“You are in no position to judge him.”
“Perhaps not, but I do not apologize for the sentiment.”
She stepped further into the room, her expression fierce. “He is dying. He needed to tell someone without causing undue alarm in the household. You have met my mother. What would you have done?”
“He should have put your happiness above his own!”
“I see. You, I suppose, are without defect. You always do the correct thing.”
“I am certainly not without defect. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. I cannot know what your father feels. I can only believe that were I in such a position, I would choose the happiness of a dependent over…” He stopped, recognizing the hypocrisy of his words. “I cannot say what I would have done. It is an unenviable position!”
“Yes, it is.”
He glanced at the writing table. “That letter…My sister…” Still, he could not bring himself to speak of it. Instead, he motioned to the chair nearest her. “Would you be so kind?”
“Yes,” she said, though she could not mask her astonishment. “Yes, of course.”
He sat as far from her as possible, as if the distance between them would make what he was about to say more proper. Of course, it was not proper, and he knew not how to start.
Finally, she said, “You mentioned last night that your sister was well?”
“Yes, she is in good health, thank God. My situation is not so dire as your own, and to compare it, as I have done in my own mind, is not a credit to me, nor does it do justice to the gravity of your own circumstances. Yet, when you spoke of your father that night, I could not help but think of my sister. There is, you see, a conflict within my family, not a conflict between the two of us; we have never quarreled, not even when I told Wic…” He shook his head. “That is beside the point. What I mean to say is that she is at the center of the conflict, but she is not, in my mind, the cause of it.”
“I cannot say I understand, but it does sound…disagreeable?”
She looked so earnest, trying to comprehend him without attempting to pry, that he felt a rush of gratitude. At the same time, he realized just how inappropriate his words were. “I apologize, Miss Elizabeth. This is not a conversation I should be having with you.”
“And I should not have told you of my father,” she replied with a hint of a smile.
“That was not your intention.”
“No. But the outcome is quite the same: I have burdened you with the knowledge of something unpleasant.” She sighed. “I am beginning to despise that word, burden.”
“As am I.” He paused. “It brings to mind a story.”
“Surely not one of Shakespeare’s?” she asked, smiling archly.
“No, though I wonder that he did not write a play about Eden and the Tree of Knowledge.”
“I have always supposed that all of his plays are to do with that story.”
He smiled. “Yes, you may be right. Would it not have been better for Macbeth to know nothing of his own future or for Hamlet to have believed his father died of natural causes? Or Othello and Desdemona? What good did knowledge do them? ”
“But you are only mentioning the tragedies! Those characters had incomplete knowledge of themselves and the world. What about the comedies? What of Benedict and Beatrice? Surely they were better in the end for knowing themselves and each other! Would you really wish for a world without knowledge, even if it is called Paradise?”
“Theologians would not call it knowledge; they would call it sin.”
“Perhaps you will consider me blasphemous, but I do not think Eve made such a bad decision when she took the fruit. She did not just bring sin into the world; she brought free will, too, and that is a gift.” She laughed at herself. “We are becoming quite metaphysical!”
“It is the best way to speak of things better left unsaid.”
“That is the crucial point,” she said, leaning forward. “When my father told me that he was dying, he said he should never have spoken those words to me. He should have kept the burden to himself. And I admit that I initially agreed. But the more I think on it, the more grateful I am that he told me. The knowledge is painful, but without it, I would be living a lie without even realizing it.”
“You are still living a lie,” he said, his tone gentler than his words, “for your family knows nothing at all.”
Her shoulders slumped, and he regretted speaking so openly.
“Yes, that is true. But at least I can act on the knowledge he has given me.”
“What can you possibly hope to do?” he asked. Then he remembered: “Is that why you are reading the medical treatise? Are you planning on consulting another physician? Have you spoken to one in town? I could arrange—”
She smiled sadly. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, but no. My father has visited a physician in town. As for the treatise, I was reading it only so I could know a little more about what to expect. But it is too vague—or too complex, I am not sure which—for me to comprehend. I can do nothing for my father but make him as comfortable as possible. I hope that has some value, though.”
“It does. I am certain it does.” He thought on all she said before continuing. “Again, I realize how wrong it is to compare our situations. Unlike you, I have the ability to bring relief to my sister. But to do so, I would have to make a choice that will, I fear, bring me misery. I do not feel that I can leave things as they are, but I cannot bring myself to act against my own wishes.”
“I suppose your choice depends on the level of inconvenience such a decision brings to you.”
“I am not the best person to judge, for I think it much more than an inconvenience; I think it untenable! A better man, however, would not hesitate. He would put his duty before his own happiness.”
“I wonder at that distinction. Many a time I have heard moralists speak of duty as if it must be in opposition to desire. Yet, can there not be occasions when they are in concert? Or, conversely, are there not instances when performing one’s duty might actually be more detrimental? Again, I think of my father. Had he gone against his very nature and kept his illness from me, he would have hurt me more in the end. I am certain that he would barely speak to me now, for how could he, without wanting to speak the truth? I would have become to him just another of his silly daughters, and I would not have understood the cause of his neglect, at least not until after he died, when I might have suspected that he had known about his illness and said nothing. This, in turn, would have left me wondering for the rest of my life why he had not trusted me enough confide in me.”
He gazed at her in amazement. “I should never have thought of it in that way.”
“Mr. Darcy, I do not know your sister or your circumstances. Forgive me for being officious, but does your sister know of your dilemma, whatever it is?”
“She knows a little of it, but she does not really understand the details of the matter. And she certainly does not know how I feel on the subject. You are of the opinion that I should share this with her? She is just sixteen, a child really, and I…” He smiled a little. “I do not want to burden her.”
“So it comes back to that.”
“So it does.”
“I think you must love your sister very much.”
“I do.”
“And she must love you.”
“Yes.”
“Then I doubt she will think of what you have to tell her as a burden. It may be painful, but it will not a burden.”
For several moments, he could say nothing. When words did come, they were simple: “Thank you.”
She rose. “I have done nothing except offer advice that was not requested.”
“On the contrary,” he said, standing as well, “it was precisely what I needed to hear.”
The conversation had come to a natural end, and yet, as she performed her curtsy, he could not bring himself to behave with formality. So, instead of bowing, he held out his hand.
Hea
rt pounding, he watched the emotions play across her face: hesitation, doubt, wonder. Then, with three quick steps, she was before him, her bare hand in his.
“Thank you,” he said again.
With a quick nod, she slipped from his hold and hurried from the room.
Chapter Five
Russell Square, London: Sunday, November 17
Dear Miss Bennet,
Forgive me for writing this letter with a degree of candor not usually considered polite; I do not make a habit of corresponding with the daughters of my patients. Indeed, I nearly declined to respond to your letter, which I received a fortnight ago, for although I am not particularly attentive to convention, I admit to finding your direct appeal to be more forthright than I think proper for a young lady. Yet I am writing because I remember your father’s case well, and I do feel some pity for you. Unfortunately, nothing I write here could possibly provide solace.
Based on the type and language of your questioning, I can only surmise that you have been reading medical texts. These are not usually meant for those outside the field of medicine, and they are certainly not meant for young ladies. There are a few books on illness written for the benefit of mothers, but they are usually so full of inaccuracies that I would not recommend them.
As for the specifics of your father’s situation, all I can say is this: there is no doubt in my mind that he is dying. I have not yet seen a case such as his that ended happily. The fatigue you described is a symptom of his decline; I advise you to prepare yourself and your family. You may comfort him with some of his favorite foods, if they are not too rich, but I would not recommend walks, especially as the weather grows colder. This will only cause more fatigue and accelerate his decline. There is little use in bleeding or other curative measures unless your father is in a great deal of pain. You wrote of surgery, but I have found that cutting does more harm than good.
I am very sorry for your loss.
Sincerely,
Dr. Robert Countway
*
Rosings, Kent: Sunday, November 17
Dearest Brother,
I cannot possibly express my joy at receiving your letter dated 14 November. I was certain that you despised me for my behavior this past summer. Of course you could never despise me; you are too good a brother. But I deserve to be despised, and in fact, I despise myself; I supposed your silence reflected my own feelings. When I read the words “You will always be my cherished sister,” I wept with happiness. Thank you. Thank you.
Had you written only of your love, the letter would have sufficed. But for you to have explained the situation as it now stands with such honesty and detail meant more to me than you can possibly know. Aunt Catherine tells me very little except that I should not expect to return to Pemberley until you have married Anne. Even before I received your letter, I hoped that it would never come to that. Anne would not suit you, of that I am certain. She is spiteful, Fitzwilliam, more than you could have realized from our brief meetings over the years. She can be amusing when she wishes, but her mother’s constant fussing has taught our cousin to expect such treatment from everyone. She is unhappy when indulged and unhappier still when neglected. I know it is wrong of me to write such unflattering remarks about her—especially considering my own flaws— but I want to impress upon you, if you have not already realized it yourself, how unsuitable a match it would be. Despite your assurances that you would find it difficult to bring yourself to marry her, I fear that I will see you next when you have arrived at Rosings to ask for her hand. This I would consider a calamity, not only because of Anne’s temperament. I should also consider the marriage the unfortunate result of my childish actions. Not only did I behave so foolishly with—I would prefer not to write his name—but then, to have written those letters to you, to have complained so bitterly about a situation I brought upon myself—I was certain you would behave foolishly for my sake, and then I should be responsible for your unhappiness, as well as my own.
So what you call selfish, dear brother, I call prudent and wonderful. Trust me, Fitzwilliam, when I say that I am an authority on all that is selfish; you do not know the meaning of the word. Keep to your instincts!
As for my removal from your care, your letter—not so much the content but the mere fact of receiving it—made me realize how poorly I have been approaching the situation. Remember, Brother: I chose to leave with Uncle Charles. Truth be told, I had hoped I would be taken to Matlock, but Uncle Charles insisted I spend time with Aunt Catherine in Kent until the Season begins this winter. Still, Rosings is not so very bad, Fitzwilliam. The walks are very nice, and I have a great deal of time to practice music and learn French.
The company, I must admit, is not all that I would wish, but at least they do not bother me very much. Aunt Catherine does scold me when I am in her presence, but for much of the day, she is too busy meddling with overseeing her estate. Sometimes, I can forget myself long enough to laugh at the absurd behavior of our aunt’s parson, a Mr. Collins. I think he would marry Lady Catherine, if he could! As it is, she has suggested that he—being a man of five and twenty—should find a suitable wife post-haste. I pity the cousins he has gone to visit for expressly this purpose.
There. You see I am perfectly well. [blot] Am I not doing well? I am perfectly well, [blot] so there is no need for you to take any sort of action. [blot] [blot] [blot]
With love and affection,
Your loving sister,
Georgiana
P.S.—How is Mrs. Reynolds? Has she written you? She wrote to me a fortnight ago and included some music you once purchased for me, but she told me very little of Pemberley [blot]. And Marigold? Are the stable hands making absolutely certain to stock enough hay in her stall? I would never question old Frank’s methods, but he has hired some very inexperienced hands, at least, they were not very experienced in August before I [blot] [blot]. Oh, Fitzwilliam, I am [blot] [blot] [blot] well. Do not worry: I am well.
*
Gracechurch Street, London: Tuesday, November 19
My Dear Lizzy,
I was relieved to receive your latest. You are usually such a frequent correspondent that, when nearly a month passed without a letter from you, I thought I must have written something in my last that caused offense. From Jane’s letters I knew that you and all of your family are in good health, so I had no fears on that account.
Do not think, my dear, that I am scolding you—only expressing, quite badly I am afraid, my gratitude at hearing from you at last.
I was amused, but not surprised, to hear of Jane’s misadventure at Netherfield. Oh, I cannot imagine dear Jane devising such a scheme, but your mother must have been pleased that her plan succeeded in keeping Jane at Netherfield not just for a night but for a week instead. That Jane was able to gain the admiration of her Mr. Bingley from the sickbed is a tribute to your sister’s sweetness more than your mother’s scheming.
You are a very good sister for nursing Jane, especially when it required you to bear the company of Mr. Bingley’s sisters. Jane writes that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are charming, but I am more inclined to believe you.
For all you wrote of Jane and the Bingleys, I must admit to being more intrigued by the few lines you wrote about Mr. Bingley’s friend. The name Darcy is not unfamiliar to me. Indeed, I heard it often during my youth. The family that occupied the great house of Pemberley was often discussed in Lambton. The Mr. Darcy of your acquaintance is too young to have been more than a boy when I left my father’s home, and in any case, I was not of a family likely to be noticed by such a family as his. Nonetheless, I heard only good of his parents; his father, I believe, was thought to be a very generous, if somewhat aloof, man.
More than my tenuous connection to the Darcy family, however, provoked my interest. Your description of the debates you held on everything from Mr. Bingley’s penmanship to the fault of pride suggest you found Mr. Darcy to be a very intriguing gentleman.
I hesitate to write this, but I feel it my dut
y: be careful, my dear. I know how well you enjoy an argument, and so long as he engages your mind alone, you shall be safe. But if your heart should also be moved, remember to guard it well. Wealthy and well-connected men can be careless with the feelings of country ladies.
Do forgive me if I have misconstrued your letter or given advice where none was required. It is only that the mood of your letter seemed so very different from your usual correspondence. I could not help but be anxious, for I am so used to frequent, light-hearted and witty letters from you. Your most recent letter, while a delight to read, was slow in coming and wistful in tone. Do tell me if there is something amiss.
As usual, I have written too much for the space allotted. I will write more later; your young cousins wish me to tell you all about their scholastic accomplishments.
With all of my love,
Your affectionate aunt,
M. Gardiner
*
Cornhill Street, London: Wednesday, November 20
Dear Sir:
Upon receiving your letter by express courier, I immediately recognized the urgency of your request. Therefore, allow me to state my legal opinion without delay: I see very little chance in your regaining your sister without a legal suit.
Much of the outcome depends, naturally, on the actions of your uncle. According to my understanding of law, you remain the guardian of your sister even now, though she does not currently reside with you. Until your relatives press suit, the law continues to recognize you and Colonel Fitzwilliam as guardians of Miss Darcy. I am certain that I need not tell you that, in practical terms, this legal status of guardianship is an illusion unless you have some means of returning Miss Darcy to your care.
To the question of your marital status: according to your father’s will, you are indeed at a disadvantage because you are not yet married. As you are well aware, your father stipulated a provisional guardianship upon you and your cousin. As I was honored to serve as solicitor to your father when he composed the will, I can tell you that he felt very strongly that your sister would always be safe in your care. Naturally, he hoped to live to a very old age when neither your marital status nor Miss Darcy’s age would make this stipulation in the will meaningful.
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 5
