Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  He gestured widely with his hands. “And so I told Montgomery, yet he has chosen to ignore my warning and offer for Anne anyway!”

  Elizabeth sat back in surprise. “Did you advise Mr. Montgomery against marrying Anne?”

  “I did not,” he said firmly. When she raised an eyebrow in challenge, his gaze hardened. “I gave him no unsolicited advice. He sought my opinion of the match.”

  Her surprise ceded to dismay and then anger. “And you clearly expected your reply to put him off! What did you say?”

  “The truth! That Lady Catherine is poisonous and disloyal.”

  “He is not marrying Lady Catherine!” Elizabeth cried, coming to her feet. “I am beginning to think this has less to do with Mr. Montgomery’s happiness than it does your resentfulness.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your poor friend came to you for your opinion—nay, I daresay your approval of the match. You did him a disservice if you thought only of your own objections in answering him.”

  “I resent that!” he replied icily. “I said nothing that was not true of the woman who would be his mother were he to enter into the union. Do not underestimate with what caution a man must consider that encumbrance!”

  Nothing was as likely to provoke Elizabeth’s ire as a reminder of his previous disdain for her family. “You may have been honest about that, but did you consider what comfort it might be to Anne to have a husband or what consolation she might afford his motherless son? Did you mention that his investment would save Rosings or that you should like to be his cousin? Or did you omit all these facts in favour of persisting with your grudge?”

  Darcy hesitated, but righteous indignation rapidly overtook any remorse he might have been about to express. “I have been used to consider that a wife will support her husband in such matters.”

  “Forgive me if I do not agree with your every utterance, Fitzwilliam, but I shall not feel obliged to if you are wrong!”

  “No! You are still determined to be more concerned with the misfortunes of the rest of the world than you are with mine!”

  The injustice of that charge drew a wordless exclamation from Elizabeth’s lips. “On the contrary! I am entirely concerned with my husband’s propensity to impose his implacable resentment on the affairs of perfectly undeserving individuals!” She knew then she had said too much. Her stomach lurched hideously to see his expression turn to ice.

  “I thank you for expressing your opinion so eloquently, madam.” He left without another word, slamming the door behind him. One or two heartbeats of silent anguish followed then Elizabeth sank onto the foot of the bed, one hand to her mouth, and stared in dismay at the closed door.

  Oh, she had made him angry! And wherefore? Granted, it was disappointing that he had not given Mr. Montgomery fair counsel, but what did it matter to her whom that man wed? Why, oh why, had she argued the point when she knew how deeply he felt Lady Catherine’s betrayal? She, who had promised to love him better than his ignoble aunt and, not ten minutes ago, congratulated herself on being able to console him in his distress!

  Resolving immediately to find him that she might hold him and comfort him as he deserved, she set about making herself presentable to leave her room. She paused on her way out to collect the papers he had left behind. As she put the pages of Mr. Montgomery’s letter back in order, her eye was drawn to a particular word on the second page that threw all thoughts of their disagreement from her mind. Not wishing to be mistaken about such a thing, she read further and was dismayed to discover her fears founded. Carefully, she refolded the letter and left in search of her husband, steeling herself for a far greater test of her ability to comfort him than either of them would wish.

  ***

  Darcy stared unseeing from his study window, his jaw clenched and his grip on his tumbler fierce. He was angry—furious, in fact. At whom, was a point on which he vacillated by the moment. His feelings towards his aunt remained inimical in every respect. She had maligned his honour, contested his authority, scorned his happiness, conveniently forgotten his lifelong loyalty, and dared to insult and intimidate his wife. His feelings towards the man who would have him overlook all that and reinstate the connection merely for his own convenience were presently not much better and quite at war with the established regard and gratitude he held for him.

  Then there was his wife. Not since he was a boy had he been required to justify himself to another person, yet here he was at almost thirty years of age, somehow accountable to a woman who questioned his integrity at every turn. And damn it if she was not always bloody right!

  He threw back a mouthful of brandy. Evidently, he had learnt nothing from the manifold lessons in compassion, tolerance and forgiveness he had received in recent months. Elizabeth knew it and thought ill of him for it, and that made him excessively angry with himself.

  The door clicked open and the reflection in the window showed his judge and juror stepping into the room. He wished she had stayed away longer, that he might have regained some measure of equanimity before being required to account for his behaviour. “Have you come to carry your point, madam?”

  “No, Fitzwilliam.”

  He was not familiar with her expression. It made him excessively uneasy. “What then?”

  She came to stand in front of him and held out what looked to be the papers he had left in her bedroom. “Darling, you need to finish Mr. Montgomery’s letter.” She bit her bottom lip and said no more, but continued to regard him anxiously.

  He set his drink down on his desk and took the letter from her, skipping directly to the part he had not yet read. Moments later, he lowered himself into his chair, propped his elbow on the armrest and covered his face with his hand. “Damn.”

  Here, then, was the motivation for his aunt’s recent behaviour—her anger at his refusal to marry Anne, her furious objections when he withdrew his resources from Rosings. Lady Catherine was dying.

  Elizabeth came to him, cradling his head against her stomach and whispering tender words of comfort. He wrapped his arms about her hips and held onto her.

  “I ought to have seen it,” he whispered gruffly. “She has been unwell, coughing for months.”

  “None of us suspected. Not me, not your uncle, not Fitzwilliam. You could not have known. Montgomery says it took the word of two physicians to make her admit it.”

  He was momentarily rendered mute by the passing thought that his mother would have been devastated by this news. He leant further into Elizabeth’s embrace. “Why did she not tell me?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps she did not realise. Or perhaps she did, and once she comprehended your resolve not to have Anne, she did not wish to force your hand.”

  He looked up at her incredulously. “Why then did she go to such lengths to prevent me from marrying you?”

  “Not compelling you to marry her daughter is a far cry from condoning your marriage to somebody like me. It is possible she believed she had your best interests in mind in both cases.”

  “But why persist now we are wed? She has only driven me farther away when she needs me most.”

  Elizabeth smiled sadly. “Resentment is rarely reasonable.”

  Darcy stared, dismayed. To all this, his damned, stupid resentment had blinded him! That same bitterness of spirit Elizabeth plagued him constantly to forswear. Pray that she never ceased plaguing him, for she would make him a better man than he could ever hope to be without her. He tugged her down into his lap, rested his forehead on her shoulder and entrusted his sorrow to her embrace. “Thank God for you.”

  ***

  Tuesday, 18 August 1812: Yorkshire

  “The weather looks to be clearing at last,” Charles announced.

  Caroline looked up from her needlework and peered dubiously at what little of the day she could see from the minuscule sash
window opposite. The sky looked to her much the same as it had all day: dull.

  “Yes, it is brightening a little, I think,” agreed Jane, predictably.

  Frowning, Caroline turned to look through the marginally larger casement behind her, unsurprised to discover the sky every bit as dreary in that direction as the other—which fairly well epitomised the entire trip thus far. She returned to her work without comment.

  “I thought it might begin to before long,” Charles persisted. “The clouds were not so dark this morning as yesterday.”

  “Aye, nor the air so frigid.”

  “I must say, I had forgotten quite how unsettled the weather in the north could be. Still, the wind has dropped, and it is no longer raining. Shall we all walk out? We could take up Cousin Helena’s invitation to join them for tea.”

  “Oh, yes—” Jane began.

  Oh, pray, no! “Surely, we have visited enough relations to justify the trip now, Charles?” Caroline interrupted. “How many more afternoons of drinking revolting tea in cramped, unfashionable parlours must we endure in order to satisfy your notion of a wedding tour? May we not enjoy some more refined entertainment for the remainder of our travels?”

  “Caroline!”

  “Well really, Charles! Is it imperative that you make claim to every distant relative of ours who is still in trade? Are we to journey to Nova Scotia next for a tour of the hole you have sponsored my cousin to dig?”

  “Our family’s condition in life is neither here nor there. I wished to introduce my wife.”

  It vexed Caroline to observe Jane visibly preen at this. The woman was as obtuse as her husband. “Very quixotic, I am sure, but goodness knows Jane has enough unfortunate relations of her own to consider without ferreting out every one of yours as well. God forbid any of my friends should learn I passed my summer traipsing through the dockyards and woollen mills of the north. Or yours, Jane! What would Lady Ashby say?”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Would she disapprove?”

  “Of course she would!” How this could surprise her, Caroline knew not, yet clearly it did, for she paled and addressed her husband in alarm.

  “Perhaps it would be wiser not to advance these acquaintances if it will injure our reputation.”

  That only made Charles pout. “There is no reason to think the injury to my reputation will be any different presently than it has been these past three-and-twenty years.”

  “Precisely,” said Caroline, maddened by his stupidity.

  “I am sure they are all respectable people,” Jane pressed, “but is it quite proper that we should visit their homes?”

  “If Lizzy did not consider it improper to receive your relations at Pemberley, I daresay you shall survive the degradation of visiting mine, for you cannot believe you are superior to your own sister!”

  Jane flushed livid red. Caroline sighed inwardly. She had never ascertained what Jane knew of Charles’s tendre for Eliza Darcy, though her dismissal of the facsimile maid made it probable she harboured suspicions. In any case, she required no further cause to suspect, for it was foolish to hope that, if Jane discovered the truth, she would not tell her sister and inconceivable that, if Mrs. Darcy discovered it, then her husband would not. Caroline shuddered to think what Darcy would then do. A hasty recovery was required.

  “Yes, well, Jane is in possession of a little more sophistication than her sister. You ought to be grateful for her attempts to save you the same indignities Darcy is suffering.”

  “What reason have you to suspect Darcy is suffering indignities? I cannot imagine Lizzy is giving him cause to repine.”

  Caroline closed her eyes. You could lead a horse to water, but her brother would always be an incurable idiot.

  “And yet she is,” Jane said coldly. “Only this morning I received a letter from her in which she owned to quarrelling with him already.”

  “What? Why? What about?” Charles jabbered.

  “By her own admission, she is driving him distracted. Which I can well believe, for she does the same to me! Excuse me, I would write to my friend.” With that, Jane stood and flounced from the room.

  Caroline glared at her brother, shaking her head. “I had thought your foolish infatuation with Mrs. Darcy was done.”

  “It is! I was only concerned that she and Darcy have been arguing.”

  “Married couples do!”

  “Jane and I do not.”

  “True, but then what is there about which to disagree when all you ever discuss is the weather? The Darcys’ marriage is none of your business, and you must not attempt to make it so!”

  He had no answer to that. After a few minutes of frowning and folding and unfolding his arms and legs, Caroline suggested he be the one to call on their cousin Helena and begged him to inform her that both she and Jane were indisposed. With no reasonable cause to refuse, he reluctantly yielded to her persuasion and left.

  Caroline persisted with her embroidery until frustration began to spoil her stitches, at which point she threw her hoop aside and crossed her arms with an angry growl. She had been so looking forward to arriving at Pemberley! Despite the injustice of having been overlooked for its mistress in favour of the objectionable hellcat Darcy had married, it was still one of her favourite places to visit and a far cry from the hovel in which they presently lodged. Now, with the threat of her brother’s wayward affections being exposed, the visit held all the appeal of a holiday in Cádiz.

  ***

  Wednesday, 2 September 1812: Derbyshire

  The day of her sister’s visit arrived, and Elizabeth awoke feeling entirely unrested with an aching head and a distinctly unsettled stomach. She lay motionless on her back, breathing deeply in the hope the feeling would ease but smiling at a burgeoning sense of excitement.

  Though it might be only anxiety for her reunion with Jane, she had reason to hope there was another, happier explanation for her biliousness. She had awoken in a similar state on several mornings of late, but only yesterday begun to suspect the cause. Then it had been poor Georgiana’s fractious tears and pimpled skin that roused the suspicion in her mind. For whilst sympathising with her sister over the bane of monthly courses, it occurred to her that, since marrying, she herself had not been thus afflicted.

  “Elizabeth, are you unwell?”

  She had thought Darcy asleep. Her heart leapt at the prospect of revealing to him her suspicions. “A little unsettled,” she admitted.

  “You slept very ill,” he said gently, rolling to face her with a concerned frown. “Would that you had let me put them off. I do not like that you are this ill at ease.”

  She likewise rolled towards him and then regretted doing so as a wave of nausea assailed her. “I am not convinced that would have helped in this instance.”

  “Should you feel better if you ate something?”

  The prospect was surprisingly appealing. “Yes, I think I might.”

  Darcy rose immediately to summon Wetherby. Elizabeth rued her missed opportunity but supposed it would be better to share her momentous hopes in a less dishevelled state in any case. She removed to her own room to attend to her toilette, tidy her hair, and don a shawl. By the time she was done, breakfast had been laid out in the sitting room, and Darcy had prepared her a plate.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting down and reaching for it, though she stopped short of actually taking it. First, the odour and then the sight of the insipid, sweaty heap of congealed buttered eggs piled on the plate turned her stomach so violently she thought she would be ill where she sat. Covering her mouth, she surged to her feet, sending her chair thudding to the floor, and was relieved to reach her washstand before vomiting.

  “Elizabeth!”

  “A moment!” she gasped, urgently waving him away, having no wish for him to see her thus. He heeded her only until her
nausea was passed, then he was at her side, easing her into the chair he had brought from the sitting room. He crouched in front of her, holding her hand in his and peering at her with the greatest alarm.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, wrinkling her nose with chagrin. So much for announcing her news in a more dignified manner!

  “No, no,” he assured her. “Can I get you anything? Would a glass of wine give you some relief?”

  “No, I thank you.”

  “Nothing at all? You are very ill.”

  She shook her head and could not help but smile. “I think not.” He frowned as she knew he would. “Fitzwilliam, I believe I am with child.”

  He sat back on his heels and stared at her, fixed in astonishment. “Truly?”

  “’Tis not certain,” she said hastily. “It will be some time before I can be sure.”

  “But you suspect?”

  She nodded, her smile broadening, and that seemed to be enough for him. He gave a triumphant little crow and reared up onto his knees to embrace her, showering her with endearments and telling her of feelings that, in proving of what importance the child was to him, made her even more anxious that her hopes be warranted. He leant back and, with the utmost tenderness, placed a hand on her abdomen. “Dearest Elizabeth! Just as I thought I could not possibly love you more!”

  “I hope you will not love me any less if my suspicions come to nothing.”

  “I shall not dignify that with an answer.”

  She placed both her hands over his. “I dearly hope I am not mistaken, for I should be the happiest creature alive if it were true.”

  His smile was wonderful. “When will you know without doubt?”

  “When I feel the quickening, I suppose, but that could be many weeks from now, for I have only recently begun to suspect. Pray, let our hopes remain private until they are proved. It is yet very early and…well, nothing is guaranteed.”

  The turn of his countenance assured her he had taken her meaning. “Will you be able to keep it from your sister?”