Chapter 38
THE LESSON
EMMA
Mr. Darcy’s notepaper was thick and rich as cream, with lines of ruler-straight script:
“Miss Woodhouse,
If your schedule permits, I shall meet with you at ten o’clock in the ivory alcove of the north garden. Any member of the staff will be pleased to offer direction. I have invited Miss Harriet Smith to attend with us.
Yours respectfully,
Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
The ivory alcove was almost hidden by dwarf holly and juniper. Sculpted angels half-concealed in greenery watched serenely from four compass points. In the center, a garden table and benches of carved ivory stone were swept freshly clean.
I took a seat, bundled, gloved, and scarved in white. Although the savage cold gripping England had broken, Pemberley was high in the Peaks, and the leaves sparkled with morning frost.
Harriet came, stomping the gravel, her arms folded tight against the chill, or more likely against me. She thudded into the farthest seat and glared a hole through the table.
“Are you still vexed?” I said.
She burst out, “How could you say ‘Teaching is unsuitable for a lady’ in front of everyone!”
I had mentioned that, gently, at yesterday’s dinner. I straightened the seam on a gloved finger. “I did not wish you to embarrass yourself. It is proper to guard my sister’s prospects.”
I was determined to protect Harriet. After reflection, I was skeptical of Georgiana’s hint that Mr. Knightley had formed an attachment to me. But it was a timely warning. Even the most well-meaning lady could blunder.
Harriet locked her black eyes to me, and they were blazing. “You cannot resist meddling. I have my own prospects, and I wish to do good.” Bitingly, she added, “Mr. Knightley admired my plan.”
Hearing his name woke a flutter in my belly, but I disliked having him invoked against me. “What does a London musician know of prospects and doing good?”
“What do you know, hiding in your rooms at Hartfield?”
That was hurtful, so I took a turn glaring holes in the table. In the corner of my eye, I saw Harriet shift uneasily. Well, if she was preparing an apology, she should hurry. It was not warm.
However, neither of us spoke until Mr. Darcy arrived. That was short-lived relief as Mr. Knightley followed a pace behind. The flutter in my belly became a flop, and a flush drove the chill from my cheeks.
The gentlemen bowed their greetings, and Mr. Darcy began, “Thank you for meeting outside. I am besieged by requests from our guests and did not wish to be interrupted. Privacy seemed wise.”
“Why has Mr. Knightley joined us?” I said, sounding perfectly uncaring.
Mr. Darcy pursed his lips as if that were a deeply insightful question. He turned to Mr. Knightley, raised one eyebrow, and waited.
“I do not approve of Darcy meddling with your mind,” Mr. Knightley announced. Harriet hmphed approvingly, apparently in support of anti-meddlers even though Mr. Knightley was meddling right in front of her nose.
Mr. Darcy said to me, “As I have assured Knightley, I will do nothing to your mind. The methods I speak of are simple aids. They are neither mesmerism nor manipulation.”
That did not satisfy Mr. Knightley. “Miss Woodhouse is an independent woman. She should not be reliant on your arcane projects. Nor should her care for Nessy.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,” I said. “Would an independent woman choose for herself?”
“I… yes, certainly.” Mr. Knightley drummed his fingers in an involved pattern, then blurted, “Just consider your options.”
I had no idea how to interpret that.
“These methods are to help Miss Woodhouse’s personal wellbeing,” Mr. Darcy said. “They are not arcane, and they have no relation to her healing ability as a great wyfe.”
“They will not help with Nessy?” I said.
“No.” Reluctantly, he added, “My mother treated several consumptives. She was unsuccessful.”
That settled like a stone in my belly, but I nodded.
Mr. Darcy began rather formally. “You will recall that my mother struggled with a compulsion for order and symmetry. It was worsened by any perception of illness. She was aware of her condition and discussed it frankly with me, and we experimented with mental techniques to manage the debilitating effects. We were successful, in part.”
Mr. Darcy’s gloved hand was clenched on the stone table. Georgiana had said he was uncomfortable discussing his mother.
“What does ‘in part’ mean?” I asked.
“While she remained bound, her episodes became rare and manageable. But after my father died, her binding broke, and her wyvern left. Then…” His throat worked. “Our techniques were then insufficient.”
Already, there was convergence with the vision Georgiana summoned through those huge windows. “Lady Anne’s wyvern did not leave. Lady Anne sent him away.”
Mr. Darcy’s clenched hand twitched. He lifted it to knead the back of his neck. “Elizabeth told you this?”
“No. Georgiana showed me a vision this morning. I saw Lady Anne’s wyvern, and he spoke to me.”
“There are visions now?” Mr. Knightley exclaimed. “Are you certain this is the right path?”
I frowned. “I do what I like. Why are you so disagreeable?”
“I dislike being avoided,” he said pointedly. “I sought you all last evening.”
Why did everyone accuse me of hiding? “You announced you were traveling to your death. I assumed you were packing.”
That silenced Mr. Knightley, but Mr. Darcy had his own pent-up exclamation. “My mother’s wyvern left years ago. He spoke to you?”
“Of course,” I said crossly. “He is waiting for me with memories of Lady Anne. I imagine it is a message. At the ball, Lady Catherine’s wyvern spoke of a messenger to the north. But wyverns are terribly vague.”
Now the whole table was silenced. Their stupefied expressions were much better than being scolded for hiding and meddling. I crossed my wrists on the table edge and added, “So? What is this technique?”
Seconds passed before Mr. Darcy spoke. “I have never known what to make of Georgiana’s vision. Your insight is crucial. Elizabeth should hear also, but she is visiting Mr. Digweed and the Pemberley Britons. She should have returned by now…” He trailed off uneasily.
“Then we may as well discuss your technique,” I pointed out. All this delay was making me curious.
“True.” He set his shoulders. “Let us compare your symptoms to my mother’s.
The core of Lady Anne’s illness was attacks of crippling fear.
She became certain that severe illness was about to strike.
She believed she could prevent that only through perfection in the clothing and appearance of herself and those around her.
Quickly, those compulsions grew and became an illness in themselves. ”
I had blanched at the exactness of his description. Harriet reached across the table to take my hand, and I gave her a squeeze, remorseful for being cross before.
“That is what I feel,” I answered, trying to match his factual manner.
“Yet the threat of illness is always to others, not yourself.”
“Yes!” But he had not mentioned one thing. “Did she see the miasma? See the false illness strike those around her? Like a dream that is impossible but cannot be disbelieved?”
He answered slowly, “Much later, when she was no longer bound, my mother’s fears manifested as visible illusions.”
“I am unbound. If this method fails when one is not bound, what good is it?”
“It did help her, even then. It was simply… insufficient.”
Harriet asked suspiciously, “What happened to Lady Anne?”
Instead of answering, Mr. Darcy resumed his teaching tone. “My mother experienced her first attacks in her eighteenth year, before she married. She tried to battle them with logic. She told herself that the illnesses she feared would not occur, so her fear was irrational.”
“I do the same,” I said, remembering the mental battles I hid in my room. “But my papa feared illness all his life, then his health failed. I had reassured him, and I was wrong. My denials were wrong.” That realization had been harrowing.
“Denial failed my mother, also. But we discovered what helped. She had to accept that illness and injury may occur. Accept that illness is a matter of fate and out of her hands. Then her compulsion to ward off illness through rituals became irrelevant. Instead of denial, we practiced reaction. If the worst occurred, she would be prepared. She would act to help.” His eyes considered me. “This may seem a trivial distinction.”
“It… I am not sure.” I was reliving my struggles. My endless fight to protect those around me. To build a fortress of perfection. “It is very different from what I have tried.”
While I thought, my gaze drifted to the north point of our alcove. That statue was the hardest to make out, shadowed by a tough old yew, thick with greenery even in midwinter.
“My mother and I developed exercises to practice the distinction,” Mr. Darcy continued.
“I believe this difference, though subtle, is fundamental to breaking the grip of compulsion. If you wish, we can attempt these exercises together. Not this morning, though. They may be intense, and I am… Elizabeth should have returned by now.” The last was a rush.
Mr. Knightley had watched with narrowed eyes. “You avoided Miss Woodhouse’s question. I will ask it plainly. Is marriage required to restore her health?”
“I have only my mother’s example,” Mr. Darcy replied. “But her symptoms eased when she bound, then worsened when her wyvern…” His gaze hunted the garden while he sought words. “When she was no longer bound.”
“Then Miss Woodhouse must marry,” Mr. Knightley pressed.
“She must marry and bind,” Mr. Darcy corrected. “Not all who marry succeed in binding.”
This had taken an alarming turn. “You both sound like meddlesome grandmothers. I will not marry. And I am perfectly well today.”
Hurried steps thudded, foliage flew aside, and a gray-haired gentleman in his sixties burst into our clearing, panting.
Mr. Darcy jumped to his feet. “Digweed! Have you seen Elizabeth?” Mr. Digweed pulled him aside—I heard London—then Mr. Darcy returned looking dazed. “My wyfe has embarked on an unexpected trip. I must… I should…” He bowed and vanished at a run with the other gentleman.
“Good gracious!” Harriet exclaimed.
“Why will you not marry?” Mr. Knightley said as if that drama had not even occurred.
“I cannot imagine whom I would marry,” I said scathingly.
Harriet had swiveled to watch that. When a deafening silence ensued, she ventured, “How did Georgiana show you a vision?”
“With music,” I said. Harriet’s eyes sparkled like we were reading a wonderful novel together, and I warmed to the topic. “It was like magic. Beautiful, then frightening. The wyvern said, ‘look to the north’…”
My eyes returned to the north point of our alcove.
I had thought all the statues were angels, but the north one cradled something winged and scaled, and had nine rays from her head.
She was a twin to the statue in the physic garden, but here the alabaster stone was pure, not stained and eroded by the fumes of London.
Beyond her, a trail wound northward into the old woods of Pemberley. It vanished into gloom behind massive, mossy trees thick as carriages.
“It is too cold here!” Harriet said. “Tell me inside.” She took my arm, and I went with her into the house. Mr. Knightley followed, wordless, his hands jammed in his pockets.