Chapter 11 #2
Nothing was as likely to provoke Elizabeth’s ire as a reminder of his previous disdain for her family.
“You may have been honest about that, but did you consider what comfort it might be to Anne to have a husband or what comfort she might afford his motherless son? Did you mention that his investment would save Rosings or that you should like to be his cousin? Or did you omit all these facts in favour of persisting with your grudge?”
Darcy hesitated, but righteous indignation rapidly overtook any remorse he might have been about to express. “I have been used to consider that a wife will support her husband in such matters.”
“Forgive me if I do not agree with your every utterance, Fitzwilliam, but I shall not feel obliged to if you are wrong!”
“No! You are still determined to be more concerned with the misfortunes of the rest of the world than you are with mine!”
The injustice of that charge drew a wordless exclamation from Elizabeth’s lips. “On the contrary! I am entirely concerned with my husband’s propensity to impose his implacable resentment on the affairs of perfectly undeserving individuals!”
She knew then she had said too much. Her stomach lurched hideously to see his expression turn to ice.
“I thank you for expressing your opinion so eloquently, madam.” He left without another word, slamming the door behind him.
One or two heartbeats of silent anguish followed then Elizabeth sank onto the foot of the bed, one hand to her mouth, and stared in dismay at the closed door.
Oh, she had made him angry! And wherefore?
Granted, it was disappointing that he had not given Mr Montgomery fair counsel, but what did it matter to her whom that man wed?
Why, oh why, had she argued the point when she knew how deeply he felt Lady Catherine’s betrayal?
She, who had promised to love him better than his ignoble aunt and, not ten minutes ago, congratulated herself on being able to console him in his distress!
Resolving immediately to find him, that she might hold him and comfort him as he deserved, she set about making herself presentable to leave her room.
She paused on her way out to collect the papers he had left behind.
As she put the pages of Mr Montgomery’s letter back in order, her eye was drawn to a particular word on the second page that threw all thoughts of their disagreement from her mind.
Not wishing to be mistaken about such a thing, she read further and was dismayed to discover her fears founded.
Carefully, she refolded the letter and left in search of her husband, steeling herself for a far greater test of her ability to comfort him than either of them would wish.
Darcy stared unseeing from his study window, his jaw clenched and his grip on his tumbler fierce.
He was angry—furious, in fact. At whom was a point on which he vacillated by the moment.
His feelings towards his aunt remained inimical in every respect.
She had maligned his honour, contested his authority, scorned his happiness, overlooked his lifelong loyalty and dared to insult his wife.
His feelings towards the man who would have him turn a blind eye to all that and reinstate the connection merely for his own convenience were presently not much better and quite at war with the established regard and gratitude he held for him.
Then there was his wife. Not since he was a boy had he been required to justify himself to another person, yet here he was at almost thirty years of age, somehow accountable to a woman who questioned his integrity at every turn. And damn it if she was not always bloody right!
He threw back a mouthful of brandy. Evidently, he had learnt nothing from the manifold lessons in compassion, tolerance and forgiveness he had received in recent months. Elizabeth knew it and thought ill of him for it, and that made him excessively angry with himself.
The door clicked open, and the reflection in the window showed his judge and juror stepping into the room. He wished she had stayed away longer, that he might have regained some measure of equanimity before being required to account for his behaviour. “Have you come to carry your point, madam?”
“No, Fitzwilliam.”
He was not familiar with her expression. It made him uneasy. “What then?”
She came to stand in front of him and held out what looked to be the papers he had left in her bedroom. “My darling, you need to finish Mr Montgomery’s letter.” She bit her bottom lip and said no more but continued to regard him anxiously.
He set his drink down on his desk and took the letter from her, skipping directly to the part he had not yet read. Moments later, he lowered himself into his chair, propped his elbow on the armrest and covered his face with his hand. “Damn.”
Here, then, was the motivation for his aunt’s recent behaviour—her anger at his refusal to marry Anne, her furious objections when he withdrew his resources from Rosings. Lady Catherine was dying.
Elizabeth came to him, cradling his head against her stomach and whispering tender words of comfort. He wrapped his arms about her hips and held onto her.
“I ought to have seen it,” he whispered gruffly. “She has been unwell, coughing for months.”
“None of us suspected. Not me, not your uncle, not Fitzwilliam. You could not have known. Montgomery says it took the word of two physicians to make her admit it.”
“Why did she not tell me?”
“I do not know. Perhaps she did not realise. Or perhaps she did, and once she comprehended your resolve not to have Anne, she did not wish to force your hand.”
He looked up at her incredulously. “Why then did she go to such lengths to prevent me from marrying you?”
“Not compelling you to marry her daughter is a far cry from condoning your marriage to somebody like me. It is possible she believed she had your best interests in mind in both cases.”
“But why persist now we are wed? She has only driven me farther away when she needs me most.”
Elizabeth smiled sadly. “Resentment is rarely reasonable.”
Darcy stared, dismayed. To all this, his damned, stupid resentment had blinded him!
That same bitterness of spirit Elizabeth plagued him constantly to forswear.
Pray that she never ceased plaguing him, for she would make him a better man than he could ever hope to be without her.
He tugged her down into his lap, rested his forehead on her shoulder and entrusted his sorrow to her embrace. “Thank God for you.”
Tuesday 18 August 1812, Yorkshire
“The weather looks to be clearing at last,” Charles announced.
Caroline looked up from her needlework and peered dubiously at what little of the day she could see from the minuscule sash window opposite. The sky looked to her much the same as it had all day: dull.
“Yes, it is brightening a little,” agreed Jane, predictably.
Frowning, Caroline turned to look through the marginally larger casement behind her, unsurprised to discover the sky every bit as dreary in that direction as the other—which fairly well epitomised the entire trip thus far. She returned to her work without comment.
“I thought it might begin to before long,” Charles persisted. “The clouds were not so dark this morning as yesterday.”
“Aye, nor the air so frigid.”
“I must say, I had forgotten quite how unsettled the weather in the north could be. Still, the wind has dropped, and it is no longer raining. Shall we all walk out? We could take up Cousin Helena’s invitation to join them for tea.”
“Oh, yes—” Jane began.
Oh, pray, no! “Surely, we have visited enough relations to justify the trip now, Charles?” Caroline interrupted.
“How many more afternoons of drinking revolting tea in cramped, unfashionable parlours must we endure in order to satisfy your notion of a wedding tour? May we not enjoy some more refined entertainment for the remainder of our travels?”
“Caroline!”
“Well really, Charles! Is it imperative that you lay claim to every distant relative of ours who is still in trade? Are we to journey to Nova Scotia next for a tour of the hole you have sponsored my cousin to dig?”
“Our family’s condition in life is neither here nor there. I wished to introduce my wife.”
It vexed Caroline to observe Jane visibly preen at this.
The woman was as obtuse as her husband. “Very quixotic, I am sure, but goodness knows Jane has enough unfortunate relations of her own to consider without ferreting out every one of yours as well. God forbid any of my friends should learn I passed my summer traipsing through the dockyards and woollen mills of the north. Or yours, Jane! What would Lady Ashby say?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Would she disapprove?”
“Of course she would!”
How this could surprise her, Caroline knew not, yet clearly, it did, for she paled and addressed her husband in alarm.
“Perhaps it would be wiser not to advance these acquaintances if it will injure our reputation.”
That only made Charles pout. “There is no reason to think the injury to my reputation will be any different presently than it has been these past three-and-twenty years.”
“Precisely!” said Caroline, maddened by his stupidity.
“I am sure they are all respectable people,” Jane pressed, “but is it quite proper that we should visit their homes?”
“If Lizzy did not consider it improper to receive your relations at Pemberley, I daresay you shall survive the degradation of visiting mine, for you cannot believe you are superior to your own sister!”