Chapter Sixteen
Fitzwilliam Darcy was one of the rare individuals in this world who had been given nearly everything he had ever wanted in life.
He understood this, though in his reckoning, he did not even include so much of the good fortune he possessed: caring and attentive parents, health even through the perilous years of early youth, an estate that freed him from all financial cares.
These had ever been such a part of his existence that he scarcely understood them as separate from himself.
He did, however, give thanks for those blessings he was more conscious of receiving.
Young Fitzwilliam had hoped very much for a sister, and just as he had reached an age when any future siblings seemed unlikely, his mother had unexpectedly presented the family with Georgiana.
Like most boys above the age of ten, he could not allow himself to be wholly preoccupied with a baby sister, but whenever he was home from school, he doted on her as much as his youthful dignity allowed.
(Never had he been as eager to have a brother, and Darcy had occasionally reflected upon why this would be.
It pained him to recognize that this might have been that the need for boyish companionship had been fulfilled by the steward’s son, George Wickham.
His memories of Wickham had been stained by what came to pass in later years—but there had been a time when they were not so unlike brothers.
How sad, that all should have ended as it did!)
Other gifts he recognized, as the years went on: the Oxford education that had broadened both his mind and his acquaintance, his parents’ survival into his early adulthood, and friendships with such men as George Knightley and Charles Bingley.
Thus he had been ill-prepared for any refusal of his heart’s desire when Elizabeth Bennet had rejected his first proposal—yet even this, Darcy came to see, had proved to be invaluable to his happiness.
Had she not spoken her mind fully, not called his attention to the defects in his character, they could never have shared so strong a union.
His love had not been denied, merely delayed.
In truth, it could be said that Fitzwilliam Darcy had only ever faced one great unfulfilled wish in his life: his longing for a daughter.
He cherished each of the three sons Elizabeth bore him, but they had both so hoped that a little girl would come to join them.
Yet, as the years went on, slowly he and Elizabeth had come to realize that their family was complete.
Given their boys’ health and strength, this could not be mourned…
but there remained within Darcy a need he could not have named, the need for such tenderness as the age would only allow a father to give to a daughter.
Then Susannah had come into their lives, first on its periphery, then more and more.
Wickham and Lydia’s lack of interest in her had allowed Darcy to bring the girl into his home, to rear her with every privilege and pleasure, and to love her almost as though she had been born to them.
Given that Susannah strongly resembled the Bennet side of her family, Elizabeth could so easily have been her mother.
After Lydia’s death from smallpox, Susannah had come to live with them with no definite date to return to her father, and for the longest time, it had seemed that date would never arrive.
Darcy had never fully understood the circumstances that had led Wickham to change his mind—with such fatal consequences for Susannah—until this night.
“What can you mean?” he said to Jonathan. “How could you have been responsible for Susannah’s death?”
His eldest son faced him; the moonlight revealed Jonathan’s face to be pale and drawn.
Their horses shifted restlessly between them, recognizing the unease of their riders.
“I mean,” Jonathan said, “that while I was visiting the family here in Hertfordshire, I had occasion to be at the Brookses’ vicarage at the same time as Mr. Wickham.
Aunt Kitty—she always had more time for him than the rest of the family, as you recall—”
“Do not digress.” Darcy could scarcely recognize his voice as his own.
This seemed to brace Jonathan, for he continued more forthrightly. “In those days, I had not made as much of a practice of understanding how others behave. It did not occur to me that Mr. Wickham would take such great offense to hearing that Susannah had begun to call you Papa.”
“So it was you who told him.”
“Yes, Father.”
Wickham’s letter had explained why he demanded Susannah back, more or less: You have taken from me a great deal through the years, Darcy.
You stole the parish that ought to have been my living.
You stole your sister’s love from me and the marriage I ought to have had.
You stole from me the choice to marry any other and perhaps improve my position by forcing me to wed Lydia.
I will not have you steal my daughter, too.
Never again will she address you as her father!
Susannah will know who her true father is, and precisely how he has been wronged by you and your family.
The majority of these accusations were both familiar and unjust. It was the final point that had been new, and had proved disastrous.
For Susannah had at that time only just recovered from a putrid fever, one that had greatly weakened her.
Darcy and Elizabeth had summoned physicians, had rubbed her limbs and kept her room warm and free of drafts, and prayed day and night until at last the little girl could sit up once more, could speak, could wish to hear stories.
On the very day Wickham’s letter had arrived, she had even begun to smile again.
Darcy had delayed Susannah’s return for two weeks. His reply to Wickham had included no rebuttals to the man’s petulant grievances, only the information regarding Susannah’s illness and the need for her to recover more fully before traveling. This had produced only an even more furious response.
Ultimately, they had sent Susannah away warmly dressed, in their finest carriage, with a nurse to tend her and a basket of good things to eat.
(The nurse had been paid to remain at the Wickham home, but returned almost immediately, informing the Darcys that Mr. Wickham had not even allowed her to enter the dwelling.) They had thought Wickham would see Susannah more burden than possession ere long, that she would be sent back very soon.
Wickham had not bothered to write and tell them of her death until Susannah was already in the cold ground.
“I should have understood,” Jonathan said. “Wickham’s pride—I knew enough of that to have been more cautious.”
Darcy had been so open with his son, who had hidden so much from him.
“Yes, you knew. You should have been. And it is Susannah who paid the price for your error. The dearest price, I should say, for your mother was very nearly killed by her grief.” Of his own grief, he did not trust himself to speak.
Jonathan exhaled sharply, a sound Darcy recognized from the first days following the duel, when Jonathan’s wound had still been fresh. “I have repented of it every day since.”
“Repent of it you should.” Darcy had nothing more to say to Jonathan. Shock, anger, and sorrow battled for dominance within his breast, and he knew only that he could not bear even to look at his son—his beloved son—one moment longer.
He rode to put up his horse. Jonathan had tact enough to wait to do the same until Darcy had entered Longbourn, foisted off the Bennets with the bare minimum of civility, and shut himself up in his room.
The next morning dawned gray and harsh, which befit Juliet Tilney’s mood. She had lain awake again, wondering what on earth she was to do once this mystery had been solved and her visit at Netherfield therefore come to an end.
If Juliet attempted to return to Gloucestershire, her grandfather would strip her father of his living and cast out the entire family from their home.
Her father would eventually have an independent fortune from his mother’s estate—but only after her grandfather died, and General Tilney remained in dismayingly good health.
Juliet did not doubt that the kindly Mrs. Bingley would allow her to remain, perhaps in perpetuity, but to request as much was to invite a family quarrel that would no doubt cause the Bingleys much strife.
Aunt Eleanor was not as beholden to General Tilney as was Juliet’s father, as her husband held both estate and title, but there, too, would come a family rift likely to be of great duration.
Beyond her own family, Juliet had only one intimate friend with whom she might have been able to stay indefinitely—Marianne Brandon of Devonshire.
Twice, Juliet’s investigations had overlapped with the Brandon family, and both Colonel and Mrs. Brandon had proven their true friendship and proclaimed their lasting gratitude.
However, Marianne’s most recent letters had included hints that she was soon to be delivered of her second child.
Juliet could scarcely invite herself to another woman’s confinement.
She fretted on this until the sun had risen far enough in the sky that she need feel no qualms about ringing for the maid to make her ready.
This, in turn, reminded her of poor Becky. As Juliet’s stays were draped around her, she asked the new maid, Kate, “Are they very sad belowstairs?”
“About Becky, miss?” Kate sighed. “She was always fun to have around, ready to do anything. But there’s those as say she poked her nose in where it didn’t belong, and that’s why she’s come to a bad end.”