Chapter 26 #2
“And you do not love him?”
“I . . . truthfully, I believe I might.”
Her sister considered this. “And yet you sent him away.”
It was not a question.
“It was not so much that I sent him away as I was too confused to offer a rational response and he took that as a rejection. If he was so easily dissuaded from pursuing me all winter, how can he be so certain now?” She closed her eyes.
“It seems a very important decision to be making without more evidence that we are well suited.”
“I have known you better than anyone for twenty years,” Jane said. “If there were something wrong with you, I should have found it by now. I may not be as quick as you, but I do think that is ample time.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was feeble. “Then what could it be?”
“I think Mr. Darcy is in a hurry because of himself, not because of you,” Jane said. “But I will say, Lizzy—you are so easy to love.”
Elizabeth laid her head back on her pillow.
“You are,” Jane said, before she could object. “You make people so comfortable that they feel they have known you longer than they have. You laugh with them, and argue with them, and understand them quickly. Perhaps some men mistake that for permission to hurry.”
Elizabeth was silent.
“But if they do, that is their mistake, not yours.” Jane was quiet for a long moment before she asked a different sort of question. “Lizzy, did you wish to say yes?”
“What I wished—” She made herself finish.
“I did not want different words from him. What I think I wanted was just a little more time, a bit more certainty. I wanted him to come to me because he could not bear to be without me. Because he loved me too much not to ask. To have him ask without reference to anyone else.” She smiled.
“Terribly romantic and not very practical, I am afraid.”
“My dear sister,” Jane said, placing her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders, “being loved in such a way is not too much to wish for.”
“Is it not?” Elizabeth stared up into the dark. “No, I have been very severe upon Mr. Darcy. He asked me to marry him because he was afraid. But I refused him for the very same reason.”
Jane was silent for so long that she might have been asleep. Finally, she asked, “What would you do if he asked you again?”
Elizabeth laid her head on her sister’s shoulder. “If he ever asks me anything again, even the time of day, I mean to answer him honestly and in full. Even if I frighten him into never wishing to ask anything of me again.”
Jane sat up and reached for the candle. “I think . . . yes, this is the right moment.” She tossed back the covers and disappeared to her chamber. When she returned, she held Mary’s note from her workbag. She climbed back into bed and held it out.
“I thought it would be Mrs. More,” Jane said.
“Is it not?”
Jane shook her head. “It is Cowper.”
Elizabeth unfolded the paper. Mary had copied only the first stanza of a poem.
God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Beneath it, in Mary’s careful hand, was a note.
Dear Lizzy,
I had meant to send you a passage from Mrs. More, but I have lately been reading Cowper, and though I do not always comprehend him as quickly as I might wish, he leaves me feeling quieter than many authors who seem determined only to instruct me. There is a lesson in that, I think.
I copied these lines because they pleased me, though I am not certain whether pleasure is the proper word.
They made me feel that a person may be improved by something gentler than correction.
That while God’s work may not be clear to us, it does not follow that He is absent; this is a comfort to me, and I hope it may be to you.
I must thank you and Jane for trusting me when you left home. I do not mean that I have done everything well, for I have not. But being obliged to put my principles into practice has taught me that principles are rather more useful that way.
I am trying to do better.
Mary
Elizabeth read the note once, then read it again.
“I think Mary is learning patience and compassion,” Jane said.
Elizabeth gave a watery laugh and pressed the paper flat against the counterpane. “Yes, better than I have been.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I asked you what was wrong with me, and Mary has answered with Providence.”
“Do you not see? Providence is the answer, Lizzy.” Jane drew her knees up beneath the quilt.
“You think, because you cannot understand why these things have happened as they have, that there must be some fault in you. I do not believe that. Sometimes events are confused because people are confused. It does not mean these things happen without reason, even if we do not know what that reason is.”
Elizabeth looked down at the copied lines. “Mysterious way,” she read softly.
“Yes,” Jane said.
“That,” Elizabeth said, releasing a breath, “is a rather large comfort for so small a bedroom.”
Jane put her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and held her tight.
The ache did not leave Elizabeth’s heart, for nothing had been resolved. Mr. Darcy was still gone, and she had still sent him away. But perhaps things would work out as they ought, even if it was not as she wished.
A week after Mr. Darcy’s visit, Mr. Aldridge called.
His card came up at two. Elizabeth glanced once at Jane, who had looked up from her work a little too quickly, then smoothed her skirt and sat back.
When he entered, he bowed to them all, spoke first to Aunt Gardiner, and placed the second volume of Tom Jones on the table.
“For Mr. Gardiner,” he said, but his eyes met Jane’s.
“That is very kind,” said Aunt Gardiner.
Mr. Aldridge smiled. “It is good to see you all. My mother instructs me to say that the southern rooms are much improved, that the painters took three days longer to complete the business than they promised, and that the foreman told her no man of sense would begin such work in the winter. She took great satisfaction in relaying all three facts.”
“She is well, I hope?” Jane asked.
“She is always well when she has been proven right. It is the secret of her robust constitution.”
Jane laughed, then placed her hand over her mouth and pressed her lips together. “Forgive me.”
Mr. Aldridge looked at her, surprised, then pleased. His hand, which had been resting on his hat, moved away from it.
“She also had much to say about the sermons she has heard this winter,” he said. “Last Sunday, our curate preached eleven minutes by her watch. He is now considered an excellent man.”
“Did the eleven minutes include the text?” Jane inquired.
“No,” he said with a small laugh. “She allows the text to be read for however long it takes, being scripture. Anything the curate adds of his own accord, however, is carefully timed.”
Elizabeth moved to sit next to her aunt, where they both worked on their embroidery and observed.
Over the course of the hour, Mr. Aldridge asked Elizabeth whether she was well, whether London had used her kindly, and whether her uncle had enjoyed Tom Jones. She had answered cheerfully and directed him back to Jane. He seemed happy to comply.
When Mr. Aldridge rose to go, he said he hoped to call again. The hope was addressed to everyone. But he bowed over Jane’s hand last.
“I shall bring the third volume when Mr. Gardiner has finished with the second,” he said, still holding her hand.
“My uncle likes to consider what he reads,” Jane replied. “You must not hurry back merely on the book’s account.”
“No,” said Mr. Aldridge, releasing her hand at last. “Not on the book’s account.”
The door closed behind him.
“Goodness,” Aunt Gardiner observed, “it is a pity all men cannot manage a morning call so well.”
Jane said nothing, instead finding a reason to return upstairs, and Elizabeth put her needle down.
For the first time in nearly a week, she felt hopeful and satisfied.
It was on Jane’s behalf, of course, but it did not decrease the joy she took from it.
Because of Lady Anne’s desire to match Elizabeth with a gentleman, Elizabeth had found a gentleman better suited to Jane.
And once that connexion had been made, all Elizabeth had needed to do was step back, just as she had done with Miss Grantley and Mr. Fulford.
That was all. No plan. No pressure. No careful arrangements. An introduction, that was all. Jane had not been required to do anything except laugh before she could stop herself. One unguarded laugh, and Mr. Aldridge had stayed an hour.
Elizabeth had laughed with Mr. Darcy more or less the entire winter.
But every time the laughter threatened to become something warmer, either he had retreated or she had withdrawn to safer ground, where she could not be hurt.
She had believed herself certain of her feelings.
Until recently, she had not thought that he might also be certain of his.
She wondered whether Mr. Darcy would have appreciated the irony.