Chapter Twelve
The lively discussions of the previous day had left little time for private thought, yet now her mind returned to the letters with a sharper unease.
What she had set aside lightly the evening before pressed upon her more heavily in the morning air.
With the tide rolling in and the clouds drifting high above, the words of her mother and sister returned with unwelcome force.
She had read Jane's letter with pleasure at first; her sister's hand never failed to breathe tenderness.
Yet beneath the graceful phrases lay a studied brightness, as though intended to conceal more than it expressed.
Elizabeth could not name what was withheld, only that something was absent, and the absence left her restless.
Her mother's letter had offered the usual account of neighbours, servants, gowns, and lace.
Such familiar subjects ought to have comforted her, yet when she laid both letters aside that morning she found herself unwilling to read either again.
Taking only her bonnet, she left the house and wandered down to the shore.
James followed at his customary distance.
Presently she climbed to a jutting rock overlooking the sea and seated herself there, while her servant remained a little way behind.
The horizon stretched wide, and a curious loneliness stirred within her, the kind that no society could quite remove. She clasped her hands together and drew a long breath, as if the sea air itself might steady her spirit.
It was in that posture that the sound of another step reached her ear. She turned slightly, expecting James, and instead saw a taller figure advancing along the sand below. Mr. Darcy paused at the foot of the rock, hat in hand.
“I trust I do not disturb you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth started, then recollected herself. “Not at all, sir. I had thought myself alone, but I should have remembered that the sea is a friend to more than one.”
“When I was a boy, I thought no place could rival the Derbyshire hills,” said Darcy. “Yet here one finds a different sort of grandeur. The air clears the mind.”
Elizabeth rose, brushing the sand from her gown, and curtsied. He offered his hand to assist her descent from the rock, and they soon found themselves walking together, James following at his accustomed distance. A gull cried overhead and wheeled out across the water.
“You spoke of the air clearing the mind,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot deny that mine has been troubled of late. Perhaps it is the letters from home that linger more than I wish. One would think the words of those dearest to us should bring comfort, yet sometimes they leave us strangely unsettled.”
“I know the feeling well,” said Darcy. “There are letters that console, and there are others that wound, not by what they say but by what they leave unsaid.”
A wave broke against the rocks below them, scattering spray across the sand.
“You will recall the letter we spoke of yesterday, from my uncle, Lord Matlock. It concerned the Trevelyan estate, and the discovery that the trust had long been concealed, with my cousin Richard supposed its intended heir. It is not the prospect of fortune that weighs upon me. It is rather the knowledge that he has spent years in the army, exposed to danger and hardship, which might well have been spared him. I cannot but think that such a course was forced upon him through neglect, or through the selfish indifference of those who ought to have been more attentive to his claims.”
“Then it is not the estate itself that troubles you,” said Elizabeth.
“No. Richard is not a man to complain. He has borne every duty with cheerfulness, and never speaks of what he has endured. Yet I have seen enough to know what it has cost him. To learn now that he may have had a rightful estate, and that such knowledge was withheld, fills me with anger I cannot easily master. My cousin deserves better.”
“It must be a bitter thought indeed,” said Elizabeth, “to suppose that what he has suffered might have been needless.”
“It is bitter,” said Darcy. “For me, Richard has been more than a cousin; he has been as a brother. When I first went up to Cambridge, I was scarcely more than a boy, uncertain and reserved. My father had never thought me worthy of much notice. He was a man of consequence, stern and occupied with his own pursuits. He had little patience for a son who had not spoken until his fifth year, and even when I excelled at school, his regard was cold. My mother alone had loved me for myself. When she died, along with my sister and my uncles, I was thirteen. My father sent me to Eton and then to Cambridge, and that was the extent of his care. He never encouraged me to write; he never forwarded the letters that came from my mother’s family.
He allowed the ties of affection to wither.
“There are times when I regret it most keenly. My cousin Madeline, Mrs. Gardiner as you know her, was among those ties. She was but a girl then, yet she amused me greatly, and I still recall that one of the first words I ever spoke was to her, as she played the pianoforte at Pemberley. When the fever came, and afterward when my father turned from all that reminded him of my mother, I saw her no more. To meet her again here has revived both gratitude and shame; gratitude for the kindness with which she received me, and shame that I allowed so many years to pass in silence. Yet she has placed me entirely at ease, and I know the fault was not wholly mine. The separation was my father’s choosing, not hers. ”
The waves broke steadily at their feet, spending themselves upon the sand.
“It was at school that I first saw Richard again,” Darcy continued.
“At Eton, our meeting was cautious, almost formal, for we were both young, and the habits of distance had already taken root. Yet even then, the tie was not wholly lost. It was renewed in earnest some years later, when I went up to Cambridge and found him there in his final year. He was then full of animation and ease, and would not allow me to remain silent or apart. He drew me into company, laughed at my reserve, and made me feel, perhaps for the first time since my mother’s death, that I belonged somewhere without effort or explanation. ”
“Through him, I was restored to my mother’s family, to the Matlocks.
Without Richard, I might have remained precisely what my father expected of me.
You see, then, why the thought of his sacrifice presses so heavily upon my mind.
He gave me back a family, and I cannot bear to think that he was wronged. ”
“You speak of your cousin with great affection,” said Elizabeth.
“He must value you equally, for such bonds do not form on one side only. Whatever comes of this trust, I cannot think his worth has been lessened by what he has borne. Perhaps even the estate, had it been his from youth, might not have called forth such strength of character.”
Darcy was silent a moment.
“You are generous in your view, Miss Bennet,” he said at last. “I have not considered it in that light. To me, the injustice was all. Yet you remind me that trials may sometimes shape a man for better.”
The tide advanced over the sand, erasing the traces of their footsteps almost as soon as they were made.
“I speak of myself more than I intended,” he said. “Forgive me. It is not my habit to be so unguarded.”
“I do not think forgiveness is needed,” said Elizabeth. “I am glad to know my companions more truly, whether in their trials or their triumphs. We are none of us without burdens.”
The wind shifted briefly, carrying the smell of open water.
“You are not alone in feeling yourself set apart,” she said at last. “At Longbourn, I have often wondered whether I belonged to the household in the same way as the rest. My father is a man of sense and learning, but he has little taste for the daily concerns of a family. He delights in his books and reflections, and when I was about twelve, he asked me to keep the household accounts, and soon after the other books as well. I thought it the greatest compliment, that he should trust me so. I was eager to be useful, and he praised my diligence, so I never thought it strange.”
“My mother,” Elizabeth continued, “was very fond of me when I was young. She liked my quickness and indulged it. But as I grew older, and my interests settled less upon fashions and more upon figures and books, I pleased her less. She is lively and easily vexed, and I told myself that any coldness was no more than a passing humour. Yet over time, I began to see that my sisters, who delighted more readily in society, received her warmer notice. When new gowns were ordered, I was sometimes forgotten. I assured myself it was an oversight, and perhaps it was. I never felt myself unkindly treated, only… unnecessary.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “That is not a small thing.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “But I was never unhappy. I had Jane, and her goodness has always been my comfort. She is admired by everyone, and deservedly so. She has a way of speaking that makes one believe all is well, and I have often trusted her judgement above my own. Yet at times I find myself wondering whether I ought to be more like her, though I know I cannot.”
They had reached a quieter stretch of sand, and Elizabeth paused to watch the tide as it crept forward and retreated again.
“It is with my aunt and uncle that I feel most at ease,” she said at last. “With them, usefulness is not mistaken for affection, and affection does not depend upon performance. They ask only that I share their company, and that I am content in it. Their home is ordered, but it is also kind. When I am there, I feel as though I have stepped into a way of living I had not known was possible.”
The tide had crept further in while they talked, narrowing the strip of sand between the rocks and the sea.
"You have been candid with me, Miss Bennet," said Darcy, "more candid than most would dare. I cannot but esteem the courage that admits such truths. Many would disguise them under gaiety or indifference."
“Perhaps I ought to have done so,” said Elizabeth. “Yet after what you confided, I felt I could not remain wholly silent. It seemed… ungenerous.”
“I do not think so,” said Darcy. “I am glad you spoke.”
They turned back toward the cottages, the sun lifting higher above the water.
James, discreet as ever, advanced a few paces to mark their return.
Elizabeth gathered her bonnet and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.
Darcy walked beside her without speaking, matching his pace to hers. At the foot of the path, he stopped.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, “I have spoken more than I intended. Yet I cannot regret it. I hope you will not.”
Elizabeth met his gaze. “I do not regret it, sir.”
Darcy was silent a moment. “I had thought to remain here but a week. Yet your uncle has much to show me, and I find myself unwilling to depart so soon. There is more to be seen, more to be understood. I should like, if you permit, to wait upon you and Mrs. Gardiner while I remain.”
Elizabeth felt the colour rise in her cheeks. “My aunt and uncle will be happy to receive you, sir.”
“Then I shall count it a privilege.”