Chapter 31
Two miles away, Elizabeth gazed into the night across the garden.
Longbourn lay in perfect stillness. Not even the servants remained, for all had gone to assist at Netherfield; yet the silence, so long desired, brought her no comfort.
On the contrary, as she imagined that he had by now arrived at Netherfield, all returned vividly to her mind; even that evening of the ball when he had declared that she was not handsome enough to tempt him appeared, in recollection, more beautiful than the present hour.
She had resolved to remain at home, yet now she repented. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done. The carriage was at Netherfield, and she dared not walk by night.
She bitterly regretted her decision. In the weeks and months to come, there would be no other opportunity of seeing him, and she now wished, with painful longing, to be near him—though it should increase her suffering.
“Lizzy!” she heard an anxious voice exclaim. “Why do you sit here in the dark? Are you unwell?” It was Mary, yet Elizabeth had not heard any carriage approaching.
Mary lit a candle and seated herself beside her.
“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked.
“I was uneasy. You cannot stay alone like this; come at least and pass the evening in a chamber at Netherfield, if you feel unwell.”
To her own surprise, Elizabeth consented without any other word.
Mary assisted her in dressing and arranging her hair; all was done in haste, though there remained ample time before dinner.
Yet it was the rhythm Elizabeth herself imposed, and Mary could silently perceive how eager she was to reach Netherfield, until the truth appeared with painful clearness in her mind.
“You love him,” she said in the carriage, and Elizabeth answered simply,
“Yes.”
Mary’s heart contracted with pain and regret. She had long suspected it, yet the manner in which Elizabeth confessed betrayed the depth of her despair.
“Tell him!” Mary said.
“He knows,” murmured Elizabeth.
“But you cannot leave matters thus.”
“And if he were to break his engagement, how could I then address Mr Clinton, to whom I stand bound by a solemn promise to manage the school for five years? Never would I break my word, and abandon the Academy.”
“Then you will marry Mr Clinton,” Mary said softly.
“Perhaps…when I have emerged a little from this suffering.”
They ascended the steps hand in hand and paused in the hall.
“Would you rather go directly upstairs?” Mary asked even if she knew the answer, and Elizabeth shook her head without speaking.
Then they entered the drawing-room, bright as day, and all applauded at her appearance. Still, all that she saw was Darcy, standing at a distance by a window, turning as the commotion occasioned by her appearance began.
Their eyes met across the room, indifferent to the noise around them, and for both, the evening became unique.
∞∞∞
“You came,” he said after dinner, when they met before the fireplace in the drawing-room, where they had sometimes conversed in former times.
“It was not the wisest choice,” she confessed with sincerity, avoiding his gaze and looking instead at the company—family and friends—thankful that none observed them too busy to surround the future bride and groom.
“No,” he agreed. “Yet I wondered at not finding you.” These were his words, but his eyes spoke another truth—that he had been desperate not to find her there; and she blushed, for she felt it.
“I could not stay away,” Elizabeth murmured, and, as before, the meaning was different—she had been desperate to know him so near and yet not see him.
He smiled at her smile, for they thought and felt alike.
“We are ever parting,” Elizabeth said at last. “It had become a habit to say goodbye.”
“Yes, and we must part indeed…once and for all…for ever—”
“After tomorrow,” she said quickly; and he nodded with relief.
“After tomorrow, Elizabeth.” Her name he uttered in a whisper, yet she heard it and whispered in return,
“Agreed, Fitzwilliam.”
He hesitated, and she saw his hesitation in the smile upon his face. It was strange how easily she could read his expressions, for seldom in her life had she either tried or succeeded in doing so with others.
“Why this hesitation?” she asked at last.
He met her gaze without surprise; her intuition no longer astonished him. It was the same with him in her presence. Not only her countenance, but the very movement of her body, revealed her feelings or states of mind as if she did not care to let those secrets be unveiled to his eyes...only.
“May I ask you something?”
“Anything,” she replied, laughing lightly, and that crystalline sound thrilled him, for it brought back the memory of those happier days when their future had not yet been written.
“Are you to be married?”
A faint colour rose in her cheeks—an occurrence so rare that he marvelled at it. Elizabeth Bennet was usually mistress of her every look and feeling.
“Yes, I am to be married.”
Her answer, calm and unhesitating, made his heart tremble painfully, though it was senseless, for he too was soon to marry. He drew breath, as if to speak again, then faltered.
“But…” He broke off, unable to finish the thought.
She smiled a little and, as though reading his mind, continued the thought he could not frame, “Why to…him?
“Yes,” he answered, slightly ashamed yet curious at the same time. “You are not the lady who marries for money.”
“I am the woman who marries for…an academy.” Her voice carried that delicate shade of irony which so well became her.
“I do not understand.”
“Mr Clinton has no direct heirs, and the distant relations care nothing for the work of the Academy. They see only the value of the estate.”
He looked at her, genuinely astonished. “But you might remain to direct it, and find a husband…more suitable.”
Elizabeth laughed again, yet this time the mirth rang hollow. “I do not recall ever offering you counsel in the choice of your wife.”
He bowed his head, defeated. The silence that followed was heavy. He regretted having begun the conversation; yet, though he had gained the knowledge he sought, it brought him no ease.
“I had to know,” he acknowledged; there was no sense in concealing the truth from her.
They were silent again. Then Elizabeth spoke, her voice low and tremulous. “Perhaps we shall meet in hell for what we do now…both upon the point of marrying…yet…”
“At least we shall be together there,” he murmured.
They both laughed—softly, sadly glancing towards Mary, who was coming towards them, uneasy for her sister, and perhaps because they had stood together too long.
“They wish you to play,” Mary said. “They are still too fearful to ask me to sit at the pianoforte.”
“So unjustly, Miss Mary,” Darcy offered; and for the first time since she had known him, Mary felt a regard for him which he appeared fully to return.
“I do not know if they are unjust,” Mary replied, “but I am certain I have still much to learn.”
Though they were parted, the evening remained exquisite for Darcy, for he could gaze upon Elizabeth without restraint while the concert lasted; and afterwards, they separated, the music yet vibrating in their ears, and her precious gaze living in his heart, and his in hers.
“You are mad,” the colonel uttered as they withdrew for the night. Once again, Darcy was struck by his cousin’s tone, which seemed more frustrated than angry. “For God’s sake, go to Kent and do what is right!” he unexpectedly cried, leaving Darcy in profound disquietude.
“Right?” Darcy shook his head. This is impossible, and nothing could be done about it.