Mary did not answer, but rather appeared unconvinced.
“But just now,” Elizabeth went on, “regarding Mr. Collins, I only wish you to understand—"
Mary folded her arms and leaned toward Elizabeth. “Let me tell you, Lizzy, a little something of my understanding. I will marry Mr. Collins if he asks. His prospects are good and, the next time I would see this house, I would be the mistress of it.”
With that, Mary spun on her heel and returned to the other ladies.
Elizabeth stood frozen where she stood. She could not deny that they’d all laughed at Mary. How had she thought Mary would not feel it? Had they really been so cruel?
And Mary’s opinions on her own sisters! They were not flattering, but for the most part they were probably right. Elizabeth might not agree that Jane had few opinions of her own, but she could not deny that she herself had too many opinions. Most of them were not grounded in confirmed fact and a few of which had recently been proved wrong.
Rarely had an evening revealed her own faults to her so directly. Elizabeth felt as if the ground were unsteady underneath her feet. Everything she’d thought she’d known was upended.
She had been so confident of herself—of her opinions, of who she was.
Who was she now? A lady with erring judgment who had mistreated Miss Mallory and her own sister.
She feared what she would discover about herself next and prayed that was the last of the unpleasant surprises. Elizabeth vowed she would atone for her errors. She must be as Emma Woodhouse, fully owning her mistakes and taking steps to remedy them.
Elizabeth would start by calling on Emily Mallory. What she would do about Mary, she did not yet know. However, whether or not Mary would accept Mr. Collins, something must be done.
The rest of the evening passed quietly and Elizabeth did persist in being at the pianoforte to play or turn pages. The only circumstance that at all cheered her was Jane and Mr. Bingley. Since Emma had owned her error, Mr. Bingley had seemed to throw off all care and hung about Jane as he had been in the habit of doing from the start.
As the evening came to a close, Elizabeth comforted herself in the knowledge that nothing further alarming had come to her notice. That was, until Mr. Darcy presented himself at the pianoforte moments before his party departed the house.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, handing her a letter, “if you would do me the honor of reading this.”
He turned and strode away, leaving a folded paper in Elizabeth’s hands. She could not fathom what was in it or why Mr. Darcy had seen fit to write anything to her, but she slipped it into her reticule to keep it from being remarked upon.
Though she was certain that nobody had noted Mr. Darcy handing her a letter, during the carriage ride back to Longbourn she’d felt as if it announced itself all the way home. How was it possible that the rest of the inhabitants of the carriage did not know it was there?
She supposed Emma and Jane were too caught up in discussing the upcoming ball at Netherfield, while her father made amusing comments on the subject.
“Mr. Bingley was exceedingly attentive this evening, I thought,” Emma said merrily.
“He did seem in his old spirits,” Jane said, “as if some sort of unpleasantness had gone away.”
“Truth often leads to clarity,” Emma said. “Or so Mr. Knightley has told me.”
While Jane and Emma attempted to speak in riddles about Mr. Bingley in front of Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth did not think he was easily fooled. Before too long, he said, “Am I to understand then, that I might expect a certain Mr. Bingley to seek me out sometime soon?”
“Papa!” Jane cried.
“Dear Uncle,” Emma said, scolding and laughing at the same time, “it is very wrong of you to say so, but very right of you to expect it.”
“I will hear no more!” Jane said.
As much as Jane claimed she would hear no more, Mr. Bennet would joke all the way to Longbourn.
Elizabeth had left Jane and Emma in Jane’s bedchamber to discuss Mr. Bingley while she’d claimed a headache and hurried to her room. She lit a candle near the window seat and opened Mr. Darcy’s letter.
Madam,
If you are reading this, I thank you for the courtesy. Though it is an unusual step, I felt compelled to disabuse you of an opinion you hold, and therefore would tell you the whole of my dealings with George Wickham.
He is the son of my father’s late steward and lived on the property all of his childhood. Mr. Wickham found great favor with my father, who very much wished to raise his prospects in the world. Accordingly, he arranged for Wickham to have a valuable living at a parish nearby. The gentleman could have taken it and lived comfortably all of his days.
Upon my father’s death, Mr. Wickham apprised me of the fact that he did not want the living and demanded money instead. I agreed to this demand, primarily because I did not wish to foist an unwillingly clergyman upon the good people of that parish. So, money he did have, and quite a lot of it. In any other hands, the amount could have been used to buy an estate which might be handed down over the generations. Mr. Wickham went to London, lived a dissolute life, and gambled it all away. I believe he had some idea of marrying a lady with a sizable dowry, but he was not successful in it.
As to why I believe that was his particular aim, here is where I come to a matter that is only known to me, my cousin, my sister and Wickham. I have full confidence that you will be the only other person who knows it.
Wickham, finding himself poor, conspired with a lady named Mrs. Younge. Here, I take full responsibility, as I did naively trust her references. As it is, Mrs. Younge is a low sort of person and while acting as companion to Georgiana at Ramsgate did encourage visits from Wickham. That gentleman, though it is an error to call him gentleman, recommended himself to my sister to such a degree that she fancied herself in love. This notion was encouraged by Mrs. Younge. Georgiana was but fifteen.
Plans were made to elope to Scotland, and it was only by chance that those plans did not succeed. I happened to visit unexpectedly, and my sister found she was not able to keep the secret from me.
As you can imagine, she was devastated to realize her mistake and it took me quite some time to convince her that it was not her mistake. She had been, as a child, manipulated by two of the most villainous individuals in England. She has since recovered her spirits, but I believe you must now understand why I refused to allow Wickham into our presence.
His current circumstances are that I bought his commission and informed him that is the last he will get from me. As much as I meant it at the time, I believe that will not hold. He is a spendthrift and even now racking up debts in Meryton that at some point I will have to pay to avoid materially injuring the tradesmen in the neighborhood.
Whatever conclusion you may come to regarding myself, I would encourage you and your sisters to avoid the gentleman. Nothing good can come of George Wickham’s company.
Regards,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Elizabeth could almost feel the seat beneath her dropping away, as if she were floating in the air with nothing to hold her to the earth. The letter fluttered to the carpet.
She had debated time and again what was the truth between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham. Here, though, was the unadulterated truth. No brother would invent such a thing about a sister. Mr. Darcy would not invent such a thing about his sister. She knew it in every fiber of her being.
Oh, and how clever Mr. Wickham had been, manipulating the facts to place himself in a good light. Not just a good light, but as an innocent victim, when all along the victim had been Miss Darcy.
No wonder Miss Darcy had looked frightened when she saw him in the Bennet’s drawing room.
Elizabeth felt as if a stone sat in her stomach. She should have known that misjudging Miss Mallory and mistreating Mary would not be the last of her crimes revealed to her. She had misjudged Mr. Darcy, too, and in a spectacularly awful manner. She had accused him of refuting his own father’s
wishes and destroying the prospects of another. She had not kept it a secret either. Everybody in the neighborhood would have heard the tale by now.
She must stop Kitty and Lydia from meeting with Mr. Wickham further, but how? She could not reveal what she now knew. The best she could do was hint that not all was known of the situation and that she had reason to believe that Mr. Wickham had fabricated his tale of woe.
Who would believe her? Everybody liked Mr. Wickham while Mr. Darcy, as honorable as it turned out he was, had not endeared himself to anybody.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had said Mr. Darcy was a good man. She could see that now.
Really, other than his earlier opinions, which he had said himself were ridiculous, what did she have to hold against him? Nothing of any consequence, though he had plenty to hold against herself.
Elizabeth paused. Why had it been so important for Mr. Darcy to clear his name to her, and her alone? She could not speak of the letter to anybody, so it was not intended as news she could relay to others. It was for her knowledge only.
She took in a sharp breath. Mr. Darcy had gone to quite a lot of trouble to secure her good opinion. He’d apologized for his remarks at the Meryton assembly, he’d examined his own prejudices and thrown them over. He’d said he wished to begin again in the neighborhood.
He’d asked if he might call at Longbourn. If he might call on her.
The truth of what had been there all along, the truth that she could not see while blinded by her own prejudices, came raining down like a storm in spring.
Mr. Darcy had some regard for her. She could not, of course, know the extent of the regard. If she’d not fallen for Mr. Wickham’s lies, she might have felt far differently about Mr. Darcy.
How did she feel about Mr. Darcy now? Now that she knew him as he truly was?
She did not know. Her feelings flew through her mind like birds in front of a beater. They raced this way and that way in a frenzy until she could not make any sense of them.
Elizabeth sighed deeply. Whatever her feelings would be when they settled, it would not signify. Too much that was ill had passed between them.
Rosings’ drawing room was a study in fine silks and heavy velvets. Lady Catherine de Bourgh only admitted the finest materials into her house, which had the effect of making visitors nervous. When one was continually made to understand how valuable a chair was, one lived in constant terror of spilling something on it.
Just now, Lady Catherine read a letter from her clergyman, Mr. William Collins. Anne lounged on a sofa and Mrs. Jellaborn nervously sat on the edge of her too-valuable chair. Mrs. Jellaborn was Anne’s new companion, the third lady in the past twelve months. She no longer wondered why the other two had left, the house was frightening, and one never knew what might set the mistress of it into a temper.
“Hand me a candle, Mrs. Jellaborn,” Lady Catherine said imperiously.
Mrs. Jellaborn leapt up and raced to a candle, delivering it with all speed.
“Do not give it to me, Mrs. Jellaborn,” Lady Catherine said.
Mrs. Jellaborn stood confused, as she was certain the lady had just asked for it.
“Take this letter and the candle to the fireplace and burn it.”
“Burn the letter?” Mrs. Jellaborn asked, wishing to be certain she was not about to put out a wrong foot.
“What else, Mrs. Jellaborn?” Lady Catherine asked with some irritation.
“Really, Mrs. Jellaborn,” Anne said languidly. “I do not suppose you are to burn your hair or your dress, as those are the only other things flammable on your person.”
Mrs. Jellaborn raced to the fire and burned the letter, letting the ash fall onto the hearth. She had not the first idea what Mr. Collins had done, but suspected he was fortunate to be out of the county just now.
“Mrs. Jellaborn,” Lady Catherine said, “you are to arrange my travel to Hertfordshire. I will make my way to some low house called Longbourn near a backwater called Meryton. I leave on the morrow. I must get there and prevent my nephew from making a terrible mistake.”
“What has the Colonel done now?” Anne asked. “Not another duel, I hope.”
“It is not the Colonel,” Lady Catherine said. “It is Darcy. Some little chit of a girl named Elizabeth Bennet has bewitched him. Mr. Collins writes that he pays her particular attention, that he is admiring of her, that he has a special regard for her. I would go there and remind her of who she is. Or rather, who she is not. I will then set off to that creature Mr. Bingley’s house to remind Darcy of his duty. He is to marry you, Anne.”
“I wager he does not,” Anne said.
“Does not what?” Lady Catherine asked.
“Does not marry me, mama,” Anne said. “For all your haranguing him on the subject, I wager he does not.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Catherine said. “You are just too young to see the sense in it.”
“I am twenty-four,” Anne said. “In any case, I do not wish to marry Darcy. I much prefer Mr. Cresswell.”
“Mr. WHO?” Lady Catherine said, her temper rising like a tidal wave.
Mrs. Jellaborn looked hopefully around the room, as if there were some door to escape through that she had not heretofore noticed.
“Mr. Cresswell, mama. You know perfectly well of who I speak, he has been here often enough for cards and we have been there for dinner twice a month for the past year. Do not bother losing your head over it. He is a man who does not mind running here and there to bring me whatever I fancy, and I fancy a gentleman who does not mind running here and there on my behalf.”
“Mr. Cresswell will never set foot in this house again!” Lady Catherine cried.
Much to Mrs. Jellaborn’s amazement, her charge was entirely unruffled by her mother’s outburst.
Anne yawned. “We will see if that opinion holds when I live at Dragmore House with Mr. Cresswell and you are short two people for cards.”
The next hour was consumed with Lady Catherine’s fury and her daughter’s ennui. Lady Catherine swore Mr. Cresswell would meet with an untimely end if he sought to ever approach Anne again. Anne noted that she’d already thought of how to change the curtains in Mr. Cresswell’s drawing room, as she found them entirely too masculine. Lady Catherine threatened to bring the Colonel and Darcy to the scene and put an end to Mr. Cresswell. Anne said she’d just run off with Mr. Cresswell, though she would prefer not to as she did not like to run in general.
Mrs. Jellaborn silently vowed to pack her own bags directly after she packed for the mistress. Her time here would be so short she would not need to even mention it as a reference. She could simply claim she’d taken some months to care for a sick aunt and be done with it. She would ride out of Kent in the fastest carriage and never look back.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth felt that she was just now on a long journey of atonement. As she’d lain sleepless through the long night, it had come to her that most of the problems that had presented themselves recently had to do with who felt superior to who. Mr. Darcy had come to the neighborhood feeling superior to everybody, and she had in turn felt superior in judgment against him. She’d also allowed herself to feel superior to Miss Mallory on account of Miss Mallory supposedly feeling superior to her. She’d all along felt her understanding and behavior superior to Lydia and Kitty’s, though really, when she considered it, that one circumstance was probably justified. They’d all felt superior to Mary, and even superior to their own mother on occasion.
Why on earth must they all run round discovering who they felt superior to? What purpose did it have? What benefit did it confer? How had she not considered any of this before?
Elizabeth had gone to Mary’s room before breakfast, bearing a cup of tea and one of Mary’s favorite teacakes.
She found her sister curled up in a chair in the corner of the room, surrounded by heavy volumes.
Mary looked up. “Good Lord, Lizzy, what do you do here? You have not been inside my room in years.”
As
Elizabeth glanced around Mary’s bedchamber, she felt the truth of it. She had been certain the wallpaper was pink and green, and here it was yellow and green. There was a bookshelf groaning with books that she was sure had not been there before, and a desk littered with paper.
Elizabeth set down the tea and cake on a little side table next to Mary. “You are right, Mary, I have not been, nor have you been to mine. I am very sorry for your treatment in this house and my own part in it.”
Mary shrugged. “I decided long ago that one day I would have my own house and run it as I see fit and that should be enough. These days of our youth do not last forever, and therefore they can be born.”
“But they should not have to be born, like some terrible trial!” Elizabeth said. “The days before we are married should be light and easy. This should be a time when we have little responsibility weighing upon us. We should be carefree!”
“Carefree,” Mary said with a small smile. “That sounds very like your playing, while I must concentrate on every note.”
“You would do a deal better, Mary, if you did not concentrate on every note. If you did not strive for perfection with such determination, your playing would be exquisite. You have had far more practice than any of us.”
Mary sighed, then examined the teacake and took a bite. “I haven’t the first idea how to approach the instrument in such a relaxed fashion. I am not a relaxed person, in general.”
“I could help you,” Elizabeth said.
Mary examined her sister with a critical eye. “Why?”
“Because you are my sister!” Elizabeth said.
Mary shrugged. “I suppose it could not hurt to try. I am never opposed to gaining new knowledge.”
Elizabeth nodded. Helping Mary let go her tight grip on musical perfection would have to do as a first step.
After breakfast, while Emma and Jane took a turn in the garden, Mary and Elizabeth sat down at the pianoforte. Elizabeth tried all sorts of tricks to persuade Mary to lighten her touch and cease attacking the keys as if they were the enemy. Though her sister tried her best, Mary’s music sounded just as ponderous as it had when they started.
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