeal, and she had turned to Edward for assistance instead. That had been humiliating.
Two of his daughters were now secure from the consequences of Lydia's reckless behavior. Yet the memory of Mr. Darcy’s marked attention toward Elizabeth pressed upon him.
Was another of his daughters exposed to danger?
Unease took hold of him. Had he acted wisely in permitting Elizabeth to travel in Mr. Darcy’s company?
He resolved to travel to London in the morning and call at Gracechurch Street. If he observed anything improper, he would remain and escort his daughters home himself.
By the time he reached Longbourn, his mind was settled, and he felt restored by the firmness of his decision.
That evening, he enjoyed one of the most agreeable dinners he could recall. It was free from the reproofs in which Francis so delighted, and blessedly quiet without Lydia’s raised voice and raucous laughter, or the frequent quarrels between her and Kitty.
Hettie was not the restrained Mrs. Talbot whom he observed at dinners among their neighbors, nor the attentive grandmother guiding her granddaughter. That evening, she was again the lively companion of his youth.
After dinner, Mary seated herself near the fire and applied her needle to a fichu, while Hettie read from Sophocles. Bennet listened as she recited, and they spoke at length upon the passages that pleased or puzzled them. One exchange grew spirited enough that Mary looked up from her work.
“Grandmother, is all well?” she asked.
Hettie laughed. “We are engaged in debate, my dear. Pray do not concern yourself.”
When Bennet rose to take his leave, she sent for his carriage and accompanied him to the entrance hall.
“Hettie,” he asked, “where have you been these three and twenty years? We attend the same church, dine with the same neighbors, assemble in the same rooms, and yet I have not truly seen you.”
“How could you? I sit among the matrons of the village, while you occupy yourself with the gentlemen at cards or remain after dinner over your port, engaged in discussions in which I longed to take part. We could never converse as indifferent acquaintances, for Frances always kept an eye upon us.”
“Yes, she did. She never felt at ease, knowing I had once courted you. Poor Frances, she endured much with me.”
“She fashioned much of her own discontent, Thomas.”
The carriage arrived. “Thank you for a most agreeable evening, Hettie. I have not taken such pleasure in the company of others for many years. I shall be in London for the next several days with my daughters, as Jane makes preparations for her wedding.” He then wished her good night and departed.