Chapter Fourteen The London Revisions #2
ELIZABETH SPENT AN hour on the nursery floor, helping Henry orchestrate a complex naval battle involving three wooden boats and an aggressive rag doll.
She braided Alice’s hair, and successfully negotiated the surrender of a wooden soldier from Ruth’s mouth, replacing it with a significantly less splintery sugar plum.
Just being there was a profound relief. There were no ticking clocks, no looming portraits of ancestors judging her posture. There was only the children’s noise and the safety of family.
Later that evening, as the house quieted down, she retreated to the writing desk in the bedchamber she shared with her sister to perform her most daunting task of the day.
She had to write to her father. She knew her father’s cynical, protective heart and needed to assure him that she was not being coerced by ten thousand a year, nor bullied by a persistent aristocrat.
She dipped her quill and began to write.
My Dear Papa,
I have arrived safely in Gracechurch Street, having survived both the springs of the hired chaise and the condescension of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I am pleased to report that my intellect remains intact, though my patience was severely tested by the glazing on the windows.
I write to you today regarding a matter of some consequence.
Papa, I must confess that the world has turned upside down. Mr Darcy, the proud, disagreeable man I mocked last autumn, has proven himself to be different. He is honourable, he is loyal, and he has requested my permission to court me.
I know you will laugh. I know you will likely send me a satirical reply asking if I have suffered a head injury.
But I assure you, my mind is clear. I have agreed to his courtship.
He is... he is a good man, Papa. Beneath the granite exterior, there is a heart that I find I am eager to understand better.
Please do not tell Mama yet. If she learns that Mr Darcy is calling upon me in London, the resulting hysteria will likely be heard all the way down in Cheapside, and Aunt Madeline’s freshly aired curtains will not survive the acoustic shock.
I remain, your loving and bewildered daughter,
Elizabeth.
She sealed the letter with a sense of finality. The lines were drawn and the future was waiting.
Jane entered the room, and they started preparing for bed, performing the comforting ritual of brushing one another’s hair and untying ribbons.
Elizabeth sat on the edge of the mattress, watching in the mirror her beloved sister methodically brushing Elizabeth’s long, dark hair.
She seemed peaceful, but Elizabeth’s mind was still churning, snagging on the one remaining edge of her conscience.
“Jane.”
Jane paused, lowering the brush. “Yes, Lizzy?”
“I said I was happy today, and I am.” Elizabeth twisted the fabric of her nightgown between her fingers. “I have accepted Mr Darcy’s courtship. I look forward to his arrival with an eagerness that shames me.”
“But?” Jane prompted gently, as they moved to sit on the bed.
“But I still hold it,” Elizabeth confessed, her voice tight with guilt. “I hold a tiny sliver of resentment in my heart against him. Against Mr Darcy.”
Jane tilted her head, her eyes filled with understanding. “For what he did in November?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered, looking down at her hands.
“I know he loves me. I know he believed he was doing the right thing for his friend. I know he has apologised, but every time I look at you, and I remember the tears you shed, and the months of agony you endured... a part of me remains angry at him for playing God with your life.”
Jane did not speak immediately. She reached out, placing her hand over Elizabeth’s twisting fingers, stilling them.
“Lizzy. Look at me.”
Elizabeth raised her eyes.
“You must let it go,” Jane commanded. “You must surrender that resentment, because it is misplaced.”
“How can it be misplaced? He admitted to it!”
“He admitted to holding the door open,” Jane corrected, her tone devoid of bitterness. “He admitted to suggesting the path, but Lizzy, he is not the one who walked through the door.”
Elizabeth blinked, the stark truth of the metaphor hitting her.
“Mr Darcy was wrong to meddle,” Jane continued. “He was wrong to interfere, but he is not the one who hurt me. Miss Bingley is not the one who hurt me. Mrs Hurst is not the one who hurt me.”
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hands.
“It was Mr Bingley. It was Charles Bingley himself. He is a grown man, Lizzy. He is the master of his own fortune and his own fate. If he had the strength of character a true love requires, he would have thanked his friend for the advice and ridden back to Longbourn.”
Jane smiled, a sad but liberated expression.
“Mr Darcy merely offered an excuse,” Jane concluded. “Mr Bingley was the one who eagerly accepted it. Do not blame the friend for the weakness of the suitor.”
Elizabeth let out a shaky breath. The final, stubborn knot in her chest—the knot she had been clinging to out of love for her sister—began to unravel.
“You are so wise, Jane,” Elizabeth whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “When did you become the cynical one?”
“I am not cynical,” Jane laughed, wiping the tear from Elizabeth’s face. “I am just finally seeing clearly, and what I see is that you have found a man who would never, ever allow anyone to steer him away from you.”
“He would not,” Elizabeth admitted, a watery smile breaking through.
“Exactly!” Jane beamed. “He is steadfast, Lizzy. He is the rock you deserve. So, I absolve him of my broken heart. You must absolve him, too.”
Jane stood up, moving to pull back the quilts of the bed.
“Give him the chance he asks for, Lizzy,” she urged. “Because you deserve to be happy. And I intend to see you happy.”
Elizabeth stared at the firelight dancing in the grate, the anger gone. The resentment had burned away, leaving only an open path stretching forward into the future.
“I will,” Elizabeth promised, climbing into bed beside her sister. “I will give him every chance.”
As she lay in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the night, Elizabeth Bennet closed her eyes and smiled, perfectly at peace.