Chapter 26 #2
“I have seen too much misery in unions of great families and great fortunes. My own parents were the perfect example of two exalted lineages coming together, producing their sons, and then going on to debauchery and infidelity. I do not want that for myself. Money and standing are nothing to love and affection, and I choose the latter.” He took my hands, pressing them earnestly to his lips. “Please?”
I could not refuse him. I tossed my fears aside and promised myself to him forever.
Elizabeth sighed, forcibly removing herself from her memories as she recalled that she was not in Bath but in Kent, and not with Henry but with Mr Darcy, who was strolling beside her, his eyes trained upon the ground beneath his feet.
“As I am sure you might imagine, my mother was nearly uncontrollable in her effusions over the fact that a wealthy earl had offered for me. It was much to her regret that she had not sent Jane to Bath, for she was certain Jane would have come home with a marquis or a duke.” Elizabeth laughed though she was only partly in jest.
Mr Darcy replied, “If it will console her, I will be more than happy to tell her that nearly all of the dukes with whom I am acquainted are old and already married.”
“That should be a comfort,”
“Was your father in support of your marriage?”
“He never had any idea of my marrying at such a young age, but he knew it was important for one of us to marry well. This was an excellent opportunity to raise the prospects of not only myself, but my sisters too.
“The wedding was held within a few weeks,” Elizabeth continued. “Henry had taken a villa in Italy for a holiday, and he suggested it should become our wedding trip. The entire thing, start to finish, was truly a fairy tale.”
They had returned to the house by this time. As they prepared to enter, Elizabeth was struck by the kinship she felt with Mr Darcy. She observed him as he climbed the stairs beside her. It must be difficult for him to hear these things, the tales of my romance with Henry. How kind of him to ask.
Despite the bittersweet pang associated with her recitation, when she was done, she felt only the joy of her memories. Too often, I recall the end when to relive the beginning is far more profitable.
“Mr Darcy?” When he looked at her, she said, “Thank you. It has been good to speak of this. I should think of these memories more often so they do not leave me.”
“You should, perhaps, write them down in a journal. When your son is grown, you will have a record of his father to share with him.”
“An excellent idea,” she exclaimed, wondering that she had never considered it. They parted, Elizabeth’s mind filled with memories and the plans to record them.
She began that very night, taking paper from her writing case and starting with what she had told Mr Darcy. She wrote until her eyes grew too heavy to continue, but when she retired, she could not sleep.
For a time, she lay there, studying the canopy above her.
The idea of marrying again had plagued her, for she believed that Henry would need to be forgotten for the benefit of her new husband.
Just as she would take off the name Courtenay for whatever came next, so must she replace Henry in her heart—or so she had thought.
Now she understood that it need not be so.
Marrying Henry had not erased her life as Miss Elizabeth Bennet, nor would her second marriage erase her life as Lady Courtenay.
It would always be a part of her. Whoever she married would need to know that to love her would mean accepting the part of her that would always love Henry.
Having come to this understanding, she knew a peace she had not felt since Henry’s death.
She would not be required to forget, a notion that had built her anxiety these many months.
She could go on, and she could pledge the rest of her life to another man without forsaking the part that had been dedicated to Henry.
The day before their planned return to London dawned fair and bright.
Elizabeth awoke with a smile on her lips, eager for her walk with Mr Darcy and anticipating the return to her son on the morrow.
She was dressed quickly, her hair put in a simple style, and she descended the stairs, intent on having a cup of tea before leaving.
Entering the breakfast room, she saw Lady Catherine sitting alone, her hand on a broadsheet beside her. She looked at Elizabeth with a compassion that was alarming and gently moved the broadsheet towards her.
“The record of the death of your husband’s brother.”
Shock, cold as ice, washed over Elizabeth. She sat without thinking and took the page set before her.
The trial of her brother-in-law was recounted in solemn detail: the breakfast he had been served, and the fact that he had been given a glass of wine.
His defence to the court and his denial of all wrongdoing were detailed.
Then came the testimony, the cold recitation of the facts from the Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, showing clearly that Francis Warren was responsible for the death of his brother and for conspiring against the Crown and the government in scheming and in financial support of the misdeeds.
The letter was produced in which he had lured his brother to their ancestral home, during which journey, Lord Courtenay was ambushed and killed.
The jury had deliberated only a short time before returning to say Mr Warren was indeed guilty of high treason and would thus be sentenced to death. The final paragraph read:
“The prisoner, who was found Guilty, received a Sentence of Death this day (Monday), to be drawn on a hurdle to the place of Execution, and then be hanged by the neck till he is dead, his head to be struck off and his body to be divided in four, and to be disposed of as the Regent shall see fit.”
She could not bear to read his dying speech.
It was enough to read the report stating Mr Warren had ranted as a madman to the crowd’s delight.
Then she read the prayers for mercy on his soul as well as pleas for forgiveness by all who knew him.
The account of the actual hanging was mercifully brief but nevertheless chilling.
When she had finished, she rose on shaking legs. “Excuse me,” she mumbled to Lady Catherine before turning and leaving the room, stumbling over nothing in her haste to escape.
Darcy met Lady Matlock on the stairs as both descended towards the breakfast room.
Lady Matlock smiled at him in a knowing way. “I noticed that you have been taking a great deal of air these past days. This must be helping you sleep well.”
“I cannot complain,” Darcy replied. “My rest has been very good, and I would say that this time we have spent in Rosings is above anything I have ever experienced here.”
Lady Matlock could not conceal her triumphant grin, causing Darcy to add, firmly, “We are friends, Aunt.”
“Friends do not always remain friends. Friendship can be a place to change horses, if you will, on the journey from indifference to love.”
“I suppose I had always believed Aesop, in that familiarity breeds contempt.”
Lady Matlock pursed her lips and then warmed to her analogy. “I suppose it depends on which side of the road you travel. My thought is that it might be time to change horses on this journey.”
He gave her a puzzled look as they entered the breakfast room where Lady Catherine sat with her tea. Darcy went to the sideboard, seeking something quick to eat. Without looking at his aunts, he enquired about Elizabeth’s whereabouts.
Lady Catherine replied, “She read the paper and left.”
Darcy turned towards the table. “How odd; we had planned to see the folly this morning.” He seated himself and took up the papers that Lady Catherine had indicated. Understanding immediately their significance, he turned to his aunt, incredulous. “She read this? Where did she go?”
Lady Catherine shrugged, taking another sip of her tea. “She did not say.”
Lady Matlock asked, “What is it, Darcy?”
“An account of Mr Francis Warren’s trial and execution.” Darcy rose hastily. “Excuse me, I must find her.”
Two hours later, he finally found her sitting on a rise overlooking the wildflowers she had so admired days earlier. She was motionless, staring at the flowers. In her hands, she held a handkerchief, but there was no evidence of tears.
He sat next to her on the ground, unknowing what he should say or do.
She looked at him once and then without speaking, she moved to him and buried her face in his shoulder.
He embraced her instinctively. For some indeterminate time, she was soundless and wordless until he felt her draw a deep, shuddering breath.
The handkerchief went between them, and then she pulled back, her eyes swollen and red.
“Did you see it?” Her voice was low and a bit rough.
He nodded.
“I…I feel so…so odd…I have no idea. I am sad and horrified and ill. What should I think? How should I feel? I hardly know. Should I not be happy? My husband’s killer has been brought to a just end. Is that not cause for elation? Yet I am not joyful, but I do not know precisely what I am.”
He decided to chance pulling her back into his arms, pleased when she leant into him willingly. “You have a kind and compassionate soul. I cannot think it easy for you to read of the death of anyone, never mind someone connected to you.”
“It is ended. It is a grisly, mean finish, but a finish nevertheless.”
They remained there for nearly two hours more, talking over the details of it at times and other times silent, sitting and regarding the flowers as they took in the sun and blew with the breeze. At length, Darcy asked whether she was ready to return to the house.
“Must we?” she asked with a weak laugh. “It is our small slice of Eden here. I could almost forget the very existence of London and all its conspiracies, trials, murders, and hangings so long as I have the view of these lovely creations before me.”
“You must come to Pemberley,” Darcy blurted with no forethought. “That is exactly how I feel when I am home. It has much natural beauty to recommend it. When I am there, I can scarcely bear to leave it.”
She smiled at him. “I would like to come to Pemberley, then. You might have made your invitation in jest, but still, I hope you will not withdraw it.”
Darcy was pleased and more than a little excited by the notion of having her there, but he still spoke calmly. “When your obligations of the Season are done, we will go.”
Elizabeth had gone to her bedchamber when she and Darcy returned from their visit to the wildflowers, and she seemed better prepared to meet the rest of their party by the end of the day.
Darcy watched her carefully throughout the evening.
It could not be denied that she was affected by the news of the morning, but he could tell that she was doing her best to behave as usual.
They returned to London the following day after having learnt from Lady Catherine the surprising news that she would go to her house in town within the fortnight to enjoy the Season with the rest of the beau monde.
She intended to host a large dinner party soon after her arrival to reacquaint herself with many of her old friends. Elizabeth agreed to attend.
The carriage was quiet on the way to town. Maria Lucas had remained with the Collinses, and Lady Matlock read a book. Elizabeth also looked at a book, though several times when Darcy observed her, she was doing little more than staring out the window.
His heart ached for her; he had seen how much distress lay within her. He longed to be her confidante, her rescuer, and anything else she might wish him to be.
You have gone from despising me to enjoying my friendship, and now… something else? What have we become, Elizabeth? Do you feel it as I do?