Chapter 48
THE HAND THAT FATE DEALT
A t the end of November, Darcy took Elizabeth and Georgiana to Hertfordshire for Jane and Bingley’s wedding.
His letter to Mrs Reynolds had been sent, along with instructions to reply to London.
Elizabeth had yet to see Astroite House, and with things more settled at Pemberley and the weather maintaining a mild turn, they had decided a visit was in order before they returned north.
For two days and three nights prior to the wedding, they stayed at Netherfield, and during that time, Darcy scarcely saw Elizabeth at all.
She had said, after their own wedding, that she would be too happy to notice if she missed Jane.
As it turned out, she had merely been too busy, but he had easily perceived, the closer they travelled to Hertfordshire, how dearly she anticipated the reunion.
Upon arrival at Longbourn, she had disappeared entirely, sucked back into her old world of petticoats and gossip.
His reprieve came at night-time when Elizabeth became his, and only his, once again.
On the first night, she was bubbling over with excitement and news.
On the second, she was complaining of an aching head and expressing wonder that she had ever tolerated the noise of so many people talking at once.
On the third, she was troublingly quiet.
Such she had been since she returned from Longbourn that afternoon, though he had given up attempting to discover what was wrong, for every enquiry resulted in an airy assurance that naught was amiss and an anxious glance at whomever else was in the room.
Anticipating, therefore, that she was waiting for privacy, Darcy felt a frisson of alarm when Garrett and Vaughan both departed for the night, and instead of coming to bed, Elizabeth asked him to sit with her by the fire.
“I received a letter today,” she told him gently. “From my aunt Wallis.” She said no more—only handed it to him.
With no expectation of pleasure, Darcy opened it and began to read.
To my precious Dot,
I trust you are well and that you have arrived safely at Bedlam. I hope this letter reaches you there before you leave for London. It is not an easy letter to write—indeed, it breaks my heart, for I am about to betray the confidence of my oldest friend—but it must be written.
Agnes has received Mr Darcy’s letter, promising to refund all her expenses for Peacock and Peabrain’s wedding, and inviting her to return to Pemberley to live in a cottage on the estate.
I know full well this was your idea, but I do commend him for consenting to it.
I know from Agnes what mortification such a condescension will have cost him.
She has sent her reply to his London house—he will get it when you arrive there.
She has refused both offers. The reason she has given is the deepest shame.
That part is not a lie. I have witnessed the depths of her regret and can easily believe that she would find it inexpressibly difficult to face Mr Darcy, his sister, you, or any of the servants she left behind.
I also believe, however, that her devotion to Pemberley would eventually have outweighed the ignominy of her disgrace, were it not for another impediment, which she has not mentioned in her letter.
Agnes is too unwell to make the journey to Pemberley.
She does not think it is an illness from which she will recover, and I am reluctantly inclined to agree.
I was shocked by many things when she arrived at my door last month, but none so much as her appearance.
She has been unwell since long before you arrived at Pemberley, though she has confessed that knowing how ill she was added force to the other inducements which led her on in attempting to separate you from Mr Darcy.
She wished to do all that was in her power to secure his happiness before her time ran out.
You can imagine her despair when she discovered that she had done the opposite and was unlikely to see the matter rectified before she departed this world.
She kept her illness well hidden, revealing nothing of it in her letters to me nor telling anybody at Pemberley.
It must have been more easily concealed at that time, but the events of the past months have hastened matters cruelly.
There is no longer any mistaking that she is gravely ill.
Her reasons for keeping it a secret are as irrational as they are obstinate, but I can summarise them for you: she is too ashamed to come home, and her illness is denying her both the time required to overcome her shame, and the strength to make the journey.
I know not how far Mr Darcy’s condescension—or dare I say affection—will extend, nor what he can truly be expected to do to help, but I beg you would tell him.
At the very least, he ought to know that his kind offer meant the world to Agnes.
Not many things make her smile these days.
Only your letters with news from Pemberley, and now Mr Darcy’s, calling it her home.
I shall do what I can for her, Dot. That I promise.
Pray wish Jane all the best for her wedding.
All my love,
E Wallis
Darcy stared at the page, unsettled by the power of its effect on him. A memory of Mrs Reynolds stumbling in the library wedged a knot of emotion in his throat that made him wish he had never consented to reading the damned stash of her letters in the first place.
“We tried,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I am sorry we were too late.”
He attempted to speak and was dismayed to discover he could not.
“Shall we go to bed?”
He nodded, inordinately grateful that Elizabeth did not intend to press him to say any more on the subject, for what more was there to say?
She merely curled up next to him and held him tightly.
He was reminded of the assurance she gave him, early in their engagement, that he would never be alone in his misery again.
He had been deeply touched by the sentiment but had not truly understood the breadth of her promise, nor the gamut of adversities capable of causing him misery.
This was certainly not something he ever anticipated would be one, and he thanked God, yet again, for Elizabeth’s treasured compassion.
He pulled her more firmly against him and waited for what felt like an eternity for sleep to come and extinguish his uncomfortable, distant sense of sorrow.
* * *
Elizabeth referenced the matter but once, indirectly, the next morning.
As they readied themselves for the ceremony, she asked whether he was well, accompanying her enquiry with a significant look.
He answered that he was and then silenced her with a compliment and a kiss—because she deserved both, and he had no wish to dwell on anything else.
The wedding was a more extravagant affair than his own to Elizabeth had been, no doubt a consequence of the extra time Mrs Bennet had been afforded to make it so.
Darcy felt in no way deprived. He had almost fully acquainted himself with all the pleasures of marriage to his new bride in the time it took Bingley to get around to cutting into his wedding cake.
“We were dreadfully sorry to hear about Pemberley,” Mrs Gardiner remarked at the wedding breakfast. “It is such a handsome house.”
“Is it?” Mrs Bennet said airily. “I would not know. Not all of us have had the pleasure of an invitation.”
“You must take the hint, my dear,” said Mr Bennet. “As excuses go, razing half one’s house to the ground to avoid a visit from one’s new mother shows a resolve I can only admire.”
Darcy did not contradict him. If there were any positives to be taken from the disaster, he was in no position to refuse them.
“Will you put it back exactly how it was?” Gardiner enquired.
“Nay, I say you should leave it as it is,” Bingley interposed. “Caroline has always wanted me to build a house that was modelled on Pemberley. I shall save a fortune if I do it now, while half of it is missing.”
“What rooms were lost?” Jane enquired of Elizabeth, who listed the library, study, gallery, bedrooms, and attic rooms.
“Oh well, at least the nursery did not fall down, for you will need that soon enough,” said Mrs Bennet. “And this is a fine opportunity to decorate the rest of the house. But attend, you must never put chinoiserie in a dining room. It plays havoc with the digestion.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, expecting her to be diverted.
Instead, he found her with heightened complexion, staring at her plate with uncommon intensity, a small frown pulling at her forehead.
He thought back over all that had been said, anxious to know what had given her such pause.
His heart lurched when he thought he had hit upon the answer, and the longer Elizabeth remained still, the more certain he became.
“Darcy? Are you listening?” Bingley said loudly. “What say you? Will you let Lizzy paint the dining room purple?”
“She can knock it down and build a new one if she likes. I should not object.”
“He is positively blasé about knocking walls down now! You may never get an invite, Mrs Bennet, for there will be no house left at this rate.”
“If the house was to be painted purple, that may not be a bad thing,” Hurst opined.
At length, Elizabeth shook off her distraction and added her customary wit to her family’s banter.
Darcy found it harder to shake off his and grew impatient for the celebrations to end, yet no opportunity presented itself for private conversation with Elizabeth, either before the time came to wish the happy couple well and depart, or on the carriage ride to London with Georgiana.
And the letter that awaited Darcy on his desk when they arrived at Astroite House momentarily drove all other considerations from his head.
Elizabeth left him to open it in private, though it took very little time to read the short and shakily written note.
To Mr Darcy,
You do me great honour, but I cannot accept your money or your invitation to return to Pemberley.
I shall not worsen my offences by attaching my disgrace to you.
I am profoundly sorry for the harm my misdirected and presumptuous interference caused.
No excuse I can offer compensates for the egregiousness of my actions, but I do offer you my sincerest, most heartfelt apology.
If it is not too impertinent, I congratulate you on your marriage.
I wish you and Mrs Darcy all the happiness in the world.
Never have there been two people whom I wished so well.
With all the esteem you will permit me to send,
A. Reynolds
Darcy inhaled deeply and held his breath as the far off, unsettling feeling that had been plaguing him since the previous evening swooped closer, made itself fully felt, and resolved into something vastly more governable.
After all, among the many other things a certain wise woman had once told him, was that it was always better to take charge than sit about, waiting for Fate to play its hand.
He found Elizabeth in front of the window on the upstairs landing, tracing her finger over one of the sea lilies in the stone mullion.
The afternoon sun fell on her face in a way that illuminated her complexion and showed him her small, contented smile in flawless profile. She looked absolutely beautiful.
She turned to regard him when he came abreast of her. “Was my aunt Wallis correct?”
He nodded.
She lifted a hand to caress his cheek, and he regretted that pity had stolen her smile away.
“You are allowed to be sad. It is permissible to be fond of a servant, despite what your aunt says. Mrs Wallis is no real relation to me, either, yet I have benefited from her affection all my life. You might think of Mrs Reynolds in the same way. An honorary aunt.”
He smiled faintly. It was a quaint notion, but his mind was on other things. “Why did your mother’s mention of the nursery make you so pensive?” His heart was pounding in his chest, and if he might judge from the blush that instantly overspread her countenance, hers was doing likewise.
“I knew you had not missed that.”
“Well?”
Her agitation was striking, her eyes darting all over his face and her voice breathless. “I do not know. We have barely been married two months, and so much has happened, I have not given it a second thought.”
“But?”
“But, well, Mama’s comment made me think what I had not stopped to think before—that, I suppose, there is one thing that has not happened in that time.”
He gave in to the smile that was desperately pulling at his lips. “You have not bled.”
She gave in to a very tentative smile of her own. “No.”
“Are you, then?”
“I suppose I might be.” Her smile slowly broadened into a more assured one. “I suppose I must be.”
Darcy was, by now, accustomed to Elizabeth’s ability to utterly fell him with sentiment.
This, though, was beyond everything. This was the reason Pemberley would endure.
He kissed her forehead reverently and then looked her in the eyes.
“That will give you something to tell Mrs Wallis when you see her.”
She frowned endearingly in puzzlement.
“I am taking you to Devon to see your godmother. And to bring Mrs Reynolds home myself.”
She fixed him with a look he had come to cherish—one that betrayed her pride in him.
Though, that was absurd, for if anyone had a right to be proud, it was him, of his magnificent wife, who had shown him in the kindest, most courageous way conceivable that every one of his early prejudices had been unfounded.
The very idea that she was in any way inferior was insupportable.
Elizabeth was quite simply perfect. And Darcy loved her completely.