20. Chapter Twenty #4
Mrs. Reynolds took command with such competence that Elizabeth understood anew why Pemberley ran as it did.
Lydia burst into protests, then tears, then accusations against London, clerks, warehouses, accidents, and every road south.
Georgiana stood very still for nearly a minute before quietly asking how she might help.
Elizabeth answered questions.
Folded gowns.
Found Lydia’s missing bonnet beneath Horace’s paw.
Tried not to look toward the drive.
Mr. Darcy could not arrive in time.
The knowledge pressed upon every motion. If they delayed until morning, Mr. Gardiner’s business might suffer, and possibly others with it. If they left tonight, Mr. Darcy would come home to find her gone.
It was absurdly dramatic.
It was also inescapable.
“Write to him,” Mrs. Gardiner said when Elizabeth entered the chamber they had shared during the visit and stood there without purpose.
Elizabeth turned.
Her aunt was closing a trunk.
“Write to him, Lizzy.”
“I do not know what to say.”
“That has rarely stopped you.”
Under other circumstances Elizabeth might have smiled.
Now she went to the writing desk.
The first attempt was too formal. She read the first line and hated it.
Sir,
No.
She crumpled the page.
The second began too warmly and then retreated into cowardice before the third sentence.
My dear Mr. Darcy,
I hope you will forgive our abrupt departure. My uncle has received news from London requiring immediate attention, and though we wished to remain until your arrival—
She stopped.
That said nothing.
She threw it aside.
The third accused Miss Bingley too plainly.
That would not do either. She would not make her letter a weapon. She would not have Mr. Darcy ride home, read her words, and be forced first into anger when she wished him to know—
What?
That she loved him?
Her pen hovered.
Mrs. Gardiner moved quietly about the room, giving her privacy by pretending to be absorbed in packing.
Elizabeth drew a fresh sheet toward her.
This time, she did not try to sound unaffected.
My dear Mr. Darcy,
I do not know whether I ought to address you so, yet any lesser form now feels dishonest. If I err, I beg you will forgive me. I write in haste, for my uncle has received an urgent summons to London, and we must leave before you can come back.
I cannot depart Pemberley without honesty.
Once, I misunderstood you so completely that the memory still mortifies me.
I believed what I wished to believe. I judged quickly, and I judged wrongly.
Since coming here, and especially since yesterday, I have hoped I had learned better.
Perhaps you will understand why I still fear my own certainty when it concerns you.
Yesterday you asked whether you had hope.
You have more than hope.
If my conduct has not made that plain, let these words do so.
My feelings are so different from what they were at Hunsford that I scarcely recognize the woman who answered you then.
I do not say this lightly. I have no practice in such declarations and find myself awkward in the attempt.
But I would rather be awkward than silent.
Miss Bingley spoke with me today.
I do not write this to accuse her. Much of what she said I dismissed, for she does not know your heart as I have come to know it. I do not doubt your sincerity. I do not doubt your honor. I do not doubt what passed between us.
But she named considerations I cannot pretend do not exist. She spoke of rank, of trade, of society, of the disdain borne by those whose fortunes began in commerce.
She spoke of Lady Catherine’s expectations and of the judgment that may follow any attachment between us.
Most painfully, she suggested that those connected to you might suffer for your choice.
I believe you.
That is the truest answer I can give.
I once believed myself an excellent judge and was humbled by the result.
If I have misunderstood you again, if your feelings were real but momentary, or if reflection has shown you burdens which affection made light in the hour, then I release you from every expectation my conduct may have encouraged.
I would rather suffer disappointment now than become a later source of regret to you, to Georgiana, or to any future happiness you might otherwise claim.
But if I have understood you correctly at last, if your heart remains where you placed it, then come to me.
I do not release you because my feelings have altered.
I release you only from any obligation you may believe those feelings impose.
Come because you choose it freely, because no one has persuaded you.
Come because no warning, no claim of rank, no old fear or former error has altered what you asked me to believe.
Come to Longbourn—to me.
If you do, you will find me waiting.
Yours,
Elizabeth
She read it once.
Her hand shook once she finished.
Mrs. Gardiner came beside her, not close enough to read. “Is it done?”
“Yes.”
“Will you seal it?”
Elizabeth folded the letter before courage could desert her. “Yes.”
The wax took longer than it ought. Her fingers were clumsy. The seal pressed imperfectly, but legibly.
She wrote his name across the front.
Mr. Darcy.
Not Fitzwilliam.
Not yet.
Though the thought came, and with it such an ache that she had to sit for a moment longer.
Mrs. Gardiner placed one hand upon her shoulder, then left her to it.
The farewell with Georgiana nearly undid her.
She found Miss Darcy in the music room, standing beside the pianoforte with both hands resting upon the closed lid. Lydia was nowhere in sight, which meant she had either been sent away or was sobbing into Horace’s neck.
“Miss Bennet,” Georgiana said, turning quickly.
Elizabeth crossed the room with the letter hidden in her hand.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything.”
The swiftness of the answer caught at her.
Elizabeth held out the folded paper. “Will you give this to your brother when he returns?”
Georgiana’s eyes dropped to the direction.
Color rose in her face, but she did not tease. She took the letter with both hands, serious as any guardian of state correspondence.
“I shall give it to him myself.”
“Thank you.”
“He will come.”
Elizabeth tried to answer and failed.
Georgiana stepped forward and embraced her. The gesture was brief, awkward at first, then fierce enough to reveal how much feeling the girl had been holding back all afternoon.
“You must come back,” Georgiana whispered.
Elizabeth returned the embrace. “I hope to.”
“No.” Georgiana drew back, blinking quickly. “You must.”
The door burst open before Elizabeth could speak.
Lydia stood there with red eyes, a crumpled handkerchief, and Horace crowding behind her.
“If you are having a tragic farewell without me, I shall never forgive either of you.”
Georgiana made a sound perilously close to a sob and a laugh together.
Elizabeth held out one arm.
Lydia plunged into the embrace without hesitation, wrapping herself around Elizabeth and Georgiana until all three were caught in a thoroughly improper tangle beside the pianoforte while Horace attempted to insert his head between them.
“There,” Lydia said thickly. “Now it is fair.”
“Fair?” Elizabeth repeated.
“If everyone is miserable, no one can accuse anyone of excess.”
Georgiana wiped her cheek with the back of her glove.
“That is not logic.”
“It is sister logic,” Lydia said. “Very advanced.”
The carriage stood ready less than an hour later.
Pemberley’s front steps had become a scene of trunks, servants, umbrellas, damp gravel, farewell embraces, and Horace’s conviction that any departing carriage ought to include him.
Mr. Gardiner apologized again to Mrs. Reynolds.
Mrs. Gardiner thanked Georgiana with particular tenderness.
Mr. Bingley hovered nearby, troubled and anxious, perhaps already thinking of Hertfordshire and Jane.
Miss Bingley did not come down.
Elizabeth was glad of it.
She said goodbye to Georgiana once more, then to Bingley, then to Mrs. Hurst, who surprised her by pressing her hand and murmuring, “I am sorry for the haste.”
“So are we all,” Elizabeth replied.
Lydia clung to Georgiana until Mrs. Gardiner called her name twice. Breaking away, she untied the narrow blue ribbon from her bonnet and pressed it into Georgiana’s hand.
“It was meant for Brighton,” she said with a smile. “Instead, it became a Derbyshire ribbon. I think that much the better story.”
Georgiana curled her fingers around it. “Then I shall keep it until you return.”
Lydia smiled a watery smile. “You will write?”
“Yes.”
“Long letters.”
Georgiana chuckled. “Yes.”
“And if Miss Bingley says anything horrid, you will write that too.”
“Lydia,” Elizabeth said.
Georgiana lifted her chin a fraction. “I will write what I choose.”
Lydia stared at her for one stunned second, then beamed through fresh tears. “That was splendid.”
Elizabeth climbed into the carriage before she could lose all command of herself. Lydia followed, then Mrs. Gardiner. Mr. Gardiner gave the order.
The wheels began to turn.
Elizabeth looked toward the drive.
Empty.
No rider. No Mr. Darcy arriving early by some miracle fiction alone would permit.
The carriage moved down the long sweep from the house. Pemberley receded gradually behind them, windows catching the dull light of the unsettled sky.
Elizabeth watched it until trees intervened.
Only then did she draw back.
Lydia had begun crying into her handkerchief again. Mrs. Gardiner reached across to take Elizabeth’s hand. Outside, the road curved away from Derbyshire, carrying them toward Hertfordshire.
Elizabeth pressed her fingers together in her lap.
Come to me.
She had written the words.
Now she had to trust them.
And him.