Chapter 5
Darcy handed his new wife into the carriage and turned to her parents.
“We shall take our leave now,” he said, hearing how stiff and strained his voice was, but unable to summon any measure of charm at such a moment.
“I am sure Mrs Darcy will write to you to inform you of our safe arrival at Pemberley. Goodbye, Mrs Bennet, Mr Bennet.”
“Godspeed,” Mr Bennet said.
With a last nod to his new father-in-law and mother-in-law, Darcy turned away to climb into the carriage, only to stop short at the sight of Elizabeth crying silently in the far seat, tears running freely down her face.
He froze half in and half out of the carriage, then sat down so they could pull away.
Warily, Darcy settled into his seat. His position reminded him of nothing so much as of a man who has encountered a cornered, wounded animal.
The sensation was profoundly uncomfortable, leaving him feeling helpless and ill at ease.
It was true, Georgiana had cried a handful of times over the last few years while he had been her guardian.
But he had no idea how to comfort a pretty stranger, even if she was now also his wife.
“Are you well, Elizabeth?” Darcy asked warily.
She sniffed and wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “Yes, I am well. Forgive me, these are not tears of sadness.” She picked up a bundle of books tied with a ribbon. “My sisters have left me a gift. I think they thought it would help pass the time.”
That she was not crying out of distress — or, at least, not purely out of distress — was a great relief, as was the knowledge that she would have some sort of occupation to fill her time.
He had been dreading the three-day journey to Pemberley, trapped with a woman he barely knew.
One could only make so much conversation with a stranger.
“I take it you enjoy reading?” he asked.
“Will you be able to finish all of them in only three days?”
Elizabeth blushed. “No, certainly not. I am no great reader. I believe my sisters wished to ensure I would have greater freedom of choice. Not that I shall read all the day long, of course,” she added quickly. “I would not want to seem rude in leaving you to your own devices.”
Her concern was admirably kind, if misplaced. “Pray, do not concern yourself on that account. I have a great deal of correspondence I ought to catch up on. And I have the newspapers from the last several days.”
“Excellent,” she said, seeming as relieved as he was that they would not have to make polite conversation for hours on end.
She undid the ribbon and chose one of the books.
Darcy watched his new bride as their carriage pulled away from the church and entered the main road. She was pretty, to be sure, if perhaps not beautiful. She must have sensed him looking at her, for she turned to him and pinned him with an unwavering stare.
He drew in a quick, surprised breath. How had he never truly looked at her eyes? They were stunning — indeed, truly beautiful. Never had he seen so lovely and so expressive a pair of eyes in a woman’s face.
Darcy looked away as the carriage went over a large bump, causing the back axle to groan under the strain.
He listened, but the sound was not repeated.
It seemed there was no cause for alarm. Perhaps his senses were only heightened after all the stress of planning the wedding so quickly.
In all the bustle of obtaining the license and making all the arrangements with Mr Bennet, he had not even begun to come to terms with this marriage to Miss Elizabeth.
You cannot call her that now, Darcy, he thought. What would he call her? Mrs Darcy, or simply Elizabeth, but neither felt right or even possible. He cleared his throat, knowing he should say something to allay her fears and answer any questions she might have.
The words stuck in his throat. Darcy turned to look out the window in silence.
The ripples of disaster from their fateful meeting in the woods seemed to spread out endlessly.
Poor Bingley had been badly inconvenienced by his foolish blunder.
After such a scandal involving his guest, he could not have had much of a pleasant time in the neighbourhood.
He had therefore closed the house and broken the lease.
There was no need to have a house in Hertfordshire anymore — not when he could not reasonably expect to enjoy it.
And it had all been because of his troubles. As it was, Bingley and his party had departed for London after he had set off for the church that morning. They had not even met any of the neighbours, save for a few of the gentlemen who had come to call and welcome him to the neighbourhood.
Bingley had been so looking forward to being master of a country house, to going to the public assemblies and meeting his neighbours. Thanks to Darcy, he had not had the chance to do any of it. Guilt rose up, but could be felt only dimly under the hopelessness that consumed him.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat, but kept her eyes carefully lowered, refusing to look at him.
And how could he blame her? He was not doing a very good job of making her feel at home with him, ignoring her as he had for the first twenty minutes of their marriage.
He tried again to clear his throat and get past the lump that had risen there.
“Have you ever been to the north of England before?” he asked.
She turned to him quickly, as if surprised that he was speaking to her. “I have not. But I am interested in the Peak District. My aunt grew up there, and she and my uncle have travelled to the north several times,” she answered. “I hear it is very beautiful.”
“That it is,” he agreed. That was a safe topic, at least. He could talk about his home county all day long if he had to.
“And though I cannot be said to be an impartial judge, I think Pemberley one of the loveliest estates in the district. It is situated not far from the base of a mountain, and there is a very pretty wood that encircles the whole of the property. The gardens, too, I hope you may enjoy,” he said.
Darcy stopped abruptly. Why had he waxed poetic for so long, without so much as giving her a chance to respond?
“It sounds as though you are very proud of your home,” she replied. There was almost a smile on her face, which he had not seen since he met her that first day in the woods.
“I am,” Darcy agreed, feeling blank. He must say something to continue the conversation, surely. “Have—have you ever thought about living in the north?” he asked.
She blinked. “No, I must admit I have not.”
Darcy bit his lip, feeling the fool. How had he expected her to answer such a question? “Perhaps you wished to marry a gentleman with a nearby estate, so you could have stayed close to your family?”
Her weak smile faded completely. She looked down at her gloved hands, tense and unmoving.
“I must confess, I had always wished to marry for love. That is a great deal to ask from a marriage, even when there is mutual understanding. If I could have the good fortune of having that wish granted, I would have been willing to live anywhere, as long as I could have been near my husband.”
Darcy looked away. Her sincerity was only too obvious. Though she had not seemed to speak with any intent to blame him, he could not help but blame himself. There would be no love match for Elizabeth Bennet — not now.
Elizabeth was not the only one who was reeling.
He had intended to marry a woman of excellent fortune and connections, as well as for love.
In marrying Elizabeth, he had gained none of these.
Her dowry was only a thousand pounds, and her family’s behaviour had shown a serious want of propriety.
If Elizabeth were anything like her mother, this marriage was doomed to be a humiliation from the start.
∞∞∞
When the hour grew late and they stopped at an inn for the night, Darcy ordered separate bedchambers.
The privacy was a relief, but not enough to put his mind at ease.
Unable to sleep, he let his mind run in the chaos that he had kept at bay during the carriage ride.
What had he got himself into? It was true that Elizabeth had proven incredibly brave and composed during a week that would have likely broken another young woman.
He supposed it helped that she had her family to support her.
During the long week of hurried preparations, he had been grateful for Bingley’s company. Miss Caroline Bingley had been out of spirits all the while, seeming to grieve an opportunity lost to her once and for all. At least he had not been found in a compromising position with her.
That was a horror too great to contemplate.
He cared for Bingley as if he were his own brother.
But Miss Bingley was something else entirely.
He would have been miserable with a wife so designing, so intent on society and improving her position in it.
And despite what Miss Bingley thought, he suspected she would not have been happy with a husband whose interests and tastes were so different from her own.
Elizabeth’s interests and tastes were, as yet, a mystery.
She liked reading, even if she would not claim the title of a great reader.
She liked country walks and was evidently a woman of some independence.
But what might come in the future was, as yet, a mystery.
And whether anything might be salvaged out of the disaster of their marriage was equally unknown.
Oh, Georgiana. His poor sister, with a marriage yet more imprudent than his own. She had actively chosen her fate, yet given her youth and innocence, she might yet be considered innocent of the error. He worried for her. He was still angry at her.
He missed her.
During the past week of horrors, he had missed his beloved sister more than ever. Anger and shame could not change that. In the midst of such uncertainty, having Georgiana with him would have been everything. Instead, she was somewhere in London, her fate unknown.
He tried to close his eyes and let sleep overtake him, but it was no use. He could not get Georgiana and worry for her well-being out of his mind.
On a sudden whim, Darcy swung his legs out of bed. He lit a candle and went to the tiny writing desk in the corner of their room. Taking out a piece of paper, the inkwell and quills from his leather carrying case, he sat down to write.
Dear Georgiana,
I will spare you my reproaches on the subject of your elopement. I can only hope Wickham has continued to treat you as you deserve. But if you ever find yourself in trouble, I beg you would come to me. I am still your brother and I am still here.
Perhaps I understand this better now, for you are not the only one who has made a blunder of your life.
After a series of accidents that led to me being discovered in a compromising position with a young lady, I have been forced to wed.
I know this will come as a shock, since you know how careful I have been in choosing a future mate.
She has none of the accomplishments that I expected in a wife.
You know that I have thought long about such things.
She does not draw or paint; she does not speak all the modern languages, and she comes from a family who, I am afraid, are far from what Father would have considered suitable. Her dowry was only a thousand pounds.
Darcy stopped, resting his head in his hands.
None of that really mattered, did it? Miss Caroline Bingley had all of those accomplishments, save for the artistic skill, and he had vowed never to enter an alliance with her.
His own thoughts surprised him. It was an interesting consideration.
Yes, Miss Bingley did not have the lineage and connections that his father would have wanted, but Darcy had never considered this to be the reason not to marry her.
It was her spirit and character — the lady herself, in fact — that had prevented him from ever having any designs on his best friend’s sister, despite her fortune and accomplishments.
He sighed and went back to drafting his letter.
None of it matters now. From one accident, my whole life has been altered, as has yours.
I only wish that we had been able to speak frankly to each other about your feelings.
If I had been more present in your upbringing, perhaps none of this would have happened.
And you would still be home, at Pemberley, safe.
We would still have the closeness that I have been mourning since receiving your husband’s letter this last July.
There was no use. He knew his letter was far too raw and candid to ever mail to her. But he felt lighter for having at least written what he had been keeping locked inside all this time.
I am and will forever be your brother. We may not be able to enjoy the closeness we once had — not without some very candid conversations. But I will always love you.
Your faithful brother,
Will
Darcy folded the letter and went over to the fire.
It was his usual practice to throw the letters he drafted to his sister straight into the fire.
The words had always seemed hollow and insincere.
He unfolded the letter and read it again.
These were not insincere, but neither were they anything he would ever send.
Instead of throwing it into the hearth, he folded it and stowed it in the leather carrying case, along with the rest of the writing implements.
He went back to bed and listened to the fire crackle, the soft orange glow dancing on the ceiling.
His thoughts turned then to his wife, sleeping alone in the adjoining room.
He had heard her turn the lock after they had agreed to retire for the evening.
Perhaps another reason for his sleeplessness was the worry for her safety.
He knew this inn to be safe, but it was his responsibility to protect his wife.
Darcy laughed to himself, silent and humourless.
To protect his wife? His marriage was a sham.
What would his life be a year from now, a decade from now?
Judging by the near-silent carriage ride that day, it might be at best a survivable disaster, somewhere between a negotiated truce and a constant degradation.