Chapter 25 #2
Elizabeth’s lips pressed together, her gaze fixed on the muddy track ahead.
“Perhaps he did not intend cruelty. But to Jane, it was bewildering. To receive such marked attentions, to be so openly preferred, and then to be abandoned—without explanation or farewell—well, it is not a slight easily forgotten. My sister is not one to complain, and she has borne it with more grace than I could muster. But it has changed her, Mr. Darcy. It has made her cautious, where before she was only trusting. She writes to me, yet I perceive the distress behind her words.”
Elizabeth glanced sidelong at him, her features softening. “It is not too late to make things right, if that is possible. Jane does not harbour resentment, though she has been hurt. I only wish Mr. Bingley had considered her feelings more than his own convenience or the ambitions of his sisters.”
“And Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst? You do not appear to hold them with equal disdain?”
“Oh, I met many such ladies in London. They all wish to climb higher, to ascend the rungs of the haut ton, but are tainted by being nouveau riche. In truth, I pity them. Society is exceedingly harsh, and while Mr. Bingley’s five thousand a year is a respectable sum, it will not buy him entry to Almack’s—indeed, it has purchased him only respectability, but not the rank of gentleman, unless he marries a gentlewoman of some consequence.
But entry to the first circles? To mingle with lords and ladies alike?
Such elevation comes only through marriage.
The brewer Samuel Whitbread, for example, married the sister of an earl and is admitted to the highest circles—though his fortune also helps, and his being a prominent client of Child also, tools to replace those lost in the flood—that will allow the villagers themselves to allocate them where needed. ”
Finally, the stream was cleared of debris. Elizabeth had distributed blankets and the giblet soup that had been served the evening before.
“I believe the under-cook misunderstood my instructions,” she said, smirking.
“Some five times the amount requested for our evening meal, both to feed our guests and Pemberley’s staff.
There’s certainly sufficient remaining for Beeley.
It’s already been ladled into the cooking pots and is heating on the hearths.
” Her dark eyes flashed with good humour—very fine eyes indeed.
Darcy turned the cart towards Pemberley, again wearied by a long day’s work.
Unconsciously, Elizabeth leant into his shoulder, exhausted, having spent the day assisting the women with their children, sweeping mud from the floors of the cottages.
Once, Darcy had seen her chasing a squealing pig towards a makeshift sty.
Elizabeth straightened, suddenly aware of her closeness to Mr. Darcy. “You said that you wished to speak of our letters. Perhaps now is appropriate, for there will be little chance of privacy later.”
Darcy thought back to their correspondence.
He had shared with Bennet many personal confidences that he would normally not have shared with anyone, apart from, perhaps, his cousin Richard.
Yet, he had felt such ease in their communication that it seemed ever so natural to speak of matters that had only recently begun to occupy his thoughts, the more so because of his isolation in Ireland.
He recalled that Bennet—it was impossible to think of his correspondent in any other way—had spoken of a Miss Lucas, who had stated that ‘happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always contrive to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.’
He glanced at Elizabeth, who had quite given up trying to pin her hair and had tied it up in a loose bun.
A few chestnut curls had sprung loose—oh, how he was tempted to guide them back behind her delicate ears.
Was Miss Lucas correct; did couples grow apart after marriage?
Did they remain indifferent? Was it necessary to have interests in common—books, the sciences, the management of an estate?
He determined, at that moment, there was but one way to discover it.
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Elizabeth, I was woolgathering. No, I do not believe there is any need to revisit our correspondence. Indeed, having come to know that it was you who wrote, and not Bennet, I am quite content.”
Elizabeth looked up at Darcy, once again struck by how handsome he was. He was staring ahead; seemingly he had not a care in the world. He held his broad shoulders and back straight. There was pride, a confidence in his demeanour, a faint smile creasing his lips.
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