by Jessie Lewis
He came to the towering oak that grew in the lane beside the churchyard and steadied himself against it with one hand, running the other over his face. After a deep breath, he forced himself to look over the wall into the sea of gravestones.
And there she was.
Pain lanced through him as her perfect, beauteous spirit, wreathed in radiant sunlight, pierced him anew with its ethereal splendour. Her head was bowed and her hands clasped in prayer, but he would know her from a thousand miles afar. He felt his heart, motionless in his aching chest, break all over again. “Elizabeth.”
The apparition snapped its head up, fixed its beautiful dark eyes directly upon him, and gasped. Darcy’s heart leapt into his mouth. His breath came too fast, his legs felt not his own. “Elizabeth?”
Her face showed confusion and surprise, her hand came up to her chest and she stepped towards him—and tripped. Events unfolded protractedly, as though in a dream, yet too quickly for Darcy to act upon any of them. With mounting horror, he watched Elizabeth stumble forward and cry out. Somebody—Bingley—appeared and called her name. Not Miss Bennet, nor even Miss Elizabeth, but Lizzy. Darcy’s heart screamed its protest as Bingley gathered her to him, and she looked up at him and smiled.
He had been mistaken. Elizabeth was alive—and in Bingley’s arms.
5
Whims and Inconsistencies
Saturday, 23 May 1812: Hertfordshire
The room was still at last. The apothecary was gone, the maid sent for more firewood. Her younger sisters were downstairs, her mother abed. Her father was closeted in his library with Colonel Forster, the magistrate, and Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth lay unmoving on the bed, her eyes not quite closed, and the whites visible between her lashes. The ugly welt on her cheek darkened along with the receding daylight.
“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane whispered. “How could he do this to you?”
Silence was the only answer. Tears came and would not stop. She held her sister’s hand and spoke of childhood memories and nonsense. Things that would commonly have made Elizabeth laugh now roused not a murmur. She attempted to spoon some water into Elizabeth’s mouth, but she would not swallow. She sang, half the words replaced with sobs, but she sang nonetheless for the sister she loved so dearly. Nothing worked. Elizabeth did not awaken.
“Pray, Lizzy, wake up,” she begged. “Lizzy? Lizzy!”
The name sounded loud in the quiet of the room. Just as it had when Mr. Bingley shouted it upon falling to his knees beside Elizabeth in the middle of Meryton’s High Street. Jane squeezed her eyes shut against the memory, ashamed to have even noticed at such a moment. Yet closing her eyes only recalled to her the image of Mr. Bingley tenderly cradling Elizabeth in his arms as he bore her home and the distress etched upon his countenance as he laid her reverently upon the bed.
Her eyes flew open, and she blinked furiously, struggling to suppress a surge of resentment. His concern was reasonable. He would have to be the most unfeeling of creatures not to be distressed by such a circumstance. She would have to be the most unfeeling of creatures to begrudge her sister anyone’s compassion as she lay wounded and unconscious. Try as she might, however, Jane could not dismiss the voice that whispered that was precisely the problem. If, even when unconscious, Elizabeth had more power to attract Mr. Bingley’s notice than she, how was she ever to compete?
***
Monday, 25 May 1812: Hertfordshire
None of the Bennets attended church on Sunday, and Bingley passed the day in a harrowing state of suspense awaiting news from Longbourn that never arrived. Over and again, his mind’s eye showed him Wickham seizing Elizabeth by the arm, shouting in her face, driving his fist into her temple ’til she collapsed to the ground, all before he was able to reach her. Over and again, he agonised over the memory of Wickham importuning her at the last assembly. Why had he not done more then to protect her? It was as a result of his inaction that Elizabeth was suffering thus, and guilt threatened to overwhelm him.
He called at Longbourn at a barely respectable hour on Monday, desperate for better news, but such relief was not to be had. Miss Bennet was tending to Elizabeth, thus Mr. Bennet received him in his library. His haggard countenance told Bingley all he needed to know of Elizabeth’s condition even before it was confirmed that she had not yet awoken. They spent some time in discussion of events, joined after half an hour by Colonel Forster, who brought the rather unhelpful news that Wickham remained at large.
“Who is it?” Mr. Bennet grumbled curtly when there came a second knock at the door.
“Papa, Mr. Jones wishes to see you,” Miss Bennet answered.
Bingley’s insides jumped. He had not spoken to her properly since Saturday’s unpleasantness and found himself suddenly eager for a measure of her sweet serenity. He stood, as did they all, when she came in. Her lovely countenance lit up with tired but happy surprise upon seeing him, easing his disquiet considerably. He returned her smile, but the moment was broken when the apothecary came in behind her, his expression severe.
“What news?” Mr. Bennet enquired.
“The swelling appears reduced, sir,” Mr. Jones replied. “But that is no longer my primary concern.” He paused, glancing hesitantly at the other occupants of the room.
“Never mind them,” said Mr. Bennet. “Let us hear it.”
“As you wish. Sir, your daughter has taken little or no fluids for above six-and-thirty hours. Unless she awakens and drinks something soon, she cannot survive.”
“Good God!”
Bingley assumed Mr. Bennet had spoken the words until he noticed everybody peering in his direction. Miss Bennet let out a small sob and ran from the room. With all colour drained from his countenance, Mr. Bennet muttered an invitation for Bingley and Colonel Forster to stay and finish their coffee then went after his daughter, nodding for the apothecary to follow.
“Wickham might well hang if she dies,” Colonel Forster said once they were gone.
Bingley’s guts twisted upon themselves. He sat heavily back in his chair. Elizabeth could not die!
“If they ever catch him,” the colonel added.
“I ought to have gone after him,” Bingley said apologetically. “Only my first thought was for Miss Elizabeth.”
“I understand entirely. It cannot have been a pretty thing to witness.”
Indeed not. Bingley would never forget the sight of Elizabeth lying prone on the ground. Or the feel of her in his arms—so fragile, so delicate.
“Speaking of Wickham’s crimes,” Forster went on, “I received a letter from your friend, Mr. Darcy, this morning. He wrote to warn me about Wickham. All too late, of course, but we cannot blame the gentleman for that.”
“Darcy wrote to you about Wickham?”
“Aye. Offered to pay his debts. Think you he would object to my asking for assistance with the search for Wickham?”
“Gads, no! I cannot imagine why I did not suggest it.” Why had he not thought to contact Darcy himself? Resolving that instant to write to him, Bingley fared Forster well and rode post-haste for home. He would write and beg Darcy to come, for never had he needed him more.
***
Barely able to look at the frightful bruise marring her sister’s cheek, Mary chose to walk about the room as she read. She knew not what passages she chose, only that Elizabeth showed no sign of hearing any of it. When tears blurred the words on the page, she dropped her hands and succumbed to her sorrow.
With her head bowed thus, her eyes were drawn to the corner of a letter obtruding from beneath the dresser. Further inspection revealed it to be addressed to her Aunt Gardiner in Elizabeth’s hand. How it came to be there mattered not a whit to Mary. She could think only that her beloved sister might be about to die, and this letter seemed the closest she might ever again come to speaking to her. Without further thought, she broke the seal.
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br /> Yet, reading it only made her cry harder, for the letter was more wretched than Mary would ever have imagined possible. Elizabeth was lonely—grieved by the change in her relationship with Jane, mortified by accusations of flirtatious behaviour and struggling to suppress her natural inclination to playfulness. She was wary of appearing too familiar with Mr. Bingley, terrified of being forced to marry Mr. Greyson, and most surprising of all, she held a tender regard for Mr. Darcy!
“The worst of it,” Mary read aloud, giving voice to her incredulity, “is my contrary and treacherous heart. I have come to understand Mr. Darcy so much better and deeply regret my unjust behaviour towards him. What pain I must have inflicted with my accusations! And now my heart seems attuned to the very mention of him and races at the thought of him. Though I have tried and tried again, I cannot laugh myself out of it. If I am honest, I do not think I wish to, though it would be for the best, for I shall never see him again. I have lost the only chance to allow this little skip, upon which my heart insists, to run into a full reel. I regret him, Aunt. There, I have written it. I regret Mr. Darcy. Would that he could forgive me and come back, but—”
At that moment the letter was forgotten, for Elizabeth abruptly groaned and opened her eyes, thus proving that indeed she was attuned to the very mention of Mr. Darcy.
Longbourn
May 25
Mr. Bingley,
Elizabeth awoke at a little after four. She is vastly weakened and in pain, but compos mentis.
Yours,
Mr. Bennet.
***
Friday, 29 May 1812: Hertfordshire
“Mr. Bingley and Mr. Greyson, ma’am,” the housekeeper announced.
Feeling a little thrill for Mr. Bingley’s fifth visit in as many days, Jane looked up from her embroidery in time to see Elizabeth close her eyes and sigh. She felt a pang of guilt. It was only the second day her sister had felt well enough to come downstairs, and she likely did not feel equal to callers.
“Shall we walk about the lanes?” she asked Mr. Bingley, already on her feet, more than happy to relieve Elizabeth of this particular visitor’s company.
“Had we not better remain?” he replied. “I do not think your sister ought to be left unattended.”
“What am I, Bingley—a candlestick?” Mr. Greyson said, smiling—a little thinly in Jane’s opinion. “I believe I shall be company enough for Miss Elizabeth.”
“And I,” Mary said from the window seat.
“You could be the most charming candlestick ever to grace a parlour, Greyson,” Mr. Bingley replied, “It would not persuade me to desert a wounded friend.”
“Nonsense! Off you go,” Mr. Greyson insisted, seating himself. “If Miss Elizabeth is content with my company, you can have no objection to leaving us alone.”
“You will not be alone,” Mary said indignantly. “I am here.”
Bingley promptly sat down. “There, it is decided. Miss Mary cannot be in two places at once, and it would be unthinkable for either of us to go unchaperoned. Let us all stay and keep Miss Elizabeth company together.”
Jane lowered herself back into her chair. Mr. Bingley’s good humour was one of the things she most loved about him. Indeed, she would not wish him to behave in any less of a gentlemanlike manner. She told herself firmly, therefore, that she had no just cause to be alarmed by his gallantry towards Elizabeth.
“I received a letter from my cousin this morning,” Mr. Bingley said, a short while into the visit. “He begs me again to go to Nova Scotia.”
Jane felt as unequal to discussing foreign places today as she had at the picnic and had no notion how she ought to respond. She glanced at Elizabeth, but she had returned to pressing her compress to her temple and did not answer.
“Nova Scotia?” Mr. Greyson said dubiously. “Why does he wish you to go there?”
“Well, his most recent idea is that I should build him a colliery.”
Mr. Greyson looked intrigued. Jane attempted to mimic his expression. Elizabeth had closed her eyes.
“I shall have to pester Darcy for his insight on the matter,” Bingley mused. “He is the expert.”
“On the place or the industry?” Elizabeth enquired, at last roused to participate.
“Oh, the industry. He is quite au fait on the subject of mines, his half of Derbyshire being quite overrun with the things. Though my cousin has provided me with a wealth of information about the place. He is eager for me to build my home and settle there.”
“And pray, are you?” Elizabeth enquired.
“Lord, no!” he replied, to Jane’s profound relief. “Though he assures me it is a truly beautiful country and seems delighted with the society. He is braver than I. I should find it a good deal more daunting to be so far from home.”
“The unfamiliar is always daunting,” Elizabeth replied. “It does not follow that it cannot be agreeable. Indeed, it makes it more exciting.”
“I ought to have expected you would not be intimidated by moving half way across the world.”
“But the opportunity to go somewhere new, to see so many different things—is not that an appealing prospect?”
“Are you sure you are not working for my cousin?”
Despite all her efforts to be reasonable, Jane was vastly relieved when her father appeared to interrupt this cosy exchange.
“Lizzy, an express has arrived for you from Kent,” he announced, coming into the room and handing it to Elizabeth, who immediately paled.
“Is it aught serious?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied after a cursory read. “Charlotte writes to see if I am well. Sir William has sent her news of my injury.” Despite this, she did not regain her colour and asked Mr. Bennet to escort her upstairs, claiming her headache had worsened.
“Is she much troubled by these headaches?” Mr. Greyson wished to know after she had gone.
“Is Mr. Jones aware she suffers thus?” Mr. Bingley enquired. “He ought to be informed.”
Jane patiently assured them that Mr. Jones was pleased with Elizabeth’s improvement. Then she less patiently assured herself that it would have been impolite for Mr. Bingley not to express his concern, given Mr. Greyson’s alarm. It was more difficult to explain his departure moments later, mere minutes after Mr. Greyson took his leave, though the intimacy of their farewell was sufficient to allay almost all of her anxiety.
Hunsford, Kent
May 29
My dear Eliza,
I have urgent news, but first allow me to express my sincerest condolences for what you have suffered and my vast relief you have not taken lasting injury. I pray your convalescence is swift and beg you to take care.
Now to business. I received two letters from my father this morning. One contained news of your injury; the other was posted last week and made mention of a recent conversation with Mr. Bingley. That gentleman apparently claims his friend from Derbyshire has come to hold you in very high regard. This, of course, is proof enough for my father that your engagement must be imminent. Perceiving my amusement as I read this, Mr. Collins insisted I tell him what diverted me. Regrettably, he took the report rather more seriously and, before I could prevent him, left to relate the whole of it to Lady Catherine. By his account, she was furious with the news and declared it would not be borne, though until now I thought that little more than bluster.
But Lizzy, I have just heard from Mrs. Jenkinson that her ladyship left Rosings this morning in a frightful temper. I know not where she travels, but I know it cannot bode well that she has gone at all. I fear you must prepare yourself for a visit. If that is the case, I pray this letter reaches you first, that you may at least be prepared. I hope, however, that my worry is without cause and you are left in peace. Pray write in either case and assure me you are well.
With the greatest affection,
Charlotte Collins
***
Saturday, 30 May 1812: Hertfordshire
Mr. Bennet went to Sawbridgeworth on Saturday and Mrs. Bennet to Netherfield with all but one of her daughters. Still too unwell to tolerate a jolting carriage ride, Elizabeth remained at home, taking advantage of the empty house to play the pianoforte in her preferred style—with all the passion (and mistakes) an audience would bid her restrain. Her fingers swept over the keys, chasing away some of her more unpleasant reflections, tripping over others.
Jane’s exasperating diffidence added considerable fervour to her playing. Though she had been constrained to an armchair with a pounding head all week, her sister had still thought it necessary to remind her of her pledge to be unobtrusive in Mr. Bingley’s presence. She had made the promise to do so in earnest but hardly thought she could be accused of coquetry at such a time as this. She banged out the next few arpeggios excessively loudly in protest then winced as pain lanced through the bruise on her temple.
She sighed, displeased to have been reminded of the injury, for she did not like to dwell upon Mr. Wickham’s attack. She recalled very little of it though her sisters had told her enough to make her glad of that. It was not Mr. Wickham’s brutality that distressed her most, however. She was more concerned with just how profoundly she had misunderstood his character, for only now that she knew him capable of this did she comprehend how prodigiously foolish Mr. Darcy must have thought her when she stood before him, defending the blackguard’s character. She vented her consternation on the keys, missing most of the notes in the next phrase.
It pained her deeply to consider how ill Mr. Darcy must think of her. Before yesterday and despite Mr. Bingley’s various mistaken claims, she had not thought his opinion could diminish any further. Yet, if Charlotte was correct, Lady Catherine might be about to change that. Elizabeth did not believe her ladyship would condescend to come to Longbourn, but she did fear she might visit her nephew, for Mr. Darcy would then learn of the spurious rumours her friends and family had been circulating, vindicating all his accusations of the impropriety of her sphere. A series of discordant notes followed as she lost and retraced her place in the score.
