Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elizabeth no longer had any tutors, but she kept herself as occupied as ever. She had reduced her time at the Foundling Hospital to only twice per week at the height of the Season, but after Edith’s marriage, she went as often as she had the year before.
Still, as autumn set in and the dreary London winter approached, Elizabeth felt the lack of friendships in her life more strongly.
Priscilla rarely wrote from her home in Wales, and Edith would live in Somersetshire when she returned from her wedding trip to the north of England and Scotland.
Jane’s letters had decreased dramatically once her father had given her permission to write to Mr. Bingley at the end of July.
Mary continued to write every two or three months, as she had always done, not increasing her frequency once she wore spectacles regularly.
Elizabeth’s other friends she felt close enough to call on had returned to country estates, were visiting friends with country estates, or had married and departed town.
She craved conversation and laughter. She craved acceptance and love.
Her aunts and uncles loved her, with the obvious exception of Aunt Bennet.
Mary and Jane loved her. She was ashamed, though, to know she needed their love more than they needed hers.
They had more people to care for them, and she would be left behind by them as surely as Edith and Priscilla had left her.
If she ever did marry, her husband would not be accepted by any of her friends or cousins.
She knew now more than ever before that her uncle’s demand for her to marry a gentleman had been not only ridiculous but cruel.
She might have found a tradesman with her uncle’s help, but she should never have considered herself worthy of a gentleman.
Elizabeth sat at the edge of her bed and looked out the window at yet another gray day.
Between the rain dripping down the panes and the tears filling her eyes, the world before her was a blur.
She had done her best to appear cheerful these past months, but in reality, she felt anxious and ill.
Her shoulders sagged, and she struggled to hold her head up.
As she wondered why she was putting forth the effort, she let her chin hit her chest, and she curled up on herself even more, lying on her bed so she could still watch the tracks of rain on the windows if she bothered to open her eyes.
She was exhausted. The effort of pretending insults did not bother her had become overwhelming in the past several months.
She could withstand only so much, especially as she knew most of the rumors were true.
If she attempted to attract a gentleman of any level, she really would be an upstart, a fortune hunter, a social climber, and all the other epithets that had been whispered for her to hear.
She had heard most of the insults for years.
Elizabeth was not new to loneliness, either.
It had come and gone from the time she was still at Longbourn.
Now, though, she felt hopeless. She was ready to give up all pretenses of living as a gentlewoman.
Even a position as a governess might be out of her reach if Miss Bingley continued to spread her vile words.
If an employer asked her about her background, how could she continue to evade talk of her birth?
Although she did not easily volunteer it, she had always told anyone who asked her the supposed truth Uncle Bennet had given her, but even this would not be honest enough forever.
The previous Sunday, Elizabeth had sat with the Gardiners as usual in the family pew at St. Helen’s Bishopsgate. The history she had learned in almost four years attending this church made her comfortable there, even welcome.
In the early thirteenth century, a Catholic nunnery was added to the existing church.
After more than three hundred years, the nuns were forced to disband when King Henry VIII installed the Church of England throughout the nation.
Some of the buildings the nuns had used were still present until only a decade before.
If Elizabeth had the option of becoming a nun, would she take it?
She could serve God all her life and not be judged by outsiders.
It had become a more attractive idea of late.
She thought it unfortunate her Anglican beliefs did not allow nuns.
Darcy was exhausted. He smiled. His primary goals of late were to take care of his estate and his sister and to hide his inner thoughts from everyone but his cousin Richard.
His cousin had allowed him to wax poetic on Elizabeth’s charms the previous week when they had met in London.
Darcy had gone to retrieve Georgiana from school, and the three of them had filled several cold December days in town before he and his sister had convinced Richard to return to Pemberley with them.
Perhaps it was not in his best interests to have someone to converse with about Elizabeth every day; it put him both in better spirits and deeper despair.
Hence his push to work himself hard enough to end each day depleted of energy.
He was too busy to think on her much while he worked.
Then he slept soundly and was nearly guaranteed Elizabeth would appear in his dreams. Though unstated as a fourth goal, when he awoke in her arms, he counted himself successful.
Until the pain replaced the false joy and he had to start again to put her out of his mind.
His cousin, who knew nothing of the dreams, had told him his cycle was unsustainable. Richard knew why he worked himself to the bone. He knew vaguely that he was haunted by Elizabeth’s image and her voice, even the feel of her hand in his, whenever he sat long enough without an occupation.
He had admitted to himself about a year ago that he loved Elizabeth. He could not have her as his wife, but he loved her. It could never come to anything, but he comforted himself that he at least knew what it was to love. Some people never received such a gift in their lifetimes.
One night, when he mentioned his love for Elizabeth, Richard laughed at him.
“Are you serious? Do you honestly think you are in love with her?”
“I want the best for her. I cannot cease thinking of her. Is not that love?”
“A weak, transient kind of love, perhaps. A selfish love that makes you feel good.”
“Do you think the near-constant pain in my chest feels good? Do you not think I would prefer to fall in love with someone I could actually marry?”
Richard sighed and sipped his drink, then set it on the table beside him. They were in the plush chairs by the large fire in his study, savoring the warmth on this dark December night. His cousin looked at him intently as though searching for something in Darcy’s expression.
“I do not mean to belittle your feelings, Darce. I know you feel deeply. Perhaps compared with most men, the strength of your regard would be enough for them to live on. But you have always felt things more than most. I do not believe you are as much in love with Miss Elizabeth as you think you are.”
Darcy shook his head as though he could dislodge his cousin’s nonsensical words from his mind.
“Because I feel deeply, I am not really in love? I wish to be with Elizabeth more than anything. I wish to care for her and protect her and give Pemberley to her, man! How can that not be love?”
“Forgive me. I do not mean to offend you.” Richard traced the rim of his glass with his finger, speaking in muted tones.
“It is only…if you love her more than anything, what is stopping you from going to her and declaring yourself? If you wish to protect her and to give her Pemberley, why have you not done it?”
Darcy began to understand what his cousin was saying, and it made him queasy.
Why had he allowed his supposed love to burn unchecked in his mind and heart but not escape those confines to warm Elizabeth while she suffered the bitter darts society had been throwing at her for the past year or two?
Why had he not made every effort to remove his own icy dart from her memory?
What was he doing here at Pemberley, pretending he held a lofty position from which he could do nothing but look down on her?
He had told his cousin he loved Elizabeth more than anything.
He realized all at once that was wholly untrue.
He had shown by his actions that he loved himself more.
He loved society more. He loved his dead parents and his aunts and uncle more.
He loved his sister more. But how could he be expected to place Elizabeth before everything that made him who he was?
Did he truly love her at all?
Darcy put a hand to his chest as he felt her being ripped from his heart.
He could not live without her!
He was living without her.
He needed her!
Why had he done nothing in her service?
When they had been merely friends, he had seen her suffering and had been her champion on more than one occasion.
His hands moved atop his head, and he bent at the waist, his forehead resting on his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut and remembered.
She had soothed his discomfort with her presence, and he had insisted she be allowed to stay in the room at the Hurst home though she was not yet out. Selfish.
He had seen her excluded, and he had arranged an excursion to the Royal Menagerie. That had all been for her, had it not? He had considered her a young friend and treasured her conversation and company, but he believed the menagerie had been for her alone.
He should have continued to support her and entertain her the next year, when he had seen her again.
Instead, he had seen her as disposable because he had developed inconvenient feelings for her.
He had clung to the idea of her, but he had not allowed himself to claim her or give her any part of himself after their dance.