“Are you certain she was serious?” I heard myself ask. “It sounds like something she would say just to provoke me. She does enjoy professing opinions that are not her own.”
“I’m not sure either one is a quality you ought to wish for in a wife.” He drew a long sip of his brandy and slowly shook his head. “No, Darcy, unless you have some other proof of her affections, I would have to say the attachment appears to be all on your side.”
She kissed me.But I did not say this to Richard. How could I speak of something so holy, so perfect and pure and... and confusing? She kissed me twice!
But she was not the first woman to kiss me, was she? How many times had females, debutantes and widows alike, secretly bestowed meaningless fripperies like that on not only me, but others as well? A whispered trifle, a lock of hair slipped into a coat pocket, and yes, even a sly kiss or two when no one was looking.
Elizabeth was not like that, though. She would never. She had not been raised among the careless elite, for whom a slight indiscretion, perhaps on a balcony at a party, was merely winked at and hushed up. She had only her simple virtue, and if she kissed me, even if she laughed it off later, surely she meant it. Yes, she must have.
So, I decided to stay quiet and let Richard keep watching for himself. He would see.
Ten days later, he did see, and in the most mortifying way possible. I thought to put my theory to the test and put myself out in the process. I asked Elizabeth to dance a reel with me.
My throat was tight, my heart pounding, and I was sure she must have seen how excruciating this notion was to me. I despise making a spectacle of myself, but the music was lively, her toes were tapping, and I could not let the moment pass. If she wouldbut take my hand, salvage my dignity, I would know everything I needed to know.
She laughed at me.
Instead of spinning my nimble and witty love in my arms for all the world to see, I had to bear up when Caroline Bingley rose into her place. I made no show of my disappointment, but my heart hemorrhaged that night and bled out a little more with each loathsome step. It only got worse when Elizabeth stood up with Richard, and I had the torment of watching her, working all the dazzling arts and allurements that should have been mine, upon him.
“Leave me be,” I told him later when he knocked on my door.
He did not, of course. He poked his head through the crack and gave me a sympathetic smile. “It is not so bad, Darcy. What man can say his wife married him for love? I still say if you care for her enough to put up with the public censure of marrying her, then ask. She might even accept.”
“Forgive me, Cousin, but I have had enough advice for tonight.”
Richard returned to London three days later. It was all I could do not to follow him, but Georgiana had finally found some measure of peace and friendship with Elizabeth and Jane Bennet. I could not deny her that so soon. And, perhaps, I yet clung to a stubborn hope that I might find some way to either prove to Elizabeth that my heart belonged to her, or to see enough of her flaws to dislodge her from it entirely.
I think Richard saw through my design, pathetic as it was, but he was kind enough not to tease me. I owe him a king’s ransom for having the courage to tell me what I did not wish to hear and yet granting me the dignity of privacy to act without interference. Not another word passed between us about Elizabeth, because the truth was, I was already living in hell, knowing he had been right.
Thirteen
Fitzwilliam seemed to lapseinto a sort of melancholy after his cousin went away. He is very fond of Richard, and the tide of war was never far from our consciousness in those days. It was thought that Richard’s squadron was in no danger of immediate deployment, but one never knew. I expect everyone who counted a soldier among their dear folk prepared for each farewell to be their last.
I have skimmed rather lightly over some events that were more momentous than one might be led to believe, by my treatment of them. They are not all consequential to the tale at hand, but perhaps a brief recounting will be appropriate here.
Mr. Collins remained a guest at Longbourn from the end of October until the first week of December, when he married my dear friend, Charlotte Lucas. They repaired to Kent immediately after the wedding, and all of Longbourn breathed a collective sigh of relief. Though I would miss Charlotte, I was as pleased as anyone to see them go, for I had had enough of his chasing of my unwilling sisters and his worship of his patroness, one Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He went on about her a great deal,especially in Fitzwilliam’s company, for she is his aunt and a lady of great property.
Later, I would have cause to become well acquainted with the lady, but at the time, I cared little for my cousin’s ominous cautions regarding my friendship with Fitzwilliam. Collins was as thick-skulled as anyone I ever knew, but somehow he must have seen something that I did not. He was forever going on about how Fitzwilliam was destined for the finest circles, an illustrious match, and so on, and he would not cease reminding me that I ought to be pleased to settle with what I had attained by my first marriage.
Even on his wedding day, after I stood a little too near Fitzwilliam at the reception breakfast, he said, “Cousin Elizabeth, though we have not the pleasure of being more closely related by marriage, I assure you that we are by no means unconnected, and Lady Catherine would consider it her duty to take you under her wing, as it were. I feel it incumbent upon me to remind you that she is in a position to grant such little favors and recognitions that a lady of your stature may never dream of otherwise, provided she ispleasedby your conduct. I would advise you not to aspire to anyotherconnections which are surely beyond your reach.”
I recall being thunderstruck at his audacity in suggesting that I could offend someone I did not know, whose good opinion I had reason to care about. Naturally, I understood later, for the early days of our marriage were haunted by the spectre of Lady Catherine’s Displeasure, but at the time, I simply laughed and walked away.
Another item I have scarcely mentioned is my younger sisters’ impetuous pursuit of officers. I see now that omission was in error, so I shall attempt to remedy it. Lydia, my youngest sister, is today happily married and the content mother of five strapping sons. But she was not always so respectable. In thosedays, in fact, she was quite wild indeed. It had been more than a year since I had left Longbourn as a bride, so I had the advantage of perspective when I considered my father’s management of his daughters. I was his favorite, and my only true vice had been a sharp tongue, which he never bothered to correct. However, I was troubled when I considered what else he did not correct, even after Fitzwilliam’s warning about one officer in particular.
Lieutenant Wickham was not welcomed at Longbourn again, but that did not stop my sisters from seeking his company in town. It was about a week before Christmas, and I had taken the carriage into Meryton to look over some items I meant to purchase for the season. It was to be an understated affair, as technically we were all still in half-mourning, but Charles wished to celebrate his first winter as a landlord in generous fashion for the tenants. I was alone, for Jane was wanted back at Longbourn, Georgiana was painting a gift for someone—I later learned it was for me—and Caroline had declined to accompany me. I thank Heaven for that, for what I saw when I came out of the draper’s would have ruined Lydia forever, if Caroline had learned of it.
The carriage was parked in a small alley, off the main street, because I intended to shop for a while. When returning to it with a footman to carry my purchases, I happened to glance into the opposite alley, across the street, to see a familiar-looking pelisse wrapped in red-sleeved arms. The faces of the amorous parties were somewhat concealed, but not so wholly that I could not recognize my fifteen-year-old sister and Lieutenant Wickham.
My dismay cannot be put down in words. In the blink of an eye, I saw the ruin of my remaining sisters—of Jane, who had fallen boots over petticoat for Charles, who I had finally decided was deserving of her; of Mary, for whom virtue was nearly a religion; of Kitty, whose only hope of a respectable future was to not follow in our younger sister’s footsteps. There was littleI could do, short of marching across the street to break up the sordid scene, and I justly feared drawing even more attention to Lydia’s indiscretion.
I stood frozen for a moment, sick and panicked, wishing to Heaven for inspiration or luck. And even as my prayers left my lips, both arrived at once.
Fitzwilliam was just departing the tavern next door. The oddity of it never struck me until later, for he drinks but sparingly and never in a public house, but there he was, all the same. He looked grim, glancing neither to the right nor the left and set out with purposeful strides for the corner. I nearly called out to him, hoping to distract him from seeing what I could not unsee, but I was too late. In less than a second, he snapped his arm around the corner and caught Mr. Wickham by the lapels.
The latter sputtered and acted very much put out. Then Lydia started to wail. I was near enough to hear what was said, but only because I was paying attention. To my eternal gratitude, it was quite a cold day, and the streets were not crowded. No one else seemed to notice them.
“Miss Lydia,” Fitzwilliam said kindly, “I do apologize for upsetting you. Please know that it was most unwillingly done, but this man is not worthy of you.”
