After the Storm
“Well, Darcy,” said his cousin to him as their carriage rolled through the gate, “notwithstanding your unaccountable dejection these past two days, this year’s visit has been a good deal more pleasurable than most.”
Darcy made no reply. Fitzwilliam was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation alone and would do so better without any objection from him.
“Astonishing what a difference a few young ladies can make to a place. Even one as depressing as Rosings.”
Darcy considered neither his aunt’s house nor the presence of any of said ladies agreeable. He kept the thought to himself and fixed his eyes on the window that would not show him the parsonage as they passed it.
“You do not agree? I hope you are not going to hold it against Miss Bennet that she did not ask me to verify your account. You know how persuasive Wickham can be. It may take time for her to learn to appreciate your disclosure.”
The glass reflected Darcy’s sneer back at him.
He adjusted his focus beyond it. Given the appreciation Elizabeth Bennet had shown for his offer of marriage, he had not expected any gratitude for exposing her favourite’s true character.
Indeed, were it not for the satis.faction of having defended his own, he might regret writing the letter at all.
“I have faith that she will though, old boy. If you trust her with such a delicate matter, then I trust her to come to the proper conclusion about the perpetrator.”
Darcy did trust her—implicitly. Her integrity was but one of count.less qualities he admired.
Perverse was the twist of fate that had given rise to the woman he held in such high regard refusing him in defence of the man who so cruelly used his sister.
He gave his cousin a glancing nod so as not to invite another debate on the wisdom of revealing Georgiana’s near ruin.
Fitzwilliam presently gave up his chatter and fell asleep.
Darcy’s own private monologue soon took over, recounting conversations he would much rather forget, but which he had thus far been powerless to cease turning over and over in his mind.
A rejection of marriage was not something he had ever thought to encounter.
The violence of Elizabeth’s refusal left him winded, gasping for comprehension.
She had been merciless in her use of him, teasing and taunting ’til he was driven beyond his endurance, only to spurn the offer she wrung from him.
Incensed anew, he followed his cousin’s lead and sought the anaesthesia of sleep.
By the time he awoke, Kent’s rolling hills had flattened into London’s suburbs.
“I thought you would never wake up. I was forced to read this God-awful book of yours to pass the time.” Fitzwilliam picked it up and peered at the spine. “What the devil are you doing reading this hogwash?”
“It was the first one I came to in Lady Catherine’s library,” Darcy replied, tilting his head to release the muscles in his neck.
“I thank you for your trouble. I shan’t bother starting it now.
” He caught the book before it hit him and felt the pull of his first smile in days at the corners of his mouth.
“Can I tempt you to join me for dinner?”
“I should infinitely prefer it,” Fitzwilliam answered, “but alas, my father has summoned me to dine with him and Ashby—and my future sister, Lord save me.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow in query.
“Lady Philippa,” his cousin revealed. “My delightful brother decided he could not bear Miss Blake’s teeth after all and has staked his entire future happiness on the dental merits of an ill-tempered shrew.”
Darcy almost smiled again ’til Fitzwilliam’s enquiry as to his plans chased it away.
His only obligation that evening was to resume his former life as though naught had changed.
Indeed, other than the longing for Elizabeth, which none of his resentment had dislodged from its perch in his heart, nothing had.
“I have no fixed engagements,” he mumbled then picked up the book he had moments earlier foresworn and hid himself in the opening chapter.
Saturday 18 April 1812, Kent
Elizabeth returned to Hunsford parsonage to find her friend awaiting her in the parlour. Tea things were spread upon the table in readiness, and at Charlotte’s invitation, she sat down and accepted a cup.
“Did you enjoy your walk?”
“Very much,” she replied, hiding behind the steam from her tea lest the lie reveal itself in her half-hearted smile. In truth, unwelcome reflections had plagued her all through the grove, as they had all week long, ruining her last opportunity to enjoy it.
“I shall be sorry to see you go.” Charlotte’s odd little frown seemed to suggest she had something else less innocuous to say.
“And I shall be sorry to leave you.” Though not sorry to leave. “I hope the house does not seem too quiet without us.” Looking around, she added, “Will your sister not join us?”
“She is repacking her trunks. The poor dear was up half the night fretting that Lady Catherine would somehow discover she had not folded her gowns the right way.”
“Poor Maria! Her ladyship was particularly urgent on the matter. But then there is excessive urgency to all Lady Catherine’s advice.”
Charlotte laughed lightly but adopted the same strange look as before.
“I am pleased you are not made so anxious by her tyranny,” Elizabeth hastened to add.
“Oh, you know me. I try to be practical about these things. There is little point chafing at the bit having submitted to the harness. Besides,” she added wickedly, “some of her advice has proved rather useful.”
“Indeed? Such as?”
“Such as the several methods she has described for discouraging my husband’s attentions once I provide him with an heir.”
Incredulity prevented Elizabeth’s amusement from turning into a full laugh.
“Do not pretend to be shocked. I know very well you are in possession of all the facts, for you enlightened me long before Lady Catherine or, indeed, my husband.”
“Yes, well,” Elizabeth admitted, grinning, “I probably ought not to be in possession of quite as many facts as I am. We are both indebted to Mr Craythorne for our prescience. Were it not for his evident admiration that day, I should never have petitioned my aunt for such intelligence.”
“Mrs Gardiner probably ought never to have consented to provide it, but I must say I am grateful she did.”
Elizabeth opted to drink her tea rather than answer.
She disliked how closely the conversation had veered towards Charlotte’s intimacies with Mr Collins, with whose admiration she had only narrowly avoided becoming fully acquainted herself.
His had been the first offer of marriage she refused—the memory of which brought her perilously close to thinking about the second.
“You have been uncommonly quiet this past week,” said her friend, taking shameless advantage of her distraction. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”
Elizabeth surprised herself with the violence of her aversion to doing so, though she was stranger to none of the sentiments that swarmed nauseatingly at the prospect.
Indignation, confusion, shame, affront—she had kept constant company with them all since Mr Darcy’s astonishing and offensive proposal and even more shocking letter.
Until she settled the matter for herself, however, she could not begin to justify it to anybody else.
“Has it something to do with the gentlemen’s departure?” Charlotte pressed.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Only that it coincided with your low spirits. I wondered whether you had set your heart on Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“Goodness, no! He is perfectly amiable but quite above my reach.”
“And not nearly so handsome as his cousin.”
“Nor so insufferably proud!” she replied in a flash, exasperated that such an inane remark should have made her blush. With a concerted effort at composure, she added, “If I have been quiet, it is only that I am ready to be home. I hope you will not mind my saying so.”
“Not at all. I know you must be eager to see Jane.”
Seizing upon the change in subject, Elizabeth launched into an account of all the things she and her sister meant to do together in London before travelling home to Longbourn.
Charlotte graciously let the other matter drop, referring to it only once, obliquely, with a firm reminder that Elizabeth could write to her at any time with any concern.
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting, Elizabeth and Maria set out for London.
The Same Day, London
“You are very dull, Lizzy,” Mrs Gardiner remarked after dinner. “Are you well?”
“Forgive me. I ought to have slept in the carriage as Maria did, then I might have arrived better company.” As it was, anticipation to be reunited with Jane and other, less agreeable anxieties had kept Elizabeth awake for the entire journey.
“Nay, there is nothing wanting in your company,” said her uncle. “You are naturally fatigued from your travels.”
Jane sent her a worried look, which she parried with a smile. Of greater concern was that her sister had not passed any part of the day in a carriage and thus had no reason to look as weary as she did.
“Tell me then, girls,” said Mrs Gardiner, “how do Mr and Mrs Collins do?”
“They make a fine couple, though I wonder how my sister tolerates the way Mr Collins chews his food.”
Maria’s eagerness to satisfy everybody’s curiosity suited Elizabeth very well.
She was exhausted from the effort of diverting all talk of Kent away from the specific mention of Mr Darcy, conscious of her propensity to blush at the merest mention of him.
To avoid speaking of him was one thing, yet Jane’s unabated melancholy made it impossible not to think of him.
Her sister might have been happily engaged to Mr Bingley had Mr Darcy not separated them, a deed for which his letter revealed him to be wholly unrepentant.