Chapter 26
The front door closed, and Elizabeth stopped trying not to weep.
She was still standing where Mr. Darcy had left her, one hand on the chair. The parlour looked exactly as it had before he came. The fire was low, her work lay in her basket, a book sat on a table next to the sofa.
Elizabeth shook herself a little and stepped to the window. She could see Mr. Darcy in the street below. He had not taken his carriage. He walked away down Gracechurch Street towards St. Paul’s, his shoulders straight, his pace neither hurried nor slow. He did not look back.
That was when the tears came in earnest.
Or perhaps she had been crying since he took up his hat and told her, in that careful, steady voice, that he would not trouble her again. Her voice had failed her, which she now thought had just been the last of her strength leaving her.
Mr. Darcy had not looked back.
At the time she had not understood it. Now she did, and she was grateful. If he had looked at her, he would have seen her tears, and the one last shred of dignity that she had remaining would have been stripped away.
Elizabeth sat down. She had refused him.
No, that was not quite true. She had rejected his reason for asking.
It might seem too fine a distinction, but in that refusal, she had said no to Lady Anne’s arrangements. She had declined being guided into place by people who meant well but did not know her.
She had not meant that she felt nothing for Mr. Darcy.
She could not yet call it love as he had done, but she no longer thought the word very far away.
He could not know that, though, because she had not explained it.
She had not said yes, and he had believed, as any honourable gentleman would, that this meant no.
She turned the conversation over in her mind. If he had asked her three weeks ago, before the shawl, before Mr. Aldridge’s name had ever been joined to hers, what would she have answered?
Elizabeth could not say.
She had said no on principle. But she had to accept the humbling truth—that her principle was based upon faulty knowledge. That she had overheard a conversation not meant for her and had misconstrued it. He had been frustrated with her for it, and he had been right.
Elizabeth had lectured Mr. Darcy upon care. Upon consideration. And then she had tossed both out the window when it came to him.
How could she correct this? A woman could not write to a man and say her refusal, like his offer, had been badly worded.
She could not send her aunt after him with an explanation.
She could not call him back and tell him that she had meant too many things at once, that although she was never without words, she had been speechless at perhaps the most important moment of her life.
He would not come back in any case. Would she wish him to?
The point she had made had not been resolved.
A man who had known her since October and said he had begun to love her not long after had needed a rumour of another man proposing to her to bring him to Gracechurch Street. What was she to make of that?
Mr. Darcy had said he loved her, and she believed him. That was the worst of it.
Her aunt came up soon after, with some remark about the housekeeper’s accounts ready on her tongue. Whatever she saw in Elizabeth’s face, she did not ask questions. She only moved the fire screen a little, though the fire had no need of it, and went away again, leaving the door shut.
Elizabeth remained in the parlour the rest of the afternoon, picking up her sewing after a time and doing work she was sure would need to be picked out and redone later. When dinner grew near, she stood up and went to her chamber to wash.
At dinner she said the wine sauce was very good. It was the only conversation she offered for the entire meal, and thankfully nobody asked her for more.
The next morning, she went down at her usual hour and ate breakfast. She said she had slept well although nobody had asked.
No one spoke of Thursday’s visit or remarked that Mr. Darcy had not remained long enough to take tea.
The good service had gone back into the cupboard.
The seed cake, Elizabeth heard, had been sent up to the schoolroom, where the children were happy for the treat.
Miss Darcy’s note still stood against the inkstand in the front room. Elizabeth had promised herself she would answer it when her visit was completed. She drew a sheet of paper towards her.
My dear Miss Darcy,
Elizabeth stopped there. “Dear” looked too warm. “Miss Darcy” alone looked cold. She crossed out the line and began again.
The second attempt thanked Miss Darcy for her kind note and the pleasure of the outing, but did not mention the duets.
The third mentioned the duets, which made her think of Mr. Darcy standing by the fire and saying his sister had meant to ask her.
She put down the pen before the blot could spread.
In the end, she wrote three sentences which were polite, grateful, and careful enough not to wound.
The exhibition catalogue lay beside the inkstand.
Elizabeth picked it up, opened it to the page she had meant to mark, and found it still clean.
No notes beside the Derbyshire view. No writing beside the bluebells.
Nothing to show where her hand had paused or where she had turned towards Mr. Darcy before recalling she ought not.
She touched the description of the bluebells. Then she put the catalogue in the drawer.
On Saturday there was a letter from Mamma, enclosed in one from Mary. This was unusual, as she typically wrote to them both through Jane.
Her mother informed her that the militia were still at Meryton. The weather was dreadful. Lady Lucas had bought a new pelisse, but it was an odd colour and did not suit her at all. And then she understood why the letter had been directed to her.
If Providence is generous enough to send you a third proposal, Lizzy, you must consider the gentleman very seriously indeed. Love is all very well, of course, but it does not buy coal, and I cannot think how you expect to be romantic when you are freezing.
Beneath her mother’s signature, in her father’s even, slanted hand, was one line.
Your mother knows the proposal tally by heart, Lizzy, but nobody else here keeps books on you. Come home when you are ready.
There was another enclosure, folded separately in Mary’s careful hand and marked,
For Lizzy’s improvement.
Jane, who was sitting next to her and reading over her shoulder, took Mary’s page before Elizabeth could unfold it and put it in her workbag. Elizabeth looked at her in confusion, and Jane looked back, arched one eyebrow at her, and took her workbag upstairs.
Elizabeth read her mother’s letter twice, then folded it neatly. But before she could put it away, Edward came in with his sisters.
“We have a new kitten,” he announced.
“I was not aware.”
“Maggie found him in the garden this morning. Papa has said we may keep him.”
They had been wise to go to their father and not their mother. “I see.”
“We have been discussing him,” he said.
“That sounds serious,” Elizabeth replied.
“It is,” said Maggie. “Edward says he is useless.”
“I did not say useless,” Edward said. “I said a puppy would be more useful. A puppy may be taught to fetch.”
Harriet clutched a ribbon in both hands. “The kitten fetched my ribbon.”
“It stole your ribbon,” said Edward.
“It carried it under the sofa.”
“That is not fetching. It is stealing something and then hiding it.”
Elizabeth put her letter aside. “An important distinction.”
Edward nodded, pleased to have an ally. “A puppy would bring it back.”
“A puppy,” Elizabeth said, “would bring back the ribbon, the ball, your glove, the hearthrug, and possibly part of someone’s shoe, and he would have chewed them all. He must be taught obedience.”
Harriet brightened. “The kitten is obedient.”
“When?” her brother cried.
“When it wishes to be.”
“Then it is very much like a person,” Elizabeth said. This gave all the children pause, and Elizabeth, who had not expected to laugh that morning, did. It was not happiness. It did not mend anything. But the laugh began to thaw the ice that had frozen her heart—had frozen her—since Thursday.
The girls carried off their ribbon, their indignant brother, and their mewling kitten, and Elizabeth discovered that she could breathe again without measuring every breath first.
The rest of the day was not easier, really, but it felt more . . . possible.
Jane had slept in Elizabeth’s room since Friday, saying only that she liked the fire better there. Elizabeth had not contradicted her. They both knew Jane had come because she was concerned.
That night, after the candle had been blown out, Elizabeth finally knew what question she needed to ask. “Jane,” she asked softly, “what is wrong with me?”
Her sister’s response was unusually firm. “Elizabeth Augusta Bennet, whatever do you mean? There is nothing wrong with you.”
“Three men have offered to marry me,” Elizabeth said, “and not one of them thought me worth a courtship. The first asked because Mamma told him to. The second was told by his patroness to marry and you were not available. And Mr. Darcy—”
She stopped.
“Mr. Darcy proposed?”
Elizabeth’s head ached. She nodded once, slowly.
“Mr. Darcy says he loves me, and I think that he does. But instead of telling me straight away, he let his mother arrange to keep us apart all winter, and in the end he asked only because he believed Mr. Aldridge might ask me first.” She pressed her hands together beneath the coverlet.
“Do men see me as so easily attained? So unnecessary to know?”
“Lizzy.”
“No, I am not wallowing, I am asking in earnest. Is there something in me that tells gentlemen that the preliminaries may be dispensed with? For if there is, I must change how I behave.”
Jane was quiet for another moment. “I hardly know where to begin, so perhaps I will simply ask the most obvious question. Mr. Darcy said he loves you?”
“Yes.”