Chapter 12
My dear aunt,
He is gone.
I cannot say why it troubles me so greatly: have I not always known his distaste for the company in Meryton?
Was I not myself quite desperate to escape Netherfield mere days ago?
So why, when I am home at last, free from our neighbours’ constant company and at liberty to walk outside whenever I choose, should I find myself despondent over Mr. Darcy’s departure?
Perhaps it is that I had thought, in those final days of our imprisonment, that we were becoming friends—even, dare I say it, something more.
Absurd notion! Why should a gentleman of superior sense and fortune wish to cultivate any form of connection, friendly or otherwise, with an insignificant country miss?
But when one looks past his aloof manner, Mr. Darcy proves to be remarkably sympathetic and agreeable company.
We conversed of Shakespeare and Milton, of country walks and local legends, and he seemed to take as much pleasure in trivial argument as I.
Indeed, I have come to suspect that, for some considerable portion of our acquaintance, he has intentionally professed absurd opinions merely to provoke a battle of wits.
Nor did he exhibit any ill-will at his friend’s engagement to Jane.
That is where I ought to have begun, aunt.
Forgive me. But you are already aware of Jane’s approaching marriage to Mr. Bingley (I am to call him Charles now, but I cannot quite accustom myself to writing it), for she has informed you of it in her own letter.
Lest you think me devoid of sisterly feeling, let me assure you that I am delighted on her behalf.
Sometimes I feel that I could weep for joy.
Though I wish that I could crow over my victory, it is Mr. Darcy who deserves the credit for the final resolution.
He might have prevented Mr. Bingley’s proposal, but he chose instead to remain in the drawing room and defend me from Mr. Collins’ unwelcome offer.
Mamma was determined that I should hear the man out, no matter how I protested, but Mr. Darcy ignored all hints that he ought to leave me alone with Mr. Collins and, when the dreadful man protested, gave him a firm set-down.
I have spent weeks ferociously despising the precise look of disdain that crossed Mr. Darcy’s face when he ordered Mr. Collins away, but now I can only picture it with gratitude.
Mr. Darcy, however unsociable he may be, is a good man.
He even had the grace to appear pleased at his friend’s engagement.
I retired that night greatly in charity with him.
After that, everything moved so swiftly.
The fair weather continued. By the end of the next day, the men had the drive mostly prepared and were beginning to work on the road and to exchange the wheels on the Bingley coach for sleigh runners.
Within-doors, harmony prevailed, if only because most of the party kept to their rooms. Mr. Collins nursed his wounded pride; Mamma nursed her strained nerves, overwhelmed by such an admixture of vexation and joy; Mrs. Hurst was once more prostrate with some nameless indisposition.
(We suspect that a little Hurst may appear before the summer is out).
Miss Bingley was required to attend her sister.
Jane, when not occupied with her fiancé, spent the day with Mamma.
The rest of us were content to find our own diversions.
Mr. Darcy and I both chose to occupy ourselves with what books Papa had not already hoarded in the library.
As those books were mostly agricultural manuals, which I found dreadfully dull and Mr. Darcy had already read, we passed much of the time conversing rather than reading.
We are agreed upon our dislike of Pamela and our approbation of Sir Charles Grandison.
With such pleasant occupation, I had no cause to write yet another plaintive letter to you.
You will, I trust, pardon my neglect, given the volume of correspondence which I have already produced.
After such a pleasant day, I retired untroubled to rest and awoke, after a dreamless sleep, to find sun streaming in my window and Alice engaged in reviving the fire.
She is fully restored to health after her perilous adventure, I am pleased to say, though she remains chastened in spirits. She informed me that the drive was cleared and chattered happily about her plan to visit her family that afternoon.
“I shall leave just so soon as Mr. Darcy is gone, Miss,” she said.
“Mr. Darcy is leaving?” I asked, the comfortable glow of an indolent morning vanishing at once. I felt almost dizzied by the news, and tears gathered in my eyes.
“Oh, yes,” Alice sighed. It seems she has developed something of a tendre for her rescuer.
Her face, as she spoke of him, took on a vacant, awe-struck look.
“Mr. Darcy ordered his carriage this morning. He’s a very important man, and he has a load of business to see to in London.
Or so Mr. Carstairs says—his valet, Miss. ”
She sighed again, a lovelorn sound that made me wish to box her ears. I refrained, of course, and instead rose to dress myself.
“Imagine,” the girl continued, wiping her hands and rising to help with my buttons, “a gentleman like that, with a grand house in town and another in the country, coming to rescue me. Just like a prince in a fairy story, don’t you think? Whoever he marries will be the luckiest lady in the world.”
“Very lucky indeed,” I said dryly, refusing to render judgment upon Mr. Darcy’s likeness to a storybook royal. I suspect Cendrillon’s prince was not so prone to scowl, though ’tis difficult to imagine he could have cut a more distinguished figure than Mr. Darcy.
I paid little heed to Alice’s remarks thereafter and soon went down to break my fast. Mr. Darcy was not in the dining parlour, and I feared that I had missed his departure altogether.
A few moments later, however, I heard the low, measured cadence of his voice in the hall, mingled with the Bingleys’ louder tones.
“Pray, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley, “You must not abandon us here so soon. Surely your business might wait another day, and then we could all travel to London together.”
I could not hear Mr. Darcy’s response, but his demurral became clear when Mr. Bingley Charles said, “Oh, very well. Do not trouble Darcy, Caroline. You know it does no good to argue with him when he has made up his mind. But you must return for the wedding, Darcy. On that, I am determined. And do take care how you go. The roads must be abominable.”
At that moment, I observed Mr. Darcy’s travelling chaise roll past the dining room window and realised that its master must intend to depart without making his farewells.
Determined to thwart his design, I instantly stood and made my way out into the hall.
Miss Bingley frowned when she saw me, but I paid her little mind, for Mr. Darcy at that moment turned towards me.
He wore his habitual solemn expression, but something in his eyes— Aunt, I know not how to describe it to you. It was not warmth or fondness, precisely, but an intensity I cannot name. My pulse raced and my face must have been entirely flushed. But I contrived, by some miracle, to speak normally.
“I understand you are to leave us, Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth. I fear my affairs will be in chaos after so long an interval of silence, and my family expected me a se’nnight ago.”
“They will be anxious to see you safely returned to them.”
I believe that at this juncture, Miss Bingley said something about Miss Darcy, but I confess we neither of us paid her any mind.
“I am sure they are, as I am to be reunited with them.”
“Your friends must be happy for you, then, though we shall lament your absence from Hertfordshire.”
“I shall regret it as well,” he said—and he meant it, I could tell, in spite of his distaste for Meryton society.
“I trust we shall not long regret your departure, though. You are certain to return soon for Mr. Bingley’s wedding.”
“Perhaps,” he said, but somehow I was certain that he would not come. He was leaving and never intended to return. Sorrow overwhelmed me at the thought.
Why should the gentleman’s departure fret me so? Days ago, I despised him. I know him know to be a good and clever man, but we do not lack for congenial and sensible company in Hertfordshire. Yet in that moment, I felt as though something precious had been lost.
Was it presumptuous in me to imagine some deeper interest on the gentleman’s part? Perhaps my heart has overrun my good sense. I wonder if I ever knew myself before now.
Fighting through a sudden tightness in my throat, I held out a hand and said, “Well, then. God bless you, sir.”
Slowly, he clasped my palm in his.
“God bless you, Elizabeth,” he said quietly. Then he bowed and kissed my hand.
A moment later, he had donned his hat, bowed to the Bingleys, and strode down the steps to mount his horse. I trailed out and watched as he raised a valedictory hand, then trotted down the drive ahead of his carriage. In a few moments, he was gone.
We drove home ourselves that afternoon, borrowing Charles’ carriage for the journey.
All our conversation since has been of wedding arrangements.
Mr. Collins, perhaps wearied of so much talk of lace, or perhaps wishing to escape my company, has taken himself off to the Lucases today and left us to ourselves.
I ought to be happy. I am not formed for melancholy, and I truly do feel joy for Jane. So why am I not happy? I shall never send this, of course. I have no wish to learn your answer. The truth is better left unspoken. I shall be well again, with time.
Meanwhile, I remain,
Your affectionate niece,
Elizabeth