Chapter 4
FOUR
A NECESSARY brEACH OF CONFIDENCE
To say Darcy was astounded by what Elizabeth told him was a vast understatement of the matter.
She was a pitiable creature as she sat speaking of her sister’s shame on the sofa beside him, tear stains on her cheeks and a little smudge of ink to complete the effect. Nevertheless, he saw her spirit as she bravely vowed to stand by her sister come what may.
“Allow me to understand the fullness of this,” he said gently. “Bingley and your sister…the night of his ball at Netherfield…”
She nodded miserably. “I was meant to dance with him after the supper, and when I did not see him, or Jane, I thought…I did think they might have stolen off. Not for anything of this sort! No, never could I have imagined… But I would not have you think ill of Jane. She thought they were engaged and trusted him when he said they would be married before Christmas.”
“What exactly did he say to that effect?”
“We spoke of it that night, although I was not told everything then.” Elizabeth appeared to search her memory.
“He told her he was going to London to see his solicitor and that when he came back, he would speak to my father. He told her he wished to be married as soon as could be, so that they would enjoy Christmas at Netherfield as a newly-married couple. He said that come spring, they would take a wedding trip to the seaside.”
Darcy snorted. Bingley had certainly dug himself in deep enough. “And is it certain?”
“She has felt the quickening,” Elizabeth said. “Or believes she has.”
He did some quick mathematics. Nineteen weeks. From what he knew of it, which was admittedly little, it seemed correct.
“What I cannot comprehend,” he said, more to himself than Elizabeth, “is why he never mentioned any of this. When I said to him that…” He trailed off, seeing Elizabeth looking at him, a harder light in her eyes.
“When you said what, exactly?” She rose and went to a nearby flower arrangement, picking at the petals and leaves. “That we Bennets were far too low for any sort of a lasting connexion? In light of all of this, I daresay I cannot disagree with you.”
He swallowed, and counselled with himself to speak gently.
“I cannot deny that the situation of your family did give me pause insofar as Bingley was concerned. More than anything, however, was the fact that I did not perceive that she had any depth of feeling for him. If he were to marry a woman who could not give him a material advantage, I would have wanted him to be loved.”
She turned to him, brows raised. “You thought her mercenary?”
“I thought she was like many other young women I know who consider a wealthy man was a desirable marriage prospect no matter how much, or how little, they might regard him.”
“We Bennet ladies may lack fortune, but we do not lack integrity,” she said reproachfully. “Jane is only very reserved, probably the most reserved person I know. It is hard for me to know what she is thinking; I am astonished you believed yourself equal to it.”
“As am I,” he said and peculiarly, after a moment of surprise, they both chuckled.
Hard on the heels of that levity, however, came another wash of tears on her cheeks.
She turned back to the flowers, picking and plucking and sniffing.
“I do realise the incongruity of what I just said, that Jane is reserved. But she is—this was a moment of weakness, not any calculated wish to entrap your friend. Jane is truly all that is good and sweet and would never have—”
“Elizabeth.”
She stopped talking but did not turn round, so he stood and went to stand with her at the table with the flowers which, he observed, were being depetaled rather mercilessly. “Anyone, lady or gentleman, can make an error of judgment.” He inhaled deeply and said, “Even my own.”
“Impossible,” she said.
“I am afraid not.”
Now she did turn round, her eyes questioning. And now it was his turn to fix his attentions on the flowers.
“Last summer my sister, Georgiana, who was only fifteen at that time, begged to be allowed to go to Ramsgate. Many of the young ladies she knew were going, and she imagined it a fine time even if she could not go to the balls and parties as the ladies who were out would do. But she imagined that their daytime excursions would satisfy her enough, and she would have her companion with her, a Mrs Younge, whom I trusted to keep a close eye on her.”
He chanced to look up, seeing Elizabeth’s gaze upon him.
“I must now beg that you would not think ill of my sister, for she, too, succumbed to a seducer at Ramsgate and one who is known to you.”
“George Wickham.”
“How did you know?”
She shook her head. “I did not. Only that Colonel Fitzwilliam made a remark to me about not trusting him, that he was a liar and had betrayed you in a dreadful manner. He gave no facts, only broad warnings.”
Darcy nodded, relieved. “Like your sister, Georgiana believed herself in love. I arrived, quite by chance, the night prior to what would have been their elopement.”
Elizabeth gasped.
“Wickham had, of course, taken every measure to ensure I would not oppose the marriage. Not because he wished for a wife; he wished for Georgiana’s fortune.
In any case,” he said, eager to leave the unhappy subject behind, “I do know what it is to wait the long weeks hoping and praying for nothing to come of a moment’s indiscretion, and an error of fancy.
Georgiana, happily, escaped such a fate. Alas, your poor sister did not.”
Elizabeth lowered her head at this reminder.
“I do not censure your family, or you, or Miss Bennet herself. It can happen to anyone, in any family, anywhere. It is a lesson I have learnt all too well.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, wiping at the tears on her cheeks.
He was struck, seeing her and comprehending her great distress, by how very much Elizabeth loved her family.
It nearly made him groan thinking of his plan for that evening, before he discovered her amid her tragedy.
He had intended to enumerate his prior struggles in deciding to propose to her, to explain why he had so struggled against his attachment to her—many of which involved her family.
How hurtful that would have been! And how very stupid.
He had just said it himself, that it could happen in any family, high or low.
I cannot love her without loving them as well as my own family, he realised. I must put aside any prejudice towards them. She is a gentleman’s daughter, and if that gentleman has taken a different tack in raising his daughters, it seems we have ended in the same spot anyhow.
As for Mrs Bennet, to whom he had taken a decided dislike from the assembly onwards… It had been painful, recognising that save for fortune, there was very little difference between her and Lady Catherine. But there would be time for such reflections later. Now he must help Elizabeth.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “there is also another great difference between your sister and mine and that is that I would have done absolutely anything to prevent a marriage between my sister and George Wickham. But insofar as Bingley is concerned, yes, he must be made to marry her. There are no two ways about it.”
She made a gesture towards the writing desk where she had been when he entered.
“You found me attempting to write to Mr Bingley when you came in. Alas, with no idea of his direction and the sure knowledge that his sisters would do as they must to keep Jane and news of Jane away from him…I recognised I had very little hope of success in that quarter.”
“Bingley keeps rooms at the Albany,” he told her. “On Piccadilly. If you would like to write to him, pray do. I will carry it with me when I see him, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” She tilted her head. “I understood that you were leaving some days from now.”
“From what you have told me, I do not believe there is a day to waste,” he said. “I will be gone at first light tomorrow and arrive in London before Bingley has eaten his breakfast. If all goes smoothly, your sister will be engaged by noon.”
Again her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled a bit as she said, “B-but you separated them. You did not—”
“I was incorrect,” he said gently. “And very presumptuous in forming any conclusions about your sister’s feelings for my friend.
Only they knew what passed between them, and what had been promised; I ought not to have interfered.
I will set that to rights tomorrow, God willing, and all of this can be nothing more than timing gone awry. ”
“Would you truly do that for her? For my family?”
“I care for your family,” he said. “But much as I respect them, I freely admit I will do this for you. For I meant it when I said I love you, and that I wished to come here this evening to beg for your hand in marriage. Nothing in those feelings has changed in the course of this last”—he glanced at the mantel clock—“hour. I wish that your family would become my family and Miss Bennet my own sister. Of course I shall care for her as my own.”
She lowered her face into her hands then and began to weep in earnest. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you a…a million times over. I… It all seemed so hopeless, ruination so certain.”
It was impossible, in the face of her sweet, tearful gratitude, to not take her into his arms. They had been nearly aching with the desire to console her, and it was a relief to draw her near and to raise one hand to lightly rub her back and murmur assurances that all would be well.
Her own arms had been trapped between them when he pulled her into his embrace; her hands had been still on her countenance. Now she slid them down and, after a brief hesitation, slid them around his waist.
They stood suspended in the moment for an unknown length of time.
He did not wish to pull away; what he wished to do was kiss her, but that was certainly an unwise impulse.
She had not loved him when he entered the room, and what she felt now was gratitude.
Of those two things he was certain, but what was less certain was whether she would consent to marry him, whether he should even want her to under such circumstances as they were in.
While he had no good answer for that, what he did have was the delicate, delectable feel of her body against his own, the knowledge that he was providing comfort and hope to her. In the moment, it was enough, far more than enough, and he would enjoy it as long as she was willing to allow it.
She tilted her head back to look up at him. “We leave at first light, then?”
“You wish to go with me?”
“Desperately.”
“Of course.” He shook his head, feeling stupid. “You are eager to go to your sister.”
“I cannot tell you how desirous I am to be with her,” she said urgently. “Indeed I am plagued with the guilt of having not been with her all of these months when she has waited and feared the worst.”
She still had her arms around him, and his yet encircled her. He reached up with one hand and brushed a curl to the side, thinking of how many times he had longed to do just that. “You are a good sister. Yes, first light.”
“Excellent,” she said and stepped back, breaking their connexion. “I…I suppose I ought to go see my trunks packed.”
Understanding the dismissal, he smiled at her. “Yes, and I will go back to Rosings and see that everything is situated for our departure. You do not have a maid with you, I should guess?”
“Oh.” Her face clouded. “No, I—”
“Anne’s nursemaid, Mrs Jenkinson, has performed such an office before. I do not doubt that she would like the opportunity to be relieved of her duty to Anne for a day or so. Will your uncle be surprised when you arrive so precipitously?”
“He might,” said Elizabeth. “But if Jane has not already told him, he will need to know soon. He will understand it well enough then.”
“Very good,” he said and then left her.