‘’I have nothing to offer you but my love,’ he said. ‘Everything else is precarious. But I can never love another and I am asking you to marry me.’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Oh, yes please!’
He rose to his feet and lifted her up and spun her round, then kissed her again.
‘This magical time is only a holiday from reality and there are problems which must be faced on the morrow. Are you sure?’ he asked her.
‘I am. I would rather live with you in a cottage than live with another man in a palace. My aunt would think me foolish but I do not care. I love you and I want to be your wife. Whatever comes, we will face it together.’
And then they made good use of the mistletoe and kissed each other again.
Chapter Thirteen
On the following morning, heartened by his betrothal to Elizabeth and Anne’s gift, Mr Darcy faced his problems with renewed hope. The morning had already been one of good cheer, with his guests all showing their genuine delight at his betrothal. His own private moments with Elizabeth had further lifted his spirits, so he decided to examine the east wing from the outside, to see if the workmen had made a good job of boarding up the windows. It looked like it might snow, and he wanted to make sure that the work had progressed far enough to prevent the elements entering and doing more damage to the already damaged rooms.
He went out of the front door and walked along the terrace, past the orangery and round the corner to the east wing. As he turned the corner he saw that the damaged parts of the walls and windows had been covered over but to his surprise he heard the sound of hammering and sawing coming from within. He was alarmed. He had not given orders for any repairs to take place, for until he knew the full extent of his financial difficulties he did not want to spend anything unless it was absolutely necessary.
He went in through the side door and then went into his mother’s sitting-room. A lump rose in his throat and all he could do was stand and stare. He had been expecting to find a burnt out shell but the room had been almost completely restored, so that it looked almost identical to the room with which he was familiar. There was a smell of paint and he saw that three of the men from the village were painting the walls in an expert fashion, for it was their profession. He felt a mixture of emotions: anxiety over how much the work had cost, anger that he had been disobeyed and a sense of genuine thankfulness that the room had been repaired in such an exemplary fashion.
While he was still wrestling with these conflicting emotions, he saw an even more surprising sight. George Wickham – he was almost tempted to rub his eyes, to make sure they were not deceiving him – George Wickham was carrying a wooden beam across his shoulders. He was taking it over to the window which, although it had been boarded up to prevent the elements intruding, had not yet been properly repaired.
‘Wickham!’ he exclaimed under his breath.
‘Yes, Sir. Mr Wickham’s been one of our best helpers,’ said Carter, who had appeared beside him. ‘He arrived two days ago and he’s been lending his strong right arm – and his strong left arm, too. He’s worked like two men, saying how sorry he was to see the sitting-room in this condition and wanting to restore it to what it was before.’
Mr Darcy was baffled. He could not believe it. George was here helping? Not asking for money, or lying or cheating, but working? And without even being asked?
He watched all the men busily going about their work and he was heartened to see it, but at the same time he was downcast because he wondered how he was going to pay for it all. The conflicting emotions resolved themselves enough for him to say, ‘I cannot fault your zeal, but I gave instructions that no repairs were to be carried out.’
‘Yes, Sir, you did, Sir, and I take full responsibility for going against your wishes, Sir. But the villagers wanted to help, and the local craftsmen and tradesmen felt the same. The Darcy family have been good to them over the years and they wanted to do something in return. There was nothing I could do to stop them. They’ve supplied the labour and Mr Bingley supplied the materials.’
‘Bingley!’ exclaimed Mr Darcy.
‘Yes, Sir. He’s staying at the inn at Lambton. He said to send all the bills to him.’
Mr Darcy was dumbfounded. Then, once he had recovered from his surprise, he fought a battle within himself. His pride was hurt at the thought of charity. But then his better feelings rose up inside him and told him that this was not charity, it was friendship, and he felt humbled to think that his friends and neighbours valued him so much they would help him. How different to the so-called friends and neighbours who had melted away when his difficulties had become known.
And what of George? His gaze followed George Wickham until George set down the beam and then turned round, ready to fetch and carry again. George stopped in mid-stride as he saw Mr Darcy. He hesitated for a moment and then came over to him. He looked at Mr Darcy sincerely – not with the superficial appearance of sincerity he knew how to assume so well – but with deep-down sincerity. Mr Darcy was taken back to the days of their youth when they had been as brothers and he longed for those days again, but after what had happened they could not return; at least, not without a miracle.
‘I have no right to be here, Darcy, but when I heard about the fire I wanted to help,’ said George. ‘Your mother was very good to me. Your father, too.’
‘And how shabbily your repaid them,’ said Mr Darcy, for he was not to be won over so easily. Carrying a beam and helping with some labour was one thing; genuinely repenting of his many faults was another.
Wickham’s face fell but he took it like a man. He did not try to charm his way out of it, or bluff his way out of it. Instead he said. ‘You are right. I will go now.’ He turned away but then turned back and said, ‘I would have treated her like a sister. I would have given her everything and set her on a pedestal, not sullying her in any way. But that does not excuse what I did. I have no right to beg for your forgiveness, but I beg for it anyway. I know it does not mean anything, Darcy, but for what it is worth, I am sorry.’
Mr Darcy said nothing. George looked into his eyes and then, seeing no forgiveness, he turned and walked away. He picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as his long stride carried him out of the room.
But Mr Darcy was still trying to take it in. It had been so unexpected that his face had frozen. Only now did he begin to realise what had just happened. George Wickham had said he was sorry. George, who had never willingly said sorry in his life as either man or boy, at least not without being threatened with some dire punishment if he refused, and then only apologising in a disgruntled way. But he had, of his own accord, said he was sorry, and what is more, Mr Darcy was convinced he meant it. Despite himself, Mr Darcy was touched and he felt himself wanting to forgive his former friend. But the moment had passed and George had already left.
Mr Darcy replayed the scene again in his head; heard George saying ‘I know it does not mean anything, Darcy, but for what it is worth, I am sorry.’
This time he knew what he thought and knew what he felt.
‘You are wrong, George,’ he said under his breath, as he saw George riding away. ‘It means everything.’
Anne rose late and by the time she entered the drawing-room after breakfast she found that most of the other guests had already decided on their activities. Mr Darcy was examining the east wing, Georgiana had taken her sketchbook out to the orangery and Elizabeth was writing letters. Only Colonel Fitzwilliam was there, reading a newspaper.
The sight of him, alone, gave her pause. She had thought about her conversation with Mr Darcy many times since she had spoken to him about Colonel Fitzwilliam and she knew he was right when he said that if she was in love with the Colonel, she would have to speak first. She had been trying to pluck up her courage to do just that ever since her conversation with Mr Darcy, and now she felt the moment had come. It was not easy to find him alone but fate had played into her hands and now she knew she must make her move, or perhaps miss
it forever.
Colonel Fitzwilliam noticed her entrance. He threw aside his newspaper and rose politely. Anne noticed that he was standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe so she took her courage in both hands and went over to him. Then, standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the lips. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, for she had behaved in a reprehensible manner and done something no young lady should ever do. But Anne was seven-and-twenty and she had risked all in the hope of gaining all. She sank back on to her heels and did not dare look up at him, for there was no turning back. If he was disgusted with her, she would have to live with it for the rest of her life.
But she did not have long to wait. After a matter of seconds he caught her in his arms.
‘Anne . . . ’ he said with a low groan.
And then he was pulling her towards him and kissing her again. When at last he let her go, he was smiling, and she smiled shyly in return.
‘Can you really love me?’ he said, looking deep into her eyes as if he would find the answer there. ‘Is it possible that you really care?’
‘Yes,’ she said, throwing her head back and speaking firmly. Her mother would be horrified, for her mother wanted her to marry a rich man, but she did not care. She was independently wealthy and she had no need to marry for money. In fact, she had a revulsion of the idea. She wanted to marry for love and her was the man she loved standing in front of her.
‘I have always loved you, ever since I was a little girl,’ she said.
‘I hoped . . . but your fortune stood in the way.’
‘You do need a fortune,’ she pointed out.
His hands dropped to his sides, as if to emphasise that he would not keep her; not unless she came to him willingly.
‘But not yours’ he said. ‘Not unless it comes with love on both sides.’
‘It comes with love on mine,’ she said shyly.
‘And on mine,’ he said.
And then he honoured the mistletoe again.
Elizabeth finished her letters and returned to the drawing-room, where she found Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam sitting on the sofa, their arms wrapped around each other. Her face broke into a warm smile.
‘I am happy to inform you that there is nothing improper in our embrace. Anne has done me the very great honour of agreeing to become my wife,’ said Colonel Fitzwilliam as he rose and bowed.
‘I am so happy for you both,’ said Elizabeth with genuine feeling.
She had become very fond of Anne in recent weeks and she had always liked Colonel Fitzwilliam so the uniting of two such worthy people filled her with joy. But it was only a pale reflection of the joy she felt over her own betrothal to Mr Darcy.
After a few more minutes of congratulations, Elizabeth left the happy couple together. Mr Darcy was seeing to estate business and so she decided she would go for a walk in the crisp morning air. There was a heavy frost and the Pemberley grounds looked enticing under their white frosting.
She donned her outdoor clothing and returned to the hall but just as she was about to go out, Mr Darcy came in at the front door. He was dressed in his outdoor clothes, with his many-caped greatcoat falling to his ankles and his hat on his head, but he asked her to wait a few minutes while he put on his cloak, as he would need it if they were going for a long walk, rather than a short examination of the east wing. She gladly agreed and, once he had returned to the hall, she took his arm and the two of them set out.
Their breath misted in the cold winter air and they drew closer together for warmth, and because they wanted to be as close as they could. Their talk was the talk of lovers. They made plans for the future and talked of their wedding.
‘I must ask your father’s permission,’ said Mr Darcy. ‘I will go to Longbourn directly after Christmas.’
‘I would like to tell Jane,’ said Elizabeth. Then she said, ‘Oh, dear, it was supposed to be a secret but I have rather given it away. Jane and Mr Bingley are staying at the inn.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Darcy. ‘I examined the east wing this morning and had the whole tale from Mr Carter.’
‘Are you angry?’ asked Elizabeth, looking up at him from beneath her long lashes.
‘No. I am too happy to be angry, and I am too grateful to Bingley for his unselfish friendship.’
‘I thought it might have wounded your pride,’ said Elizabeth. ‘So did he. That is why he kept it a secret.’
‘Perhaps, once, it would have done. But no longer. I have learnt a great deal over the last few weeks. I have learnt how to value my true friends and how to accept their gifts. Before I know only how to give. Now I have learnt how to take. And what better time to learn it than Christmas?’
Elizabeth leant heavily on his arm, not because she needed to but because she valued the close contact between them. The frost crunched satisfyingly beneath their feet.
‘So we may go to Lambton this afternoon and give them the good news?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘We may. But first I would ask you to give me a few moments alone with Bingley. There has been a coolness since I tried to persuade him against marrying your sister and I would like to tell him how sorry I am for interfering. I should not have done it. It was impertinent of me to think that he could not manage his own life.’
‘I am sure it is not necessary.’
‘But I would like to do it anyway. Does your sister resent me?’ he asked.
Elizabeth laughed. It was a clear sound that rang through the winter air like a bell.
‘Jane has never resented anyone in her life. She is all goodness, as you will discover when she becomes your sister. She truly does not have any defects, unless it is that she is too good. But with Mr Bingley as her husband, her kind and generous nature is safe. He will never take advantage of it or abuse it. He is exactly the right husband for her. As you are exactly the right husband for me.’
There was no one present. The only living creature was a robin, with his bright red breast and beady eye, who hopped through the frosted leaves beneath the bushes and paid them no attention. So Mr Darcy made the most of their privacy and kissed his beautiful Elizabeth on her adorable lips.
‘Then it is settled?’ asked Elizabeth, as at last they walked on.
‘It is. We will take the carriage into Lambton and tell them our good news, and then invite them to join us at Pemberley for luncheon.’
George Wickham was at the inn, where he had been staying in an attic room since his arrival in Derbyshire. Once, he would have gone to the steward’s house as it had been his home for many years, when his father was alive and when he was the Pemberley steward. After his father’s death he had been kindly made welcome at Pemberley whenever he was in the neighbourhood, until he had attempted to run away with Georgiana. So now he was staying at the inn, like a stranger, and he thought of all he had lost – no, not lost, thrown away, through his immaturity and stupidity and inability to settle to any kind of useful life. He had lost the right to roam the Pemberley estate as he had done when he was a boy, and his childhood haunts were now forbidden to him. The trees he had climbed, the lake in which he had swum, the stables in which he had laughed and played, indulging in horseplay – how aptly named! – with Darcy, who had been as a brother to him.
The house, too, was forbidden to him, and the steward’s house in which he had grown up was also beyond his reach. He would have liked to see the parlour again, in which his adored mother had sketched and painted, exhibiting such skill that Mr Darcy’s father had hung three of her miniatures in the Pemberley drawing-room.
George was overcome with a wave of nostalgia as he remembered the miniatures of himself, Darcy and Georgiana, which hung next to the fireplace. His mother had been so proud of that fact, and rightly so, for Mr Darcy’s father had been a connoisseur of art and he had not hung them there lightly. He had hung them there because their delicacy of touch had captured the bright spirits of three young people who had the world before them and were sure it would be good.
And it was good, he thought
, straightening his spine and ridding himself of his nostalgic melancholy, putting paid to any threat of self-pity. He had a life; a good life. Thanks to Darcy he had a livelihood and a respectable career. He was making something of himself in the army and he meant to do well. He could rise to the rank of Colonel if he applied himself, and for once in his life he meant to do just that. He not only had a livelihood, he had a wife. True, Lydia was not the kind of wife he had always dreamed of. She was not an heiress and she had no useful connections. She was young and silly, and he had preferred her sister. Yes, let him be honest, he had been half in love with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and could easily have become wholly in love with her if circumstances had permitted.
As if thinking of her had conjured her up, he caught a glimpse of her out of the window. She was standing by the Darcy carriage in the yard, adjusting the folds of her cloak. He turned his head and saw that Darcy was not far off, making polite conversation with the innkeeper.
Here was his chance to make his peace with her.
He put on his red coat and went downstairs, taking the side door out to the stables.
Elizabeth looked up and saw him coming.
They had seen each other since his marriage to Lydia, so this was not their first meeting since that fateful day. He had tried to pretend, then, that he was the polite gentleman he had always seemed to be, but her words had soon convinced him that she knew everything and that deceit was impossible. He had not known how to react and he had simply looked foolish, continuing to smile and smirk as if nothing had happened.
But now he was better than that. He was a man, and a man faced his mistakes and did everything in his power to put them right.
He walked across to Elizabeth with a firm tread and made her a low bow. She inclined her head slightly and made the most imperceptible curtsey in reply.
They exchanged greetings and then he said, ‘Miss Bennet, I must take this opportunity to thank you for your kindness to me, and to apologise for my behaviour last year. I had no right to lie to you, and no right to blacken Darcy’s name. I think you know everything . . .?’
Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 4 Page 17
