Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Bennet wished to take the carriage into Meryton for her sister’s card party, but Elizabeth absolutely refused.
“But Lizzy! You will marry very well! Everyone will scarce believe that you are to be such a wealthy lady if you do not go everywhere, even five minutes away, by carriage.”
“I shall not be that sort of wealthy lady,” Elizabeth replied. “I still like a walk, and I have not had a proper one these two weeks. But, Mama, console yourself, I have heard that, on occasion, even the wives of peers stroll about the grounds.”
“Lord! If you insist. You will marry better than I ever anticipated. There must be something to your notions. I never understood you, Lizzy, but you have done even better than I did when I married Mr. Bennet.”
Elizabeth had in full honesty never expected to receive a statement of approval and trust in her judgment from her mother.
It felt odd, especially since Elizabeth feared, a little, that she was making a terrible error by marrying Mr. Darcy.
Her mother’s actual grief at seeing Mr. Bennet in such danger—mixed, as it ought to be, with the matron’s concern for the future—and Elizabeth’s inability to truly disagree with Mr. Darcy’s judgment upon the flaws of her father, had left Elizabeth with more friendly feelings towards her mother than she ever recalled.
She was not required to approve of her mother to love her.
Love was not a matter of looking at that which was flawless and approving of it; love saw the flaws and embraced the flawed beloved. Mr. Darcy had spoken true: her mother’s flaws rose chiefly from the insufficiently considered application of good feelings.
While the mile walk to Meryton was delightful, and Elizabeth was dearly glad to stretch her legs, as soon as she entered Mrs. Phillips’s house and ascended to the dining room, she found herself again full of anxiety for her father.
What if he had died while they were on the road? Perhaps right now the footman was running from Longbourn to inform them that they must return immediately.
At least one member of their party—Mr. Collins—would be delighted. Though Elizabeth thought he had borne up better under the disappointment of her father not immediately dying than he had under the shock of her engagement to Mr. Darcy.
Perhaps he was merely more certain than Elizabeth, the doctor, or Mr. Bennet himself that her father would make the introductory shake of hands with his maker within a week or two.
But perhaps he was motivated by more generous feelings than that.
Since Elizabeth no longer had any need to make an effort to imagine that she almost liked Mr. Collins, she found that she did not dislike the parson quite so very much as she had when she meant to make herself marry him.
Elizabeth was immediately embraced by Charlotte, who had arrived before them. “Congratulations to you! Congratulations!”
Charlotte squeezed her tightly. “It will be for the best. You will see. But I shall be most unhappy to have you so far away. I shall miss you dearly, you know.”
“You must visit,” Elizabeth said. “I do not know when, or how quickly I shall accustom myself to the estate. But in the spring or summer. I am sure that I shall have some money I can give you to help with the expense of the travel if you are willing to make a journey of such distance.”
“With delight,” Charlotte said. “I told you he looked to find a wife.”
“You are not offended by me marrying a man who spoke slightingly of you?”
“And of yourself and of poor Miss King—we must think of Miss King. Nobody thinks of Miss King. I seldom do. My dear Eliza, Mr. Darcy has many virtues, but polite concealment of his true sentiments is not one of them. I hope that you will be happy. No. I declare that you will be happy.”
“I hope so as well. I still feel a little guilt on your behalf.”
Charlotte laughed and became misty eyed. “That is kind of you. I am glad to hear that you have not forgotten me in this time of happiness—but I wish you joy. I can wish you nothing else but joy.”
After this brief conversation with Charlotte, Elizabeth was surrounded by well-wishers. The conversation was a mixture of enquiries about Mr. Bennet’s health—was it true that he would not die?—and requests to know how the match with Mr. Darcy had been established.
Despite Mr. Darcy’s poor manners and stiff bearing, the dislike the neighbourhood had nurtured towards him dissolved without delay due to his unimpeachable choice to marry a local girl.
The belief that he had murdered his wife, a view generally held as true currency before, was now known to be scurrilous gossip with no possible truth. Elizabeth was well liked, and thus they wished for her to be happy and well, and that was unlikely if her husband was a wife murderer.
Not long after, Mr. Phillips led many officers and other gentlemen into his drawing room. It was easy to discern at first glance the man whose appearance had delighted Kitty and Lydia.
Mr. Wickham moved with a grace and deportment that was as much superior to that of the other officers as their appearance was superior to that of Mr. Phillips. The officer’s features were exceptionally soft and smooth.
The indifference that Elizabeth felt towards all men who were not Mr. Darcy was not so great that she remained wholly without pleasure when Mr. Wickham approached her as soon as the card tables had been set out.
She was well used to being the centre of male attention—ever since Jane had been withdrawn from society, she had been acknowledged as the prettiest woman in nearly every room she entered—but it was gratifying to once more be approached by the gentleman to whom every female eye turned.
Elizabeth’s mind was, however, so filled with wonder about Darcy and fear for her father that she was incapable of finding much pleasure in Mr. Wickham’s trite conversation.
Mr. Wickham was nothing. A trivial charmer.
She barely attended to him until he turned the conversation to a topic that commanded all of her interest: Mr. Darcy.
“I hear that I must congratulate you on an engagement of marriage to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley? Is this true?”
Elizabeth acknowledged that it was.
“A very fine man with an excellent estate. Might I enquire, do you mean for the wedding to be much delayed?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, feeling again anxiety because everything would change so, so soon. “He is presently in London to acquire a special licence. I believe we shall be married within the next week, and we mean to travel to Pemberley before Christmas.”
Mr. Wickham smiled at hearing this, and she gained a sense that some tension left his frame.
“No extended shopping for wedding clothes? No chance to enjoy the season of courtship and its great joys and little inconveniences? And no chance to enjoy the envy of all your friends at your good fortune? Hurrying a woman to the altar in such a rushed manner is very much like Darcy.”
What did he mean?
“My father is exceedingly ill,” Elizabeth replied, “and his current condition would have made it impossible for me to take great joy in the season of courtship.”
“I heard something of that. An attack of apoplexy. Terrible thing. A series of them took my own old man off. Has Darcy ever mentioned him to you?”
“I do not believe so.”
“Never my name? He never talked about his father’s steward, old Wickham, or dear George his childhood friend?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, all interest. “Your father was the steward to Mr. Darcy’s father?”
“Yes, and I was his godson. Old Mr. Darcy was my dearest friend, and after he died, I remained amongst the family as Lady Anne delighted in my company. I could make her laugh and smile when her son’s restrained manners never could.”
“What was Mrs. Darcy like?” Elizabeth asked, unable to contain her curiosity to hear something about her predecessor.
“A lovely woman, beyond any compare. Lively, clever, quick, with an easy turn for laughter and an ability to make any room brighter. I sobbed the day she died— But you cannot wish to hear the woman whose position you will replace praised so much. Poor, poor Mrs. Darcy!”
Elizabeth frowned. “And Mr. Darcy’s mother?”
“A great woman, always dignified, always kind, always willing to condescend to be my dear friend.” Mr. Wickham hummed. “And when will Darcy return from town? I must judge him ill for leaving you alone at such a time. For shame.”
Feeling quite annoyed on behalf of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth replied, “He is attending to matters necessary before our marriage. The chief part of his business is the acquisition of the licence, and having the draft settlement written. It would be an odd woman indeed who complained about the eagerness of the man that she will marry to settle those matters. And Miss Darcy visits me every day.”
“Miss Darcy is also present in Hertfordshire? And allowed to mingle in society? Georgiana. Does my dear Georgiana ever mention me? Does she ever mention poor George?”
That triggered a memory for Elizabeth. “Your name has been mentioned by her once or twice.”
Georgiana had been unhappy that a George had been thrown from the house suddenly. It had happened at nearly the same time that Mrs. Darcy had been locked in her rooms…
Dear Georgiana perhaps lacked the suspicion, or maybe the private knowledge, to combine such facts in the obvious manner. But Elizabeth’s mind quickly formed a suspicion regarding why precisely he had been sent away.
As Mr. Wickham continued to speak, Elizabeth drew away from him. An antipathy towards Mr. Darcy was evident in much that the officer had said.
“I devoted hours to Miss Darcy’s entertainment,” Mr. Wickham continued, “and the years I spent in the company of her and Lady Anne were amongst the happiest in my life. I do not like to speak of the previous Mrs. Darcy. But poor Mary! She has been forgotten by him so soon. I cannot think of them all without grief.”
“I assure you,” Elizabeth said, “that Mr. Darcy still thinks a great deal of the first Mrs. Darcy. He has not forgotten her. But he must marry again.”