Chapter 18
That night, alone in his bedchamber, he could not sleep. But this time it felt as though he had been asleep for months, and now, at last awake, he was ready to run, to ride, to fly—anything, so long as he might feel alive again.
He thought, with a degree of uneasiness, of all that lay before him.
Above all, he recoiled from the idea of becoming the subject of gossip.
In nearly thirty years of life, he had never been exposed to it.
Even in youth, he had managed every difficulty with discretion, and none of his affairs had ever become a matter for London talk—as these five days of marriage undoubtedly would.
He thought of Georgiana and of the effect his story might have upon her. Still, in the end, the reaction of others did not depend upon him. He could only hope that his family and friends would show him discretion and support through such an awkward and humiliating time.
For once, neither his own reputation nor even Georgiana’s future weighed most heavily. All that mattered was the woman who had ceased to wait for him, knowing he had married.
He had provided Anne with a considerable sum of money and had sent with her one of the most devoted servants at Pemberley to attend the two ladies until they embarked at Liverpool.
Doyle was among the few men he trusted without reserve—one who would execute his orders without question and without talk.
Both Doyle’s sons were at Cambridge, supported by Darcy.
He would do whatever was required of him—and more.
With Doyle beside them, Anne and Mrs Jenkinson would be safe until they met the solicitor.
They took leave of one another in the parlour, alone.
It was a strange and affecting farewell—one they both regretted, though each felt, at the same time, a quiet sense of relief. Darcy held her for a long moment, offering his last advice for the journey.
“You will not be alone,” he said. “And when—or if—you choose to return, we shall be here for you.”
“Thank you,” Anne replied, tears slipping down her cheeks. “This is the first time in my life I have felt safe—truly safe. Thank you, Cousin Fitzwilliam. I know a lady who will be very happy with you.”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Thank you, Cousin Anne. America will be astonished by such a lady as you are. Good luck—and write as soon as you can, and as often as you are able.”
In the days before her departure by sea, he remained at the estate, overseeing every work, attending to the tenants’ needs, and settling all those matters he had so often postponed.
It was a most peculiar period. Somewhere within him lingered the regret of having come to know Anne so late; and though, in the first days after her departure, that feeling persisted, it disappeared the moment Doyle returned with news that the ladies were safely aboard the ship.
Once Anne had gone, he began to understand the extraordinary chance life had offered him.
Elizabeth’s image rose in his mind with overwhelming force. Whatever lay ahead—however difficult, even humiliating—it no longer mattered, so long as she stood at the end of that path.
He shuddered at the thought that she might have formed another attachment; but, fortunately, Bingley’s last letter arrived without any hint of such a possibility.
Taking Anne as his example, he formed a careful, step-by-step plan of what he must do, and put it into effect the moment Doyle left the library, having delivered his news.
He asked Miller to assemble the servants in the entrance hall. The people of Pemberley needed to hear the account directly from him. He could not prevent gossip, but at least they would receive his version of events, not whispers gathered in corners.
In a few words, he explained the situation, standing in the same place where they had welcomed his wife only days before.
To his satisfaction, he saw concern and sympathy on their faces.
He could not know how far the story would travel, but he wished, at the very least, that his first marriage should be forgotten—and the scandal worn out—by the time he returned.
With a calm, steady warmth in his voice, he said, “I ask only this—that we put this matter behind us and look to the future. That is what you can do for me.”
As he rode towards Hertfordshire, the events of the past week accompanied him, and from time to time, he was grateful for the wind or the rain, which reminded him that he was not dreaming.
On the first day, he rode twenty-six miles.
He reached an inn exhausted and slept for twelve hours before continuing his journey in the carriage that followed from Pemberley.
At last, he could think of the future.
It seemed impossible, inconceivable, almost unreal—like a splendid dream—and yet it was real.
When he was less than fifty miles from Longbourn, the turmoil—now only one part of his existence—began to recede, driven off by the thought of Elizabeth’s face.
At last, he could think only of the woman he loved…
the woman to whom he had offered marriage…
the woman he had left for another, though she had begged him not to marry… the woman he could not forget.
For a few miles, he imagined the extraordinary sensation of taking her into his arms. Elizabeth was as pure as a water lily, but she was not timid.
She would flourish in love as she did in everything else—with passion, courage, and a lively curiosity.
She was the mistress Pemberley needed. She—with her rare independence and her hunger for life—was the woman he needed.
But after another twenty miles, anxiety returned. What if she were already engaged? Impossible—Bingley would have told him. Or what if she found the situation—his intention to divorce—too difficult to accept?
He arrived at Netherfield at four o’clock in the afternoon, after a frantic ride through rain and, at times, snow. Before he even entered the house, he sent a note to Elizabeth—one he had prepared on the first day of his journey.
The house was empty, as he had desired; his valet and a maid, who had arrived a day earlier, were the only servants in attendance.
A generous fire awaited him in the parlour, with a glass of brandy and light refreshments set out.
He drank, but could not eat—too tormented to do anything but pace the room, hoping she would come.