In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  Her sister thrust the letter into her hands. “You read it, then. I cannot bear to.”

  Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, but when she saw the pleading in her sister’s eyes, she broke the seal.

  Dear Miss Bennet,

  I begin with an apology. I know well the danger of writing to you in this manner, but I feared you would not accept a visit from me. No, even that is not entirely the truth. What I fear is that you have already misunderstood me beyond all hope of redemption, as I waited and acted only in the way careful manners might dictate.

  Forgive me for resorting to a method of communication both improper and insufficient, and please understand that only the greatest need would have inspired me to such a transgression.

  Elizabeth could not trust herself to read another word in her current state of mind. She could not help but compare the emotions of the sender with that of his friend and that friend’s rash actions from earlier in the day.

  That Mr. Bingley wrote this letter overcome with emotion was certain. But where Mr. Darcy had been careful to speak constantly of the demands that society laid upon him, Mr. Bingley seemed only to regret ever paying them mind.

  She could not do this for Jane. Not tonight.

  “Well?” asked Jane, a hungry look in her eyes. “What does he say?”

  “Jane,” said Elizabeth, “you must read it yourself.”

  “I told you, I cannot. It is not proper.”

  “And it is even less proper to ask your sister to read a letter meant for you.” She held it out.

  Jane stared at the page, blinking hard. “I cannot, Lizzy. I have tried a hundred times. If he hates me, then reading words to that effect might break my heart. If it is anything else…” she looked away, and the candlelight caught the tears shining in her eyes. “I cannot risk resuming a connection with him. I have come to doubt if we would ever truly make each other happy.”

  Elizabeth swallowed past the lump in her throat. She had herself expressed those precise doubts today, to a different man, regarding a relationship that was in so many ways unlike that between her sister and Mr. Bingley. She had never seen them argue except for that night at Lady Atwood’s ball. Their conversations were in all ways pleasant.

  And yet, perhaps her sister had done the same desperate calculations that Elizabeth herself had. Had she not every right to make the same determination?

  “If you are really so decided, then it is best we burn it.” She held the paper to the flame of the candle.

  “Stop!” Jane snatched it away from the fire and clutched it close, extinguishing the flame licking up the corner of the page with her bare hands.

  The sisters stared at each other, breathing hard. And then Jane, her face as pale and set as stone, her jaw clenched, looked down at the words the gentleman had written.

  Elizabeth watched in silence as her sister’s eyes moved back and forth, as if she could somehow divine the meaning by staring at Jane’s face. But Jane’s countenance did not change as she read, and when she finished, she merely nodded once.

  “Well?” Elizabeth echoed. “What does he say?”

  “Many things.” Jane’s expression was a mask. Elizabeth could not tell if she was about to cry or to smile. “Here, read it yourself, and then we shall see if we come to the same conclusion.”

  Elizabeth took the letter.

  My search for forgiveness continues. I have discovered, since that harrowing night at Lady Atwood’s ball, that we have both been party to the most dreadful of mistakes.

  My sister has revealed to me that she thought your visit in town to be only of short duration and did not inform me of your presence here, as she knew I would only regret not having the chance to see you. Had we known you were in town all this month, we would have been certain to call upon you, as we esteem and value your friendship, as well as that of all your family, who were so welcoming and generous to us when first we came to Hertfordshire.

  She also relayed her fears that she might have erroneously led you to believe not only that she’d told me of your presence, but also that we would not be returning to Netherfield in the spring. Rest assured, Miss Bennet, this had never been a part of my plan. Everything in Hertfordshire is so lovely, so exquisite, that I cannot imagine my life without it.

  There were many blots in that sentence.

  Dear Caroline was so distraught as we uncovered what a dreadful mess had been made of the entire affair. I believe you will hear from her yourself very soon, but I could not wait another hour for her to be ready to write to you and rushed off my own note. Please forgive us both for our terrible transgression. You have been such a good friend to us, that we would bitterly regret if this breach became a permanent one.

  I would hate that very much, indeed.

  I am sorry for the blots. My pen and my thoughts rarely run at the same speed, and I am too eager to get this note to you. And so, too, I end with an apology. Please accept all three.

  If you send a note to Caroline, merely mention that you would welcome a visit from her and her miserable brother, and I shall have all the reply I need. If you cannot find it in your heart—

  And here the blots became larger and the missive more unreadable.

  —then, too, shall I know the magnitude of my error, and wish you only God’s blessing for all your days upon this Earth.

  Regards,

  C. Bingley

  Elizabeth wondered what arguments had been glossed over in the writing. Mr. Bingley fell short of accusing his sister of lying to him in this letter, but she wondered what had occurred in person between the siblings. Caroline was so distraught, indeed!

  She looked at her sister. “What is the conclusion that you draw?”

  “He asks for forgiveness for our long separation,” Jane said carefully.

  Begs it, really, thought Elizabeth. “And can you offer it?”

  “I do not know,” said Jane. “Ought I believe that he is sincere now, when he was fickle before?”

  The very question Elizabeth had earlier asked herself. And yet, Bingley was not Darcy. There were no insults in this letter, only a man beseeching mercy.

  “The letter fairly drips with sincerity, but that is not the only basis on which to judge. If all that remains is your doubt of his honesty on the subject, I will say only that I think he’s being too kind, as he is wont to be, to his sister. Which is not, in itself, a crime. Indeed it is to his credit that he is kind to her even after she has acted with such malice.”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “Such love for one’s sister is a mark of good character.”

  “But only you can judge if his sincerity is all that is warranted to continue the connection. The last time we spoke on this subject, you had multiple reasons to refuse” —her voice broke on the words— “to refuse his further attentions. Does this letter change your thoughts in regards to that far more pressing concern?”

  Jane was silent for a long moment. “You mean, I suppose, that the only reason to write to Miss Bingley would be if I wished to encourage his renewed attentions toward me. To accept him if he were to make me an offer.”

  It took another long moment before Elizabeth was capable of replying. “Yes. Do you think, given what has transpired, there is any way that you can make each other happy?”

  Jane frowned. “I do not know. Not yet, anyway. But this is not an offer of marriage, Lizzy. It is an offer to renew our acquaintance. Do I not owe it to myself, after all I have suffered, to give it a chance?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “You are right. It is not an offer of marriage.” Mr. Bingley, it seemed, was far more measured than his friend after all.

  Chapter 23

  The effect of the note Jane penned to Caroline Bingley the following morning was immediate, as both she and her brother arrived at the Gardiner house in Cheapside that very afternoon. Mr. Bingley was as ebullient and playful as a puppy, and he swiftly became a great favorite with every Gardiner who crossed his path. Miss Bingley, by contrast, was subdued and markedly less
superior in affect than she had been when she’d come to see them at Longbourn.

  As for Jane, she seemed to take most seriously her intentions to hold her emotions in check when it came to the gentleman, and though she certainly received his visit with pleasure, there was a cautious reserve to her behavior that one could barely miss.

  Mr. Bingley did not miss it, to be sure, and Elizabeth, despite everything, was amused to see him trying all the more to attract Jane’s attention. Elizabeth felt a sort of grim satisfaction from watching his efforts to get back into Jane’s good graces, but it was obvious to all present that once Jane let down her guard, they would get along as well as two puppies in a pen. Not for them an endless lifetime of squabbles and contempt. Their spirits were too much alike.

  How lucky they were!

  “Have you enjoyed your time in London, Miss Eliza?” Miss Bingley’s words intruded upon her reverie. “Have you walked enough to make yourself happy?”

  “The parks here are lovely,” she replied evenly. “Though I miss the wild rambles one can find in the countryside.”

  “I do not,” Miss Bingley sniffed, batting away with her fan. “My idea of taking the air requires an open carriage and a promenade. I go out very often to Hyde Park with Miss Darcy, you know.”

  She did not know, and she did not wish to discuss the Darcys.

  “Yes, you must come along,” Mr. Bingley broke in. “I am sure you would like Miss Darcy very much. She is about your youngest sister’s age, I believe. Hardly out of school. If you have been missing the other Bennets back at Longbourn, I think it will be just the thing.”

  Miss Bingley fairly scowled, but neither of the Bennets missed his point. Miss Darcy was not a rival. She was a little sister.

  “We should like very much to meet her,” Jane replied, to Elizabeth’s dismay. If she didn’t want to talk about Darcys, she had even less of an interest in meeting any.

  Though she supposed it could not be helped. Not if Jane continued to see the Bingleys.

  Mrs. Gardiner soon thereafter was called away to a meeting with a few of her lady friends regarding a charity event. Mr. Bingley bid her a farewell so fond you would have thought they were acquaintances of far more than half an hour.

  “Does she not remind you of our mother, Caroline?” he asked his sister once she was gone. “Our mother, Miss Bennet, was the most wonderful Christian woman. Always occupied with helping those less fortunate.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Bingley. “Sadly, it came to a end when she contracted consumption while Charles and I were just children. Perhaps nothing good can come from too close association with the poor. It is better, I believe, to give money—where one can—to the less fortunate, and leave the actual nursing to those with sturdier constitutions. My mother was far too fine a soul to have concerned herself so much with the sick and dying.”

  “Our dear father, may he rest in peace, founded a charity in her memory, a beautiful little home for foundlings in the town where she was born, in the north.”

  “What a splendid memorial,” said Jane.

  “An expensive one,” said Miss Bingley. Her brother gave her a silencing look.

  “I am not so involved as my father was,” Mr. Bingley said. “We send them money for their operation, but I do not know if I have the constitution required to visit the children.”

  “You cannot think you will become ill, as your mother did?” Jane asked.

  “No,” said Miss Bingley with a laugh. “We suspect he will adopt every orphan he sees.”

  Mr. Bingley colored somewhat. “I do so love children, you see.” He smiled at the Gardiner children, playing before the fire with the dissected picture he’d brought them. “It was hard enough for us to lose our parents when we did. I could not imagine what it would have been like if our dear father had suffered his accident when we were still children. I don’t know how we would have survived losing them both.”

  “I think of that every time I see poor, dear Miss Darcy,” Miss Bingley replied. “How lucky she is to have such a caring older brother.”

  Elizabeth could see that time had not tempered Miss Bingley’s tendency to mention Mr. Darcy at every opportunity, but she had next to no patience for it at all today. She had still not been given the opportunity to explain to Jane what had transpired between herself and Mr. Darcy. She’d passed a sleepless night, memorizing every shadow on the ceiling of her bedchamber and hearing nothing but an endless echo of his words.

  I love you, Miss Bennet.

  But he couldn’t, could he? Not truly. Not enough to build a life on. She had made the right decision. The only decision. And sitting here in this room with Miss Bingley, who sniffed at the children and sneered at every mention of the Gardiners’ neighborhood, only proved it. Elizabeth knew what it was to be an object of contempt. To enter Mr. Darcy’s sphere would only doom her to a lifetime of it, from dozens of Miss Bingleys, and then, when his fascination faded, from Mr. Darcy himself. He hadn’t even gotten through his proposal before he reminded her of how far beneath him she was, how grateful she should be that he was even noticing her.

  In short, his offer had not been so very different from Mr. Collins’s. What was it her appalling cousin had said on that dreadful morning?

  You have no fortune, which will surely weigh heavily against your other qualities.

  And so it had, such that even a man who claimed in one breath to love her would follow it up in the next by discussing how reprehensible the thought of marrying her must be.

  Reprehensible! By Mr. Darcy’s reckoning, her lack of dowry was not merely an unfortunate circumstance of fate, but a deep and abiding flaw of her very person. Would it not, at the years wore on, come to be her most notable trait? Were Pemberley to sustain some unthinkable tragedy which shifted the Darcy fortune, would her lack of dowry not be held to blame for the downfall of the greatest estate in Derbyshire?

  She looked at Jane and Mr. Bingley, smiling at each other across the room. One facet of the situation she had not considered was that a renewal of their acquaintance with the Bingleys would perforce put her again into the social circle of Mr. Darcy. He and Mr. Bingley were the closest of friends. Surely, if Jane and Mr. Bingley took up again, Elizabeth would be required to see him.

  She did not know if she could bear it.

  Later, when they’d gone and she was free from Miss Bingley’s pointed comments about her uncle’s profession and her fawning compliments toward the thankfully absent Mr. Darcy, she sat in silence, staring at the fire, so lost in thought that she could not even pretend to sew.

  “Lizzy,” said Jane, “You’re preoccupied this evening. Dare I ask what aspect of their visit has you so discomfited?”

  Elizabeth forced a smile. “Indeed, I am not bothered by the Bingleys. Or no more than usual—you shall recall that the sister was never the greatest of my friends, and I have still not resolved to forgive her for her concealment of your presence in town, which caused all parties so much suffering. You and Mr. Bingley may be more generous, but I shall reserve the right not to trust her.”

  Jane smiled in return. “You are not alone. I cannot say that I will never be friends with Miss Bingley, but I shall be more cautious in the future with my affections. I shall be more cautious with all of them. We have learned our lesson, haven’t we?”

  Elizabeth could take no more. She buried her face in her hands.

  In an instant, Jane was kneeling at her side. “Dearest Lizzy, what is the matter? Was Miss Bingley cruel to you? Oh, please do tell me.”

  And so Elizabeth did—relating the entire, sordid tale, from their interaction on the balcony at Netherfield to the night of the Atwood’s ball and finally, terribly, to yesterday’s scene in this very room. Jane listened first with equanimity, then shock, and when it seemed she might swoon from her astonishment, Elizabeth paused.

  “Do you find me so very scandalous, Jane?”

  “I—I do not know,” said her sister, sinking onto the carpet. “I cannot account for
how much has transpired before my very eyes without my awareness.”

  “You did know some of it, though. You were there when it all began.”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “I saw Mr. Darcy carry you into our bedroom at Netherfield—the service of a gentleman to a lady who was indisposed. But kisses on balconies and secret proposals—you have been most sly!”

  “I have been most wretched,” she sniffed. “And I have not felt free to tell anyone of what has passed between us.”

  “You always could have told me, Lizzy!”

  “Not when you suffered so over Mr. Bingley.”

  Jane considered this. “And yet Mr. Darcy’s behavior must have been all the more confusing for you. Still, at last he has made his intentions clear.”

  Elizabeth gave a mirthless laugh. “It was not clear at all. One moment he was declaring his devotion, the next insulting me.”

  “Yes, he was quite rash, wasn’t he?” Jane shook her head. “I suppose we must ascribe it to the violence of his love. I cannot fault him for admiring you.”

  “Even if it was against his own wishes?”

  Now Jane smiled. “One cannot love against one’s own wishes. Against the wishes of others, to be sure, or against the expectations of what one believes one should want. But our hearts know the truth.”

  Elizabeth only looked away. “Do you think me wrong to have refused him?”

  “Ah, that is not the answer you seek.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That is answering the wishes and expectations of others, and we have already decided upon the danger of that. Once, I thought of making all my dear family happy by accepting the attentions of a rich stranger in the neighborhood. Once, I thought of making the gentleman’s sister happy, by allowing her wishes for his future to outweigh our own.”

  Jane had said such a thing, the night of the Atwood’s ball. Mr. Bingley might soon learn he was dealing with a very changed Jane.