Chapter 27
Elizabeth did not wait to see Mr Darcy off, but hurried toward the cottage after hardly more than a word of goodbye. It would have been more than she could bear to counterfeit a normal conversation in front of her younger sisters.
Though she had hoped to escape upstairs without detection, it was not to be. Mary, Jane, and their mother all but pounced on her as soon as Elizabeth went inside.
“Well, Lizzy, what did Mr Darcy want?” her mother asked. “Come, come, tell me!” she said impatiently.
“Why, I — I do not know,” Elizabeth confessed, astonished at herself for realising only then that Mr Darcy never had a chance to ask his question.
“We became distracted, for I told him I am Mrs Laurence,” she admitted.
“I doubt we shall see him again. Even aside from the notoriety of Mrs Laurence and the question of whether an unmarried woman ought to write Gothic novels, surely he could not forgive me for lying to him.”
“You did what?” her mother exclaimed. “Why would you jeopardise your chances with such a worthy gentleman?”
“I will not lie to a man to get him to marry me, Mama. I want my future husband to choose me because he wants me, knowing all of me — not only the pieces I think he will tolerate.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her head. “I have a headache.”
She hurried down the hall, peeling her bonnet and gloves off as she went.
Thankfully, neither her mother nor her sisters followed her.
As Elizabeth sank onto the window seat, she let out a choked sob.
For once, she had privacy to let out her roiling emotions.
She felt as if a weight was pressed against her chest, cutting off her ability to breathe.
Why had she thought that Mr Darcy’s reaction would be any different?
She could not bear to think of the shock and disappointment in his eyes.
Though obviously upset, he had reacted with admirable calm.
But that did not mean he could accept what she had revealed or that he would ever forgive her for her long months of deception.
Heedless of time, Elizabeth paced back and forth in the bedroom, obsessing over what she could have said differently.
Was there anything she could have done to obtain his understanding and forgiveness? Perhaps she would never know.
By telling Mr Darcy, she had likely lost both his respect and Miss Darcy’s friendship.
What if he forbade his sister from ever associating with Elizabeth again?
It seemed all too likely. The thought twisted her insides, making her choke down a sob.
In a single stroke, she had divided herself both from one of her dearest friends and from the man she loved with all her heart.
For the first time in two years, she wished she had not taken up her pen. She wished her father had left them with a little more to their names, so she had not been forced to shoulder all the financial responsibility for her family. She wished everything were different.
Sternly, Elizabeth told herself she ought to be grateful it had all worked out so well. She was lucky, surely. Not everyone had the means to keep their family in comfort. Not everyone had work they enjoyed, and the opportunity to share their deepest thoughts with readers they would never meet.
And Elizabeth had always said it was a sacrifice she was glad to make. What were love and marriage compared to the chance to be of such use?
But that was a lie and always had been. She had painted her sacrifice as nothing, not because it was nothing, but because she could not bear to feel its full weight.
Well, she felt it now.
Days went by without a word from Netherfield.
Elizabeth often found herself looking in its direction, though it could not be seen from the cottage.
Perhaps she had ruined three friendships at once with her confession, for it seemed unlikely that Jane would ever see Mr Bingley again, and still more unlikely that Mr Darcy would ever allow her to see his sister.
The weather had turned stormy. Elizabeth remained indoors, knowing she ought to begin thinking of another novel for Mr Tilney, but unable to so much as pick up a quill. When it was finally clear, she went on a long, aimless walk, trying only to quiet her thoughts.
If only she could stop thinking entirely, she would stop thinking of her regrets.
Elizabeth was well into her ramble and quite heedless of her path when she found herself hailed by Charlotte Collins. Upon returning the greeting and looking up, she found her steps had taken her almost to the front gate of Longbourn.
Charlotte pressed her to come in so eagerly that Elizabeth at last agreed. She was not entirely reluctant. Her old friend so clearly wished for her company, and while it must be painful to see the changes made to her childhood home, she felt almost an equal degree of curiosity.
Upon going in, she found it was much as she might have suspected.
Though many small amendments and even some improvements were in evidence, Longbourn was much the same as ever.
Charlotte led her to the same sitting room that Mrs Bennet would have chosen in that season, and even most of the servants had been kept on.
The chairs in the sitting room were new, however, and thankfully purchased with Charlotte’s eye for comfort and economy rather than her husband’s preference for gaudiness.
“It is delightful to have you here, Lizzy,” Charlotte said as she poured Elizabeth a cup of tea. “It must be difficult, to be sure, but I hope you know you are always welcome here. You are very dear to me, you know. I should like to help you if ever I could.”
“Oh, Charlotte,” Elizabeth sighed. “I do know. And I am grateful, and you are dear to me as well.” She drew a deep breath and stirred some sugar into her tea.
“And indeed, perhaps you can help me. I needed someone to talk to. And perhaps my feet led me here for a reason. I suppose I wanted to feel a bit of home again. I miss this place.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Most of all, I miss my father.”
Charlotte stilled and then set down her cup of tea.
She came over to the settee and joined Elizabeth, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“I am sorry, my friend. I had not realised things were still so bad. Your father was a good man, so it stands to reason that the memories conjured in this house would be special.”
Elizabeth thought of all the good times they had had at Longbourn. There were so many memories, from long conversations in her father’s study to having the whole family gathered around the hearth at Christmastime.
But that part of their lives was over. “Thank you, Charlotte. It is good to see the dear old place one last time.”
Charlotte’s head snapped up in surprise. “Are you leaving Meryton? But where will you go?” she asked in alarm.
“I have no fixed plans yet, but I believe I will not stay so very much longer. My uncle has finished rebuilding his house, and my aunt has told me I am welcome to return to Gracechurch Street when I like. Perhaps…perhaps it should not be much longer before I go. Besides, I have not met with my publisher for a long while. It is vastly overdue. I am sure he is champing at the bit to arrange for my next novel.” Rather than finding a sense of exhilaration at the prospect, Elizabeth only felt exhaustion.
All the joy had gone out of writing love stories.
Having lost her own, they could only inspire pain.
“I am in need of a change. Our little cottage is not conducive to writing.”
Charlotte leaned forward, resting her hand on Elizabeth’s arm.
“I have told you time and again you may come and stay with Mr Collins and me, if you need more room, Lizzy. You would be welcome to stay in your old room. I have only recently had it re-wallpapered. And I think you would be most happy with the way it turned out.”
The offer was generous, but Elizabeth was not at all tempted to accept. Much as she loved his wife, she could not possibly live under the same roof as her cousin. “You are most kind, Charlotte, and I am grateful for so generous an offer. But I believe I must find my own way.”
Charlotte frowned, but finally nodded. “I understand. And what happened with that very handsome gentleman, Mr Darcy? Mr Collins says he is the nephew of his former patroness, Lady Catherine De Bourgh.”
“Yes, I believe so,” Elizabeth replied. She sighed again, almost wishing she had not come to visit Charlotte, for she seemed to instinctively know every sore spot to push. “Nothing happened. He was very kind to me this spring, and that is all.”
When her visit with Charlotte had ended, she was almost convinced that she would soon return to London.
It seemed it was the only place she might find rest from her torturous thoughts.
Perhaps she might even forget her love for Mr Darcy there, rather than pining away for him until he returned to Pemberley.
Even the walk home was unpleasant, for a rainstorm chased her all the way. She met Jane on the stoop.
Her sister handed her a towel to dry her hair. “That was close.”
“Well, I was not spared all of nature’s fury. But thank you for this,” she said.
“Are you well, Lizzy? You have been out of sorts ever since — well. Ever since your conversation with Mr Darcy,” Jane said, cocking her head to the side to study her.
“Of course, I am out of sorts.” She wished she could have kept the bite out of her tone, but there was nothing for it.
She was in love with Mr Darcy, and unlike in her novels, there was no happy ending in sight.
Perhaps those only came true in fairy tales.
“He knows my secret, and I doubt he will ever want to speak to me again.”
“I do not see why,” Jane argued.
Elizabeth let out a frustrated sigh and headed into the tiny kitchen, where a cheerful fire was blazing, cooking a batch of hearty stew for their supper. She brushed past and went upstairs to their shared bedroom, Jane following on her heels.
“How can you think it, Jane?” Elizabeth challenged her after the door closed behind them and they might at last speak in confidence. “No man of reasonable parentage or fortune would ever consider marrying a woman who has lowered herself as I have.”
“But surely he will forgive you, if indeed, you need his forgiveness — which I highly doubt. Mr Darcy is an understanding gentleman.”
Elizabeth was not so sure. Perhaps it was best this way.
Now she would not have to give up her writing.
Surely, if Mr Darcy ever had wanted her for a wife, the price would have been her promise that she would never write again.
Taxing as the years of writing had been, the thought of keeping so many stories, so many ideas locked inside of her forever was all but impossible.
Elizabeth sighed and went behind the screen to change out of her damp gown. “It is better this way,” she echoed her thoughts. “There is no need for me to grovel for his acceptance.”
It may have been cold comfort, but it was all she had. She finished changing into a nightdress and came to sit on the bed with Jane. “Tell me something pleasant. You saw Mr Bingley in town yesterday, did you not?”
“Yes, indeed. Such a pleasant gentleman,” Jane said.
Despite her mild words, her blush betrayed her sensibility — at least to one who knew her as well as Elizabeth did.
Perhaps she had not ruined things for her sister after all.
“Mr Bingley expressed his intention to call soon, and his hope that we might attend the next assembly. He is a perfect gentleman, and so attentive. I do not think I have ever met a man like him.”
“Nor I,” Elizabeth agreed willingly. “He is a pleasant and sensible man indeed, Jane. I shall offer him an even better compliment and say that he is very nearly worthy of you.”
Jane coloured again. “We should not think of such things, surely. I have so little to offer. There is the small amount Papa left to each of us —”
“There will be more than that. Do not worry,” Elizabeth said. “I have been planning for just such an occasion.”
Jane motioned for her to turn around on the edge of the bed and went to retrieve the comb from the small vanity they all shared. “What do you mean?”
“Surely you must know I have been working to amass dowries, not just to pay the monthly expenses.” This was at least some consolation.
She might not be free to marry, but her sisters certainly would be.
“Not only that, but our uncle has invested them for us. When I return to London, I shall see how much the accounts have grown. As none of our sisters are near to marrying, I see no reason we should not consider a dowry for you first, and trust to my future earnings for the rest. I am certain there will be no further impediments in your way, if I am correct in Mr Bingley’s regard for you. Which I am.”
Jane brushed all the more vigorously, but Elizabeth felt no pain. All the pain was in her heart, knowing that the man she loved was lost to her forever.