Anxiety and the awareness she would refuse him prevented Elizabeth from thinking on his words the previous night, but her intense emotion left them etched upon her mind. The manner and fact of Darcy’s proposal showed his worth. He could see and acknowledge his own faults and strive to correct them. He was a man who had listened to her and indeed changed his opinions in response to her words.
And his words of affection and admiration for her. The memory of his intense emotion filled eyes as he spoke brought unhappy tears to Elizabeth’s eyes. She yearned to respond likewise to him.
Each fresh realization of his worth and the depth of his affection depressed Elizabeth further. Oh! How she wished the circumstances had been different.
He truly was a man more than any other she had met she would have wished to marry.
Elizabeth remembered the confusion and pain in his eyes when she ran. She hurt him, and she despised herself for it. Foolish, weak, emotional girl.
When Elizabeth became fatigued she found a sheltered spot to sit and sulk. No business was transacted all day, instead Elizabeth devoted herself to the melancholy task of feeling as miserable and unhappy with herself as possible.
It was late afternoon when Elizabeth woke from a doze caused by her lack of sleep the previous night. She was hungry, which propelled her to return to Longbourn. Mr. Bingley had already returned to Netherfield when Elizabeth returned home, and Jane quickly found Elizabeth and pulled her into the gardens for a private conversation.
Once they were alone Jane embraced Elizabeth and said sadly, “My dear Lizzy you look so unhappy. Bingley said you refused Mr. Darcy.”
At this Elizabeth began to sob again, Jane pulled her into her arms. Elizabeth cried into her sister’s shoulder. Jane rubbed her back slowly, and murmured comforting words. The warmth of her sisters presence made Elizabeth feel comforted and calm when she ceased to cry.
The two sat on a cold wooden bench in silence for some minutes more before Elizabeth said, “I did not wish to refuse him, not truly — but, the thought of marriage, and the memory of Mr. Collins frightened me. I could not say anything else”
“Oh, Lizzy.”
“I hate how these memories control me — I hate his memory, I hate that I still can’t escape him. I believed I was free of him when he died. But no. It seems he must remain. Mr. Darcy — the more I think on him, the more I really like him.”
Elizabeth looked away from her sister to stare at the gaunt stick of a tree which had shed all of its leaves, it was maudlin and a foolish sentiment, but her life felt like that — as if the winter Mr. Collins had brought to her had stripped off all growth from her. She was young, but her spring and summer were already past and winter come. “I am a foolish, foolish, cowardly girl to act as I did.”
“Lizzy,” Jane snapped with a far sharper tone than her usual, “do not let me hear you speak such of yourself. You are no coward. You are the bravest, best woman I know.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, “But —”
Jane cut her off, “I will not hear you abuse yourself. It was not cowardly. You are not cowardly. I will not permit you to think otherwise. You are brave and you are good. Indeed no reasonable creature could expect or wish you to have acted differently.”
Elizabeth settled against the dark wood of the bench, Jane’s confidence comforted her. “I suppose I can rely upon my Jane to think well of me when I cannot.” Elizabeth smiled warmly at her sister.
Jane grasped her hand, “Always.”
They sat in silence for several minutes before Jane said with a hesitant manner, “I am sensible your fears are no minor thing, but,” Jane paused here, and Elizabeth saw where her line of thought tended.
“I see what you mean to say, you think I might on sober reflection learn to overcome those fears and choose to marry if I really wish to.” The simple statement of the words, ‘to marry’ gave Elizabeth an unpleasant feel in the pit of her stomach, so she hurriedly said, “it is of no moment, no rational man would make a second offer to a woman who shouted nonsense at him, and ran from his first.”
Jane pondered this, and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand “I hardly think the case is as irretrievable as you think. Mr. Darcy is not a man to propose marriage on a whim, his affection for you must be quite serious — were an explanation of your actions to be made.” Jane caught Elizabeth’s eye, “just what, dear sister, was in that letter you handed Mr. Darcy this morning?”
“I felt — I wished him to feel no more pain than necessary at my refusal and to think no worse of me than he must: I told him the whole of my history with Mr. Collins, and my reasons for my actions last night.” At Jane’s pleased expression Elizabeth added, “Oh, you must understand, it really is hopeless — I think I may be going mad. I — last night I lost my sense of where I was, and shouted at him as though he were Mr. Collins. What if that were to happen often? Even should he wish it I could not give him a mad wife.”
Jane’s manner as she gripped Elizabeth’s hand tightly, and contemplated her words was quite serious. But then Jane brightened, “it is merely memory. You are not mad. Any person can lose themselves in their memories. Your memories are merely more intense, and the emotion of the moment triggered it. I — we’ve never spoken of it, as you and Lydia tried to hide what happened, but — it was a horrible time for us all — I could not bear to see how you suffered due to the sacrifice you made for me. There was so little I could do to help and you never wished to pain me by showing how unhappy you were.”
“I deduced he hurt Lydia to ensure your obedience. It was,” Jane looked away, “till then I had never believed in human depravity. I always chose to think the best of everyone, I still wish to think well of those around me, but Mr. Collins was an abominable man. The intensity of such a moment; it is natural your mind would return to it when reminded so. Neither you nor Mr. Darcy have anything to fear from that.”
Without Jane, without her dear, dear Jane Elizabeth knew her life would be far emptier. Those words, the conviction she was not mad and not a coward touched Elizabeth. Jane was right. A tight fear that she would lose herself, and become nothing but those memories had lingered in the back of her mind all day. It now dissolved. “Jane, you always know what to say. Your words have relieved much of my fear.” Elizabeth gave a half laugh, and asked “I had not known you knew what happened?”
“I do not really know the details, but I know enough. And Lizzy,” Jane tightened her grip on Elizabeth’s hand, “you are no coward. I know this. I saw the manner in which you behaved then; ‘tis not some idle flattery when I say you are the bravest woman I know. It is straight fact. Whatever fears, whatever memories you have, you can face them.”
Jane’s confidence in Elizabeth gave her an elated confidence in herself. She could face Mr. Collins’s memory, just as she had faced the man himself. She would not allow her mind to make a hell of a possible heaven. What if, as Jane thought likely, Darcy renewed his proposals? The anxiety was still there, and if she imagined herself married to him it intensified — the image of Mr. Collins — but, Elizabeth now felt it from more of a distance. She was scared. She might always be scared. But, Jane spoke right: she was no coward. And — “If I never marry again because of what he did, why then Mr. Collins will have won. I’ll not allow that to happen.”
“Why Lizzy, it is quite unchristian to speak so of the dead.” But Jane’s smile showed she was sensible of the sentiment herself.
The smile was infectious, and while Elizabeth could not yet feel really happy she smiled back, “It is hardly certain Mr. Darcy will ever renew his proposals, and though I like him a great deal, I am not at all sure I should wish him to — marriage is a serious, a very serious state to enter upon and I ought think carefully before I do. But, though I am certain I will be anxious, I think I could rationally respond should he — or another desirable gentleman — offer for me in the future. However, I may need to borrow your comforting presence, and confidence in me again should the case occur.”
A
sharp breeze reminded the two that it was too cold at this time of year to sit outside late in the afternoon, so they stood to walk inside. Jane embraced Elizabeth again and said, “I always, always believe in you.”
Chapter 13
The next morning was bright, cold and the fresh smell from the previous night’s rain lingered. After a brisk walk which carried him twice around the market town and to a prominence from which he could see several miles round Darcy’s mood improved. When the bouncing carriage ride began he once more ignored the scenery, and his papers, to reread the letter.
Now Darcy began to feel some hope, it was a tentative thing to be sure. But — he had her affection and esteem. She wrote, “You are the man of all I have known I would most wish to marry.” She regretted the necessity of her refusal.
Was it truly necessary? Darcy knew sometimes actions which appeared impossible or terrifying on their first suggestion might, after they had sat on the mind for a while, take on the flavor of the easy and appealing. Could that be the case here?
It was clear the main reason, the real reason, Elizabeth refused him was fear. Would that fear still be as strong in three months? Might familiarity with the idea of remarriage make it seem comfortable?
Besides Elizabeth was the bravest woman he knew. If any person could bring themselves to face the horrid phantasms the mind could conjure, it would be she. For a second Darcy felt certain that if he showed her that his affections were unchanged, she would eventually come to accept him.
And yet — to think her mind would change, and that those fears would recede — to ignore the clear meaning of Elizabeth’s words, when she said it was impossible for her to marry; that smacked of foolishness and disrespect. He could not know whether her anxiety would ever dissipate. Besides, to think in the manner he had, to consider whether she could overcome those fears only in so far as they impacted him was precisely the self-centered attitude he wished to overcome.
He loved Elizabeth. The letter only strengthened his affection, it added to his intense admiration of her strength and brightness, and showed him her vulnerability. He felt a rush of tenderness, and an intense need to see her happy and well.
Elizabeth’s happiness was what mattered. Never his own.
But, she was not happy that she had refused him.
Elizabeth would approach him at dinner parties with a light in her eyes, and a ready joke. He remembered her satisfaction, the first evening they met when he listened to her arguments. He recalled the way she would laugh at his jokes, and their happy camaraderie. Darcy really believed she would be happy if they married.
He needed to show her she still had that choice. He could be patient, and he could show Elizabeth his continued affection. He could let her see more of his character so she might come to trust herself to him.
In the end though, it would be Elizabeth’s choice.
* * * * *
Darcy felt sadness as the horses pulled to a stop in front of Pemberley’s marble columns. He had hardly gotten over the shock of his rejection, and at moments he’d see Elizabeth’s face as she turned to run again and be sure it was hopeless. He would feel certain she would always be too frightened to accept him, and that even if she could overcome those fears she would not really wish to marry him.
He desperately hoped somehow in the end they might share a future together. He wanted to show Pemberley to her. He wanted to see her in it, wanted to watch her get lost during her walks among the endless trails in the park. He wanted to see her eyes as she admired the paintings and sculptures in the galleries. He wanted to make her laugh.
Darcy wanted his neighbors to meet her — and to know she was his; he wanted to see others admire her, and come to understand how though her social standing was lower, he was the lucky one. He wanted to hear what she would say about his neighbors. To hear her wry observations on their eccentricities, and to watch her come to know their virtues.
Elizabeth was always present in Darcy’s mind. He’d discuss the household accounts with Mrs. Reynolds, and wonder what painless economies she might find in them. He’d discuss a tenant issue with his steward, and remember some problem Elizabeth had asked him for advice on. He’d watch Georgiana play, and remember his delight at Elizabeth’s playing — and then he’d look forward to introducing the two. He felt certain they would love each other.
When he spoke with Georgiana he often mentioned Elizabeth, or Mrs. Elizabeth when he remembered himself. But never Mrs. Collins, Darcy had committed to never use Collins in relation to Elizabeth again.
Pemberley was beautiful in the winter. The sunlight gleamed off the level expanses of white snow-covered fields, edged by the darker color of the hedges which separated them; the park had a forest of hundred foot tall trees with snow laden branches; the house was resplendent with Christmas decorations and the eternally nostalgic sound of carols and Christmas guests.
Colonel Fitzwilliam usually spent a week with Darcy and Georgiana in December before he went to Matlock for his parent’s celebration. Upon his arrival, it quickly became clear to him Darcy’s manner was not as it normally was. The two were close, having been only two years apart in age, and often together as children. While Darcy tried to hide it, and perhaps succeeded with his sister, it was impossible to conceal his agitation, and sometimes depressed feelings from his cousin.
So one night Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled Darcy into the library, after Georgiana had retired for the night, and settling onto a comfortable leather sofa with deep buttons, put one of Darcy’s best bottles of brandy on the table between the two, and, after he poured each of them an overfull tumbler, pushed one into Darcy’s hands, and said “Now Darcy, what has bothered you so these past weeks?”
When there was no immediate reply Colonel Fitzwilliam prodded, “I daresay it must be about a woman. Perhaps that pretty Elizabeth Collins you have written and spoken so much about? Eh, Darcy?”
Darcy nodded somberly, and took a swig from his glass.
“Hah!” Colonel Fitzwilliam slapped a hand on his thigh before taking a further swallow from his glass, “it was about time some dress caught your eye. But what is the problem? If you feel so bad about it two weeks after you left her, you should just marry the woman. Damn her connections and all. There’s no chance any of us but Aunt Catherine will cut you over it. And that would be a mixed curse at worst.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed slightly at his joke, and his face grew worried as Darcy continued to collect his thoughts, “Though — in that case I would need to make our annual trip to visit her alone. Perhaps you should not marry this Mrs. Elizabeth.”
Darcy gulped back the rest of his tumbler, and exhaled heavily as he set it on the table, “You assume it is a matter of my choice.”
After a few seconds Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened, “By Jove, you mean to tell me she refused you? Why? Every story you told me of her indicates she likes you, and, well — you are not a poor catch.”
The discussion reminded Darcy of how he felt during those minutes in her study when he had no idea why she had ran from him. He half-filled his tumbler again, and drank the burning liquid in one swallow, not savoring the expensive liquor at all. “Yes, she refused me.”
“Despite how she had behaved, I daresay she rather led you on. You should —”
“No! It’s not like that at all, let me explain.”
Darcy poured out the entire story of his relationship with Elizabeth. He felt it would be a violation of her confidence to describe precisely how Mr. Collins had harmed her, but beyond that he told his cousin everything.
As Darcy finished speaking Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned back into the couch, and pushed his legs forward while holding his glass contemplatively in front of him. “Well. Well. I now can understand your manner. Sounds like a fine woman, I daresay, and I hope to meet her one day.” He shook his head, “I do not know what to say of comfort or strategy you have not thought of already. I can say this though, your Mrs. Elizabeth certainly is not going mad.”
“Aye.” Colonel Fitzwilliam did not speak for some minutes, instead he slowly swirled the liquid around in his glass, and stared at it with a stiff expression. Eventually he looked up and seemed almost surprised to find his cousin watching him intently. Colonel Fitzwilliam quickly swallowed the remaining brandy, and said, “You see sometimes when a person goes through a terrifying event it impresses itself upon the mind and never lets go. This often happens to soldiers.”
Darcy felt a sympathetic chill go through him as his cousin paused again to pour himself more brandy. “I never speak of my battles — I hate to bring up the memories — but at Bussaco my bugle player was struck by a cannonball not ten feet from me.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam fell silent, and drank more. He shook himself, “At the time I just cursed, and as the bugle was undamaged I took it from his hands and pulled a man off the line who I knew could play, and ordered him to serve instead. But afterwards —” Colonel Fitzwilliam paused to drink half of what was in his class. “The boy was fifteen, he was the fifth son of a cottager who still lives on my father’s estate, I knew his parents, and had seen him as a boy — the look of surprise on his dead face as I grabbed the bugle from his grip haunted me every night for weeks.”
They both were silent again, Colonel Fitzwilliam staring once more into his alcohol. “When the Regiment was rotated home, something like what you say your Mrs. Elizabeth experienced happened to me. I was taking my walk in Hyde Park and there was a sharp crack, I believe a work team dropped a heavy piece of marble, and it startled me. I cannot remember any of it, but when I came back to my senses a person who’d watched me swore I spent five minutes yelling at those walking the park to form a neat line and hold their fire until the French came fifty yards closer.”
Mr Darcy and Mr Collins's Widow Page 13
