Chapter 19
Darcy remained at Pemberley for only a fortnight, though he had intended to stay until the end of summer.
His plan had been for the colonel to collect Georgiana from the Academy at the close of June and bring her to Pemberley, where, in August, they would receive the Ashcombe family and his relatives, the Matlocks.
No date for the marriage had been fixed, which suited him well, for it allowed time to compose himself, to be no longer disturbed by Miss Elizabeth’s refusal, and to begin to think of the other Elizabeth as of his future wife.
Yet even the thought of her as the other Elizabeth gave him a sense of uneasiness, as though Miss Elizabeth Bennet still reigned in his mind.
Lady Elizabeth had remained in London, her mother being determined that she should acquire that polish of elegance which young ladies of the capital so readily possessed.
Though she had resisted at first, she had at length consented, having already passed two agreeable months during the winter in Lady Matlock’s house, where she had felt quite at ease.
Your fiancée is delightful, wrote Lady Matlock. She is as proper as a girl of her years ought to be, yet full of life—especially when it is not I who invite her and my daughter-in-law to shop in Bond Street, but Richard who calls upon her to ride out with their friends.
It was precisely what he needed to hear.
The mere thought that an impulse to marry might have driven him to take for a wife a young lady such as Lady Amelie filled him with disgust. In Kent, he had been ready to marry without caring greatly whom he chose…
and that would have been an irreparable error.
Lady Elizabeth was what he required; he was persuaded that, in time, their union would become steady and amiable.
It would never be the ardour which had bound him to Miss Elizabeth; yet a woman who valued life at Pemberley and took pleasure in belonging to that community was, after all, of greater consequence than any other consideration.
He resolved to return to London, for the solitude of Pemberley, contrary to expectation, did him no good.
He discovered that he required company and bustle—the theatre, cheerful dinners, and engagements at the club.
He needed to forget that he had been refused with such firmness, almost violence, and to begin to frame his future in other terms than those he had conceived before Hertfordshire.
On the last day of his stay at Pemberley, his valet brought him an express letter from London, just arrived. Whenever he received an express, his heart gave a painful leap, for he feared for Georgiana. Yet that afternoon, the letter was from Mr Bingley.
He looked at it for a few moments with a faint sense of regret.
His opinion of Miss Bennet had not altered, nor could it, for he had not seen her again.
Still, he greatly regretted having interfered in Bingley’s affection.
He was certain that Bingley’s sisters alone would never have succeeded in preventing the marriage; yet he himself had argued against it.
It had been at least the third time that his friend had fallen in love, and always with young women more interested in his fortune than in his person.
Still, that had not been his concern, and his interference had been an error.
After all, even the colonel admitted candidly that he should marry an heiress; yet that did not mean he would not make a good and faithful husband.
Darcy had disliked Mrs Bennet and the younger sisters exceedingly. Still, with Miss Bennet, he had scarcely conversed, for she and Bingley were ever apart, absorbed in one another’s discourse. He knew little of her, and perhaps a few moments of observation had not afforded him a just impression.
He opened the letter and almost let it fall, for it contained but one matter, expressed in several ways upon the page: Bingley had proposed to Miss Bennet, and she had accepted. The marriage was fixed for August, and Bingley relied upon him to stand as his witness.
Darcy laid the letter quietly upon the table beside his chair and looked about him at the books which had so often been his companions in times of trial.
Here, he had taken refuge when his mother died.
He remembered vividly how, after burying his father, he and Georgiana had spent many evenings in this same room, reading or conversing; for the parlour, the music-room, or the dining-room would too painfully have recalled their parents’ presence.
The library had been a neutral space, a place of forgetting, where they had rebuilt their little family—only the two of them.
He took up the letter again and read it once more. Poor Bingley had written how entirely mistaken he had been regarding Miss Bennet, though not directly, for in his gentle manner, he made not the slightest reproach for the many months during which their happiness had been delayed on his account.
Joy seemed to spring from every line, from every word—some written with a trembling hand, doubtless from emotion.
While Darcy rejoiced for him, the image of Elizabeth overwhelmed him.
Elizabeth…the woman he had wished to marry from the first days of their acquaintance, and whom he had driven away with the absurdity of his own declarations.
He ought to have told her how dearly he loved her, how ardently he desired to see her mistress of Pemberley.
The truth came upon him like icy water; he trembled from head to foot, for in his heart there remained no trace of the anger or resentment of that day.
All was effaced, leaving behind nothing but love.
He loved her profoundly, and Bingley’s happiness had but loosened his own heart from bitterness, revealing what dwelt within. There was nothing there but love.
Yet there was no remedy. Lady Elizabeth was not a woman whom he could forsake. Perhaps, had it been Lady Amelie, some resolution might have been found. But with the gentle and sweet-tempered Lady Elizabeth, he could not break the engagement.
He did not doubt that in time he would regain composure.
Yet that profound happiness, that ardent passion and longing which Elizabeth Bennet had awakened in him, he would never feel again.
The truth burst upon him with cruel suddenness—he loved Miss Elizabeth with all the strength of his soul.
Nevertheless, he was to marry Lady Elizabeth… and nothing could be done.
He resolved to speak of this revelation to no one; to let all, even the colonel, believe that he still felt the most profound resentment towards Miss Elizabeth for her refusal, and to persuade the world that he looked forward to his approaching marriage with benevolence, if not with passion.
What he felt within his heart was his own secret, and it must remain so.