Chapter 8 Mixed Blessings #4
“My aunt? Lady Catherine?”
She pulled a wry face and nodded.
“And when did she have occasion to comment on it?”
“When she called on me to forbid me from ever marrying you.”
“When she what?”
Mr Darcy was the kind of man to whom Mr Bennet should never dare refuse anything he condescended to ask, and he gave his consent at once.
That he should ask this was somewhat bewildering, but since Elizabeth had come to him first, assuring him of her wishes, he felt not unduly concerned.
He cared for only three things: Elizabeth would be well looked after, she would be able to respect her partner in life, and he need lose no more sleep over his other soon-to-be son.
He remained entirely unconvinced that Bingley had secured his preferred choice of sister, and he had not been able to dispel the concern that he might yet abandon Jane.
He had infinitely more faith in Mr Darcy’s ability to direct his friend’s romantic interests, and his appearance was vastly reassuring.
“Would that you had asked her sooner,” he said, reaching to shake Darcy’s hand. “You might have saved your friend weeks of indecision.” He regretted the jest when he saw Mr Darcy’s frown and hastily suggested they collect Elizabeth and announce the news to the family.
“Might it not be better were I to inform them in private?” Elizabeth objected when the same suggestion was put to her. When both gentlemen questioned her reluctance, she twisted her hands together and grimaced contritely. “My mother…”
Mr Darcy appeared unperturbed and countered her concerns with but two words. “My aunt.”
Mr Bennet looked between them indignantly.
If there was to be a contest for the greatest claim to humiliating relations, he could trump them both.
“My wife!” he exclaimed, rolling his eyes and throwing open the parlour door with a flourish.
Before he could draw breath to speak, Bingley was on his feet.
“Lizzy! Thank heavens—I say, Darcy! What the deuce are you doing here?”
Having already been denied the privilege of announcing Jane’s engagement, Mr Bennet was unwilling to forfeit his due a second time and answered before Mr Darcy.
“He is a single man in possession of a good fortune. For what other purpose could he have possibly come but to secure himself a wife? It is my very great pleasure to inform you all that Lizzy and Mr Darcy are engaged.”
It was much to his consternation that the announcement he ultimately made should be met with stony silence.
Mrs Bennet sat perfectly still, seemingly unable to breathe, let alone speak.
The irony of his lamenting her want of theatricals on the sole occasion upon which she had been shocked into quiescence was not lost on him.
His younger daughters all stared aimlessly between him, their mother and Elizabeth.
Jane looked by turns amazed, relieved and then vexed—for none of which he could account.
Bingley stood unmoving before him, open-mouthed and ashen.
“Well,” he said into the deafening silence, “if you are all quite done with your celebrations, I think I shall return to the quiet of my library. I can scarcely bear all the commotion.”
As he turned to leave, he laid a hand on Elizabeth’s arm, intending to counsel her not to be dismayed by their surprise.
Upon observing her, however, he decided she needed no such assurance.
Had his wife suffered a fit of apoplexy and died right there on the carpet, he thought it unlikely the pair should have noticed.
Elizabeth and Mr Darcy had eyes only for each other.
He smiled to himself as he left the room, satisfied she truly would be happy.
To hell with waiting for Darcy to speak with his friend! Fitzwilliam resolved to ride to Longbourn directly unless the wayward pair appeared within the next ten minutes. He stalked to the sideboard to refill his glass then back to the window to look for any sign of their return. There was none.
He was excessively concerned for his cousin, certain Miss Bennet’s death would affect him deeply, and he could not account for every other bugger’s apparent indifference to the tragedy.
Colonel Forster had seemed flabbergasted that a man of his rank should show any interest in, as he put it, “the transgressions of a mere parish lieutenant.”
“Transgressions, my arse!” he grumbled and swilled back his drink.
Indeed, Wickham had seemed no less surprised by his interest in the affair, but if the dullard thought a flogging was all the punishment he would receive, he was due a harsh shock.
Nor could he fathom why Bingley had failed to inform his own sister of Elizabeth’s passing or why none of the staff had mentioned it…
He slammed his drink on a table and strode across the room, yanking open the door to look for a servant. “Ho, man!” he called to a footman by the front door, marching thither as he spoke. “Do you know the Bennets of Longbourn?”
“Aye, sir,” the rather startled man replied.
“Have any of them died recently?”
“Er, not to the best of my knowledge, sir.”
“Thank God’s celestial ballocks for that!”
At which moment, Darcy stepped through the front door. “Fitzwilliam! What on earth are you doing here?”
All possible answers to the question were rendered absurd by the revelation that Miss Elizabeth was alive and well. “I paid Wickham a little visit,” he admitted with a grin.
Darcy pulled an odd face—half frown, half smirk. “And how did that go off?”
“Well, nothing actually came off, so I daresay it could have gone worse for him.”
Darcy’s lips twitched, threatening a laugh, and Fitzwilliam knew all would be well. “She is not dead, is she?”
“No, she is very much alive.” With a small but triumphant smile, he added, “We are engaged.”
“Engaged? I thought she did not love you!”
“I thought you considered love a frivolous criterion for marriage.”
“I did. I do. It is! But—”
The insufferable bugger smirked so boyishly he looked almost giddy. Awash with relief for his long-suffering cousin, Fitzwilliam gave over quibbling and gave him a firm slap on the shoulder. “I could not be more delighted for you, old chap.”
“Nor I. I had despaired, but—she is mine!”
They were interrupted by a loud groan from Bingley, who came trudging over the threshold behind Darcy.
“You are very welcome, Fitzwilliam, but I hope you will forgive me if I postpone a proper greeting until tomorrow. I have the devil of a headache. I think I shall retire directly. Feel free to use my study, Darcy. I am sure you two have much to discuss.”
“There is no need to make yourself scarce in your own home,” Darcy assured him.
“You give me false credit. I had no such noble intentions. I only wish to be spared your raptures.”
Fitzwilliam scoffed. In eight and twenty years he had never heard Darcy rhapsodise.
“Help yourselves to brandy,” Bingley offered. Then, eyeing Fitzwilliam, he added, “If there is any left.”
“We shall make do! Snap to it!” he said as he passed Darcy. “I’ll not be kept in suspense any longer!”
Thus, the cousins retreated to Bingley’s study to enjoy a second evening of drink-fuelled discourse on the subject of Elizabeth Bennet—this one far pleasanter than the last.
Bingley hauled his tired body up the stairs, alarmingly close to vomiting.
He and Darcy had passed the journey home explaining to each other how their relative betrothals came about.
He had been largely unmoved by his friend’s allusions to various disappointments and struggles, for Darcy had Elizabeth and, therefore, no cause to repine.
His own story had been necessarily abridged, for he could hardly own that he had meant to offer for Darcy’s future wife.
Darcy’s last declaration, “She is mine,” was simply outside of enough.
Ravaged by the thought of Elizabeth in any other man’s arms, Bingley had not the fortitude to listen to Darcy rave about it or hear his cousin congratulate him for it.
Instead, he gathered his regrets and took himself off to bed.
Thursday 11 June 1812, Hertfordshire
“Alone at last!” Elizabeth sighed as the carriage juddered into motion. “I thought we might never speak privately again.”
Jane regarded her sister’s radiant smile sullenly.
They travelled to breakfast at Netherfield, as agreed with their respective future husbands the previous evening, and it was the first time they had been alone together since.
They might have spoken last night had she not pretended to be asleep, but, wounded that Elizabeth had concealed all hint of her dealings with Mr Darcy from her and devastated by Bingley’s apparent dismay, her envy had left her disinclined to celebrate.
“I was not aware you wished to speak to me. You seem to have kept much unsaid of late.”
Elizabeth’s smile died instantly. “Are you angry with me?”
Jane turned to peer out of the window. “I am more hurt than angry.”
She felt her hands taken up and reluctantly looked back.
“I did not set out to exclude you,” Elizabeth said, “but in London, you were still so very low, and at the time, I was convinced everything that happened in Kent would soon be forgotten anyway. I saw no advantage to burdening you with any of it. And then…” She looked down at their clasped hands, and her voice became unexpectedly tremulous.
“Once I ceased being a fool and acknowledged to myself that I loved Darcy, I was too embarrassed to mention it, for I was sure he would never return for me. It was easiest to say nothing.”
Jane understood better than most how much easier it was to deny heartache than suffer everybody’s remarks. Hearing it explained thus disposed her to be more understanding. “You must love him very much.”
“I do, Jane! So very dearly.” Her eyes sparkled as they had always used to whenever she disclosed some great mischief as a child.