by Elaine Owen
“As you wish, madam. Shall I prepare a bath, at least?”
“No, I thank you. You are at liberty until tomorrow, unless I should call for you.”
Cora made a polite exit, her voice betraying no curiosity. Elizabeth blew out her lamp and crawled into her bed but could not bring herself to lie down. Instead, she sat in the middle with her arms wrapped around her legs, her head resting on her knees while she listened to the storm rage on outside, unabated, and tried to calm her raging emotions.
She should never have spoken to her husband the way she just had. Why had she allowed her anger such free rein? Darcy wanted a compliant, biddable wife, and he had now discovered in a most unmistakable way what manner of woman he had really married. The look of impassioned outrage in his eyes just before he had turned and left the room haunted her. Although she had sensed that Darcy’s attitude toward her had recently hardened, she had not expected the depth of the anger and resentment he had shown.
Darcy, too, was restless. From his bedroom next door, she heard the sound of footsteps moving rapidly back and forth as if the walker were agitated and uneasy; they slowed and stopped for a minute or two before beginning their frantic pace again. His lamp was still lit; the glow of it came in under their shared door, and occasionally she could see from the shadows cast that Darcy was standing, unmoving, outside her room. Was he placing his hand on the knob, preparing to enter her room again? Would he return to continue their argument, despite his parting words? She prayed not.
Every recollection of their conversation stirred a deep emotion. She would never forget the casual way Darcy had disparaged her family when he called them disdainful, and the easy way in which he referred to her previous condition in life. It was true that her family was not as wealthy as his, but she was still a gentleman’s daughter, still her husband’s equal in all essentials. If he looked down on her for having relatives in trade, how did he justify wanting his own sister to marry Bingley?
Thinking of Jane made her break out in a fresh bout of weeping. What an arrogant, impossible man, to think that Jane had only been receptive to Bingley because of his money! Everything Elizabeth had suspected was true. Darcy had used his influence with Bingley to separate him from Jane, and he not only admitted it but was undeniably proud of the fact! Darcy and Bingley’s sisters had acted together to orchestrate the future of those closest to them, and they had done so with callous disregard for the feelings and desires of others. Given the same circumstances, they would be only too happy to do the same thing again.
She had failed Georgiana. Darcy would never forgive her, nor would he listen to her words about his sister now.
What had Darcy said about Wickham and the circumstances of his living? It was difficult to recall the exact words, which had flown back and forth rapidly in the heat of the moment. Apparently, there was more to the story of ill usage and mistreatment than what she had originally thought. She ought not to have said anything about it to her husband until she knew more of the facts.
Worst of all was Darcy’s accusation that she had married him for his wealth, for it had the sting of truth to it. She could not deny that she had married him for material considerations. But although his statement was the truth, it was not the whole truth. She had married him in order to protect her family, only after her dream of marrying for love had proven fruitless and when no other option presented itself. Was it really so shameful to marry for protection, if that was the only choice possible? Was it reprehensible to use the only means at one’s disposal in order to preserve a dearly loved family? Many marriages were based on less. The bargain was not one-sided; she had done her best to live up to Darcy’s every expectation of her.
The final expression on Darcy’s face came back to her yet again, the look he gave her when he said that his own reasons for marrying no longer mattered in light of her feelings for him, now that he understood them. What had he meant by that?
Darcy’s footsteps on the other side of the wall paused for a moment, and she thought she heard a muffled exclamation. Perhaps he had struck his foot against the leg of his bed or chair, for she heard the sound of something moving as it squeaked on the floor, and the flow of light underneath the door was not broken again. She watched that light as long as she could, hoping and praying that the door would stay shut and that she would not have to face her husband again this evening. This time her prayer was answered; even as she struggled against tears her fatigue overwhelmed her, and she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In the morning, Elizabeth woke with a start, surprised to see how much daylight was already in the room. All was still; the storm had passed by overnight. She lay unmoving for a moment, trying to hear something of her husband in the next room, but all was silent. Either Darcy still slept, or else he had already risen and gone for the day.
Quietly she rose and dressed without waiting for Cora, then stole down the back stairs and out of the kitchen door. Her head ached from the lack of sleep and the extreme disturbance of the night before. She was not ready to face either her husband or Georgiana over the breakfast table and make polite conversation, not with her emotions still so raw to the touch. Sooner or later she would have to face them both, but she wanted her first conversation with Darcy after their quarrel to be held in private, away from curious eyes.
She struck out on a familiar path, one of her favorites, which led beside the stream for some distance before it rose slightly and doubled back toward the house. She was pleased to note that the storm from the night before had not caused as much damage as she had feared. The only real evidence left was the swollen water in the stream, which would subside quickly now that the rain had ceased. The accustomed circuit this path took would not return her to the house for at least an hour. Perhaps by the time she returned she would have some idea of what to say to her husband when she saw him again.
She was certain of only one fact: she and Darcy could not go on as they had until now. All pretense of polite accommodation was stripped away, and what was left between them could only be the barest of civility. She must find a way to make amends for her rash words of the night before.
The countryside had changed during her eight weeks in Derbyshire. She had arrived in the middle of May when a damp spring was beginning to yield to summer warmth. It was now the height of the warmest part of the year, with green vegetation running riot in all the fields and occasionally intruding into the path where she now walked. Cowslips had given way quickly to purple orchids, to be supplanted in their turn by bluebells on the mossy surfaces of stumps and fallen trees. In the shade of the thick woods, the heat of the day could not yet be felt, but Elizabeth knew that by early afternoon the warm, humid air would drive humans and beasts alike to the cooler paths next to the water. In the repetitive calm sounds of the moving stream, even the troubles from the evening before seemed to shrink into something less unsettling, until she saw Darcy.
He was standing impatiently on the path just where it took a turn around the fence that separated field from forest, looking straight at her when she came around the bend. He must have had an idea of the path she had taken and been waiting for her to return. It was impossible to avoid him or to pretend she had not seen him. She was nearly on him by the time she realized he was there, and she stopped suddenly in the path when their eyes met. She opened her mouth to speak, but he advanced toward her swiftly, his lip curled in disdain.
“I have been waiting for some time to see you,” he announced in a haughty tone and without any attempt at a greeting. “Will you do me the honor of reading this letter?” Before she could reply he offered her a thick brown envelope, which she instinctively accepted. He bowed, then turned and walked quickly back up the path to the house.
All consideration for her aching head disappeared. Without stopping to think, she gazed at the letter in her hands, anxious to see what it contained. It was a thick, heavy letter, with her name written on the outside in Darcy’s strong, even script. W
hen she opened the envelope no fewer than seven close-written pages emerged, and the envelope itself was likewise full. She began reading at once.
To my wife, Elizabeth Darcy,
Two charges of a very different nature you laid at my feet not many hours ago. The first was that I separated Bingley from your sister for the sole purpose of uniting him with my own sister, and the second charge, much more serious, was that I willfully and wantonly cast off my father’s favorite, George Wickham, in ways which have materially, and perhaps permanently, ruined his prospects. My purpose in writing this letter is to defend myself against both charges as well as I can.
You do not wish to read this, I am sure. I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt your true opinion of me, and although I am afraid that your lack of regard is set in stone, I request and demand as your husband that you read this letter in its entirety. I hope that after you have read it you will at least acquit me of willful indifference to the feelings of others, if not of the arrogance and condescension which you so eagerly pointed out in my character when we spoke together.
The first charge against me was in regards to the abruptly ended relationship between your sister Jane and my friend, my companion and trusted confidante, Charles Bingley, and your belief that it was my intervention that prevented their relationship from reaching its natural conclusion in an engagement. To dispel this belief, I shall endeavor to tell you the events of last winter from my perspective, and to explain the logic and reasoning behind the actions I took.
Bingley is five years younger than I, the only son of a prosperous businessman from Scarborough. I was in my last year at Cambridge when we first became acquainted at my club in town, and since then we have been fast, though unlikely, friends.
I have often seen my friend in love before. His is a temperament led often by the whim of the moment, as easily blown in a new direction as a flame in a breeze. Though his attentions to any lady have always been sincere, they have never been of any duration. So when he began to profess his ardent admiration of your sister to me last autumn I thought nothing of it, believing that this infatuation would pass as quickly as many others before. It was not until the night of the ball at Netherfield that I felt any real concern for him, after discerning from Sir William’s remarks that an engagement between Bingley and your sister was considered to be a certain thing by the entire neighborhood.
At that time I began to observe your sister more closely, to try to determine if her affection was any more lasting than his. I do not think I deceive myself when I say that I had no reason to believe that it was. Your sister’s expression when she was with my friend was open and engaging, but I noticed no particular signs of regard on her part. She spoke with him, she smiled at him, she clearly welcomed his attentions—but she welcomed others in the same way, and with the same marvelous serenity that is, in my mind, her most distinguishing characteristic. In short, there was nothing to make me think her heart was in any danger of being touched. I could not but be alarmed by what I deemed a most unfortunate mistaken intention. I did not want my friend to be hurt.
You must already surmise what happened next. When Bingley returned to town, expecting to return to Netherfield quickly, his sisters and I quickly discovered that we were of the same mind in this matter. Working together, we spoke to him at length, discovering that he did, indeed, plan to make your sister an offer as soon as he returned to Meryton. His sisters and I did everything in our power to persuade him of the evils of such a choice. We spoke to him earnestly of your family’s lack of fortune, your inferior connections, and the decided lack of propriety of your mother, your sisters, and even—though I hesitate to speak ill of the dead—your father. None of it carried any weight with him, however, until we convinced him that your sister had no particular affection for him.
Bingley is modest to a fault. He believed that your sister returned his regard with a sincere, if not equal, devotion, but upon our assurances that he was mistaken he became despondent, and after that it took no effort at all to convince him to stay in town. The other considerations I have listed weighed on him, but it was our conviction of the lack of affection in the case which had the strongest effect. He did not know then, and still does not know, of your sister’s presence in town in January; as we thought it best not to inform him, lest he succumb to her influence once more.
This was my role in separating Bingley from your sister, and I hope that you can now acknowledge that my actions were carried out with only his best interests in mind. If I have been the means of wounding your sister I apologize, but what is done cannot be well undone. I cannot honestly say that I have any regrets.
You may wonder how I could make so many objections to Bingley marrying your sister and yet have no scruples about making you an offer a scant three months later, ignoring that same lack of fortune and deplorable connections which were the basis of my concerns for him. I have no answer except to reiterate, as I said last night, that toward Bingley I have been kinder than toward myself.
The idea of Bingley eventually marrying Georgiana did, in fact, cross my mind at the time I spoke to him of your sister’s disinterest, but only as a possible source of consolation to him at some point in the uncertain future. I would never allow my own wishes to overrule a prospect for true domestic happiness if I thought my friend had a reasonable chance for it from another quarter. My actions may have been precipitous, perhaps even officious—but they were always entirely disinterested.
The other charge which you laid at my feet relates to my history with George Wickham—that I wantonly and willfully cast off the friend of my youth, that I disregarded the express desires of my father to provide for his godson after his death, and that I have ignored and despised the thoughts of his current comparatively low station in life, with no desire to right the wrongs inflicted upon him. To answer these charges, I will lay bare as much as I can of my relationship to that gentleman (whom I call a gentleman out of courtesy, not of merit), and leave you to be the judge between us.
Wickham was the only son of my father’s steward, an honest man of fine character who was high in my father’s affections, and when Wickham was born my father was honored to be asked to stand as godfather. Although he was not of high birth, my father went to considerable trouble and expense to raise him gently, with the best education and training available. Indeed, Wickham grew up almost as a son of the house itself. He was included in many family gatherings and activities, ate at our table innumerable times, and was afforded every advantage which could be gained from society so superior to that to which he was born. Georgiana, in particular, looked to him almost as another brother, and my father treated him nearly as another son.
I wish I could say that I shared those feelings, but it has been many years since I began to see Wickham in another light. In my father’s presence, he was clever and winsome, always pleasing to those on whose good opinion he relied for support, but between two young men so closely associated for so long there can be few secrets. I was aware when he began to keep disreputable company in both Derbyshire and town, and I was concerned for his safety and reputation when his debts of honor in both places became more than he could be reasonably expected to ever repay. That was the first of many times when I felt compelled for my father’s sake to protect Wickham from public exposure, thus beginning a pattern that continues to this day.
After some years Wickham’s father died, and not long after that so did my own father. To the end, he had remained innocent of Wickham’s true character and remembered him most generously by leaving him a thousand pounds and a living at Kympton, a family holding, as soon as the living became available. As the will was being settled Wickham approached me, though we had maintained little contact since I went to Cambridge, and told me that he had no interest in a career in the church. He had instead decided to study law and asked if I would give him a financial settlement in lieu of the living, considering the heavy debts associated with further study. He made a strong case that the interest fro
m the thousand pounds was wholly inadequate for his support. I was happy to fulfill this request. I knew from his gaming habits and his immoral history with certain women that Wickham ought never to be a cure of souls. We agreed upon a sum of three thousand pounds in lieu of the living; the transaction was made, and all association was then cut off. His society was too dissolute for me to allow him at Pemberley, and I believed him to be living in town. I expected, I desired, to see him no more.
Imagine my surprise when three years later he applied to me yet again. This time he had heard of the recent death of the incumbent of the Kympton living, and he wished for me to present the living to him after all, since the study of law had proven very unprofitable for him; and, he reminded me, it was what my father had wished all along. His circumstances, he said, were very bad, and I had no trouble believing it. Further conversation revealed that the entirety of his three thousand pounds was gone, wasted on debauchery, gaming, and undeserving women. You will hardly blame me, I hope, for refusing to go along with this scheme and for asking him not to disturb my peace or Georgiana’s ever again.
After that Wickham disappeared from my life for some time, for which I was thankful, as I had no desire to seek him out or to hear anything more of him.
Unfortunately, Wickham has a talent for reappearing where he is least wanted; and last summer I found it necessary to separate him from a young lady, a girl really, who was unaware of his irredeemable qualities, with whom he was attempting to form a most unacceptable connection. It was a fortunate escape for her since he then confessed to being attracted only by her fortune, which was considerable. The lady suffered low spirits for months afterwards, and even now occasionally falls into spells of melancholy. Had he succeeded in his scheme, the damage to the young lady involved would have been even worse.
