Twenty-Eight
Longbourn
Elizabeth
They had scarcely passed beyond the drawing-room windows before Elizabeth became conscious that neither of them had shown the smallest interest in the gardens.
The first snow lay thinly over the dormant beds, gathering along the low hedges and whitening the bare branches above them, while the gravel yielded damply beneath their steps.
Darcy remarked once that the tulip garden must be very beautiful in spring, and Elizabeth agreed, though by then he had already begun his account and she could spare little attention for anything else.
She listened in astonishment as he related the events of the past month in as much detail as he could.
Her expression altered so often that she soon abandoned every effort to conceal it, looking at him first in disbelief, then alarm, and more than once with an indignation which needed no words.
That Mrs. Vane had laboured so many years against him, drawing servants, acquaintance, and men of Wickham’s disposition into her designs, seemed almost beyond comprehension.
Darcy spoke without embellishment, though the steadiness of his manner could not disguise what the account cost him.
When he described the cottage near Ashbourne, Mrs. Younge and Wickham’s part in drawing Mrs. Vane there, and the moment Colonel Forster’s men entered, Elizabeth found herself walking more slowly until at last they came to a stop beside the dormant rose beds.
“It was not until Colonel Forster led her to the carriage,” Darcy concluded, “and I watched them drive away that I understood it was truly finished.”
Elizabeth knew not what to say. The cold touched her cheeks and gathered upon the edge of her bonnet, but she scarcely felt it as she considered all he had told her.
“Mr. Wickham made himself very easy to speak with,” she said at last. “He knew how to appear open without seeming indiscreet, and how to suggest confidence where none had yet been earned. I never believed his account of you, but I understood very well why another person might have done so.”
Darcy looked at her with some surprise, though she could not suppose the fact itself was new to him.
“He spoke as though he regretted being obliged to expose you,” she continued. “There was no appearance of malice in him, and that was perhaps his greatest advantage. Mrs. Vane might have arranged the greater part without him, but he made every falsehood easier to receive.”
“He did,” Darcy said. “She had money, patience, and a talent for discovering where another person’s loyalty might be purchased. Wickham possessed what she lacked. He could enter a room as a stranger and leave it having persuaded half the company that they had known him all their lives.”
“And all the while appearing to have told them very little.”
“Precisely.”
Elizabeth shook her head, still troubled by the extent of it. “I cannot decide which is worse, that Mrs. Vane carried such anger for so many years, or that she allowed it to govern every part of her life. How could she have wanted to injure every person whose happiness might touch yours?”
Something in Darcy’s expression altered, and she knew at once that his thoughts had gone to Georgiana.
“Her resentment began while I was yet a boy,” he said.
“She believed my father responsible for her father’s disgrace and death, and every suffering which followed became further proof of his guilt in her mind.
I cannot know whether my father acted with more severity than justice required.
I know only that Mr. Hartley was guilty, and that my father regretted the consequences more than Mrs. Vane ever allowed herself to believe. ”
“She resented not only what happened, then, but the whole life she believed had been denied her.”
“Yes. By the time she possessed the means to act, resentment had become the only purpose she recognised.”
Elizabeth looked across the whitened beds, trying to imagine a grief preserved so carefully that it hardened into vengeance.
She could feel compassion for the young woman Mrs. Vane had once been, abandoned to hardship and convinced of an injustice she had no power to answer, yet that woman had chosen again and again to make others suffer for it.
“What will happen to her now?” she asked at length.
Darcy was silent long enough that Elizabeth turned towards him. “I have considered withdrawing the complaint against her.”
“You would let her go?” her eyes widened in shock.
“Not immediately. She remains confined while Colonel Forster while he determines what may safely be done, and I have spoken with her more than once since her arrest. If she shows some understanding of what she has done, and if I can be satisfied that she no longer retains the means to threaten my family’s reputation, I shall not press for the severest prosecution. ”
Elizabeth regarded him closely. “After all these years, and everything she attempted against your sister?”
“That is the reason I have not yet decided the matter completely.” His mouth tightened before he continued.
“But I have spent years pursued by an enemy without a face. It was easy to imagine something monstrous because I could imagine nothing human. Now I have seen her, and I understand where her anger began. Understanding does not excuse her crimes, but neither can I pretend it has no claim upon my judgement.”
There was weariness in his countenance, but none of the anger Elizabeth might once have expected. It seemed to her that the greatest proof of Mrs. Vane’s defeat lay not in the arrest, but in Darcy’s refusal to permit her hatred to determine what sort of man he would become.
“There are practical difficulties as well,” he added.
“A full prosecution would expose every circumstance concerning Mrs. Younge and Wickham. Mrs. Younge supplied the information which enabled us to find the cottage. Both she and Wickham betrayed Mrs. Vane to preserve themselves, on the condition that their assistance would be considered.”
“And you will keep those words even where they acted from no honourable motive?”
“My word cannot depend upon the quality of theirs.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “You are a remarkable man, Mr. Darcy.”
“I do not know whether you intend that as praise.”
“On this occasion, I believe I do.” She resumed walking, and he fell into step beside her. “It is a kindness, Mr. Darcy, though I suspect you will resist allowing it to be called one. I am only thankful Miss Darcy was not drawn any further into Mrs. Vane’s designs.”
The severity that clouded his countenance while he spoke left at once.
“Speaking of my sister, Georgiana is travelling to Hertfordshire as we speak. I wished her to spend Christmas near me, and after so many months of uncertainty, I believe a change of scene will do her good. I only hope the weather has not made the roads too difficult.”
Elizabeth smiled before she had the presence of mind to conceal how much the news pleased her. “Then I shall meet her at last.”
“If you are willing.”
“Very willing. You have spoken of her so often that I have sometimes felt almost acquainted with her already, though I know that is a presumption she may not share.”
“She has heard rather more of you than you may suppose,” Darcy replied. “Once this business with Mrs. Vane had concluded, I wrote to her. I told her everything and invited her to Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, but Darcy had turned his attention towards the path with such deliberate composure that she knew better than to press him. The warmth which rose to her face had very little to do with the cold.
They had nearly reached the end of the lower walk when Darcy said, “I confess I expected to see your cousin this morning. Your father mentioned that he had left Meryton.”
“A great many things have happened since you left without a word, sir.”
The reproach escaped before Elizabeth had intended to make it, and Darcy’s step faltered. She regretted the sharpness at once, though not the truth of it.
“Mr. Collins proposed to my friend Charlotte Lucas not long after your departure,” she continued, allowing him time to recover. “She accepted him, and he has since gone to obtain a licence so that the marriage may take place before Christmas.”
Darcy looked at her in undisguised astonishment. “Miss Lucas accepted him?”
“She did.”
“Had they formed an attachment of which I was unaware?”
“No attachment which either of them has troubled to claim.” Elizabeth could not prevent a slight smile. “Charlotte desires a comfortable establishment, and Mr. Collins requires a wife whom Lady Catherine may approve. Each believes the other suitable to the purpose.”
Darcy considered this with a gravity the subject scarcely deserved. “I suppose there are marriages founded upon less agreement.”
“There are undoubtedly marriages founded upon less understanding. Charlotte knows precisely what she has accepted, which is more than can be said for many brides.”
“And Mr. Collins?”
“Mr. Collins knows that she has accepted him. I believe that is the only understanding he considers necessary.”
A quiet laugh escaped Darcy, but it faded after a short while.
He turned to face her as they walked. “You were right to reproach me.”
“I did not mean to do so, sir.”
“Nevertheless, you were right. I left Hertfordshire without taking leave of you. I have regretted it every day since.”
“You could have come to Oakham Mount once more,” Elizabeth said softly. “Or, if that truly was impossible, you might at least have left word with Mr. Bingley. He already knew of our meetings.”
“I considered it. I considered coming to Oakham Mount once more before I left, though I knew the danger of it.” He drew a slow breath, his attention fixed upon her.
“If Wickham or anyone connected with Mrs. Vane had observed us together again, there could have been no doubt that you were of particular importance to me. I had already given them too much opportunity to suspect it.”