“Oh for heaven’s sake…” With two handkerchiefs wadded in her hand, Georgiana went to the nearest desk. She dropped the hankies as she put the desk in order for writing; putting pen, ink, and paper upon it. She stood and said, “It is you, Brother, who has no more sense than a feather pillow. Write her the apology. Cheer her. Strengthen her. Let her know the time is as interminable for you as it is for her. At least you are with people who know your heart. She can say nothing except perhaps to Jane when they are alone. And what can Jane say to her of real encouragement since she appears to be keeping the secret that you have Mr Bennet’s permission to court Elizabeth? Write to her and leave her in no doubt. Do it as a gift to me.”
Darcy walked to the desk, gave his sister a last grumpy-brother look since that visage now seemed to have completely lost whatever effect it had ever commanded, and sat.
Picking up the pencil drawings, Georgiana took her cousin’s arm, and they started to leave the room. She stopped at the door. “Gander, you may have the loan of that painting until you are in possession of its subject. Then you must return it to me.”
Darcy looked up, reappraising Georgiana yet again. “Georgie, I think it would be a fine thing if you made me a present of it when I marry.”
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Well! There’s another surprise ruined. You really are impossible, Brother.”
The colonel was laughing as they closed the library door on Darcy, whose head was now bent to his task.
* * *
Thursday, 20 August, 1812
Elizabeth’s nerves were strained as she awoke just before dawn from another night of poor sleep. Jane stirred as Elizabeth dressed for a vigorous walk before breakfast.
“Lizzy? You are going out early again? Dearest, you overdo. You walk too far and you eat too little. I am despairing of you.”
“I am apprehensive, Jane. The cursed wedding nears, and for no good reason, I fear it will never take place. Let me work out my ill humours. I will be back for breakfast this time; I promise.”
“Of what good is it to join us at breakfast if you will not eat it?”
Lizzy smiled. “I shall wander through the orchard and eat an apple. At least the family can claim a handsome crop this year; we have so little else of which to boast. Except for you, dear Jane, there is little to make us happy. Let me at least take pride in our apples and pears.”
“Just eat them; that is all I ask.” Jane smiled at her sister and took her hand for a moment before Elizabeth went out the door.
As she returned to Longbourn from the orchard with a gathering basket of apples, Elizabeth was overtaken by Charles Bingley on horseback. He was joining the Bennets for breakfast. He dismounted and exchanged a bow and curtsy with Elizabeth.
“Good morning, Lizzy! I hope you are well?”
“Perhaps a little more cheerful than I have been.” She held up an apple core. “When you get to the house, please let Jane know I have eaten an apple.” She smiled.
“She will be pleased.” Bingley laughed and reached into the pocket of his riding coat, producing a letter. “Your post, madam!”
Elizabeth glanced at the direction on the letter and her breath left her as she recognised the handwriting. It was from Darcy. The stamp of his signet ring on the seal confirmed it. Bingley was pleased that the mere sight of his friend’s handwriting left her blushing.
“Do not worry. It came to Netherfield inside a letter addressed to me. Darcy is in London for Georgiana’s birthday. He tells me they will invite the Gardiners to visit at Darcy House after Lydia is married and gone. Frankly, Lizzy, I am surprised he did not write to you sooner.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth did not know where to look or what to say. “Thank you, Charles. I…I was turning for home, but I will stay here and read it, although I know it is improper.”
“Some weeks ago, you told me that if Darcy should write me a letter, I should read it. Take your own advice.” Bingley nodded at her with his habitual smile.
“I remember. That was the night before one of the happiest times of my life. You wrote to my father, and I was full of anticipation on Jane’s behalf. I believed Mr Darcy still in love with me, and I had a wonderful time in the Pemberley stillroom. When I am your children’s old maid aunt, it will be one of my fondest memories.”
Bingley shook his head. “You are stubborn in your belief that Darcy will not propose again?”
Elizabeth blushed, looked down and shook her head. “I have not the smallest hope.”
Bingley remounted. “You know, Lizzy, I used to tell Darcy how sensible you are, for all your liveliness and wit. But about him, you are not so sensible. In fact, if I may speak plainly as one who will soon be a brother, when it comes to Fitzwilliam Darcy, you have no more sense than a pot of soup.” He turned upon his horse and proceeded to Longbourn as Elizabeth opened her letter.
Darcy House, London
Tuesday, 18 August, 1812
Dearest Miss Elizabeth,
Since you left Pemberley, I have thought and spoken of little except you. I cannot comprehend how we let the present circumstances ruin what could have been, and could still be, the happiest possible future for us both.
Elizabeth stared at the words and then repeated them aloud.
At last, I have reckoned the source of the complications existing between us, and now that I understand it, I can at least try for a remedy. On our very first meeting, I insulted you. It was public, it was petulant, and I regretted it nearly instantly. Within ten minutes, I knew I had made a most grievous mistake, but my pride, as it was then, would not allow me to make amends. You were right to laugh at me.
I see now that those dreadful words have continued to hurt you, and I have not been forgiven them because they were too cruel, and idiot that I am, for all the self-improvements I have made, I have yet to ask forgiveness for that first misstep. And so, dear Elizabeth, for that deplorable display of bad manners and childish temper, let me, at long last, beg your leniency. Forgive me. It was my first and greatest sin against you and set in terrible motion your distrust of me. Every sorry thing that has happened since has sprouted from that bad seed. To think I planted it myself, in the heart dearest in the world to me, makes me wretched.
Elizabeth inhaled, feeling his words squeezing her chest.
That you ever overcame your justifiable dislike enough to include a red chrysanthemum in a bouquet meant for me, speaks to your generosity, kindness, goodness, and perhaps, a sadly questionable taste in men, for which I am in no position to fault you. You are, and have always been, a woman without fault. Everything I learn of you confirms this. No matter what you may now think of me, you are my idea of feminine perfection.
Please say you will allow me to call upon you when I am next in Hertfordshire. I expect to arrive sometime in September, and I will stay as long as it takes to secure your good opinion, shoot a few birds, and see Bingley and your sister safely wed. That first thing is the most important, and henceforth, Georgiana will write to you at Longbourn. Let your mother say what she will; I am done with the pretence that there is no connection between yourself and those named Darcy.
With deepest affection,
F. Darcy
Elizabeth was so stunned by what she read that she sat on the nearest seat she could find, the muddy tread of a stile. She read the letter twice before feeling the telltale ache of approaching tears. Perturbed to be yet again on the verge of crying, she burst into movement, racing to the Longbourn garden. She did not have to look far to find a red chrysanthemum, and she carried it into the house. After taking the flower and letter to her room, she joined her family for breakfast. That her skirt was muddy brought her sisters into an uproar, and Jane accompanied Elizabeth back up the stairs to help her change her gown. She showed Jane her letter, and they both had a good cry. With Jane in the room, Elizabeth wrote out a quick note and enclosed the chrysanthemum in it. Jane took the lumpy envelope and passed it to Bingley when no one was looking.
Bingley and Jane wer
e most pleased to watch as Elizabeth ate all her bread and jam, another apple and a slice of ham for her breakfast.
* * *
Saturday, 22 August, 1812
Darcy arose early as usual, his first thoughts wondering whether Elizabeth had his letter. After breakfast, as Garrick dressed Darcy for a stroll with his sister, the butler brought in the post with a letter from Bingley. The packet contained a single sheet in a beloved hand, preceded from its envelope by a flattened and tired, but recognizable, red chrysanthemum. Still in his shirtsleeves, Darcy scattered the servants from the dressing room, entered his bedchamber and stood reading at the window.
Longbourn, Hertfordshire
Thursday, 20 August, 1812
Dear Mr Darcy,
Your letter leaves me in the firmest understanding that you have become well aware of the meaning of a red chrysanthemum. If what you say is true and I have questionable taste in men, I can only reply, you are a lucky fellow, for I am so very sensible in every other way. Mr Bingley told me this morning, as regards you, I have “no more sense than a pot of soup.” Now that he is to be my brother, I suppose there will be many similar drolleries aimed at myself in the future.
Be assured, I shall always forgive you anything and have forgiven you everything in the past, even that early offense against my pride of which you particularly wrote. Please, let us forget the incident.
I will welcome your next visit to Hertfordshire by promising your luck will persist, and in the meantime, I will continue to question and misunderstand you in as ridiculous a manner as possible — since doing so entertains Mr Bingley — until you are here to speak for yourself.
With deepest affection,
E. Bennet
After reading his letter, Darcy needed to sit, and after tucking the wilted flower in a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets on his night table, he sat on the edge of his bed, rereading the brief missive. She follows my lead still; she will not say she loves me — as I did not do — but she sends me her flower. She signs herself as I signed my letter to her, just as she mimicked the card with my flowers. I think I may now hope. It was clear to Darcy that, when he feared for Bingley’s reception in Meryton, it was his own acceptance of which he was uncertain. Now the one source of disapprobation he most feared was disposed to forgive and welcome him.
He laughed. To Bingley she is a pot of soup, and to Georgie, I am a feather pillow. Together we are a fine kettle of fish — two objects that do not appear to belong together, and yet we do.
Darcy crossed the hall to his study to consult a calendar. He groaned as he saw it was another five days until the Wickham wedding. There was some hope Mr Bennet would not receive the newlyweds at Longbourn, but Darcy was uncertain of it. How long would Lydia and Wickham stay if they were allowed? A fortnight? Surely not longer than that. A fortnight! I cannot go to her for over a fortnight, at least. “Damn!” he cursed aloud.
“Ahem.” Darcy looked up from his desk at Garrick clearing his throat. “Bad news, Mr Darcy?”
“No, not at all. Very good news. Wonderful news, which, alas, I cannot act upon as speedily as I would wish.” He paused, greeted by a happy thought. “Garrick, I will be writing to Mrs Reynolds. Please tell Mr Lesley not to let a packet of correspondence leave for home until you know my letter is included.” His valet nodded, bowed and left the room.
* * *
As he walked with his sister in Hyde Park, Darcy mulled over changes to his sleeping arrangements at Pemberley, and a freshening of the mistress’s adjoining apartment.
“Georgie, do you owe Miss Elizabeth a letter?”
“No, Brother, we are at evens now. I suppose either of us may write when we have anything particular to say. Mr Bingley has been an excellent postman.”
“As to that, I would have you write her directly at Longbourn in the future. We shall have no more disguises.”
“You have had a response? She has forgiven you?”
The turn of her brother’s countenance answered her question before his words did. “She informs me I am a lucky man, and she expects my luck will persist.”
Georgiana laughed aloud and in public, amongst strangers in the park.
When they returned to Darcy House, he walked into his bedchamber, surprising the young chambermaids. “Do not trouble yourselves,” he ordered as he passed them and unlocked the door into the adjoining bedchamber, which he had not entered since his mother’s death. Everything was concealed by dust covers and sheeting. He turned back to the chambermaids.
“Ladies?”
Both women stood and curtsied to him.
“Please prepare this room; dust it and open the balcony doors, that my sister and I may see its present condition in a cleaned state. It is high time it was made habitable again. Tell Mrs Knightley what you are about; you will need the housekeeper’s direction.”
The maids blushed and curtsied again, “Yes, sir. Yes, Mr Darcy.”
Darcy asked Georgiana to help him prepare Pemberley and Darcy House to welcome a new mistress. They were both quite giddy and wrote to Mrs Reynolds together.
That night, Darcy slept with the door to the mistress’s bedroom open, and he fell into an agitated slumber, anticipating a future when Mrs Elizabeth Darcy would come to him through it, laughing at him.
* * *
Thursday, 27 August, 1812
It was fortunate for George Wickham — although he did not know it — that Mrs Gardiner had written to the Bennet family a week prior to his wedding. Although he did not deserve it, she had taken pity on his vanity and sent a letter in advance of his arrival with his bride, advising the Bennets to prepare themselves for his somewhat altered looks. The glibness of Wickham’s story about being beset by officers from his former regiment — who just happened to wander into the low establishment where he and Lydia first stayed and just happened to find him at the bar — was too much coincidence for that sagacious lady to bear. It all seemed as highly unlikely as the tale of a gentleman of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s reputation oversetting his father’s will to deny Wickham a life in the church. No, Mrs Gardiner had another theory and no proper way to ascertain its value.
In any case, as the Wickhams’ carriage rolled into the paddock at Longbourn, he did not have to encounter mocking giggles and sly glances. Lydia Wickham, as undaunted by the obvious as ever, introduced him to her family as the handsomest husband ever seen, and her mother squealed in agreement and gingerly kissed him on each cheek. She did notice the distinctly green cast to the skin masking his eyes when at close range — the bruising having faded that much — but was not inclined to comment. Although Mrs Bennet was solicitous of men generally after having lived with an independently minded husband for nearly 25 years, she was not disposed to baby them.
In the days that passed, waiting for his wedding, Wickham spent no little time practicing a warm and obliging closed-mouth smile. With a front tooth and its canine neighbour missing, and Lydia’s hectoring about his inclination to stretch his upper lip on one side to cover the gap, he was moved to spend hours in front of the looking glass in his rooms — rehearsing. His nose had not healed altogether straight, but if he turned his head down and slightly tilted, its slant was not so noticeable. He fancied — as so vain a man would — that looking up from thus lowered eyes and smiling with a closed mouth gave him an enigmatic air that suited him. Lydia agreed, as he had tried his new mannerisms on the lady who would have to endure them more than any other.
Far from putting herself forward to greet her sister and new brother, Elizabeth hung back with her father and observed. Lydia was unchanged, but Wickham was somehow a little humbled, a little more aware of the situation and the Bennet family’s true feelings about it. When he finally bowed briefly over her hand, she saw the bruising on his jaw, more blue than the green around his eyes. Elizabeth was indifferent to the story of how he received his injuries; she would rather pretend Darcy had done the damage. That her own imagined version of events brought her so near the truth was something she
would not know for the present.
For his own part, Mr Bennet said as little as possible and less still that was truly civil. He found himself wishing he had been the one to inflict such damage to Wickham’s formerly handsome features. He was as aware as Elizabeth that her value in the eyes of the man she loved may have diminished, for all of Jane’s protests to the contrary. Jane was so disposed to see the best in everyone and Bingley was so like her that, when the couple implored him privately to have no doubts of Darcy’s continued affection for Elizabeth, he remained dubious.
Upon entering the drawing room, Lydia gathered her mother and sisters around to share every particular of her wedding. Elizabeth detached herself even before the wedding gown was fully described and sneaked into the garden. She knew she was leaving her father alone to attempt conversation with Wickham, but she could not stomach the man. It was all she could do to steel herself for sitting at the same table with him for dinner.
The next morning, Elizabeth and Jane were lingering at the breakfast table when Lydia joined them. “Lizzy! I believe you did not hear when I was telling my sisters of my wedding. Are you not curious about how it was managed?”
“I think there cannot be too little said on the subject,” Elizabeth replied.
But Lydia was too full of herself to think her sister anything but strange, and she prattled away about lace choices and the search for proper slippers, finally coming to the point: the ceremony. “My uncle was called away on business and I was frightened of his being too late, but then I recalled that Mr Darcy would be there as groomsman and could have given me away when my aunt and I arrived if my uncle was unable to.”
Elizabeth directed an alarmed look at Jane. “Mr Darcy?” She was utterly amazed.
Jane looked at Lydia with surprise. “You did not mention him yesterday, Lydia.”
“Gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word. I promised to keep the secret so faithfully. What will Wickham say?”
“If it was to be a secret,” said Jane, “say not another word about it. I will not ask further.”
The Red Chrysanthemum Page 22
