All eyes turned to the ordinarily composed young woman, who seemed now at a loss for words. She looked from her mother to her father, whose glare was menacing.
“Oh, well,” she began to stammer, before regaining her equanimity. “America is not at all like London. We traveled to Baton Rouge, to visit mother’s cousin…it seemed highly influenced by the French.”
“My cousin’s husband has a plantation there.” Elizabeth noticed Lady Markham’s lips tighten, as she took in a calming breath.
How curious, indeed.
Chapter 13
July 20, 1812
The clock had struck three chimes, and Elizabeth still could not sleep. The firelight cast a lovely glow on the soft pink and green papered walls while cream fabric draped the bed frame. Overstuffed pillows lined the headboard while a plush chair rested in front of the fireplace. The white wood writing desk and armoire completed the decidedly feminine style. She unraveled herself from the bedclothes and walked to the French doors. Stepping out onto the balcony, she sighed at the view before her.
Pemberley’s woods were set behind a small lake with a full moon casting a bright glow across the grounds. The rugged peaks in the distance are a different type of beauty than my small undulations of Hertfordshire, but I cannot begrudge them. It is what I would expect from the views around Mr. Darcy’s estate! Recalling the day’s events, first her walk interrupted by Mr. Darcy and then Lady Cecilia, and then Mr. Darcy’s behavior towards her at dinner, her thoughts continued to run rampant through her mind. If only I knew his heart! Feeling a chill, she returned inside her room and donned her robe. I will go down to the library and find something to lull me to sleep. Maybe a book about crop rotation?
At the top of the stairs, she suddenly had an idea. I have still not viewed the gallery. Maybe a conversation with the Darcys from the past will settle my soul?
Fitzwilliam Darcy could not sleep. His thoughts were overtaken by a brown-eyed lass from Hertfordshire who had no money or connections, as well as the ill-mannered woman who had been educated in the finest seminary in England but could still not hold a conversation without degrading others.
He had barely escaped that morning from Lady Cecilia’s machinations. Fortunately, his cousin’s providential arrival allowed him to walk back to the house with Elizabeth. Elizabeth. She was more dear to him than he ever thought possible. The lovely flush of her skin at dinner. His own breathing became constricted as he remembered the scent of her perfume: lavender, and how that one little curl kept licking the nape of her neck when she moved. Oh, to wind my finger around that lock. He rolled over onto his back looking up at the ceiling and groaned. I should never have kissed her at Chenowith, but what man could restrain himself from such temptation? True, I did not regret it in the moment. He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of her nestled in his arms and expelled a ragged breath. Nor do I regret it now.
He threw off the counterpane and donned his banyan to do what he always did when he could not sleep. He picked up a candle and began to stroll the corridors, hoping that the exercise would help him to fall asleep.
He wandered the downstairs, and into the servants’ stairway, where he crossed into the kitchen. I wonder if Cook has any more of those chocolate biscuits? He found a plate full of lemon tarts instead. She knows me so well. I am surprised there is not a note saying, “Mr. Darcy, enjoy.” He chuckled at his own humor and walked back through the door with his prize. Approaching the library, he thought of Elizabeth. Why does everything in my world now relate to her?
He walked through the doors and into the music room, through the orangery, and the collections room, up the main staircase, and through the upstairs drawing room, all the while polishing off one lemon tart after another.
He made his way down to the open door, then stopped in surprise, imagining himself in a dream.
She had drifted through the gallery with her single candle, holding up the light from one illustrious painting to the next. She wondered at the clothing and hairstyles of the past and the somber faces of the Darcy clan. The first painting was not of someone, but by someone—the first D’Arcy in England, Alexander Baron D’arcy. I am sure he is who Mrs. Green said pledged his allegiance to William the Conqueror, hence this beautiful painting of the lands of Pemberley. The pride in the estate evident over eight hundred years ago. Her eyes widened in recognition of elapsed time. Eight hundred years! The Bennets have resided in Longbourn for no more than two hundred and twenty years!
The true magnitude of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s lineage began to weigh on her as she wandered amongst his illustrious ancestors, stopping before his great-grandfather and his great-grandmother. Odelia Bachmeier Darcy? A Saxon? I am certain there is a story there! She now began to recognize the fashion in the portraits as matching some of her own ancestors who hung on the walls of Longbourn. Not as prominently displayed, however, she thought. But beloved family, nevertheless.
Elizabeth ambled on until she stopped again in front of the paintings of George and Lady Anne Darcy, recognizing the prominent jaw and dimpled chin of the current master of Pemberley and the blonde tresses of his young sister mirrored in their mother. These are the people who he learned so much from, who made him into the man he is.
She continued a few more steps until she was before a painting of two young boys. This must have been the last portrait before Henry Darcy... The boys were likely no more than twelve years old, and she immediately recognized a young Mr. Darcy.
He was somber, with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, and dark curls forced into submission for the artist. His breeches and waistcoat were pressed to perfection, and he looked a smaller version of the man she knew, “Buttoned up and polished,” as Mrs. Hill would say. However, the boy next to him was anything but. Henry Darcy had inherited the jaw and nose of his father but his straw-colored hair belonged to the Fitzwilliam side. He had a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes, and she could only have imagined the pleasure he must have been for a shy younger brother to emulate. Such a tragedy. How many times have I stood up for one of my sisters without such dire consequences? It is what siblings do.
She stood quietly, contemplating this young boy and the brother beside him who had grown into a man, and she shook her head in sadness. She looked back up at the two boys and whispered, “What might you have accomplished, Henry Darcy? You, whose life was stolen from this world? What stresses and pains would you have relieved from your brother? Not only in his reticence in company but also allowing him to laugh more freely? I see it in your looks—that confidence and sparkle which so many people lack.” She walked forward and touched the frame of the picture. “I have seen a side of your brother I never knew existed and I wonder what could have been. He is a most thorough master, and according to his servants, does this estate proud. Yet, would he have been happier living the life of a second son?”
She patted the frame again in farewell before coming to stop in front of the painting she had been building her courage to approach.
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” she said to the silent image. “I hope it does not bother you that we are alone in your gallery? I admit freely that if the circumstances were different, and we were once again in our rooms at Chenowith, I would already be flustered by your presence.” She smiled and stared into the eyes of the man that she had only recently realized she had strong feelings for. Strong feelings? Dare I say love? She shook her head and sat down on the bench across from his portrait, setting the candle next to her. Yes, love. I love him! The realization both elated and frightened her. She cast her eyes upwards to study the object of her affection.
The painting measured as tall as the man and double as wide. Behind him was the landscape of Pemberley with a dog curled up by his feet and the mountains of Dovedale in the distance. This is him, she thought to herself. This is the man I wish I had been introduced to in Meryton when he attended the assembly all those months ago. “Had I been introduced to you, sir,” she said, continuing to address the po
rtrait, “I would have known you. I would have known your heart. I would have recognized your soul and not been deceived by another.”
She turned to look at all of the paintings, all of the history encapsulated in that gallery and shook her head while mumbling to herself. “Who am I to imagine that I deserve to grace these walls with so much history? With so much honor bestowed upon them?” I am merely the daughter of a landed gentleman from Hertfordshire. I have no accomplishments, no formal education, no connections. These walls warrant the likes of Lady Cecilia Markham, not impertinent Lizzy Bennet from Longbourn in Hertfordshire; the daughter of a kind but inept father, a loud and often improper mother and the sister to three very silly girls. She lowered her head and felt the weight of the truth sinking into her heart knowing that after Georgiana's ball, she would be gone from Pemberley and his life. “I now comprehend that you, sir,” she said, looking back up at the painting, “are exactly the man who in disposition and talents most suits me. But would my station recommend me to your world? I am so far beneath you.”
“Do not say such things.”
Elizabeth startled from the bench and turned to face the darkness where Mr. Darcy stood in a moonlight silhouette. “Forgive my intrusion. I could not sleep.”
“Nor, I,” she said with a shaking voice, unable to meet his gaze.
“But you must forgive me eavesdropping as you divulge your secrets to my family.”
She did not reply, hot shame burning through her.
“But you see, Miss Bennet…Elizabeth,” he said, walking over and standing in front of her, before lifting her chin with his fingers and tracing her cheek, “I am very intimate with my relatives. They know all my secrets.”
A tear fell and padded on the floor by her bare foot, then another and another. “I am afraid you have now discovered the full degree of my shame…”
“Your shame?”
“You have heard the inner most thoughts of my heart, and I am unaware of yours. After my behavior at Chenowith and my unrestrained words tonight, I can only imagine what you think of me.”
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, wiping her tears with his thumb. “What I think of you… You are exactly the woman who in disposition and talents suits me.” He paused at her small gasp, and he brushed her stray curl behind her ear. “When you are near, I am the man I wish to be.”
He leaned in, moonlight limning his face, and whispered, “Forgive me?” before gently pressing his lips to hers. It took her mere seconds to weave her hands around his back and grip his shirt, while his moved to her hair, loosening the long plait.
“Elizabeth,” he mumbled, pulling away and caressing her now loose tresses off her shoulder. “You must know. Surely you must know”—he gently traced his lips across her forehead— “since almost the first moment of our acquaintance… It has been only you.”
She leaned back and looked at him, eyes wide with question. “From almost the first moment? But, you glared at me so. You were not looking to find fault?”
“What fault, my precious girl?” he said, kissing her forehead, before smiling tenderly. “True, you are obstinate and headstrong, but I would have you no other way. You are a balm to my empty soul and I cannot imagine you not in my life.”
“Mr. Darcy, I…”
“It is Fitzwilliam, my love. Acquaintances call me Mr. Darcy. You are eminently more dear.”
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, testing the sound from her lips. “Are you certain? Am I truly what you want?”
“I have no doubt.”
“But what of my lack of connections? My dowry? My rather improper relations?”
“What do I need with money? I have more than enough for the both of us. But, I do not have an Elizabeth Bennet to comfort me.” He cleared his throat and cupped her face with his hands. “My darling girl…marry me?”
She gasped before a playful grin began to spread. “On one condition, Fitzwilliam.”
“Name it.”
“You introduce me to your family,” she said, raising her hand and indicating the paintings before them.
He chuckled and kissed her brow again. “With pleasure. Shall we begin with my mother? She would have loved you.”
“Are you in truth?”
“Your spirit is most like hers. It is spirited yet refined. The perfect balance for my reserved father.”
“I am beginning to see the similarities.”
They walked through the gallery as he introduced her to his lineage, finally ending with the tragic tale of Henry.
“I loved him more than anything,” Fitzwilliam said, allowing his arm to drape around Elizabeth as she rested her head in the crook of his neck. “We were the best of friends. Inseparable. Even now, decades later, a hole remains in that twelve-year-old boy’s heart. I was lost when he died.”
“As I would be without Jane.”
He nodded, stroking her hair. “Your relationship with Miss Bennet has often reminded me of the loyalty I felt to my brother. After his passing, I would wake up screaming for him in the darkness as if I was still in the cave. For years, I required a candle to burn all night in my chambers.”
He tenderly pressed his lips into her hair. “Henry’s loss forced me into a position which I had not been born for. I am reticent, where Henry was unreserved. I am brusque, where Henry was always light-hearted. You have noticed my failings in company, but I have come to realize that I am my own man. I cannot be what I imagine my brother would have become, as good as he was.”
“He was merely a boy, Fitzwilliam. You were a child.”
“Yes, I know that now. But worshiping an ideal elder brother does not die.”
“Yet, you had the gift of growing up in your father’s shadow and learning from him. Your ability of discernment and fairness in the decisions of the estate have obviously benefitted Pemberley and your other holdings.”
He looked into her eyes. “Thank you. Your praise means more to me than you comprehend.” He raised her hand and kissed it softly. “However,” he continued, “my fondest hope has been to pattern my life after what Henry would have done and protect those I love, as he always protected me.” He stopped and looked at her. “I am certain you discerned the young lady I spoke of to Miss Anderson about was my dear sister?”
Elizabeth nodded in silence, entwining her fingers through his.
“My fear, Elizabeth, is failing my family—Georgiana is all I have left, and I almost allowed that to happen with Wickham. I struggle with that daily.”
“I believe you are doing an exceptional job. Mrs. Reynolds thinks so.”
He chuckled before replying. “Mrs. Reynolds would allow I burn down St. James’ at no fault of my own!”
“True,” Lizzy said, stifling a laugh.
“I have the support of my family and servants, and now you. What more do I need?”
“More lemon tarts?” She asked, looking over at the empty plate they had finished.
He laughed, pulling her once more to him. “And now, my Lizzy, enough of this solemn conversation. It is time we retire. There is a ball this evening, and we must look our best.”
“And I have the first two and the last dance reserved.”
“The first two? Who are you dancing the first with?”
She laughed at his evident envy. “A handsome colonel who is the second son of an earl. He has good prospects.”
Darcy smiled at her sally. “Oh, well. He needs to marry for wealth, so you should set your sights somewhere else.”
“I thank you for the intelligence and presume I must resign myself to a farmer from Derbyshire who harvests potatoes at estates that are not his own. Do you know anyone?”
He smiled and pulled her in close, as he tasted her lips once again. “I imagine I could be of help finding someone matching that description. If not, maybe another suitable choice will present itself.”
“No, there is only one man I want,” she replied, her eyes luminous in the moonlight. “It is you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. I choose you.”
“Do you think it proper I attend the ball? I am, after all, a fallen woman.” Margaret Anderson glanced over at Turner as they took a turn about the garden together.
“You are not a ‘fallen woman,’ Mrs. Anderson,” he whispered as they came upon one of the gardeners planting the last row of rose bushes. “You are a widow, or at least that is how society sees you. Only those closest to you know the truth, and that does not signify.”
She shook her head and set her jaw. “No, I am not that, sir. But if I were to see Mr. Wickham again, I would make sure before he left the room that I truly was!”
Phillip turned to her with a look of surprise and smiled. “I have understood the temper of red headed ladies to be unforgiving but have never experienced it first-hand. Bravo.”
She blushed, in both pleasure at his compliment and anger at the situation. “I thank you for the accolades. If only they came to pass, I would feel less bereft of my child growing up illegitimate. I do not have a cousin in Baton Rouge, sir…”
She let the statement sink in, and he looked at her appraisingly. “You, Miss Anderson, are a firebrand.”
“Forgive me. That was unkind. I am just put in such a state when I think about all I have lost and will never have…”
“Such as?”
“Respectability … But let’s not think on that. These are only thoughts that invade my slumber at night and threaten my happiness throughout the day. No, let’s return to Miss Darcy’s ball. I will go, and enjoy the company of those I know, and the pity of those I do not.”
“Will you dance?”
“In my condition?” She laughed. “Even though I enjoy the exercise so, I do not have the energy…or the grace.”
“I will keep you company then, so you are not idle in your pursuits.”
“Mr. Turner, you are a handsome man who must be in search of a wife. Please do not allow me to stop your progress.”
“There will be many balls.”
The Goodness of Men Page 15
