Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Worse, thoughts of Miss Darcy perforce led to ones of Mr. Wickham.
Despite how infamously he’d treated Miss Darcy, and a hard knot of anger for him putting Mr. Darcy’s life in jeopardy, Elizabeth still felt guilt over Mr. Wickham’s death.
If she had gone straight to her father, Mr. Wickham would have received care a day sooner. Would that have saved him?
Elizabeth sighed. Again, not a fitting topic for a letter to Miss Darcy.
She refocused on the empty page before her.
Should she write to Miss Darcy of Mr. Collins and Mary’s presence in Longbourn?
Elizabeth shook her head. That would require the reason for their stay, which would smack of gossip about Miss Darcy’s relations.
Besides which, nothing existed that Elizabeth could say about their visit that would not amount to complaining.
She must save that for the privacy of her thoughts, or possibly for Charlotte or Jane.
Pursing her lips, Elizabeth dipped her pen into ink. She must write something. All three of her younger sisters had already exchanged several letters with Miss Darcy. By now, both she and her brother would worry that Elizabeth had no desire to correspond with them.
Dear Miss Darcy,
I hope this letter finds you well. Are you still playing the pianoforte?
I know my sisters miss their visits with you.
Do you believe your brother is an honest man simply corralled into deception, and therefore someone worthy of marriage?
Someone with whom I could find happiness for the remainder of my days?
Or is he a blackguard and a liar, and a man no woman should trust to arrive to tea on time, let alone with her heart?
Elizabeth halted, sighed, and reached for her letter opener. Using the sharper side, she trimmed off the top of the sheet, crumpled those words, and tossed them into the fire. She returned to staring at the again empty, now shorter, page.
Her gaze flicked back to the little hearth. If she was simply going to burn what she wrote, she may as well pour her heart into her letter. Perhaps doing so would help.
Dear Fitzwilliam,
I am in quite the quandary. Day and night, my thoughts fill with your visage. Your eyes, so serious and thoughtful. Your strong jaw. The way you look at me as if I am of the utmost importance. The way you listen to me, as if you truly care what I say.
What a rambling paragraph. Were this a real letter, Elizabeth would redo it all.
She could not see him listening, after all.
He truly seemed to do so, however. To listen, and to weigh her words as he would those of any intelligent companion.
Fitzwilliam never gave the impression that he thought her only a dim-witted female, fit for birthing children and little else.
Not like many men had over the years, particularly Mr. Collins.
I am enamored with how deeply you care for your sister.
How you support your cousin no matter how much you disagree with him.
With your bravery, for never once have I seen you show worry for your safety, only for that of others, all while men were intent on your demise.
You are even kind to your mount, when many gentlemen treat their horseflesh in the same manner as they do a carriage.
Something to be shown off, used, bragged about, and then sent away if too damaged to keep for use.
You even cared for Mr. Wickham, though he treated both you and your sister infamously.
Elizabeth stared down at those words, fresh guilt welling through her.
I am not certain I behaved as well as you.
I told no one of Mr. Wickham when I first found him, for he wished his presence kept secret.
I now know that he was so badly wounded, he was likely not in his right mind when he issued that request. I should have found a way to tell you immediately, or taken the matter to my father.
It could be that I cost Mr. Wickham his life.
I will never know the truth of that. The possibility is a guilt I will have to live with.
Perhaps she should not mention Mr. Wickham. He made Fitzwilliam so very angry. But then, this was a confession, not something he would see one day.
With a shrug, Elizabeth returned to writing.
She filled both the front and back of the shortened piece of paper, then several more.
All of the reasons she’d believed she and Fitzwilliam might have a future together etched their way onto the page in her neat, compact hand.
Everything from how he behaved, to things he had said, to half a page describing in detail precisely how attractive she found him, the penning of which left her flushed.
When she finished, she stared at the rather formidable non-letter, much of it full of his words and deeds.
What had he said, judge me on what I say and do, not the lie I told? What he said and did seemed to her rather exemplary, were she to disregard him lying.
Elizabeth hefted the pages. She could attempt a similar exercise detailing why she feared they should not be together, but why squander the paper? Such a list would contain one item:
You lied to me under pressure from your cousin, who was here at the behest of the Crown and for good cause, and failed to tell me the truth with an alacrity that would have pleased me.
Would that, written alone on a page, truly stand against everything amiable about him? Was she being foolish to keep Mr. Darcy at a distance because of the strange circumstances under which they’d first met?
Elizabeth stowed her writing implements, then folded her non-letter to Mr. Darcy and tucked it away in the back of one of her dressing table drawers. She would consign her words to flame, but only after rereading them. Mr. Darcy’s good traits deserved more consideration.
In the meantime, she would call on Charlotte.
Her oldest friend, aside from Jane, and possessed with an even temperament and a reasonable mind, Charlotte might have good advice regarding Elizabeth’s quandary over Fitzwilliam.
She collected her cloak, gloves, and bonnet, then went downstairs.
She’d left her boots to dry near the kitchen hearth after her walk the previous afternoon.
Mary stepped into the hallway, blocking Elizabeth’s route to the kitchen. “Where do you think you are going?”
Elizabeth considered striding past with no reply, but that would only make Mary more suspicious. “To call on Charlotte.”
“Have you informed our mother?”
“She does not care if I walk to Lucas Lodge.”
“She should. This is precisely the sort of laxness that saw you squander your opportunity to be mistress of Longbourn and nearly ruined us all.”
Was that part of Mary’s relentless bitterness of late? The knowledge that Elizabeth was Mr. Collins’ second choice for a wife, and Mary only his third?
“You require a chaperone.”
Elizabeth regarded her sister with newfound pity. She supposed it would be upsetting to know your husband ranked you as less desirable than your older sisters. “I have never required a chaperone to call on Charlotte.”
“As your married sister and future mistress of this household, it behooves me to attempt to instill more correctness into your behavior. I will chaperone you.”
“As your unmarried sister and a very quick walker, it behooves me to inform you that you may certainly join me in calling on Lucas Lodge, if you can catch up.” With that, Elizabeth pushed past Mary and hurried down the hallway.
Once in the kitchen, Elizabeth quickly donned her boots. She had no notion if Mary would follow, but she would need to collect her outerwear first. By that time, Elizabeth would be halfway to Lucas Lodge.