With her elbows on the balustrade and her face pointed heavenward, she seemed oblivious to his presence. He turned to make his escape, only to be frozen in place by the sound of her voice:
“My father is dying.”
He thought at first he must have imagined those words, but then she repeated the phrase, this time with more force:
“My father is dying.”
He opened his mouth to speak, to demand an explanation, but the words would not come. Only when she began to slam her fists against the stone did he realize that she was not talking to him.
“My father is dying, my father is dying, my father is dying!”
She never raised her voice, but each reiteration seemed to intensify her anguish.
He could only stare. Later, he would chide himself for his ungentlemanly inaction, but in that moment, he was unable to move or think—aside from one thought: Dear God, he envied her spirit.
That scathing, practical part of himself—the only part left uninjured by the Ramsgate incident—decided she looked foolish and sounded absurd, that he had never behaved in such a ridiculous manner, not even when his father had been dying.
Yet, he could hear another voice, quieter and more tentative: have you truly resigned yourself to losing Georgiana? Perhaps he had made a terrible mistake by hiring Mrs. Younge. Perhaps it had been a mere coincidence that had brought him to Ramsgate. But in the end, Darcy’s arrival had kept Georgiana from eloping. She had respected him enough to inform him of her plans, and he had been able to intercede.
No matter what Richard advised, no matter how painful and embarrassing to the family name, he would fight for custody.
As if she, too, had come to a realization, Miss Elizabeth bowed her head and began to rub her hands. He winced at her gasp of pain; she had probably bruised, if not bloodied, her fingers.
When her shoulders began to shake, he knew he must take action. Stepping forward, he planned his next words: Miss Elizabeth—no, they had not been formally introduced. Or had they? He seemed to recollect Mrs. Bennet saying something about her. Still, to be safe: May I help you? No, he sounded like a servant.
For God’s sake, pull yourself together, Darcy!
“For God’s sake,” she whispered, laughing and crying simultaneously, “pull yourself together, Lizzy!”
And for the first time in weeks, he smiled.
*
“Well said.”
At these words, Elizabeth gasped and looked up. With a quick dash of her hands across her eyes, she gasped again, flinching as her scraped fingers came in contact with her salty tears.
“How…What…Who are you?”
In fact, she knew who he was; her mother had blathered on about Mr. Darcy and his 10,000 pounds earlier that evening. And there may have been something else about him—had he refused to stand up with Jane? She had only the vaguest recollection of the past few hours. Still, she was fairly certain they had not been introduced; she was not supposed to know his name. The irony of this—he had likely heard her deepest secret, and still they were to be strangers—would have made her smile, had this been any other day of her life.
“I…” He stared at her for a long moment, and then said, “I had not meant to say anything.”
“I see. You meant to eavesdrop, then?” She took moment’s pleasure at his discomfort, as if his embarrassment somehow lessened her own.
“What I meant was—” He stopped and bowed. “Excuse me. Fitzwilliam Darcy, at your service, Miss…?”
She took a little pity on him and returned the courtesy. “Elizabeth Bennet.” She paused, unsure of what to say next. She decided that it was always safe to state the obvious. “I stepped outside for some fresh air.”
“Yes, so did I.”
They looked away from each other, leaving unspoken what else she had come outside to do. He started to turn away, and she almost let him leave. What did she care if he thought her a madwoman? But then she remembered her father’s plea, and she felt the weight of it sink back into her.
“Did you overhear…”
“Everything,” he admitted, his back to her.
And though he was practically a stranger—or perhaps because he was a stranger—she felt the need to explain. “Have you read Shakespeare?”
“Shakespeare?”
There was a note of derision in his voice, but she was determined. “Yes, Shakespeare. A playwright.”
“I know who Shakespeare is.”
“But you have read any of his works?”
This comment, which she supposed in retrospect was rudely phrased, finally forced him to turn and face her.
“Yes. I have read all of Shakespeare’s plays. And most of his sonnets,” he added, as if this were an accomplishment.
“Congratulations. But you are missing out; you should read all of his sonnets.”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” he replied in a tone that conveyed little gratitude.
Elizabeth realized that she was talking nonsense, but felt it was too late to stop now. “In Macbeth, one of the characters—I think it is Macduff—says that sorrow must be given words. I cannot remember the exact quote, but…”
“Malcolm,” Mr. Darcy interrupted, his tone gentler. “It was Malcolm. He said, ‘Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak…’”
He paused, and his gaze, which she might in other circumstances have considered haughty, felt on this night and on this balcony so full of understanding that she nearly wept. It was a ridiculous notion, this idea that he understood her or that she understood him; the light of the moon was so dim they could hardly see each other. He was just a man who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Never mind that he knew Macbeth well enough to quote, in a voice hoarse with emotion.
“‘…whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break,’” he finished quietly.
She gulped. “None of my family knows, nor are they supposed to know.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He said this one word with such sincerity that she thought he truly must understand her.
Then again, perhaps not.
“I thought you were going to quote the witches,” he said.
“The witches?”
“Yes, ‘Double, double toil and trouble.’”
“Yes, I know that quote well enough.” In spite of herself, she laughed. “You are the eavesdropper, and yet I am one of the witches?”
“I did not eavesdrop,” he replied stiffly. “I happened upon you when you were speaking. And everyone quotes the witches.”
“Well, I did not quote the witches. I quoted Malcolm.”
“Yes, but only partially, and you thought the words were Macduff’s.”
She stared at him across the darkness. “Are you in earnest? I have just admitted—quite without meaning to—that my father is dying, and you are criticizing my ability to quote Shakespeare?”
If a single word could convey embarrassment, she thought his “No!” might have qualified. In a quieter voice, he added, “I did not mean…”
She never found out exactly what he did mean; there came a loud crash from inside the assembly room—one of the dancers had knocked over a potted plant—and they both jumped, turning to stare at the people on the other side of the glass.
No one seemed to have noticed the two of them, alone on this out-of-the-way balcony. Still, he said, “You should return to your friends.”
“Yes.”
She should have been grateful for the chance to escape, but she did not move.
Neither did he.
She had made a fool of herself and, much worse, revealed to a complete stranger a secret she had been tasked with keeping only hours earlier, yet she did not want him to go. Oh, it was not Fitzwilliam Darcy that attracted her—for what did she know of Fitzwilliam Darcy? It was the idea of him—a confidante who could ease the burden just a little –- that lightened her heart.
“I will not speak of thi
s to anyone,” he said eventually.
She nodded, he bowed, and she forced herself to return the ballroom where no one else—save Mr. Darcy—understood.
Chapter Three
“Good morning, dear Malcolm,” her father called as she passed by his study more than a fortnight after the assembly.
“Why does he call you that?” asked Mary, who was helping Elizabeth carry an assortment of bonnets to Mrs. Bennet’s room.
(“We must not let Jane appear unfashionable when she visits Netherfield!” her mother had declared at breakfast, ignoring the fact that all bonnets, old and new, looked unfashionable when drenched with rain.)
“I find it disturbing,” Mary continued. “Malcolm is a man’s name, and you are a woman.”
“What perception!” Elizabeth’s response was unusually bitter and laden with such heavy sarcasm that even Mary, usually too wrapped up in her own world to notice such things, took offense.
“You need not be rude!”
“It is Papa’s way of teasing.”
“It is not very funny.”
For once, Elizabeth had to agree with her sister. She regretted telling her father about the exchange with Mr. Darcy, at first because he had seemed so saddened by her grief, and then, after his dark mood had passed, because he would not stop talking about it.
Elizabeth had always been close to her father, but this secret they shared created an almost suffocating bond between them. Every look, every word they exchanged seemed loaded with meaning, and Elizabeth found that her only refuge was her daily walk—which she now cut short, for what if her father should fall ill while she was gone?— or sleep, which no longer came easily.
She felt guilty for thinking such things. She had so little time left with him, certainly no time for the bitterness that seemed intractably lodged inside of her.
“You look pale,” her father commented soon after Jane had ridden off to Netherfield in the rain. He was ensconced in his favorite chair, a blanket wrapped around his legs, and it struck her how frail he appeared.
Trying not to betray her ever-present sense of panic, Elizabeth smiled and sat across from him. “I am pale because I have not been outdoors of late. The weather has not been conducive to walking.”
“You must not spend so much of your day locked away in my study. Until I am bedridden—and the doctor thinks I have a good month or two before that will happen— I am unlikely to die.”
Elizabeth glared at him. “I wish you would not speak of your death with such indifference.”
“How should I speak of it? In solemn and reverent tones? Oh, Lizzy, I am too tired to feel sorry for myself anymore. I had a long and lonely month to ponder why God had chosen to give me a tumor under my arm, to wonder if there really is a God, to consider if and then how I was going to tell you the news.”
“Then let me have my month of self-pity, if you please.” She put a hand to her lips. “Oh, Papa, that was…”
“Well, well. Those were the first honest words you have spoken to me since I told you.”
She met her father’s eyes—so much like her own—and felt a little of the bitterness crumble.
“You have every right to be angry with me,” he said.
“No! You are ill! I…”
“Do not return to your insincere protests, my dear. It was unforgivable of me to burden you. But after a month, I could not keep it to myself. You know that I am a selfish man. I needed to tell someone.”
“Then you understand how I feel! Please, Papa, I want to respect your desire for peace and quiet, but you must tell the family.”
“No.”
“At least allow me to tell Jane.”
“You have already told someone. Your Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth frowned. “I will amend my request: allow me to tell someone who is not, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.”
“Now, now, he is not a stranger! He slighted you, and you argued about Shakespeare. I think that makes for the beginning of a very strong friendship!”
She let her father laugh; he seemed to find the story of Mr. Darcy more and more amusing with each retelling. It did not help that her mother claimed Mr. Darcy was the most disagreeable man of her acquaintance.
“Another time, Lizzy,” she said the day after the assembly, “I would not dance with him if I were you.”
For Elizabeth, most of that night was already a vague memory she would prefer to forget. Still, she could picture with almost perfect clarity the look on Mr. Darcy’s face when she had caught him eavesdropping. And that, at least, made her smile.
“There is my Lizzy, laughing at herself again,” her father said.
She raised her chin. “I am laughing at him, actually.”
“Even better!”
“Sir,” she said, determined to return to more serious matters, “you are not being fair or rational by keeping your illness from my mother and sisters.”
“Since when have I ever been fair or rational?”
“Please, Papa! The shock they will feel…and if they should ever discover that I had been keeping such a secret from them…”
“Ah, I had not considered that.”
She said nothing, but he must have seen the unspoken accusation in her eyes. “Yes,” he admitted, “I have not considered a great number of things, have I?”
Elizabeth sighed. “You have given us a very good and comfortable life, Sir. But when I think about what will happen after…” Her voice cracked and she glanced away; he had already chided her about how weepy she had become.
“I was working up the courage,” he replied softly, “to discuss this very subject. Here.” He lifted two sheets of paper from his lap. “Read this.”
“‘My Dear Cousin,’” she began, and looked up at her father in surprise. “Mr. Collins? He has written you?”
“Please, just read it to yourself. I am weary of his words already.”
With that ominous prelude, Elizabeth began. She had never read such a silly and pompous letter in her life; his talk of his patroness (“the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh” with her “bounty and beneficence”) and his patronizing assumptions (“I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence”) gave Elizabeth little hope that the next master of Longbourn would be as dear to her as the present one.
“He hints at marriage,” she said when she had finished.
“Hints? He practically announces his designs.”
Elizabeth unflinchingly met his gaze. “Do you want me to…”
“No! Good Lord, no! I gave you this letter to warn you, to make you promise that, if our cousin is as silly as he sounds, you will not, under any circumstance, accept him. I would rather see you destitute than bound to a man you do not respect.”
Elizabeth thought this pronouncement was made easily enough in a cozy room with a fire stoked, a tea table stacked with cakes, and shelves lined with books.
“There is no guarantee he will even propose.”
Her father scoffed. “I can already imagine the scenario: he will inquire after Jane, for she is the more conventionally beautiful. Your mother will warn him away, still hoping for a victory with Mr. Bingley. And then you will be next in line.”
“Perhaps he will find Mary more to his liking.”
“Now there is a thought. But no, pompous men rarely like pompous women. That seems to be their only show of good sense. I know this from personal experience.”
“You are not pompous! Certainly, you are nothing like Mr. Collins.”
“I should hope that I am a little cleverer. But reading his letter has brought to mind so many regrets.” Her father’s lips twisted into a bitter approximation of a smile. “I often joke that I regret your mother, but in fact, I love her, silly as she is. And all of your sisters, as well. There is an innocence about their absurdity that I adore.”
It was one of the most emotional speeches Elizabeth had ever heard him utter.
“N
o, my regrets are due to my own failings. I have not saved as I should have. You will not be destitute—I have a little put aside—but without the income Longbourn provides, you and your sisters—and God knows, your mother, too—will not be as comfortable as you have been raised to expect.”
“Is that why you wrote to him? Did you hope to convince him to take pity on us?”
“No, Mr. Collins wrote to me first. I have not yet replied. I have been—as I do with all other things I dislike— putting it off.”
“And I suppose Mama does not know?”
“Naturally. I see no reason to inform her until my cousin is about to arrive. Let her focus on marrying Jane to Mr. Bingley.”
Elizabeth brightened. “Indeed! Jane is well on her way to falling in love with him. In time, he might propose!”
“Perhaps you should tell Jane that I am dying, after all. She might be willing to do much sillier things than riding to Netherfield in the rain in order to secure his affections!”
She knew her father was teasing, yet she could not forget a comment that Charlotte had made at the gathering at Lucas Lodge: “a woman had better show more affection than she feels.” Was Jane being too guarded? Should she snag Mr. Bingley while she could? At least she would be comfortable after their father’s death.
Despite everything, Elizabeth recoiled at the idea.
“You are frowning,” her father observed. “I do not want you to be unhappy, my dear. It is, despite my selfish nature, the last thing I ever wanted.”
“I know.”
“If it makes you feel better, tell Jane, but only Jane! Bring her to me when she returns from Netherfield.”
He dismissed her then, saying he wanted to read. But when she passed his study, only minutes later, she saw him fast asleep. She watched him for a long moment: was he breathing? Ah, good, there was the comforting snore. There would be a time, she knew, when she would not see his chest rising and falling, when his flushed face would be waxy and gray, when he would no longer occupy that squashy armchair by the fireplace.
Standing in the entrance hall of Longbourn, glancing between her father’s study and the hall window, which displayed a world soaked with rain, Elizabeth realized she could not tell Jane, not even with her father’s permission. For in spite of Jane’s sweet nature—or perhaps because of it—such knowledge was sure to transform her interactions with Mr. Bingley. Left alone, Jane and Mr. Bingley might, in time, find true and honest affection. But in desperate circumstances, Jane would become as mercenary as any fortune hunter.
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 2
