Chapter 6 The Beginning of Despair #4
Indeed, now that Wickham was in custody, and for as long as Bingley tarried over securing himself a wife, Darcy could claim no further connection to Meryton or Elizabeth whatsoever.
His life marched inexorably farther away from that juncture when she had almost been his, and there was naught he could do but march with it, hoping the pain would eventually ease.
Hence, this afternoon, with no expectation that his anguish would be in any way alleviated by the endeavour, he was off to his club, to do whatever it was gentlemen were supposed to do in such places.
“I say, Darcy! What a pleasant surprise!”
Darcy looked up from his paper. “Montgomery! I had not realised you were back in England.”
He called for more drinks, and his friend joined him at his table, regaling him with tales of his recent travels, the small fortune he had amassed while he was at it, the sad business of his wife’s passing and the vexing business of hiring a decent nanny for his young son.
“Are you enjoying being back?” Darcy enquired.
“Scarcely. London still brims with immoderation and staggers under the weight of its own pretension. I cannot say I have missed it overmuch.”
Darcy smiled, having found little pleasure in Town himself of late.
“That reminds me,” Montgomery added. “Did you ever hear of the debacle with that turd Wrenshaw at Covent Garden?”
“I have heard nothing of Wrenshaw in weeks.”
“No, no—this happened in April, but a day or two after I arrived home.”
“I was away for much of April.”
“Ah! Then you must allow me to tell you the story.”
Darcy listened indignantly to Montgomery’s account of Wrenshaw’s calumny, tired of worthless men maligning his good name. “Was he overheard?”
“I’ll not lie—there were a fair few eager ears. But here’s the thing!” He jabbed Darcy affably on the arm. “That night, you had a champion. She reduced all Wrenshaw’s claims to a bag of moonshine! Damned fun to watch, too.”
“She? It was not Miss Bingley, was it?”
“Ha! God forbid! No, this was an altogether different sort of creature. I did not catch the introductions, but she was quite magnificent.”
Darcy’s thoughts were drawn immediately to the only magnificent woman of his acquaintance, and despite knowing it to be absurd, his insides jumped at the thought of Elizabeth having said anything in his favour.
Frustrated by the foolishness of such a notion, he informed Montgomery more curtly than was necessary that he knew not of whom he spoke.
“That is a shame, for I intended to ask for an introduction. She was quite something. I know not how, for it was subtly done, but with just a few remarks, she had Wrenshaw tied in knots and unable to speak unless it was to accede to his own depravity. It was extraordinary. I do not think I have ever seen a woman so deftly turn a conversation to her advantage.”
Darcy had. His heart pounded so loudly he wondered that Montgomery could not hear it.
“Well, whoever she was,” his friend concluded, “I believe you are very much in her debt.”
Darcy sat perfectly still, fighting prodigiously against a swell of false hope. Elizabeth was as likely to defend him as to marry him—and yet…
“You say you did not hear her name?”
“I said I did not hear the introductions,” Montgomery replied, looking as though he was enjoying the suspense far too much.
“But I was close enough to hear her tell her friend that she was ‘very wrong about you’ and that you are ‘not a bad man.’” He paused to sip his drink, his eyes twinkling at Darcy over the rim.
“And to hear her companion call her Lizzy.”
It was all Darcy could do to keep his tone even. “What did she look like?”
“Ah, yes! For who has use of an ill-favoured heroine?” Montgomery replied with great amusement. “You are in luck, though. Yours was really rather handsome—about yay high with dark hair and the most exquisite eyes. Do you think you know her, after all?”
Darcy felt winded. “I believe so.” God, he hoped so.
“Then you shall have to introduce me. I should dearly like to make her acquaintance.”
“If the opportunity arises, I should be delighted.”
Darcy was almost run down as he hastened across the busy thoroughfare, but he scarcely noticed the driver’s angry shouts above the clamour of his own thoughts.
If it had been Elizabeth, if she truly now thought him a good man, then there was a chance—a small one, it was true, but a chance nonetheless—that he might yet make her love him.
His mouth twitched, attempting to smile, but he fought it, for he could not be sure.
When last he saw her, she had thought unspeakably ill of him.
Well, not unspeakably—she had articulated her dislike rather eloquently in fact.
He laughed aloud then clamped his lips together in consternation.
Was he to break into song next? His conjectures were tenuous at best, his giddiness unwarranted.
The thought of Elizabeth now defending his honour was outside of sublime, yet he could not imagine what might have affected such a change of heart.
Surely not his letter, as bitter and remorseless as he knew it had been.
Reason compelled him to doubt, yet “…the most exquisite eyes.” Who else could it be?
Longing increased his pace to one just shy of a run as he raced home to retrieve the letter that had lain ignored in his desk drawer for weeks.
Fool that he was, he had eschewed reading Bingley’s mentions of Elizabeth; now he was desperate for any news that might substantiate his hopes.
Godfrey attempted to address him as he burst through the front door, but Darcy barked an impatient ‘Later!’ and dived inside his study, slamming the door shut behind him.
He rifled through three drawers before he found it. With great trepidation, he lowered himself into his chair and began, meticulously, to re-read it.
Bingley extended another invitation to Netherfield, said something of a fishing party, touched briefly on his sister’s increase and his venture in Nova Scotia.
Darcy sat up straighter. Bingley wrote that Elizabeth encouraged his suit, Elizabeth was as engaging as ever, Elizabeth still enjoyed walking.
Then there was something of a picnic, a mention of Bingley’s boots…
and in a scrawled postscript at the foot of the page, his salvation.
P.S. Almost forgot. I have a message for you from Miss Elizabeth. Your quarrel in Kent troubles her. She asked that I tell you she is sorry. Tried to assure her it was unnecessary, but she insisted.
Early evening found Darcy bathed in the last mellow rays of sunlight at the library window, looking out across the gardens.
All arrangements for travel had been set in motion.
He could not avoid a meeting with Myers on Thursday, but he would wait no longer than that. Friday would see him in Hertfordshire.
Anticipation thrummed in his chest. He had no idea what reception he might expect from Elizabeth, but her message of apology had taught him to hope as he had scarcely ever allowed himself to hope before.
He was not fool enough to think she meant to apologise for refusing him, but she had forgiven him, and that was enough to have liberated every passionate feeling he had battled these long weeks to repress.
He felt nigh on delirious with happiness and restless with impatience to see her.
Long evening shadows crept across the gardens, and the library ebbed into darkness.
His lips curled into a slow smile as he basked in the warmth of her long-coveted and fierce loyalty, for he was now certain it had been Elizabeth at the theatre.
He could just imagine the arch of her eyebrow as she engaged Wrenshaw, the small, dangerous smile as she set her trap, the flash of her eyes as she cut him down, and the dazzling smile that obliterated all affront and left her opponent dumbfounded.
It made him wild to hold her, to tell her how he adored the liveliness of her mind.
How he had survived this long without her was suddenly impossible to comprehend.
It galled him to think of the weeks he had wasted wallowing in despair.
He longed to know all he had missed and tortured himself envisaging every smile and witticism he had not seen.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and he was plunged into gloom, that longing materialised into a recollection.
Bingley had sent two letters. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strode to his study, anxious for any and all news of Elizabeth he could find.
This letter took longer to locate, but he eventually found it at the back of a drawer beneath the household ledger.
He moved closer to the only lit candle in the room, broke the seal and began to read.
And as he read, all the blood drained from his face, all breath left him.
His world cracked, began to crumble, and then shattered into dust. His heart, he was quite sure, stopped dead in his chest.
She was gone.
Netherfield
25th May
Darcy,
Pray, come—
There has been an atta a dreadful incident. Something has happened that has caused me such caused me much anguish
I beg you to come. Your acquaintance Wickham has attacked Miss Elizabeth.
He had been pestering her for some time.
She disliked his attentions. It was even necessary for me to intervene on one occasion.
Would that I had done more! I shall never forgive myself for not preventing this.
I saw him grab her and I swear I ran, but I could not reach her in time, and he hit her so damned hard.
Dear God, she just crumpled! I cannot bear to think on it, yet I see it over and again.
He was ape-drunk. I held her in my arms all the way to Longbourn, but she never awoke.
Her family’s distress is difficult to behold for had I but done more to—
I can write no more, ’tis too distressing. Pray come, Darcy. I need you, my friend.
Bingley