CHAPTER 12
The storm remained batting against the island.
One day succeeded another with varying violence of the wind.
At times the rain fell in great sweeping curtains that concealed even the nearest cottages from view; at others it lessened to a persistent drizzle, only to return with renewed determination before anyone had begun to hope the worst was over.
Each morning Mr. Kewley attempted to venture down to the harbor, and each morning he returned with the same report, “It was too strong, and I couldn’t make it to the harbor.”
By the third such announcement, Elizabeth did not need to ask the question anymore, as the answer had become as much a part of the household routine as breakfast itself.
Mrs. Kewley, meanwhile, refused to allow gloomy weather to govern the temper of the cottage, "If we cannot command the sea," she declared one morning as she set a loaf of fresh bread upon the table, "we may at least command our appetites."
Her husband readily agreed, "I've never known hunger improved by worrying."
"It has improved your manners on occasion my dear, and that is the truth," she responded a bit tartly, and her husband offered the woman a wink, which, in turn, caused Mrs. Kewley to smile.
The familiar exchange drew a smile from Elizabeth before she could suppress it.
"You see?" Mrs. Kewley said triumphantly. "Mrs. Darcy agrees with me."
Elizabeth nearly corrected her, but instead, she merely smiled and accepted another slice of bread. She was becoming alarmingly accustomed to the borrowed name.
***
Breakfast was followed by whatever tasks the weather permitted. When the wind briefly relented, Darcy accompanied Mr. Kewley to inspect the outbuildings, returning with boots caked in mud and reports of fallen trees, damaged fences, and fishing boats that had broken free of their moorings.
Elizabeth remained indoors with Mrs. Kewley, whose endless occupations appeared to multiply with every passing hour. There was bread to bake, stockings to mend, herbs to dry before the hearth, and shelves to dust that scarcely seemed dusty.
She offered Mrs. Kewley assistance whenever she could, and though Mrs. Kewley protested each time that "the mistress ought not work," she accepted the help with unmistakable pleasure.
"I've always thought," she observed one afternoon as they folded freshly dried linens, "that a lady's character is easiest discovered by how she treats ordinary work."
Elizabeth laughed, "I fear you would find me sadly deficient."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Darcy," Mrs. Kewley shook her head. "A lazy person finds reasons to avoid work." She handed Elizabeth another towel, "but a useful person simply begins."
Elizabeth wondered what Lady Catherine would have thought of such philosophy.
***
The afternoons belonged to the sitting room. With little else to occupy them, the four gathered before the generous hearth while the storm continued its assault outside.
Mr. Kewley repaired fishing tackle, while Mrs. Kewley knitted, and Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy read.
Though, their attempt rarely succeeded, as conversation, which had once required conscious effort, began to arise almost without invitation.
Sometimes they spoke of matters that concerned the island, and sometimes books.
Mrs. Kewley possessed firm opinions upon all subjects. "I've never trusted novels," she announced one afternoon.
Elizabeth looked up from the volume in her lap, "Indeed?"
She nodded confidently, "Aye, they encourage people to expect too much."
Darcy glanced toward Elizabeth, "And what of history, Mrs. Kewley?"
"Oh, history encourages people to remember too little,” Mr. Kewley chuckled.
Mr. Kewley was quick to respond, "I've been married forty-three years and still don't know how she arrives at these conclusions."
His wife raised her eyes, looking wounded, though it was simply an affront, "You would if you listened, Mr. Kewley."
The elderly man said, turning to his wife, "You shall naught say that, for I have listened." Then, he turned to his guests, “for nye on fifty years that.”
"No, Thomas." She smiled serenely, "You merely hear."
Elizabeth noticed Mr. Darcy's lips twitched, and she rapidly found a smile splattered across her face. She was delighted to see Mr. Darcy’s sense of humor, though he was mindful not to show it.
***
By the second evening, another habit had been established. After supper, Mr. Kewley invariably produced a battered chessboard from the cupboard.
He looked to Mr. Darcy, "Will you indulge an old man?" Darcy accepted at once.
Elizabeth soon discovered that both gentlemen possessed considerable skill, though Mr. Kewley delighted less in victory than in conversation.
Mr. Kewley eventually said, "Check."
Darcy regarded the board, "I believe not."
The older man frowned, "So you do."
Mrs. Kewley looked over her husband's shoulder, "You've left your bishop undefended."
The man let out a gruff, "I was testing him, Mrs. Kewley."
"No, no, Mr. Kewley, you were forgetting him," she said with affectionate amusement. "There is no shame in it. Indeed, it is a very good thing to own one's mistakes before one's opponent is obliged to point them out."
"I knew perfectly well where it was," Mr. Kewley instituted.
"My dear," she replied affectionately, "so did Mr. Darcy."
Elizabeth laughed aloud, and Mr. Kewley sighed dramatically, "I live surrounded by critics, Mrs. Darcy." He looked at Elizabeth with a warm smile.
By the third evening, Elizabeth decided that the evenings were the most pleasant part of the day. She enjoyed the fire burning brightly while the wind battered the windows beyond, now so familiar that Elizabeth was no longer anxious hearing a particularly strong gale or moaning timber.
In the evenings, the tea was poured and candles were lit. And, the two couples, one genuine, and one fictional, would gather together in the cottage, isolated from the world, which seemed to grow smaller and warmer with each passing night.
Elizabeth no longer felt compelled to fill every silence.
And, she noticed that Darcy did not either.
Between them, there existed a comfortable ease, one very different from the strained reserve that had marked their first meeting before boarding the Liverpool Packet.
Together, they simply sat, read, remarked on a passage in a book, or answered the other.
And, it surprised Elizabeth how agreeable such simplicity could be.
***
Where the evenings were the most comfortable, the nights were the least. During the day, there was always something to occupy the mind.
Mrs. Kewley could invariably discover another household task requiring attention, Mr. Kewley another story about the island, another repair to be made, or another hopeful visit to the harbor.
Even the storm itself provided endless conversation, for no two days seemed precisely alike.
But nighttime admitted no such distractions.
The cheerful fire was banked for the evening, the teacups cleared away, the chessboard returned to its cupboard, and the little household gradually retired.
Mr. Kewley would take up his candle with a familiar, "We'll hope for calmer seas tomorrow," while Mrs. Kewley never failed to remind Elizabeth that extra blankets had been left in the owner's chamber should the wind turn colder before morning.
Then came the moment Elizabeth had begun to dread, together, they would walk down the narrow passage, their footsteps softened by the worn runner beneath their feet. Mrs. Kewley, carrying her candle before them, invariably paused at the door to the owner's chamber.
"I've left the fire well laid," she would say. "It should keep you warm until morning."
Each evening Elizabeth thanked her with increasing sincerity, and each evening Darcy offered his own quiet expressions of gratitude.
Then the door would close, as they entered the master and mistress's chamber.
SIlence would descend, and with it the familiar awkwardness would return the instant they found themselves alone.
Darcy was always the first to start, "I shall retire."
"As shall I," Elizabeth would reply.
Then, they would wish each other a goodnight.
"Good night, Mr. Darcy."
"Good night Miss Bennet.
The borrowed name, spoken so naturally by their hosts, still possessed the power to unsettle her. He then crossed into the adjoining chamber, pausing only long enough to ensure the connecting door remained unlatched.
"Should you require anything during the night..please retrieve me."
Elizabeth said demurely, "I shall knock."
Beyond the hearing of others, he never once addressed her by the name she borrowed.
It was, she gradually realized, his quiet acknowledgment that beneath every appearance, she remained exactly who she had always been.
"And good night, Mr. Darcy."
He closed the communicating door with gentle care, as the soft click of the latch had become strangely familiar.
***
Elizabeth lingered beside the dying fire on the third night.
She had already brushed out her hair and stood for several moments looking through the rain-streaked windows toward a sea she could not see.
Beyond the glass lay only darkness. But, somewhere beyond that darkness was England. And Longbourn, and Jane.
She wondered what explanation they would receive for her prolonged absence, and whether Anne's letters had continued to arrive in Hertfordshire unanswered.
The idea of the forged invitation returned with unbidden embarrassment. Who had written it, and why had they chosen her?
Almost against her will, other reflections had begun intruding upon them.
She found herself recalling Darcy's patience with Mr. Kewley's endless stories, the ease with which he accepted the steward's opinions, and the ready willingness with which he undertook every unpleasant task about the cottage.
He was showing an entirely new Mr. Darcy, and she felt he was not the man she believed she had known. Perhaps, she admitted reluctantly, she had never known him at all.
What must he think of me? The thought returned with painful persistence.
Deceived by his cousin, unable to see the truth until it was placed before me, and now entirely alone in my own humiliation.
She had accused him of pride, and he had shown nothing but patience.
She had called him ungentlemanly, but every action before her had been marked by kindness, restraint, and consideration.
How easily she had mistaken reservation for arrogance and silence for disdain.
He must despise me for it. How could he not? She lowered her eyes, feeling the weight of every harsh judgment she had once delivered. He has been everything a gentleman ought to be, while I have been so determined to believe him otherwise. How he must wish to be anywhere but near me.
Elizabeth pondered these thoughts, wrestling over them before she finally fell asleep.
***
In the adjoining chamber, Darcy's reflections were no less troublesome. Each night, as he extinguished the candle, he became aware of the cruel proximity of the woman separated from him by little more than an oak door.
It was a circumstance he had once imagined under vastly different conditions. He had, countless times, pictured Elizabeth as his wife by her own choosing, in the mistress's room of his home. Instead, Providence, or perhaps some unknown hand, had granted him something infinitely more difficult.
He smiled bitterly at the irony. It is my punishment, he supposed, and it was an unkind one. She is all things lovely and delightful, and she is not mine, well not in any way that mattered, he thought grimly. The island might call her his wife, but she was anything but that.
How her presence tormented him. Every kindness she offered reminded him of what he could not claim.
Every moment of ease between them tempted him to hope, only for reason to remind him that her acceptance had not been freely given.
He had wanted Elizabeth as his wife, his companion, his helpmate, his beloved, and now she was his wife, and yet none of those things.
“Blast this storm,” he said quietly, exhaling into the darkness.
The rain continued against the window, the wind howled through the land, and he felt, perhaps for the first time, the full weight of the strange fate that had brought them together.
He had spent months believing he would never have Elizabeth Bennet, only to discover that having her near and not truly having her was a far greater trial.