Chapter Sixteen #2
“I see,” Papa said. “So, I see. And you want my blessing, Mr. Darcy?—but no matter that George likes you,” he put the child down.
“Now dear boy, I did not think to bring you a present, but that was a terrible oversight. It is late today for such plans, but what do you think of going out to buy some books tomorrow?—oh, I see, you still have Mother Goose. I gave that book to you, did you know?”
“I love that book! It is my favorite.”
“Well, of course,” Papa replied smiling at the boy.
“It was the only book I had, before Mr. Darcy bought me more.”
“I see.”
“And a carriage! Can you buy me a painted carriage?”
“A toy?” Papa asked in a tone of some concern.
George giggled. “I’m too small to drive a carriage with a pony.”
“Not that small. In another two or three years, I dare say you’ll be at quite the age for a little gig. A small wooden one? Ah, but not so small? I imagine that can be arranged.”
“Hurrah!”
Papa then looked between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy again. “I think, Lizzy, that matters are not quite as I imagined them. Might I speak with you at some length, and in private?”
Elizabeth swallowed.
Something of her anxiety, her sense of not wanting to be exposed to her father, and her refusal to let him start making the choices for her, after she had already once thrown off his authority, returned.
She swallowed and nodded. “We might walk along the promenade, or go down the cliff to the beach.”
“Along the beach! The very thing. I have not been to a beach these ten years. Only the piers in London once or twice, and that is not the same thing at all.”
Then glancing at Mr. Darcy, and perhaps seeing something in his eyes, Papa approached him, shook the gentleman’s hand once more, and said, “Far more likely than not we shall become better acquainted soon.”
“I look forward to that,” Darcy said smoothly.
Then Mr. Bennet said, “I’ll go out, and send Coachman John off to the innyard.”
He bowed and stepped from the room.
Elizabeth suspected that he meant to give her a minute of privacy with Mr. Darcy before having his own period of privacy with her.
“He was angry,” Georgiana said to Elizabeth. “Why did he think that you meant to marry my brother for his money?”
“It is a reasonable supposition,” Elizabeth replied dryly, not at all sure that this was not the reason she meant to marry him. “Especially on the basis of the letter I wrote him.”
“Given your difficulties in coming to the point of writing to your father at all,” Darcy said, “I am hardly surprised that whatever you put in that letter concerned him. I think the better of him for coming immediately.”
Elizabeth sat next to Darcy and took his hand. “He did not offend you?”
Darcy shook his head.
Then he squeezed Elizabeth’s hand hard.
Georgiana, with that sort of delicacy that she often had, said to George and Emily, “Let’s go over here. Let’s play with the soldiers here in the corner.”
They went to the far end of the room, distant enough that there was something like privacy.
“Please—” Darcy looked oddly grey, so much that for an instant Elizabeth wondered if he was ill. “Do not—do not change your mind.”
“Darcy, I—”
“Promise me.” He gripped her hands tightly. “Promise me.”
There was something like panic in his eyes. He desperately looked at her, as though he were willing her to say yes.
It was strange to see such a strong man begging her in such a way.
He could not feel so much. Why did he feel so much?
“My dear, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said softly. She squeezed his hand back and kissed it. “You can be happy with yourself. You do not need to marry me to forgive yourself, to know that you deserve to be happy.”
“No, no. That is not it.” His lips were pale. “No, I know. I have heard what you say. I agree. Only—Jove, I only beg you to let me care for you. I must. I must. Tell me that you will let me. Do not leave, simply because your father convinces you that all will be well.”
“Do you mean to say that I deserve more than he can give me?—but Darcy,” she kissed his hand again, softly, enjoying the feel of his skin beneath her lips. “I could not disappoint George in such a way. You have nothing to worry about.”
He let out a long shaky breath. “Yes. Yes. I had forgotten about George. Of course. You would not disappoint him.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “He is quite determined to have you as a father. I would say you ought to hear him upon the subject, but I believe he has pestered you on the matter of the details more than me.” She smiled at him.
“You see, my papa can only offer to be a ‘grandpapa’, not a ‘papa’. Your offer is wholly superior.”
“Please, I know how you love to laugh, but I think I shall not relax until you promise me—but no, that is wrong of me. I only wish to be able to care for you and protect you and see you happy.” He closed his eyes.
“You know your own mind. Hear your father out and make the choice that seems best to you. But do think of George.”
A well of affection and warmth for Darcy flooded through Elizabeth.
She did like him very much. This was far better than being controlled by lust and admiration for a gentleman.
“Darcy, I can say that given what I know about my hopes and plans, I would be utterly shocked if my father said anything to me that convinced me to abandon our plans to marry. I do not think you have anything to worry about—that is not a promise, since you told me to make no promises, but it is a confident prediction. Do look at me.”
He did look at her, and he forced a smile. He nodded.
The look in his eyes. An idle thought passed through her mind: He was behaving like a gentleman in love.
She pushed that away.
He behaved nothing like Wickham ever had. He was not in love. She did not want him to be in love. She wanted him to be exactly what he was. And she saw that this was not just a matter of duty for him. His behavior came from his deep care for her.
Elizabeth took his hand and kissed it once more, and then she went out to speak with her father.
She was filled with a tumult of anxiety as she went out the hall.
Suddenly as she stepped out into the bright sunny day, a flash of anger ran through her again. It was her decision! How dare he come and judge her.
He hadn’t stopped her from marrying Wickham when it was still his place and duty to manage such matters. And now he wanted to judge her for what she did to manage the difficulties that arose because he’d failed her.
Papa was speaking to Coachman John. John was a familiar figure. He’d driven the family everywhere since he’d taken the position when Elizabeth was eight years old, after the old coachman had taken a pension and gone to live with his daughter.
“Hello, Mrs. Wickham.” He took off his cap and nodded to her.
“Hello, John,” Elizabeth replied. She trembled with that sudden rage against Papa, and yet she spoke with complete calmness. There was tightness and artificiality to everything. “And are your children all well?”
“Yes, yes. Except Mary. You know she married last year. Thomas, he was the footman when you left. He’s now taken over his father’s tenancy.
She lost her first child. Just a week after he was born—he’d been struggling from the start.
Too small. But we’d started to hope when he lasted so long.
The missus and her are both torn up about it. ”
“Oh,” Elizabeth replied, a stab of fear at imagining one of her children dying and knowing that it always could happen. The risk was always there. “I am sorry to hear that. Give my condolences to Mary.”
“She’ll be glad to hear you remember her. She will.”
“Alright,” Papa said. “Off to the inn.”
“You can stay here,” Elizabeth said. “There is room enough. Darcy keeps his carriage in the stable around the corner. The horses seem well cared for.”
“To the inn,” Papa replied. “I’ll not presume upon Mr. Darcy’s hospitality.”
“You can,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I’ll vouch for it.”
Papa studied her. After half a minute he said, “Alright John, find the stable around the corner, and then ask in the house for a place to refresh yourself.”
He took Elizabeth’s arm. They walked along the crescent and then out towards the promenade. The sounds of the ships in the harbor were clear. They crossed the street to be in the shade. “Now my dear, my dear. Talk to me.”
Instead of saying anything Elizabeth burst into tears.
Papa embraced her, and Elizabeth let him. “There, there. My dear. My dear. It will be alright. It will be.”
“It cannot be.” Elizabeth replied. She sobbed and sobbed. She held her father. “It can’t. Oh, why was I ever so stupid! How can you ever forgive me?”
“I was quite stupid as well. And I failed to protect you.”
“I shouldn’t cry. Crying never helps anyone.”
“I do not believe that people cry chiefly for the sake of improving matters. We often do things for other reasons.” Papa squeezed her tighter. “There, there. Dear, dear Lizzy. It will be alright.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Do you not want it to be alright?”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Ah.” Papa kissed the top of her head. “Ah. I see.”
“Why did you not stop me! Why couldn’t you have just stopped me from leaving? But no, I would not want that. Because then I would not have George and Emily. I was a fool!”
“And you begin to see that one would not undo the past, generally, even if one could.” Papa gave Elizabeth his handkerchief and she sniffled into it.
They strolled down the cobblestoned avenue, and Elizabeth led him towards the West Cliff promenade.
“Ah, I see the seagulls, and I do smell a bit of the sea air. And the stiff sea breezes, even in this sun and coat I feel almost pleasant—Lizzy, my poor Lizzy. I did curse myself for weeks.”
“And you must have cursed me. You must have.”