Mr. Darcy & Elizabeth

by Alyssa Jefferson

  A business relationship was easier for Elizabeth to comprehend. It was impossible that she could compete with the other women vying for Mr. Darcy’s attention now. She recollected the way she had looked last night—her old mask and worn gown—and how many women there were with vastly greater fortunes. While her connections were good, Elizabeth had felt quite equal to seeking and receiving Mr. Darcy’s attentions. Now, as the guest of her aunt and uncle in trade—though she loved them and respected them highly—she felt an almost insurmountable chasm between herself and him. She was embarrassed, though she hardly knew why, and further reflection only heightened her uncomfortable feelings.

  Mr. Darcy’s stay lasted nearly an hour, and as soon as he departed, Elizabeth’s uncle turned toward her with a declaration of how unexpectedly pleasant the visit had been. “I did not know you had such a man among your acquaintances, Eliza,” he said jovially. “He has asked me for advice on a matter of business, as you heard. What a polite young man.”

  “Indeed,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Perhaps I ought to have him for dinner next time we host our friends. He can replace Mr. Dixon, cannot he?” he added with a laugh.

  “Oh! No, uncle, I beg you would not,” Elizabeth replied nervously.

  “Why not?” Mr. Gardiner said. “Is not he a friend of yours?”

  Elizabeth could not reply. Her face reddened, and she was ashamed of herself for being so easily discomposed by so simple and inconsequential a matter. The fact was, she did not expect Mr. Darcy to condescend to dine with her aunt and uncle. Even the condescension he had shown this morning had surprised her. To give him an opportunity to disappoint her—to place her hope in him only to have it dashed—was more than she could bear.

  Having no allowance from her stepmother was beginning to seem a greater burden than it had at first. The social events of the autumn—concerts and plays and dinners—were every day cropping up, though less frequently than in the summer, and Elizabeth was well aware that her aunt wanted to bring her to many of them. Miss Watson’s words were never far from Elizabeth’s mind—that she must wear something new; that she must be seen. It was novel to be in town, among a great many highly fashionable people, and to feel herself actually unable to keep up with the fashions.

  Though her stepmother had been angry when she had departed London, Elizabeth began to wonder whether her father might be so kind as to extend a small allowance to his favorite daughter.

  She sat down to write to him, but for the first time in her life, she found it difficult to find the words. They had always been on such a perfectly good footing—but things were different lately. Her father was often of a mind with Lady Sarah; at the very least, he never openly opposed her. Elizabeth had never wanted to place herself in opposition to her father’s wife, and now she felt less confident than ever in his supporting herself.

  So long did Elizabeth deliberate on whether or not to write that a week passed without her having sent a note to anybody at Longbourn. Then, a letter from Jane arrived to brighten Elizabeth’s eyes one afternoon, but no sooner had she opened it than its contents made her even gloomier than she had been before.

  My Dearest Lizzy,

  I am so happy that you are able to see Miss Watson. Please send her my love when you do see her, and kiss Kitty and Mary for me. To my aunt and uncle, I hope you will also extend my warmest regards. Oh, how happy you must be to be surrounded by such friends! I am so delighted for you, and in fact your happiness is my primary comfort since I have come away to Longbourn.

  I know your kindness will prevent your making any light of the conditions I am currently under, though they are not far from what you yourself predicted. Lady Sarah is still angry. She insists I never attend assemblies in Meryton, for there is always a great deal too much to accomplish at home. There I help her by holding her scissors while she works in the garden, or her needlework while she embroiders, or her books while she reads with little Sarah. I have very little time for leisure, and what I do have I am well aware she greatly resents. She is particularly angry about Mr. Dixon, though I do not quite understand her reasoning well enough to show the contrition I believe she wishes I would demonstrate.

  I am glad, Lizzy, that you are not with me. How odd to write such words, and to feel them to be true! I am glad you are not here to share in any of our stepmother’s resentment. Oh, how I wish I had married Mr. Pembroke, that there would be no resentment at all! Yet I must trust, as you always tell me, that good principles shall be their own reward, and these present trials ought not to supersede my commitment to them.

  Write to me soon, my dear sister. Tell me of the happiness you enjoy in London, and I shall be thoroughly happy again, wanting for nothing. If, through our summer in London, you have made a lasting friend in our Aunt Gardiner, then I will be able to feel it was all worth it.

  Jane’s letter went on to describe more of the deprivations of their home, and more of her stepmother’s plans for her. Asking for anything for herself was then the farthest thing from Elizabeth’s mind. Her anxiety for Jane’s happiness was so high that, by the time she closed her letter, she was almost convinced that the best things she could do would be to convince her aunt and uncle to invite Jane also to join them.

  Seated at their dinner table, she did nearly ask them. Only, she could not quite muster the nerve to put so bold a request before them. Though she was high spirited and lively, her temperament did not move her where her sense did not first go, and she did not think it wholly sensible to request so large a favor from people whom she hardly knew. She had come to Gracechurch Street fully intending to love her aunt and uncle from her heart, and they had similar feelings toward her. Another month or two, and she might feel secure enough in the fast bond they had already made to seek their hospitality to extend to Jane. Only now, she could not do it. It felt wrong to do, and where her intuition led her, Elizabeth would not act in contrary.

  Only, poor, dear Jane! Elizabeth paced the drawing room after dinner, letter in hand, hardly able to think without agonizing over the situation her sister was now in. Jane was right that Elizabeth could never make light of such a situation. There was hardly a person in the world more deserving than Jane, and to know that her sister was now being mistreated as a repayment for her good principles was deeply unfair.

  “Elizabeth, what is troubling you?” her aunt asked after Elizabeth had gone on in this manner for some time.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I have had a letter from Jane,” she said. “I am worried for her.”

  Mrs. Gardiner asked if she could read the letter, and Elizabeth allowed it—only because she did not trust her own ability to represent its contents fairly. How recently it was that she and Jane assiduously guarded their stepmother’s reputation from any perceptions of malice! The idea, moreover, that Jane was still painting Lady Sarah in the best possible light—that this letter, horrible though it was, was not fully representative of the truth—occurred to Elizabeth as her aunt perused Jane’s account.

  Mrs. Gardiner handed the letter back to Elizabeth when she had finished it, and she, too, sighed deeply. For a moment, both women seemed united in their distress for Jane, as well as their inability to put into words what they were feeling on the subject—for what could be said without speaking in bad terms of a person to whom Elizabeth and Jane both owed so much?

  Yet even this silent agreement was unspeakably comforting to Elizabeth. How long she had suffered without any person to share it with, when even Jane was not candid with her and the world seemed to assume she was happy merely based on appearances. Though she still felt adrift without a home, though she still missed Miss Watson and her father, and though she still worried for Jane’s fate—not to mention her own—she had support now that she never could have had without the petty, unfair deprivations of her stepmother. She now had her aunt and uncle Gardiner, and their kindness and friendship were worth far more than what they had cost her.

  “Your sister writes very well,” Mrs. Gardiner sai
d at last. “I should not be sorry to have her as a correspondent, as well.”

  “I shall enclose a note from you when I write next, if you wish it, Aunt,” Elizabeth replied.

  Another brief silence ensued, but Mrs. Gardiner broke it to say, “I suppose your stepmother would not wish to give her up, were she to have another invitation to come to us.”

  “I daresay she would not allow her to accept,” Elizabeth admitted, though the thought had not occurred to her before. Lady Sarah seemed determined to make such use of Jane as to claim her quite indispensable, and among the many unfair demands she made of her stepdaughters, the request for Jane’s company would seem so reasonable by comparison as to be insurmountable.

  Mrs. Gardiner seemed to be deliberating about what to say next, and she chose her next words very carefully. “Elizabeth, I know that your home is in Longbourn. That is where you grew up, and where your father lives, and I know that it is the place you believe you must ultimately return to. However, I—that is, your uncle and I—we are delighted to have you with us, and your presence has been a great pleasure. Nothing could make us happier than to have you fixed with us, not as our guest but as a part of our family, for as long as you are willing. You should not feel you have no home, for you may always command a home with us, and we shall be grateful—exceedingly grateful—for such a companion. You are beloved by our children, and you are treasured by us. What a model you would be for our daughter! Principled, accomplished, unwavering in your commitment to right. I am quite proud of you, Elizabeth. Your stepmother ought to be, as well, and though her opinions are not aligned with mine, I believe my perspective on this topic is not wrong.”

  Elizabeth, hearing her aunt’s words, was deeply moved. She smiled, though her eyes filled with tears, and attempted to say, “Thank you,” but the sob that escaped her lips instead surprised her, and she laughed. “I am all gratitude,” she finally managed to say. “Your kindness—”

  “Do not speak of it,” her aunt insisted. “I have given you nothing that you do not deserve, Elizabeth. I am sorry that your stepmother does not see matters as we do, and that your father—but I shall not say anything more about them. I believe we are in agreement on that subject, and therefore no words need to be said. Only know that I am on your side, and your uncle is as well. You have a home, Lizzy. Your home is with us.”

  Though it was humbler than where she had come from, and though her place in society would be vastly different, Elizabeth had no illusions about the value of the home she had come from and the one she now was afforded. In fashion and wealth it may be inferior, but Gracechurch Street provided riches her stepmother knew nothing of, and only a true simpleton would change what she had been given by the Gardiners for what she had left behind.

  CHAPTER 23

  __________

  A week had passed since the masquerade ball, and Elizabeth had almost forgotten her step-cousin, when a letter came for her from Arlington Street. Elizabeth knew not how her aunt had gotten her address, and she was not particularly pleased to hear from her. If any person can tolerate the presumption of an acquaintance determinedly refusing to believe her when she spoke the absolute truth, Elizabeth was not such a person. Her last meeting with her aunt had been so frustrating, and had moreover led to such unpleasantness with Lady Sarah, that Elizabeth’s initial response to receiving her note was to act as though she had never seen it.

  Holding the letter in her hand, she was almost resolved to rise and hand it back to the servant who had delivered it without reading a word when her Aunt Gardiner said lightly, “It must be a very odd kind of letter.”

  “Why, Aunt?” Elizabeth asked, looking up in surprise—for she had, in the depth of her thoughts, almost forgotten that she was not alone in the room.

  “Why, because you are able to hold it in your hand and read it without ever opening the envelope!” She laughed, and Elizabeth attempted to laugh with her, but the sound was hollow. “Pray, why do you hesitate? I hope it is nothing to upset you.”

  “No,” Elizabeth replied. “It is from Lady Radcliffe.” She held up the note so her aunt could see the address. “I do not know why she would write to me, but I cannot imagine anything good would be contained in this envelope.”

  “From your aunt? But why not?”

  “You know how unpleasant our last visit was. I am sure that both she and my stepmother have been misled by my cousin to believe what is utterly untrue about us. It is so very odd! I no longer have the patience for it.”

  “You believe she is writing to encourage you to marry your cousin?” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “That seems odd, in light of what happened at the ball. It is rather more likely that she should write to apologize, is it not?”

  “Do you think she is aware of it?”

  “Perhaps,” she replied. “Lord Norwich, at least, must be aware of having done wrong.”

  “I doubt that highly,” Elizabeth replied. “He seemed only offended that Mr. Darcy intervened. It was, in his eyes, Mr. Darcy who was acting wrongly.” She paused before adding, “He has no concept of right and wrong, except what conforms to his preexisting wishes. If any report of his wrongdoing reached his mother, it was not through him.”

  “Yes, I can imagine that. Yet it is possible she heard word of it from another quarter. Or perhaps it is a different message entirely.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “What, for example?”

  “I do not know,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “And you shall never know if you do not open it.”

  “Exactly!” Elizabeth said. “At this precise moment, I have the power to keep this letter closed, and then I will always remain innocent of whatever its contents might reveal.”

  “You are innocent of it either way,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “However, if you believe it will be more conducive to your happiness that it not be read, then we can certainly dispose of it. You are not bound to read it; I daresay that family has done nothing for you, that you ought to feel obliged to them. On the contrary, they have thus far treated you in a manner that I would characterize as most inappropriate. Yet I would encourage you at least to read the letter, so that you will know one way or another. She is, after all, your aunt.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “She is my stepmother’s sister-in-law. Her connection to me is as distant as it could be, while still being called a connection. I know that she believes her son to be in love with me, and I cannot bear to be in his presence again.”

  “That decision is one I completely support,” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “Yet if she is writing to make amends, you shall deprive her of the opportunity if you do not read it.”

  Elizabeth replied, “It is more likely that she is writing to promote more nonsense about her son’s being in love with me.”

  “She corresponds with Lady Sarah, does she not?”

  “Sometimes, yes,” Elizabeth said.

  “Perhaps she gives news of your family in Longbourn.”

  “I get all my news of Longbourn from Jane.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Gardiner said at last. “I believe you have considered the matter from every angle. I shall do you the favor that your other aunt never does,” she said with a smile, “and take you at your word.” Prior to this conversation, Mrs. Gardiner had been reading a book, and with these words, she returned to it.

  Elizabeth continued to watch her aunt, however, with letter in hand, and Mrs. Gardiner looked up at her again after a moment or two.

  Laughing, Mrs. Gardiner said, “Do you still deliberate?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said.

  “You will not be easy until you read it; that much I can see clearly. Simply open it and you shall be relieved of all suspense.” When Elizabeth did not immediately reply, she added, “I see that you wish to be free of all interference from that family. But Lizzy, consider. Lady Sarah is your father’s wife, and the Earl’s family will always be your connection, whether distant or intimate. You cannot hide from them, and you need not hide. You, my dear girl, have acted in a man
ner totally above reproach. Whoever ought to be ashamed or afraid, you certainly need not be.”

  Elizabeth drew in a breath, and with it, her courage grew. “You are right,” she said. “I can suffer no harm from reading a simple note.” She opened the note and perused its contents, which she saw from a glance were quite brief. At once, she felt silly for making so much fuss over what turned out to be a page devoid of all interest and intrigue. “Oh,” she said softly. “It is only an invitation.”

  “Indeed?” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “To dine with her?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, “merely to call. It is not unlike the note she sent to Jane earlier this summer. Or, I believe it is like it, for I did not read that note. However, she has invited us to pay her a visit in the past. That is when I first learned of this nonsense with Lord Norwich.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Gardiner said, “I remember your description of that visit perfectly. I wonder why such a man would ever set his sights on a young woman like yourself. Of course,” she added hastily, “it is no wonder that any man would fall in love with you, but that a man like him, with such loose principles, who cares so little for what truly matters—why should he fix his hopes on you?”