Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The letter was headed Aboard HMS Achilles, Gibraltar.
May I first express my profound gratitude for your manifold kindnesses to my sister and her mother?
And for the highly effective measures you have taken to ensure their safety and comfort.
I am also mindful of the debt I owe you with regard to Pemberley.
It would indeed grieve me to know that my boyhood home had been allowed to decay and that the people connected with it were suffering from the deficiencies of my family.
Her breath seemed to have become thick and difficult to draw. How could he talk of gratitude after so many months of silence between them? She read on.
My recent mission was attended with that lack of success that I so often prophesied, and the Achilles is currently undergoing further repair at Gibraltar.
I regret I was unable to call in at Malta to visit Mr Bennet; however, a shipmate who was recently in Valletta assures me of his continuing good health, having seen him making one of a party to visit some ruins in the interior of the island.
I rejoice that I have been able to repay some of your kindness in this manner.
As for myself, I am returning to England only briefly before taking command of the frigate HMS Vanguard, one of the new heavy frigates built on the American model. It is unlikely that I will return to England for some time.
In that connexion it occurs to me that, with the recent death of my unfortunate brother, the matter of my sister’s custody is no longer at issue and, since our marriage was never consummated…
She could read no further through her tears and was obliged to leave off and search for a handkerchief. Finding none, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and continued.
… since our marriage was never consummated, it is possible, and indeed incumbent upon me, to release you from an arrangement whose utility is now dubious.
Your recent letters have demonstrated that a lady of your ability will never lack for admirers, and I am sure you will soon be able to embark upon a marriage in every way more suitable.
There is, of course, no question of repaying the settlement made upon you, which will, I hope, enable you to embark upon a new sphere of life.
On receipt of your agreement, I will write to the earl and request him to take Georgiana and her mother into his household.
I regret that the estrangement between my brother and my Fitzwilliam relations prevented such an arrangement before you and I were obliged to take such drastic measures to preserve her.
Your Mr Lester seems a gentleman admirably placed to undertake the administration of the estate, reporting to Lord Matlock where appropriate.
I understand from your letter that my uncle was prepared to act in this manner before your arrival rendered his assistance unnecessary.
However, it would be most ungenerous of me to expect you to continue as you have when you must be desirous of your own establishment.
Mere words cannot express my consciousness of your forbearance to date, and it is for this reason that I will not and cannot demand anything further of you.
I understand that it will be necessary to make a declaration before the appropriate ecclesiastical authorities, and I await only your written consent to make the necessary preliminary enquiries.
I remain, madam, your humble and obedient servant,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
For the first time in her life, she thought she might faint.
There was a tingling sensation in her face and hands, and darkness seemed to be gathering at the edges of her mind.
This could not be true. She bent forward and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
She could not think. She could barely breathe for the weight pressing on her chest.
There was a noise. Someone was knocking. She had to clear her throat before she could bid the person enter. It was Mrs Reynolds, looking concerned. “Are you all right, ma’am?” she asked nervously. “Anderssen says he heard you call out, and I’ve been knocking for some while.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts seemed to have slowed, and it felt like several minutes passed before she could answer.
“I am not feeling very well,” she said. “I believe I will go and lie down for a while. There is no need to alarm Miss Darcy.” She was conscious that her voice sounded strained, but there was nothing she could do about that.
She got to her feet, and some part of her was surprised they would bear her.
Walking like a woman three times her age, she slowly made her way upstairs and lay down on the bed in her new room, blind to its comfort and beauty.
Her thoughts had settled down to a dull roaring noise like the sea, which gradually drowned out all conscious attempts to make sense of what she had read. She slept.
It was almost dark when she awoke, and she was dimly conscious that a door had just closed—Georgiana, no doubt, checking that she was well.
There was a heavy weight on her thoughts, and it was several minutes before she could bring herself to rise and wash her face.
Maria came in when she rang and was touchingly glad to see her up and about, and Elizabeth had no doubt that the news would soon be spread downstairs.
According to Aunt Philips’s clock, which cut a decidedly plebeian figure in her new rooms, it was almost time for supper, and she hoped Georgiana or perhaps Mrs Reynolds had seen to its ordering.
For herself, the mere thought of food was nauseating, but she knew she must make the attempt for the sake of those who depended upon her.
The memory that they might not so depend for much longer struck like a knife, making her gasp.
Warm water and a fresh gown went some way to reviving her, and she managed to take her place at table, assuring her little family that it was only a passing indisposition.
She could not bring herself, as yet, to inform them of the letter—tomorrow, perhaps, when she had forced herself to understand it.
She managed to eat enough to satisfy the most affectionate scrutiny and then, pleading a continuing headache, retired for the night.
She knew she would not sleep. It was time to think.
She had often been called intelligent, perceptive, and even clever; now was the time to apply all the gifts of intellect the Almighty had bestowed.
The letter was still on the floor of her bedroom where it had dropped from her despairing grasp while she slept.
Carefully, she smoothed out the creases and carried it over to her dressing table where candles burned in extravagant profusion.
The handwriting caused a dreadful pang, but she thrust that aside to consider the matter contained in the letter.
As she read, she felt the first stirrings of something that felt very much like anger.
There was so much about it that was puzzling, especially when set against the conversational and affectionate warmth of his previous letters.
After several readings, she dismissed the first two paragraphs as mere civilities, the bare minimum possible in a gentleman’s correspondence, although she made a note to pass on to Longbourn the comment about her father.
The appointment to HMS Vanguard in the next paragraph had not appeared in the Naval Chronicle which she had received only the previous day; however, it would appear there in due course so that, quite apart from the difficulty she had in seeing him as a bald-faced liar, the statement was subject to corroboration and therefore had to be accepted as true.
The meat of the difficulty lay in the next two paragraphs.
What on earth did he mean by ‘Your recent letters have demonstrated that a lady of your ability will never lack for admirers’?
The only gentlemen she had mentioned had been her uncle Gardiner, the earl, and Mr Lester, who were married, and the colonel.
Surely to heaven, he was not suggesting some sort of attachment had grown between them?
She had laid her heart on every page of her last few letters, letters she knew he had received since he mentioned the restoration of Pemberley.
What sort of woman did he think she was?
She got up so she could pace about the room, for she could feel the anger now, hot and unmistakable.
And the rest of it, the subtle suggestion that she had taken too much upon herself, the mention of money that came perilously close to payment for services rendered.
How dare he! What sort of man was he? It was impossible that the gentle loving man who had written the previous letters should have written this… this…dismissal.
And then she had it, and the relief cut her legs from under her so that she sat down on the floor in a heap.
Yes, it was impossible. It was unmistakeably his hand, his way of writing a single ‘s’ where two were needed and then squeezing the extra one in, his hand, his words, and yet not him, not the true, the inner Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Something else was at work here—something she did not as yet understand but most certainly would before very long.
It was long past eleven o’clock, but she took a candlestick, went down to the library, and searched out the last Naval Chronicle.
There had been much discussion of the new design of the Vanguard and yes, there it was: a note that the ship was currently in the hands of the riggers and caulkers and was expected to be provisioned and ready for sea at Portsmouth by the end of the month.
She took her candle and returned to her bed, apologising in passing to a bleary-eyed Haslam who had come to see who was moving about the house.
Tomorrow she would send him—no, tomorrow she would send one of the grooms on horseback to all her neighbours to beg copies of every newspaper they had, and she would write to Uncle Gardiner.
He had correspondents in the merchant service; perhaps he could help, for she was certain it was something that had happened at sea.
She knew herself to be far from perfect but could think of nothing she had done that could possibly have called forth such a dreadful letter.
Something had happened between her husband leaving Malta on his mission and his writing from Gibraltar. She had three weeks to find out what it was, and then she would act.