by Jessie Lewis
“No, Miss Bingley,” Darcy answered for her, unequivocally extinguishing all Caroline’s aspirations to distinction with his next dozen words. “Miss Elizabeth will be travelling to Pemberley with me after we wed.”
How utterly marvellous! She glared askance at her brother. This, then, was the reason for his earlier discomfiture. How on earth the tragic buffoon had ended betrothed to the wrong sister she dared not suppose.
“What simply wonderful news,” she offered as graciously as she was able. Oh, how she reviled the pity overspreading Miss Eliza’s countenance—so much so, it quite overshadowed her reason for a moment. “Your catalogue of accomplishments certainly increases, Miss Eliza. Not yet dead and betrothed to a man of great fortune. You will be quite the envy of society.”
She heard someone, Colonel Fitzwilliam perchance, suck in his breath, but she only continued eating her muffin. What had she to lose now?
“I could not agree more, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said. “Being alive and being mine are presently my favourite of all Miss Elizabeth’s accomplishments.”
Caroline barely managed to suppress a scream but could not prevent her foot’s incessant tapping on the floor. “May we presume it was her fine eyes that drew you in?”
“No. It was most definitely the certain something in her manner of walking that tempted me. I thank you for bringing it to my attention. Bingley, I see Fitzwilliam’s carriage awaits him. Do not trouble yourself. We shall see him off.”
After a hasty farewell between Charles and the colonel, the trio left the room. In the supervening silence, Caroline had, of all things, a tray of smoked fish shoved under her nose. She looked up into Peabody’s bored countenance.
“Herring, ma’am?”
Her plate cleaved in two when she threw her knife down upon it, though the noise was drowned when the howl of frustration that had been building since she first met Eliza Bennet at last found its release.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
June 13
To Miss Georgiana Darcy,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Your brother tells me he has received a letter from you with your congratulations. I may say your blessing pleased him very well, and I thank you for myself for your heartfelt acceptance of our betrothal.
Pray, be not angry with him when I tell you he also relayed some other of your sentiments. I should not like to wait until we meet to allay those anxieties, and thus I have determined to write to you that you may know me a little better and see why you have absolutely no cause to be apprehensive.
Forget at once everything your brother has told you. His account of me is grossly inaccurate. He may have said my playing gives him great pleasure, but he neglected to mention that is only because there is such teasing to be made of my clumsy recitals. Much though I enjoy the pianoforte, I practice too little to play well. I have no superior talent for dancing, other than being practiced at compensating for heavy-footed partners—your brother excepted. My style of dress, which he has proclaimed elegant, is in truth my eldest sister Jane’s outmoded style from last season, unpicked and remade with a little embellishment. My beauty I shall not decry. I am quite content to remain the most beautiful woman in the world for the short time until you meet me and see for yourself how your brother has exaggerated that fact.
As to any comparison between you and my sisters, allow me to put your mind at rest. I have four. One is lively and obstreperous, one is silly and inconstant, one is serious and exacting and one is impressionable and diffident. I love them all dearly. I myself tend towards obstinacy and impertinence, but the least said of that the better. I am quite sure that, whatever your nature, it will neither shock nor displease me. Your brother has made me so blissfully happy, there is but one thing that could add to my joy, and that is becoming acquainted with his beloved sister.
I will only add, thank you for looking after him these past weeks. We made a fudge of coming to an understanding, and it lightens my heart to know he has not been without comfort. That alone endears you to me more than any of the accomplishments lauded by your brother, aunt, cousin, or friends, which you are too modest to own. We have in common our affection for a wonderful man, and that is enough to convince me we shall be the very closest of sisters and the very best of friends. I wait impatiently—another of my vices—until we meet.
Yours in anticipation,
Miss Elizabeth (Lizzy) Bennet
***
Sunday, 14 June 1812: Hertfordshire
A flurry of letters had been sent out in the days following Elizabeth and Darcy’s engagement, most of them from Mrs. Bennet to every person in the country with whom she could claim a connection, though one or two were from the happy couple themselves. Elizabeth knew not what Darcy had said in his letter to Lady Catherine, but he had finished it long before she finished hers to Mrs. Gardiner, thus she assumed his message was to the purpose. His letter to Lord Matlock took a little longer, but that to his sister must have been more effusive, for four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight when she replied.
Elizabeth’s letter to Miss Darcy was the last to be delivered, and whilst everyone else milled about outside the church after the service, she pulled Darcy aside to give it to him. He stood close with his head tilted down, ostensibly that they could speak confidentially, but she wondered whether he were tempted to kiss her. She hoped so.
“This is for your sister. I do not have the address. Pray, would you send it for me?”
“Gladly. She will be delighted.”
“’Tis nothing. She is very sweet to be so anxious to please me. I rather think it ought to be the reverse.”
“She will not be displeased with you. I have assured her of as much.”
“That is precisely what has made her nervous. You have painted me with Aphrodite’s looks, the queen’s wardrobe, and accomplishments to make even Miss Bingley jealous.”
Darcy slipped the letter into his coat and looked at her intently. “You make me nervous for all those reasons. I do not see why I should suffer alone.”
She scoffed at the notion, recalling the countless occasions she had been discomfited by his penetrating stare. “I do not make you nervous, Fitzwilliam.”
His gaze darkened. “Oh, you do.”
She blushed but nonetheless enjoyed the compliment. “Very well. I suppose my good qualities are under your protection now. I give you leave to exaggerate them as much as possible—only not to your poor sister.”
Darcy conceded with a small nod and indulgent smile.
“Shall I meet her before the wedding?”
“I should like that very much. I have long desired that you be introduced. Would you like to go to London?”
“Never mind whether she would like it—she must go,” came a strident interruption.
With an apologetic look at Darcy, Elizabeth turned to her mother, whose conversation with Mrs. Philips had evidently not precluded her eavesdropping on everyone else’s.
“And Jane must go too,” Mrs. Bennet added, “for you must both have trousseaus and new gowns and—”
“There are plenty of shops nearby where we can purchase what we need,” Jane said, disrupted from her own conversation with Bingley by her mother’s vociferous decree.
“Not of the quality that—”
“Actually, the reason for my visit was to meet Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted before her mother could embarrass them further.
“If you wish to purchase some new gowns while you are there, it can certainly be arranged,” Darcy offered.
“Let us all go!” Bingley blurted.
“Lizzy and Mr. Darcy wish to spend time with his sister,” Jane demurred. “Might we not do well to remain here and spend some time with yours?”
“Well, yes…although I do need to find an attorney to d
raw up the articles for the wedding.”
“My Uncle Philips could do that.”
“Oh, certainly, he would be honoured!” Mrs. Philips agreed.
“Right, then. We had better stay here,” Bingley conceded, a little disappointedly, Elizabeth thought.
“He had better work more quickly than he usually does,” Mrs. Bennet said to her sister, “for Mr. Darcy has told Mr. Bennet he wishes to wed before his cousin’s ball in July, and if Jane and Mr. Bingley are not ready, he may very well like to be married first.”
“I would not steal Bingley’s place at the altar, madam,” Darcy said with strained forbearance.
“Why not all stand up together?” said Bingley. “After all, we are invited to Lord Ashby’s ball as well,” he explained, indicating Jane and himself. “It makes sense that we should all be married beforehand. And Darcy and I planned to stand up for each other in any case.”
“What think you, Jane?” Elizabeth enquired, delighted by the prospect of sharing such a wondrous occasion with her dearest sister. She worried, for a fleeting moment, that Jane looked a little distressed, but then her mother pounced upon the idea with gusto, informing everyone how it would be; after that, no one else’s opinion mattered.
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “Do you mind?”
“I care not where or how we are married as long as we are married—and soon.” He looked away briefly, as though searching for something, then reached to pluck a leaf from the rosebush growing near the church wall. He pressed it into her palm and brought her hand to his lips to kiss the backs of her fingers.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I am so in love with you, Elizabeth. I made a poor job of showing it before. I shall not make the same mistake again.”
“No, indeed,” she said, lifting her closed fist and her leaf with it to her heart. “You are proving yourself to be quite the romantic.”
He chuckled slightly. “I see you intend to exaggerate my good qualities also.”
“I thought I would attempt it,” she replied, grinning, “since exaggerating your bad ones proved so disastrous.”
***
Tuesday, 16 June 1812: Kent
Charlotte Collins had only just read the letter informing her of Elizabeth’s engagement when she looked up to espy Lady Catherine de Bourgh storming down the lane towards the parsonage at a startling rate for one her age, her cane spraying gravel in all directions each time it struck the ground. She leapt to her feet, stumbling over a chair in her haste.
“Mr. Collins! Mr. Collins!”
“What is the matter?” he enquired testily as he came into the room.
“Eliza and Mr. Darcy are engaged! And look!” She pointed to the window.
He looked then let out an inarticulate wail that Charlotte thought might denote the shrivelling of his manhood. Moments later, her ladyship burst into the parlour, wheezing with the effort of her march there and coming to a halt only when nose-to-nose with her parson.
“YOU!”
“Phnar!” Mr. Collins replied, cringing.
“This is your fault! Had you married her at the off, this never could have happened!” She slammed her cane on the floor, igniting sparks on the flagstones.
Mr. Collins’s face had lost all colour, and Charlotte wondered whether his grimace were a precursor to imminent tears.
“Instead,” her ladyship continued, “you left her unbound and untamed to wreak havoc upon my family!” Her voice cracked under the strain of her displeasure, and she coughed.
“Lady Catherine, you are upset,” said Charlotte. “Can I fetch you a glass of wine?”
Her ladyship rounded on Charlotte. “You dare speak to me? I have welcomed you, shown you endless condescension, made this house comfortable for you, furnished the closets with the very shelves upon which you lay your clothes! Was I shown any gratitude for my forbearance and charity? I was not! Instead, you invited the same ungoverned, ungrateful girl who refused all this to visit! Then you allowed her to inveigle herself into my good favour and enthral my nephew under my very nose. It shall not be borne!”
“Your ladyship, my friend gave no hint of any designs on Mr. Darcy whilst staying h—”
Lady Catherine swiped at the air between them with her cane—which was rash, considering how little of it there was. “Your friend is a scheming little upstart, but she will learn I am not to be trifled with.”
“Pray, Eliza is by no means artful—”
“Indeed she is! She has beguiled my nephew, to whom I have been almost a mother since his own died, into severing all communication with me unless I condone their union! When it is my own daughter who has been jilted!” She spun theatrically to leave, but turned before quitting the parlour to deliver her coup de grace. “I am not so easily gainsaid. If he will not hear me, mark my words: she will.”
She left, the room stilled, and Mr. Collins abruptly fainted. After a few deep breaths to compose herself, Charlotte stepped over her prostrate husband and walked to the door, where she found a petrified maid in the hall.
“Some tea if you would and perhaps a dash of something stronger. And, Harriett, would you arrange for our trunks to be packed? I believe we shall be visiting my family in Hertfordshire for a while.”
7
In Love and War
Wednesday, 17 June 1812: Hertfordshire
84 Gracechurch Street, London
Monday, June 15
My dear Lizzy,
You have amazed us all, but we could not be more delighted for you. You have been very sly, very reserved with me though. How little did you reveal of what passed at Hunsford! I confess I suspected something when you were here, but my imagination did not run beyond a slight partiality. I ought to have known you had made him love you!
Your uncle and I should be delighted to attend your wedding. Do let us know the date as soon as may be, for we will likely depart on our northern tour directly from Longbourn. I have written separately to Mary, inviting her to travel with us, and though I know she will bring her own delights to our party, we shall miss your company sorely. Visiting you at Pemberley, however, will be fine compensation for our disappointment.
Pemberley, Lizzy! Would that I could see your face when first you lay eyes upon your new home. Its grandeur notwithstanding, the grounds are simply delightful, and the estate boasts some of the finest woods in the country. You will be perfectly spoilt.
The children want me, so I must end here. In closing, I shall say that you and Jane must congratulate yourselves. As a result of your achievements, your mother will now die happy.
Yours very sincerely,
M. Gardiner
The smile this letter produced had not faded from Elizabeth’s face before her mother burst into the room, wafting another in her direction.
“This is for you, Lizzy. It was in amongst my correspondence. ’Tis from Kent. Look at the seal. My poor eyes cannot make it out properly, but it seems very fancy—too fancy for the Collinses. It must be from Lady Catherine. She has written to congratulate you. Oh, Lizzy, what an honour! Open it up, child. Let us see what she has to say.”
A quick glance confirmed her mother’s suspicions, driving away Elizabeth’s high spirits. Darcy had confided that his letter to Lady Catherine had forbidden any further communication with him unless it was an apology. Whatever this missive contained, be it grudging contrition or something else, it would certainly not be congratulations, and she had no wish to excite her mother’s nerves with its contents. “I think it is only from Charlotte, Mama,” she lied.
“Oh, that is a shame. Though I daresay her ladyship will write soon. Well? What news from the Collinses?”
“I beg you would excuse me. I have been indoors reading for too long. My head is beginning to ache. I would take some air.”
Elizabeth escap
ed the house directly, pleased to pass Kitty returning from the garden on her way, for it assured her privacy. Tearing the letter open, she stomped onto the lawn, growing more indignant with every step at being written to against Darcy’s particular wishes.
***
Even twelve hours separation was too much for Darcy’s liking. Not for one moment since taking his leave of her yesterday had Elizabeth left his thoughts, and he was too impatient to see her this morning to wait for Bingley to finish his meeting with Mr. Philips. Leaving a message with the butler that he had gone ahead, he set out for Longbourn as early as good manners allowed.
Before he even reached the house, he caught sight of Elizabeth walking towards the hermitage at the far end of the garden. His heart leapt—then began to pound with the immediate recognition that something was terribly wrong. He dismounted, threw the reins to the nearest stable boy and hastened across the lawn after her. He found her pacing the full width of the retreat, her countenance stained with high emotion and her eyes flashing fire.
“Elizabeth, what is amiss?”
She whirled to face him, whispering his name in apparent dismay. Her eyes darted to a letter held in her hand.
“Who has written to you?”
In answer, she only sighed and let her shoulders drop. He moved to stand directly before her and reached for the hand that held the letter. His anger flared when he felt the tremble in her fingers. “May I?”
She nodded, relinquishing it to his grip. He had meant to keep hold of her hand, but the moment he espied the letter’s seal, all good intentions were forgotten.
Rosings Park, Kent
June 16
To Miss Elizabeth Bennet,
You probably think yourself terribly clever, persuading my nephew to refuse any communication from me. You ought to know that I am not in the habit of submitting to any person’s whims, least of all those of presumptuous upstarts such as yourself. I shall make my sentiments known after all, for my nephew did not forbid me from writing to you.
