Since returning from London Mr. Darcy was increasingly engaged with the business of the estate and the parish. He rode out frequently to see one tenant or another, or to inspect some concern Mr. Forster felt it opportune to have Mr. Darcy appraise for himself; it was noted favour-ably in the neighbourhood his increased attentions to concerns of the parish. With each passing week of spring, as Elizabeth observed him becoming ever more occupied, she felt she was discovering her husband at his best. Some people are at their best in the company of strangers and acquaintances when they are compelled to comport themselves agreeably; her husband was at his best here at Pemberley, at the place he held so dear, with those he loved and who loved him in turn, and where his daily activities were ordered by purpose and consequence.
This morning was no exception, and Mr. Darcy had spent the better part of it in his study attending to business and personal correspondence. Among the letters was one from Bingley written in his customarily haphazard fashion. The letter was ostensibly to determine when the Bingleys were to arrive for an extended summer visit—something that had already been clearly established between Elizabeth and Jane—but was filled with such rambling and nonsensical accounts of his day as to seriously concern his friend. Now his friend was married, Darcy was certain it would do him well to have something to focus his attentions on beyond his wife and the sport of the season. It did not do a gentleman any good to be so unremittingly without purpose or obligations. Such men were always more liable to mischief and trouble and he had long recognized that for all his friend’s many merits, he was too leisurely and unoccupied by half. Darcy had also received a strangely worded letter from his cousin the Viscount that troubled and he had wished to reply without delay to query further on the situation at Highpointe Manor.
His tasks successfully concluded, he rose from his meticulously ordered desk and stepped over to the large window and leaned against the frame of the opened window. After a day of dreary drizzle, it was a glorious late spring morning. The sun was bright; the breeze was mild; the sky was a clear, cloudless blue; birds were busily chirping. From here he could see in the distance the gentle course of the trout stream that had provided such delightful distractions since boyhood, as well as the lovely canopied pathway that led to the cutting gardens. After a time, he saw his wife coming from that direction. Elizabeth wore a simple, white muslin gown; her bonnet dangling from her hand, her face was becomingly flushed from exercise. As she neared the house and turned to enter inside she stepped absent-mindedly, her foot falling into a small puddle in the pathway not yet dried by the morning’s sun.
As Darcy watched her disappear into the house, he unexpectedly discovered the answer to Elizabeth’s once proffered inquiry: when did you fall in love with me? What could set you off in the first place? At the time she had playfully made the inquiry he had responded that he could not know when he had begun, that he was in the middle before he knew he had begun, and yet he suddenly understood precisely what had set him off in the first place. For as clearly as he now watched her disappear into the house, the hem of her white muslin slightly soiled, he saw her walking into Netherfield Hall, her petticoat six inches deep in mud. On that morning, come to inquire after her sister Jane, Elizabeth had stood before the censorious Netherfield party impassive to their disapprobation. Bingley’s sisters had said she looked almost wild, and indeed she had: her cheeks flushed, her eyes particularly bright, her petticoat infamously sullied. In that one singular moment, however, he had seen her—her character, her person, her spirit—entirely stripped of civility’s guise and he had been overcome with an unfamiliar, profound admiration that he had swiftly done all in his power to sublimate. That morning in the Netherfield breakfast room he had pushed aside the moment’s insight as quickly as it had captivated him; nevertheless, her lovely face, with her bright, expressive eyes, so becomingly flushed from the exercise, had certainly returned to torment his dreams more than once.
He shook his head, bemused by how agonizingly he had struggled against his inclination. He had never confessed to Elizabeth the moment he had finally relented to his desire to have her for his own; yet the moment remained as clear to him, as viscerally powerful as had been the precise instant of its occurrence at Rosings Park the prior April.
His aunt had been awaiting the arrival of Mr. Collins and his party, of which Elizabeth had been a part. Lady Catherine had turned to him, touched his arm and remarked, “Darcy, is Anne not looking particularly well this evening?” Turning to look at his cousin he had experienced a powerful revulsion. This pale, dull, meek thing, weighed down by too much silk and too many jewels, he had thought with newly born disgust, who never spoke but in incomprehensible mumbles and who moved with such practiced sickliness, was the woman his entire family was quietly and patiently waiting for him to acquiesce to marry. At that very moment, as a potent distaste and indignation at the fate his family wished for him took root within his heart, Mr. Collins’ party arrived. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had walked into the room, lovely and luminous, and it was as though she had brought the sunlight and warmth and life itself with her. Suddenly he had known with surety that he would throw over once and for all his family’s expectations; suddenly he had understood that he passionately coveted what she possessed in such enthralling abundance: life, vigour, joyfulness.
The next day he had gone to her with a heedless, pretentious certainty only to be most unambiguously rejected. What a thrillingly passionate, loyal heart she had unwittingly revealed; with what powerful authority and dignity had she dismissed him. He had left the parsonage seething with anger and dismay and more violently in love with her than when he had walked into it without a doubt of her favourable reception of his wishes.
Darcy smiled now and quit the room. Why spend time ruminating on errors and fortuitously spared fates when the very real, warm and enchanting woman that was now his wife was just above stairs, at this time of day doubtless in her sitting room attending to some household matter whilst she longed to be again wandering about out of doors enjoying the glorious spring day.
He quickly arrived to her sitting room. Her desk was indeed strewn with household accounts but she was standing half turned towards the open window looking out at the park, admiring the blooming of life all about. She had changed from her soiled white muslin into a dress of soft yellow. The sun was streaming through the window and held her in a frame of brilliancy. His very heart was arrested as he admired her pleasing figure, the creamy rose blushed tones of her skin, the lustre of her expression as she looked out onto the flowering gardens of Pemberley. As his gaze drank in the sight of her with a keen, fresh pleasure, he noticed her hand resting on her belly, her fingers gently caressing in a gesture entirely unfamiliar. Certainty took an immediate hold of him. He understood now the new increase in her breasts he had lately perceived, a thickening about the waist, the uncharacteristic afternoon fatigue. “Eliza?” he cried with an unusual breathlessness.
She turned round and saw the questioning, the happy expectation, but did not understand from whence it came. Darcy came to her side, took her hands within his own and spoke hopefully. “It has just all at once come to me, the certainty that you are with child. Have I imagined this?”
She looked down a moment, surprised at his perception. When Elizabeth lifted her gaze again to his own the bright, brimming tears of happiness thrilled him to the quick. “I did not wish to encourage your hope until I was entirely certain.”
“And you are not certain?”
She responded with a warm smile. “I think it very likely your hopes would not now be amiss.”
Darcy said not a word in reply, but his expression was eloquent enough, spoke fluently of his profound expectation and pleasure. He breathed deeply and embraced her. Elizabeth laid her head against his breast, listened to the even beating of his heart, felt his strong arms about her. Since returning to Pemberley she felt a serenity everyday grown more profound and satisfying; she understood now she was with child a return to London
and its unfortunate, vexing intrigues could be easily, indefinitely postponed.
They remained standing at the window—her head against his breast, his arm about her waist—looking out on the beautiful park beyond, listening to the sound of birds singing in the nearby trees, treasuring the quiet, glad hopefulness. At length Elizabeth raised her head and spoke.
“When I began to suspect that I was with child I found myself thinking a good deal about family and forgiveness. I have thought of my parents. I recognize what imperfect, careless parents they have been to me and to all my sisters. Yet, how easily I forgive their imperfections, how willingly absolve them of their carelessness and all its unfortunate consequences. Surely, when we truly love it must be with generosity and forbearance. Indeed, I love them both more deeply than ever, for in recognizing their faults and frailties as much as I do the goodness within their hearts, I can love them for who they truly are and not for who I thought they were in my contented girlhood innocence.”
“You would not make such a reflection without purpose,” Darcy answered uneasily.
Elizabeth examined her husband for a moment before responding. She admired his noble features, the expressiveness of his dark eyes that so often discovered what he would otherwise reserve. He was an indisputably handsome man, but she knew his handsome features were nothing to the goodness and solicitude of his heart, to the discernment of his mind and the rightness of his principles. “I believe it is time to rectify what is still at odds,” she declared at last. “It is time for you to make peace with Lady Catherine.”
“Must we return to this subject? Today, when I am so filled with gladness?”
“Precisely because you are.”
“I find it an unspeakably disagreeable topic to discuss,” he confessed, stepping away from her.
“You have never spoken to me of what your relations were before the receipt of that most unfortunate letter. She has clearly been more to you than you have acknowledged.”
Darcy began pacing the room until he came to rest in front of the mantel, stared pensively at the marble figurine of a bird that he had gifted to Elizabeth when they had been in London. She waited patiently whilst he formulated his thoughts, considered what it was he wished to share.
“When my father died, I was far too young to comprehend what was required for the proper education of a sister who was only ten years of age and now wholly dependent upon me—Colonel Fitzwilliam hardly knew better. I believe my father named him Georgiana’s guardian along with me for my sake more than for hers. For a gentleman who was so careful in all his dealings, he was unusually inexplicit in his wishes for Georgiana’s education and care. My father’s death was, if not unexpected when it came at last, certainly swift. I had finished university and was residing primarily in town. Was I to leave the life I had only just established? In my selfishness I rejected such a plan. I felt full young to be settled already at Pemberley with only a ten-year-old girl for companionship. I would be ungrateful if I did not acknowledge that Lady Catherine gave me counsel on many matters at the time regarding Georgiana’s education and care. I took them for sound and disinterested. Regrettably, after a time she insinuated with some regularity the scheme of my marrying Anne. I lost trust in her intentions and our relations became less forthright. It would be unjust, however, to not acknowledge that, whatever her interests may have been, from the time I was a boy she has always treated me with consideration and kindness. My relations with my aunts have never been of the same warmth or intimacy as that you share with Mrs. Gardiner, but the affection and good will have been no less sincere.”
Elizabeth came to his side, laid her hand gently upon his arm. “Then why must this estrangement persist?”
“Why?” he replied with incredulity. “Do you expect that I should permit anyone to express themselves as she did?”
“If it is for your own sake, I have nothing to offer; but I do not require this estrangement to feel my honour defended. My honour is not sullied by words expressed in heated disappointment.”
“Do you defend her?”
“I do not defend her. I am merely suggesting that her words were, in part, born of disappointed hopes and can therefore perhaps be judged less implacably.”
“Whatever her hopes may have been, that does not excuse such a gross violation of all civilities. You are my wife, Elizabeth, would you have me disregard such impropriety towards you, such abuse against your character, such insult to our union, pardon it even?”
“I would not. It does not follow, however, that it cannot, in this case, be forgiven. God willing, in the autumn you will be a father; it will be a time for joyful celebration. She is your mother’s sister. It can be forgiven; it ought to be forgiven.”
“Not everything can be forgiven,” Darcy replied with such cold certainty that Elizabeth was recalled to that long-ago conversation at Netherfield when he had acknowledged his fault of character, what she had termed implacable resentment. But she, more than any other, knew his heart could be liberally forgiving.
She took his hands within her own and spoke with gentle conviction. “Have you not already demonstrated to what lengths you will go to ensure my happiness and peace of mind? I could never doubt that you will always defend both my honour and my happiness. In this case that defence has long since been secured. Lady Catherine has not the power to dishonour me, nor can she take my happiness from me. I can look beyond her invective; it only remains whether or not you can as well. I am certain that her harsh words were aggravated by her disappointment and as the suffering of that disappointment abates, she may become more sensible on the subject.”
Darcy began to pace the room again, clearly struggling. He paused by the open window for a moment before turning back towards Elizabeth. “If I accept your reasoning then I must accept some burden for that disappointment. It plainly follows that in some measure my prior behaviour gave her grounds to insult you, the expectation that it was her right to abuse you, to abuse us both and to disparage our union.”
“I do not mean to imply that her disappointment justifies her actions, merely that perhaps it can arouse some compassion. She plainly had no right to abuse me when I had done her no wilful injury, and she just as certainly had no right to abuse you. There was no promise to honour.”
“I had certainly been frank with my family that I would not have a wife imposed upon me, but it was hardly a regular subject among us. As time passed and I remained unmarried, my family began to anticipate that I would consent to the arrangement Lady Catherine wished for. Certainly the general desire was that the two estates might be united. Although I had no intention of ever taking my cousin as my wife, I must confess that I never explicitly rejected Lady Catherine’s intentions. It suited my purposes to have it believed that I had not discarded the idea of marrying my cousin as it freed me, if not from all, certainly from many unwanted attentions. You once accused me of selfish disdain towards the feelings of others. If I am now truthful, I was entirely indifferent to how my ambiguity could impact the feelings or expectations of either my aunt or my cousin.”
Elizabeth walked across the room and again took his hands within her own. “Darling,” she said benevolently. “The entire situation was clearly fraught with misguided arrangements and speculations. You were very much in error to allow such expectations to thrive when you had no intention of acceding. Your family was no less wrong to wish for you and for your cousin a marriage so lacking in propriety.”
“Lacking in propriety?” he queried in doubt. For all he had rebelled against such a marriage it had never been for its lack of propriety. He was intrigued by her assertion.
“A man and a woman entering into a marriage must be something to one another or their union will not be respectable, cannot be honourable. A marriage solely in satisfaction of ambitions and interests will end in disrepute and grief as surly as a marriage built solely on the fervour of passion. Above all else there must exist respect, an affinity of hearts and mind or there can be nothing b
ut dissatisfaction and misery. I have seen you with your cousin; you share nothing but kinship. Such a marriage would have brought nothing but discontent. Clearly, the behaviour of no one was without fault. The offense must be allowed to remain in the past. Seek reconciliation. It is not right that you should remain divided from your mother’s sister, nor that Georgiana should suffer for our quarrel.”
“I have not your same capacity for forbearance and forgiveness,” he affirmed.
“Ah, but you do, my darling, you do.” Elizabeth placed his hand against her belly. “Think with what anger and resentment we once parted and yet we are here together now with this sweet hope between us.”
Darcy only smiled gently in response, but later that afternoon whilst Elizabeth and Georgiana sat together in the music room giggling merrily as they struggled to perfect a difficult duet at the pianoforte, he interrupted their amusement, sending word that he required his wife’s presence in his study. When Elizabeth entered, Darcy was seated at his desk, staring at a piece of paper. He looked up when he heard the door close behind her.
“Would you be so kind as to read this? If you are satisfied with its contents, I will post it tomorrow,” he declared as he handed her the paper. Taking the sheet in hand and sitting on the chair beside his desk, she read.
To Teach the Admiring Multitude Page 25
