Chapter 16
And though the evening continued, something of the composure Elizabeth had imposed upon herself began to fade.
The library had astonished her, but saddened her as well.
Since she had arrived in Derby, she had allowed herself to be carried away into forgetfulness; still, grief and anxiety did not long abandon her.
She looked for the colonel and, with discretion, led him towards a corner of the music room.
“Pray save me; this evening I cannot play,” she said; and the colonel, looking at her, perceived her sadness—or perhaps only felt it. He nodded, and she continued in the same low tone, “I shall explain in the morning.”
That was sufficient. The colonel spoke at once to Miss Darcy, and to his cousin, and shortly afterwards, the young lady of the house began to play.
She was indeed exceedingly accomplished, and that delicate music, so beautifully performed, helped to soothe Elizabeth’s spirits.
She thought of her mother and her sisters, who had insisted that she should leave some days before that fatal tenth of August, of the dreadful days that followed, when her family had been obliged to quit Longbourn, days she had passed away from them, first upon the road, and afterwards in Mrs Cooper’s house.
Enveloped in the music, she reflected with gratitude on her mother, who had proved to be their greatest support.
She had always known her mother to be skilful in the management of their household, that she had achieved the remarkable task of maintaining Longbourn and its family upon an income far from ample, without allowing them ever to feel it.
Then, in the days preceding her husband’s death, she had seemed incapable of undertaking anything, bearing her grief alone, supported only by her sister.
Yet immediately after the funeral, something had changed entirely.
She had risen above sorrow and fear, displaying a firmness and strength that sustained them all and helped them go forward.
“Even the way she had arranged their departure bore witness to it: two weeks before that day, Longbourn had been left almost empty, only the bedchambers and the dining parlour remaining in use, so that the house they had all loved might no longer resemble a home.
A few days before the tenth of August, she had compelled Elizabeth to depart; and then, with great seriousness, had invited Jane and Mary also to spend some time in London.
They had refused. And from the day Elizabeth left, they had removed to Mrs Phillips’s house, where they had found invaluable support.
An entire floor had been placed at their disposal, and many of their belongings had been conveyed there, while their father’s library, carefully packed, had been sent to the storage offered by Sir William.
Elizabeth herself had chosen two large boxes of books to take with her; those from which she had learned almost daily, guided and encouraged by him.
“Pray go now,” her mother had said. “It is what your father would have wished.”
And then, on that last evening at Longbourn, her mother, seated in her father’s place, had spoken with restraint, but without softness, setting their lives in order with remarkable clarity.
“Mr Bennet wished that we should not indulge in excessive mourning, but bear ourselves with dignity under this great affliction. He asks of us something very difficult; yet I believe that, in some measure, he prepared you for every trial life might bring…even for this. And I am grateful to have known him. Few women have ever had a man more generous in spirit, nor more devoted to his family. We owe it to him to be moderate in our sorrow and to conduct ourselves with propriety under this loss. But now you must understand that for each of you there is but one security—marriage—and I entreat you to reflect upon it with seriousness. Whichever of you marries will lighten the burden upon the family, and may, within the limits of her circumstances, assist the others. Not me. I am well at Mrs Phillips’s, and shall soon find a house to let, that we may form a home again. ”
Elizabeth received letters almost daily from all the ladies, except Lydia, who, it seemed, was also well at Mrs Forster’s.
She rejoiced when she read that they were endeavouring to arrange their lives anew, and was saddened when she saw a few letters blurred by tears.
They had not yet found a house, but Kitty had returned to Meryton, and it appeared that, together, the ladies were advancing towards reconciliation, if not towards peace.
Her mother’s words on the subject of marriage, however, continued to occupy her mind chiefly because they had been spoken in an even tone, without those notes of agitation which had once marked her discourse upon the necessity of marrying.
Their present situation required no explanation; they all felt too keenly the distress in which they lived.
Returning to the present, Elizabeth looked about the music room, which she had scarcely observed until that moment.
The harmony of its colours again struck her, the simplicity of its few furnishings, and the instruments arranged with elegance about the pianoforte, which she had never before seen in such a manner, and which now sounded with a kind of enchantment beneath Miss Darcy’s fingers.
She might have been mistress there, had matters at the Parsonage been otherwise, but the question arose: what must have been different for her to accept him?
It was not only his offensive speech; had he paid her proper court, might she not have been inclined to accept him?
Could she, in time, have liked him, perhaps even loved him?
She looked towards him and, once more, discovered his gaze fixed upon her.
He possessed many qualities, but also faults.
Yet all possessed faults, and this was a truth she had only lately begun to admit.
Perfection was an ideal, not a reality…men and women alike were formed of good and bad.
Her stay at Mrs Cooper’s was only an intermezzo.
She had to reflect upon her future, as she began to perceive—even she, once the most ardent defender of marriage for love—that their situation no longer permitted such a luxury.
Could she live with him, if he still loved her?
She did not doubt that he had loved her—but in his own manner, without relinquishing his pride for a single moment, and as though he required her to renounce her family to become his wife.
This, above all in their present circumstances, was impossible.
She could not marry any man who would not acknowledge that she had a duty towards her family.
She heard the thunder continuing without, and, in some measure, it echoed within her. She regretted that she had not secured her family’s future; she might have done so, but could she have lived with Mr Darcy?
With this question still in her mind, she followed Miss Darcy, who insisted upon conducting her to her room. She opened for her the door of a parlour furnished in the colours of autumn, and then that of the bedchamber; wished her good night, and withdrew.
Elizabeth wandered through that delightful apartment for some time.
She had believed the rooms at Mrs Cooper’s to be all that comfort could offer, but at Pemberley the scale was different, and the elegance and refinement unequalled.
The furniture was not new, nor modern, but even that solidity, inherited from an earlier age, gave her pleasure.
Upon the bed lay a splendid box; and, when she opened it, she discovered within a nightgown and a robe, evidently new, in colours she particularly liked; the gown of a pale green, the robe of a deeper shade.
Was it a coincidence? Yet she could not imagine that Mr Darcy had remembered such a detail.
Then she wondered that such things should be kept in readiness for guests like herself.
A maid knocked at the door to enquire whether she required assistance, but Elizabeth declined. A sudden, irresistible desire seized her—to see the library once more.
She opened the door with some hesitation.
At Longbourn, a single candle was left at night, insufficient to dispel the darkness; but here she found the hall illuminated exactly as she had seen it upon her arrival.
She proceeded with some caution along the corridor and then down the stairs.
She remembered that Miss Darcy had shown them the rooms below—the library opposite the dining room, and beyond it the drawing room.
She opened the door of the library, endeavouring to make no sound, but in that house everything moved with perfect ease. She looked with renewed affection at the bookcases—and then, after a few moments, she saw him.
She stood motionless, scarcely knowing why, perhaps from embarrassment at wandering thus in a house not her own.
Darcy, in his shirt, took up his coat from the back of his chair and put it on, leaving his shirt open at the throat; and that small circumstance brought her an unexpected calm.
“I beg your pardon,” she said softly. “I ought to have asked permission to take a book.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, smiling at her confusion, and the warmth of his voice reassured her.
“Did you order the rain this evening?” she asked, and he laughed. Then he motioned for her to be seated. But something in her shifted, for, looking steadily into his eyes, she said, “My father died three months ago.”
The man whom she had always believed proud, almost insensible, turned pale; and, to her surprise, sank into a chair, looking at her in silence. But he recovered himself immediately, rose, and came towards her. Taking both her hands in his, he said,
“Good God, why did you not tell me?”
Elizabeth gently withdrew her hands from his and took the chair he indicated.
“When was I to have told you?”
“When we met in Derby, when you arrived here.”