‘You are her confidant now?’
Elizabeth laughed: she had informed Darcy of Caroline’s volte-face in a letter, but given no details of her visit.
‘Is it not diverting? One day she threatens to tear me asunder, the next she invites me for tea and tells me her most intimate secrets.’
‘And what exactly does she say of marriage?’
‘That it is a swindle through which a woman’s maternal instinct is exploited by a man, to trick her into surrendering her legal identity and becoming his chattel.’
He smiled. ‘Do you agree?’
Elizabeth considered. ‘I believe I do! After all, laws are made by men, so it is hardly surprising.’
‘As sometimes happens, I cannot tell whether you are speaking seriously or in jest.’
‘A bit of both.’ Elizabeth listed the rights that a woman gave up on marrying: living where she wanted, earning her own money, and the rest.
‘All that is true,’ Darcy conceded. ‘Yet most women marry happily, and some dominate their husbands. In the end it comes down to character.’
‘But when disputes arise we need laws, which should be fair to both parties.’
He reached for the decanter and refilled their glasses. ‘I was thinking of my own case. Arethusa enjoyed having pin money, her own patch of garden, control over menus and decorations. But for our finances, and the running of the estate, she begged me to decide on my own. I did try once or twice to explain the options and get her opinion, but it only made her anxious.’
‘It seems she was an ideal companion. Neither opinionated nor argumentative.’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. Arethusa was highly intelligent and had strong opinions on some subjects. But she argued calmly, and would listen to others.’ Darcy smiled. ‘So we never quarrelled.’
‘A shame, since you are such fun to quarrel with.’ Elizabeth’s smile quickly faded. ‘The same cannot be said for Fredo, unfortunately.’
‘I longed sometimes for Arethusa to express anger,’ Darcy said. ‘Even on her sickbed she remained calm, resigned.’ Sorrow shadowed his face. ‘She was a devoted friend to me, Elizabeth.’
‘I saw her once.’ Elizabeth looked away, remembering. ‘At a performance of Don Giovanni. A lovely woman, but she looked tired.’
‘Arethusa felt faint during the first act, so I persuaded her to leave.’ He smiled. ‘I noticed you hiding in the corner of your box.’
‘It was the only time I saw you after you handed me the letter in Hunsford Wood. Until we met on the railway last year.’
‘I did see you—one other time.’
She gasped. ‘When?’
He hesitated. ‘I’ll explain one day.’
‘William, you will tell me immediately!’
‘If I confide all I know, you will have no incentive to call again.’
‘I see. You want to start a quarrel.’
Elizabeth pressed once or twice more, but it obviously diverted him to frustrate her, so she sighed and gave in.
16
A week later
The temperature was dropping, the leaves turning. Outings with Grace and Robert continued; on one occasion, Mrs Wrigley brought them as far as Hyde Park, for a walk by the Serpentine. One morning, two notes arrived. The first contained a dinner invitation from Georgiana, who had returned from Sir Humphrey Molyneux’s estate and was now at Darcy House. The other ran as follows:
Dearest EB, I am back from the Isle of Wight and drafting a piece on Infant Custody which I hope to work up into a pamphlet, when I have the energy. It would help no end if you could drop by this afternoon, so that I might run the argument past my most fearsome reviewer. In return I have a little present for you. With best wishes, Caroline.
Elizabeth scribbled a reply. Her day was filling up, since she had arranged to visit the Gardiners for coffee, but the Mountjoys had a carriage free.
She had plenty of news for her aunt and uncle—not only her outings with Grace and Robert, but evenings in the company of Julia’s literary friends. Mrs Gardiner had received a letter from Kitty, postmarked Bombay, where her husband Captain Harte had unloaded cotton clothing from the mills of Lancashire, and was preparing to return with a cargo of silk brocades. From Lydia they had heard nothing.
After lunch, Elizabeth called at John Allsop’s office in Paternoster Row. He had received dozens of requests for more letters by the innocent girl who could not control her blushes, and wondered whether Elizabeth could develop it into a new feature called Amelia Meanwell’s Journal. Opinion in the staff room was so enthusiastic that Elizabeth forgot about her appointment with Mrs Norton and set off half an hour late.
At Bolton Street, Elizabeth found the scandalous author at work in the drawing room.
‘I’m so sorry …’ Elizabeth began, but Caroline waved her away.
‘Have you seen what they have been writing about me in the British and Foreign Review?’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Of course. I study every issue from beginning to end.’
‘Ha! Always the humourist. For your information it’s a Tory periodical penned by semi-literate neoliths who understandably seek refuge in anonymity.’ She passed Elizabeth an open copy, with some passages marked. ‘As you will see, I am an agitatrice. An agitator for female equality. A violent and irrational woman who seeks to corrupt the morals of the nation.’
Elizabeth touched her arm, moved that this formidable lady was so vulnerable. ‘Why take it seriously, when the author is plainly an idiot?’ She pointed at the phrase violent and irrational woman. ‘This bit is true. You threatened to tear my hair out.’
Caroline glared at her, but soon saw the funny side and threw the magazine on the floor. ‘Tea time.’ She went to call the maid.
‘Are you well, Caroline?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Not very.’ She slumped on to the settee. ‘I still get migraines. Yourself?’
Elizabeth described recent changes in her life—seeing the children again, extra work at The Lady’s Magazine.
‘And Mr Darcy, who as we know is your good friend and nothing more?’
‘He is back from his estate in Derbyshire. And still my good friend.’
‘Of course.’ Caroline jumped up. ‘Which reminds me. I have a little present for you.’
She handed Elizabeth a sheet on which a poem had been handwritten in elaborate copperplate. It began thus:
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad …
Four verses followed, in similar style. Elizabeth knew she was being teased, but the lines still moved her.
‘Is this supposed to be me speaking?’ she asked.
‘I actually wrote it two years ago, from my own viewpoint.’ Caroline grinned. ‘Whether it applies to your own case is not for me to say.’
‘The poem is beautiful.’ Elizabeth put the sheet aside. ‘I shall treasure it. No wonder they call you an agitatrice.’
‘Will you help me with my pamphlet, even so?’
‘Of course …’ Elizabeth paused, her mind still on the poem. ‘Remember that I’m a married woman, Caroline.’
‘Listen.’ Caroline moved closer and lowered her voice. ‘I take marriage seriously. I have tried to respect the vows made as a foolish girl. But my dear, consider this. We are granted only one life. And during that life, opportunities for a true meeting of hearts come rarely, if at all. I do not flout convention casually. But nor will I subjugate my deepest yearnings to rules dictated by others.’
Elizabeth froze, so shaken by Caroline’s intensity that for a moment she stopped breathing.
‘You give no weight to morality? Not just reputation, but your immortal soul?’
‘How do we know what God wants?’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘According to my husband, the answer is found in scripture, as interpreted by men like himself.’<
br />
‘Men who habitually flout the very rules that they impose on us, then boast about it later at their clubs.’
Elizabeth sipped tea, trying to calm down so that she could give full attention to Caroline’s pamphlet. She felt a tingle of excitement—or was it fear? She wondered what Darcy would make of the scandalous Mrs Norton.
At dinner Elizabeth was the only guest. Georgiana’s boys had gone to Harrow School for the Michaelmas term, so the party comprised only Darcy, Mr and Mrs Molyneux, and their daughter, Anne, whose bedroom Elizabeth had borrowed on her first visit. Anne was cheerful and confident, with no evidence of Darcy hauteur; perhaps in temperament she tended to her father’s side.
The meal was leisurely, with much conversation as the maid served small portions of soup, baked salmon, roast lamb, and two desserts. As in her earlier visits, Elizabeth noticed a characteristic blending of quality and moderation. The family never ate or drank to excess, nor did they flaunt their wealth by striving to impress. The decor told the same story. Furniture, carpets, pictures, were in good taste without being ostentatious.
They adjourned to the music room where Georgiana performed a difficult Chopin piece, the Ballade that Elizabeth had heard her practise before. Her hands flew over the keys building up a sustained wall of sound; in spite of a few slips and hesitations, it was mesmerising. Georgiana offered the instrument to Elizabeth, but she declined: it would have been an anti-climax.
Anne took over, and confidently rattled out the introduction to a reel. With a smile, Georgiana went to Philip, leaving Elizabeth to partner Darcy. It occurred to her that this was the first time they had danced since the ball at Netherfield, when she had goaded him in the most unpleasant manner. How different were her feelings now.
He regarded her with an ironic smile, and she guessed he was experiencing similar memories.
‘Are you still of the opinion that people ought to talk while dancing?’ he asked.
‘Definitely not. In the confusion of performing two activities at once, one can say the silliest things.’
They switched around, Georgiana taking over the pianoforte while Darcy danced with his niece and Elizabeth with Philip Molyneux. After a break, Elizabeth was finally persuaded to take a turn on the instrument. She had not sung for months, but managed The Last Rose of Summer with only minor mishaps.
Hours slipped by, and it was quite late when Darcy offered to walk her home.
As they reached the steps of Mountjoy House, Elizabeth wondered why she felt deflated. Was it simply that a pleasant evening had come to an end? It occurred to her that she had spent little time in conversation with Darcy himself. The party had been festive; she had been treated as one of the family. But something inside her had hoped for more.
As the footman opened the door she turned, checking up and down the empty street before asking Darcy, ‘Will you come in for a nightcap?’
He looked surprised. But accepted.
17
The earl and countess had retired; only the young footman had stayed up. Following Elizabeth’s instructions, he too went to his room, leaving her alone with Darcy.
On the drawing room cabinet she found Muscat wine. She poured two glasses and joined Darcy on the settee.
‘At last.’ She leaned back. ‘I’ve been meaning to apologise for last week.’
‘Apologise?’
‘I implied you had no mission in life.’ She grimaced. ‘I may even have compared you unfavourably with Fredo.’
Darcy sipped wine. ‘Perhaps I misled you by focussing on my responsibilities. Pemberley. Georgiana. My life has encompassed far more. I’ve toured Europe. Enjoyed theatre, books, art. Known men of remarkable talent, such as Byron.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, and I too count many blessings. Living in Italy. Julia’s companionship.’
‘I’m glad it worked out well,’ Darcy said.
She smiled. ‘I am convinced it was you who recommended me.’
He shrugged, as if it were a matter of little account. ‘I may have suggested your name.’
‘You transformed my life. I thought it must be you, but could imagine no reason why you would act as my guardian angel.’
‘It was around then that I saw you in London. I was informed you were staying with your uncle and aunt, so I found the church nearest to Gracechurch Street and sat at the back.’
She gasped. ‘Why did you not speak to me? Were you ashamed to associate with a disgraced family?’
‘I assumed you still hated me and that a meeting would distress you.’
Elizabeth felt a lurch of disappointment. This was not a chance sighting: Darcy had deliberately sought her out. If only she had spotted him, or he had felt able to approach her.
She tensed, in shock, before replying with forced calm.
‘I cannot be sure how I would have reacted. But what a shame …’
‘It was cowardly of me.’
‘I took a similar decision, in Italy …’ Elizabeth grew more and more agitated as she described the visit to Byron at Genoa, where the poet had assured her of Darcy’s continuing admiration. ‘It was just after Fredo proposed.’ She recalled the agonising return from Genoa, when she had lain awake at night torturing herself with indecision. ‘I knew you were unmarried. Oh, what a fool I was …’
Elizabeth’s voice broke as remorse overwhelmed her. She could have waited. She had ruined both their lives. She rose and paced the room as if trying to escape this realisation. It was not just self-reproach, but grief too, at what had been lost. Sobs racked her body. Why had she not waited? She grew anxious that Julia or Henry might overhear her cries, and leaned over the back of an armchair burying her face to muffle the sound.
Hands held her shoulders. Elizabeth unfurled her head and Darcy’s fingers parted her mussed hair. His hand remained on her cheek.
‘Dearest, do not distress yourself. You could not know what the future would hold.’
She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her wet face. ‘But do you not see?’ She met his gaze, just inches away. ‘We could have had a wonderful life. We would have travelled around Europe. Attended opera and theatre. Talked openly and entertainingly, as now. All of this was ours for the taking, but through folly we threw it away.’
‘Are you saying …’ His throat dried up, but after a few seconds he continued, ‘That you might have granted me another chance?’
She broke down again, and unable to speak, frantically nodded, then threw herself into his arms.
He said bitterly, ‘Then the fault is mine. I should have greeted you at the church, or called at your uncle’s house.’
‘You would have wanted me still, after what happened to Lydia?’
‘I would have asked you to wait until Georgiana was settled. But my feelings remained as they were at Hunsford. I proposed to Arethusa only after learning that you were married.’
Elizabeth retreated a step, grief giving way to rage at the waste of it all. ‘So now there is no hope. We must remain separated.’ She stamped her foot, losing control again. ‘It is unbearable. Unbearable!’
He tried to comfort her. ‘We can be friends, as we are.’
She faced him imploringly, not crying now, but with her lips apart and her eyes devouring him. ‘Is that enough for you?’
He gazed back with yearning, but made no reply. She could imagine the turmoil in his mind. She held his hands fiercely.
We are granted only one life.
‘I love you, William. Already we have wasted so much time. Will we let our remaining years pass, one by one, as hope ebbs away?’
She feared he would be repelled, but as she spoke, tension left his face, to be replaced by a look of relaxed contentment; it was as if a pain endured for most of his life had receded.
‘My dearest love.’ His hands framed her face. ‘You can have no idea how much those words mean to me.’
Time stood still. Later, Elizabeth could not recall how long they paused on the brink, or who initiated the kiss. She knew
only that it felt right, inevitable even, something that happened to them rather than something they chose. The anger had long gone: she felt a spreading glow in her limbs, a certainty.
I am married. I should not be doing this …
Was it conscience that whispered, or just convention? Whichever, it did not matter. If they were to burn in hell, they would at least be together. She cast inhibitions aside, gave way to the bliss of being truly cherished. Her fingers explored his face, pushed into his hair. He laid her on the settee, kneeled on the rug, and fluttered kisses over her eyes, nose and mouth. She unbuttoned his silk waistcoat and ran her hands over the crisp cotton drill of his shirt. She snuggled against him and whispered in his ear how much she loved him.
I am married …
She was curled up in his arms, sated with kissing. He looked pensive, as if emerging from a dream.
‘What are we to do, my love?’ he asked.
‘All I know is that I will never regret this, so long as I live. Yes, it is frightening. I am like Lydia, transported to a faraway country. But I feel whole again.’
‘I suppose there is no … hope.’
‘I could ask for a divorce.’ Her lip curled in contempt. ‘Which could be obtained only by appealing to the House of Lords, its benches packed with bishops who will support Fredo.’
‘The appeal would fail, and stain your reputation.’
She laughed. ‘My reputation can hardly sink any lower.’
He shook his head, dazed. ‘All my life I have despised men who make love to other men’s wives.’
‘My poor dear.’ She stroked his face. ‘Your principles, once so firm, reduced to tatters.’
He smiled. ‘You would prefer me unprincipled?’
‘Oh no! I love you as you are. And I would agree that in general one should respect the marital bond. But rules have exceptions, do they not? Bishops preach Thou shalt not kill whilst urging that thieves be hung.’
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