Chapter 13 #2
Anne was a blank, a pale girl who had never spoken—not once—on any of the occasions when they had been in company.
The Anne de Bourgh who came to the parsonage or to dinners at Rosings was only a grey shadow.
Elizabeth could remember nothing she had worn, nor even whether she was handsome—only a timid young lady whom everybody pitied.
No, he cannot marry her! Elizabeth kept thinking as she turned to her aunt.
“I could understand his marrying an elegant and accomplished young lady from London,” Elizabeth whispered. “If he marries Anne de Bourgh, it is only because he is in haste to marry and has forgotten me.”
“No, my dear,” Mrs Gardiner replied, glancing quickly round the room to make certain they were not observed. “No man marries for such a reason. They are not like us. Try to understand and accept that. You are no part of his decision: he would be too proud for that.”
But Elizabeth would not believe her.
“And more good news: Anne and Darcy are to dine with us tomorrow,” Bingley continued.
“Let me come tomorrow and take you elsewhere to dine,” Mrs Gardiner whispered, this time in real anxiety.
Elizabeth declined the offer. “Sooner or later, we must meet, and I think that if I see him with his intended, my healing may begin. I shall be well.”
∞∞∞
Yet the night that followed was one of the worst she had spent for a long time.
After the first restless nights—just after her return from Hunsford—she had at last begun to rest again, but the thought of meeting Darcy raised so many questions that sleep became impossible.
For a moment, she was tempted not to meet him…
them. She was certain that her aunt, though the Gardiners were invited, would decline for her sake.
But that state of mind did not last long.
The very next moment, she wished to see him, to look into his eyes and ask what had happened.
How was it possible that he had declared his love for her and, only a few months later, was about to marry another woman?
She could not even think of Anne de Bourgh in such terms.
Elizabeth desperately wished to know what had driven him to marry his cousin. She even felt some guilt, but reason told her that a man does not choose a wife out of anger or sorrow. Not he—not the man she had known.
She passed the night between her sitting-room and her bedchamber—looking out at the deserted street before the house, or creeping beneath the bedclothes in search of sleep. She wept, her heart ached, and when sleep finally came, she dreamed of him and woke even sadder.
She was grateful when Jane took them to Clark Aunt Gardiner wished to be beside her when the betrothed couple entered the room.
She and her aunt were standing near a window, speaking in low tones, when the butler announced the guests.
The colonel and Georgiana entered first, followed by Darcy, with Anne upon his arm.
For a moment, Elizabeth was obliged to lean upon her aunt, but that weakness quickly passed.
When the moment came to curtsey, she wore a pleasant smile.
Only a faint flush in her cheeks betrayed her agitation; but it might just as easily have been attributed to the rouge she had lately begun to use.
A few words of civility were exchanged; then the colonel led Anne away, while Mrs Gardiner invited Georgiana to look at the terrace that opened onto a beautiful garden on the other side of the room.
Elizabeth and Darcy remained where they were—without understanding how it had come about.
They were alone in a room full of people, standing before an open window that overlooked the street.
By a silent agreement, they turned to face the room.
From the street below came the sound of passing carriages, and from time to time the murmur of a voice.
It was a perfect place for conversation, yet some time passed before either of them could speak.
“I knew you would be here,” he said, looking not at her, but at the people—friends and family—talking and laughing.
Bingley’s sisters arrived, and there was some little commotion.
Nobody paid any attention to them, save perhaps Anne, who glanced in their direction but made no movement towards them, apparently intent upon the colonel’s conversation.
Anne looked so lovely that Elizabeth felt a strange emotion stir within her.
I may have many faults, but I have never in my life been envious, she thought.
Yet that evening she was undeniably jealous of the woman who had won Darcy’s heart.
Anne de Bourgh was handsome, and her simplicity had an air of refinement.
Standing so near to him, Elizabeth might have wept, but she drove back her tears.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, “I wished to tell you that the note you sent me—by a strange turn of fate—was lost. No doubt through a servant’s fault; it was only found some days later, lodged beneath the correspondence table. Two months ago, I would have answered…”
Elizabeth made a considerable effort not to appear as distressed as she felt. “Would it have made any difference?” she asked at last.
“To be honest, I do not know. Three months ago, I was a different man. But I have regarded the incident as a sign that I am doing what is right—if indeed I required such a sign.”
“Do not marry,” Elizabeth said with such desperation that, in spite of his resolution, he turned and faced her.
She looked splendid: elegant and beautiful, sophisticated and yet perfectly natural.
Everything about her was lovely. With a tremendous effort, he turned again towards the room. “It is too late, my dear.”
And he left her, going to the lady beside the colonel who awaited him.
It was over.
After all those months of torment and sorrow, Elizabeth felt unexpectedly calm.
She had lost him, but she knew with certainty that he had lost her as well.
His regret had been in his last words. She did not pretend to understand why he had taken such a step, but as he went towards Anne and the life before him, Elizabeth knew he would live that life contentedly.
He did not hate her, nor resent her…he had merely chosen another road… one that did not include her.
Unfortunately for her, it was not so simple. She regretted him with every part of her mind, soul, and body. Every part of her cried out after him. She felt as though she might lie upon the floor and weep for days—or years.
“You will find a man to love,” Aunt Gardiner said beside her, as she had stood beside her throughout those last months.
“To like, perhaps. Mr Darcy is the only man I shall ever love.”
“You do not know that. Very often life gives us even more after a loss.”
But Elizabeth doubted it. She was sure she would find a man—a husband—but the man made for her was even then smiling at his future wife, who had been looking at Elizabeth strangely for several minutes. It was most unusual; even Aunt Gardiner had noticed it, though she could not interpret the look.
“I hope she is not jealous of me,” Elizabeth said. “She has no reason. He is hers by his own resolve, and the man I love is not capable of duplicity.”
“Yes, it is baffling, is it not? You love the very qualities that took him from you.”
And I never even kissed him, Elizabeth thought, late that night.
One kiss would have been enough, and would have given her something to hold to in the midst of such suffering.
In the middle of the night, still unable to sleep, she thought of Jane lying beside her husband in a neighbouring room. How fulfilled she must be—how happy.
“That part is wonderful,” Jane had said only a little earlier, when she came to Elizabeth’s room to bid her good night.
“We women are told only falsehoods. You will see, dear sister. And the thought that he may give me a child is so exciting that I can scarcely look at him in company, for fear I may betray my feelings.”
And that from her shy sister!
At least that night she had no nightmare. She was with Darcy in his bedchamber at Pemberley. With him, in that imagined room, she became a woman. It was so vivid and so real that she woke with a terrible sense of loss.
Resolved to go on with her life and forget him, she knew one thing with certainty: for the rest of her life, she would regret that they had never shared even a single kiss.