“An early fever is in fact a good sign.” Elizabeth took Miss Darcy’s arm and said, “We ought to reach the church quite soon. Mr. Darcy is not likely to die. His wound is already forming a laudable pus. But even if he does, it wasMr. Wickhamwho shot him.”
“If I hadn’t let him enjoy such intimacies, my brother never would have challenged him.”
Elizabeth did not contradict Miss Darcy upon this point, as it was one that could not be argued with.
“At least,” Miss Darcy said, with what Elizabeth rather suspected was a little satisfaction, “I can never be part of respectable society again. I am a wholly ruined woman. It is like what my brother said, I can only be guided by my conscience in the future, for no one will ever think well of me.”
When they entered the church, they found the vicar waiting. Mrs. Younge was also there, dressed all in black.
When Mrs. Younge turned to look at them, Miss Darcy gasped. “You!”
Mrs. Younge was clearly quite surprised to see Miss Darcy, and she said, “Is your brother dead?”
“No.”
“I wish he were.” Mrs. Younge asked Elizabeth, “Do you not know it isherfault that he is dead?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, “it is you who killed him. Had you acted as you ought to have, had you ignored Mr. Wickham’s suggestion that you betray your charge, he would never have been shot. If you must blame someone, I advise thinking ill of yourself. It is the fashion, you know, to blame one’s own self.”
Mrs. Younge appeared not amused.
They said no further words.
As the vicar, Mr. Harvey, said the words of the funeral service in the church, Miss Darcy’s gaze switched between the still handsome dead face in the casket, and Mrs. Younge’s weeping face.
Mrs. Younge moaned piteously when the lid of the coffin was shut.
Afterwards the body was carried out to a plot in the churchyard that had already been dug up. Georgiana came out with Elizabeth, as apparently Darcy’s statement that they should not worry about respectability in the future was sufficient justification for her to do so.
They all watched as the workmen lowered the coffin into Mr. Wickham’s final resting place. The sun beamed hotly. Seagulls circled in thesky. A soft breeze blew through Elizabeth’s dress. The sky was clear blue. Her husband had chosen a pretty day for his burial.
Elizabeth had no temptation to cry.
She left behind her sadness yesterday. Or perhaps she had chiefly grieved for her husband when he abandoned her.
As they walked back to the house on the Nelson Crescent, Miss Darcy said to Elizabeth, “She was in love with him too.”
“Mrs. Younge? Yes. She grieves Mr. Wickham the most out of all of us.”
Miss Darcy wrapped her arms around her chest. “I have been such a fool. I believed she loved me and had my interests at heart. How can I trust anyone?”
“It is a difficult problem,” Elizabeth agreed.
“I wish to be more like you,” Georgiana said. “You insist on being cheerful and useful, no matter what happens. That is what I ought to be like, not this useless, sodden wreck.”
“While I am flattered by this notion, I seek to be useful not out of virtue, but simply because sometimes…sometimes matters hurt, and I do not wish to think upon them.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I spoke truly when I said that I wished to change your brother’s bandage to distract myself.”
“No, no. It is a virtue. And you do listen to your conscience, like Fitzwilliam said thatIought to do. If only I had listened to it before—but I know what you shall say, and you are right. I must think to the future, not the past.”
Neither of them said anything further until they reached the house. Then Miss Darcy turned to Elizabeth and said, “Thank you.Youhave been kind to me.”
Chapter Seven
There was something delightful in taking care of the children and reading to them and listening to their stories.
Darcy suspected that both George and Emily were still too much in awe of him and still viewed him as too much of a stranger to engage in the screaming upsets, unpleasant tricks, and sudden excesses of wildness that those of his acquaintance who were parents insisted was a central part of having a child.
The maid sat in the drawing room with them, seriously listening to the confused lisping prattling of Emily.
