Chapter 2
WHERE ELIZABETH BENNET IS REGRETFUL.
The hour was late. Shadows danced along the narrow halls of Longbourn House, the walls dappled by the unearthly glow of a full moon.
Upstairs a lone candle burned low as Elizabeth Bennet curled her toes beneath her nightshift and settled into one of two upholstered chairs flanking the hearth.
A warm fire crackled in the grate, banked for the night by a servant. Its flames lapped at the logs within.
With slender fingers she caressed the well-worn sheets of paper cradled in her hand as though attempting to touch the very soul of the author himself.
Despite the warmth of the room, a shiver ran through her body.
As her eyes devoured the neatly formed—and by now painfully familiar—lines her mind wandered to the exact moment when he had first placed the letter into her hands in the grove at Rosings Park.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth traced each letter of his signature with tenderness.
She had treated him with such contempt and insolence then, having thrown his proposal of marriage—as arrogant and insulting as his words had been—back in his face with a vengeance, and in the next breath accused him of such wretched wrongdoing against a scoundrel of a man whom she must now call her brother.
While she had not been insensible of the compliment Darcy had paid her with the bestowal of his addresses, it wasn’t until many months had passed that Elizabeth came to fully appreciate that which she had so readily scorned: the affection and esteem of a man who, despite his excessive pride and arrogant assumptions, had somehow come to love her well enough to throw off the expectations and wishes of his family and his peers by asking for the hand of an impertinent, penniless daughter of a country gentleman of little consequence.
Four months later she and Darcy happened to meet again in Derbyshire on Pemberley’s exalted grounds.
Elizabeth was horrified to have him discover her there, of all places—but the Fitzwilliam Darcy who stood before her then was entirely different from the gentleman she had previously known.
Gone were his abominable pride, conceit, and hauteur as he not only welcomed her, but sought her opinion of the house and the park and, even more astonishing, her approval.
When he turned towards her aunt and uncle and politely requested an introduction, Elizabeth hardly knew what to think.
Never had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve as he was then.
She could hardly account for such an alteration in his manners.
Could her reproofs at Hunsford have inspired such a transformation in so great and proud a man?
Such a possibility filled her with bewilderment and flooded her with unexpected warmth.
In half an hour he had shown her a completely different side of himself, and it had come as a most welcome surprise.
But Lydia’s thoughtlessness soon put an end to any possibility of intimacy between them. After confiding her family’s disgrace to Darcy in a moment of weakness and witnessing his grave countenance and eagerness to be gone, Elizabeth felt certain she would never see him again.
Not a full month later, her wonder continued as Mr Bingley returned to Netherfield Park after a lengthy absence of ten months that had taken on the appearance of permanency.
To Elizabeth, it could mean but one thing: Darcy had taken it upon himself to speak to his friend, for what else could have inspired such a drastic turn of events?
Such was her shock when three days later Mr Bingley was spotted riding up Longbourn’s drive accompanied by another gentleman.
Elizabeth stilled in her chair when one of her sisters identified the figure as that belonging to ‘the same proud, disagreeable man’ who had been with him before: Mr Darcy.
How she had gotten through that visit she knew not, for her mortification had been great and in the form of her mother as Mrs Bennet regaled her guests with the news of Lydia’s recent marriage.
How Darcy looked Elizabeth hardly knew, for she could not bear to raise her eyes to his face.
Why had she not kept Lydia’s shame to herself when he had called upon her that wretched day at the inn in Lambton?
Whatever possessed her to tell Darcy her family’s most shocking news?
Perhaps, if she had held her tongue then, things would now have been very different between them.
Perhaps he would have renewed his addresses, though she could hardly imagine that Darcy, who was wronged so unjustly by Wickham in the past, would ever be able to reconcile himself to forming such a connexion to such a man, no matter how ardently he had once proclaimed to love her.
He stayed but a week before quitting Hertfordshire for London, and without taking his leave of his friends at Longbourn.
Elizabeth remained in perpetual ignorance of his whereabouts until she finally mustered the courage to enquire of Bingley, who was now to be her brother, whether Darcy remained at Netherfield.
Bingley managed to tear his eyes from her sister Jane’s fair countenance long enough to inform them all that his friend had gone away to see to some matters of business but would return in ten days’ time.
Those ten days came and went with no sign of Darcy.
All hope for Elizabeth soon came to an end when she learnt he had written to his friend and informed him his business had yet to be completed and that he did not foresee himself returning to the area as planned.
It could mean but one thing: Elizabeth’s power over him had sunk.
Elizabeth’s thoughts, her hopes, her wishes were every minute turned towards the memory of the tall, reticent man whose penetrating eyes haunted her.
Even the colourful leaves and golden hues of the autumn landscape failed to hold her interest and raise her spirits as they had in years past. They served instead as a harsh reminder that winter would soon be upon Longbourn, bringing freezing temperatures that would mean lengthy periods of confinement to the house.
Unlike in years past, there would be no beloved Jane to bring her comfort.
In her melancholy, Elizabeth spent many solitary hours roaming the countryside visiting favourite retreats and contemplating the turn her sentiments had taken since that fateful April day in Kent.
Why was it, after so many months of reflection, that she now saw with absolute clarity how perfectly suited they were for each other?
Darcy’s understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes.
By her ease and liveliness his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and by his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world Elizabeth would have received benefit of even greater importance.
All hope was now in vain; all wishes for another chance for naught.
Darcy’s present actions—or lack thereof—spoke volumes.
Surely, if he loved her still, he would not stay away.
The taste of her disappointment was bitter.
In her bedchamber the candle beside her sputtered and flared.
Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, closed her eyes, and laid her head against the back of her chair.
“What a fool I have been,” she whispered to herself as she laid the pages of her letter upon her lap.
“How could I have been so blind as not to have seen it all before?”
Submersed in her disappointment she silently mourned not only that which she had lost, but that which she now desired more than anything else in the world: the esteem, the admiration, the ardent devotion of the one man who was now lost to her forever.
“Lizzy?”
The sound of Jane’s gentle voice drifted into Elizabeth’s subconscious and encircled her like a comfortable shroud.
Her tone was warm and reassuring, and for just a few moments Elizabeth recalled nothing of Darcy, her disappointment, or her heartache.
Her eyelids fluttered open to meet her sister’s concerned countenance, illuminated by a glowing wax taper.
“Dearest,” Jane said as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, “come to bed. You cannot spend the entire night in this chair.”
Elizabeth exhaled tiredly and looked towards the window, where nothing but darkness was visible through the lace curtains.
Her own candle had long since died and the fire was nothing more than hot coals and a few glowing embers.
Resigned, she gathered the loose pages scattered upon her lap and folded them neatly, then walked to the bedside table to secret her precious letter within a favourite book of poems before placing both items into the top drawer.
Feeling her sister’s steady gaze upon her, Elizabeth forced a half-hearted smile to her lips as she discarded her shawl and loosened the belt of her dressing gown.
It did little to mask her sombre mood. “Forgive me. There is so much to be done that I found it difficult to sleep for all the thoughts that are running through my head. I must have drifted off despite it all.” She climbed into bed and pulled the counterpane to her chin.
Jane extinguished the candle with a quick breath and the room plunged into darkness. A moment later the bed frame creaked, and the mattress sank a bit lower as Jane joined her.
“Goodnight,” Elizabeth murmured, rolling onto her side, purposely turning her back to her sister. She closed her eyes and silently willed a steady, dreamless slumber to descend upon her.
The bed groaned as Jane moved closer and laid her chin upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Please, Lizzy,” she whispered, her voice distressed. “Will you not finally speak of it to me?”