“Hunting on Friday, the ball on Saturday,” said Miss Darcy cheerfully, plainly delighted by the prospect of the ball, for she had been too young to remember the old tradition, and she had never seen a true ball in Pemberley.
“Precisely,” her brother replied with a smile. “We invite you to Pemberley from Thursday onwards, and I believe such a programme will suit everyone.”
“Without doubt,” said Lady Fletcher, particularly pleased, for she had often thought how delightful a ball at Pemberley would be, though none had taken place since her marriage to Sir Andrew.
“I hope you have no other engagements,” added Miss Darcy, already entirely at ease in her role as hostess of such occasions.
“And if we have, they shall be postponed,” declared Sir Andrew decisively, agreeing for all around the table, sure he was followed by all present. “Let us drink, then, to Granny Mary!” he added, raising his wineglass.
“Thank Heaven she cannot hear you calling her Granny,” said Darcy with comic alarm.
“She was an extraordinary woman,” he told Elizabeth quietly, taking advantage of the lively conversations now spreading around the table. “I should have liked you to know her.”
He hesitated for a moment, then resolved to continue.
“And my mother as well.”
Elizabeth coloured slightly before answering softly, “So should I.”
Chapter 24
Though dinner ended late, Elizabeth sat at the desk in her sitting room to write to Mrs Gardiner. Though her relationship with Mrs Cooper had become close, there were things she could not tell her, yet which nevertheless needed to be spoken. Her friendship with Mrs Cooper had advanced greatly; she knew much of what Elizabeth thought, yet there remained certain matters she hesitated to utter aloud, for they were so strange that to confess them openly would almost mean acknowledging a profound alteration in all she had once been.
Written upon paper, however, such thoughts appeared far less definite. The letter might still be thrown into the fire, or once sent away, she might afterwards forget all that it contained. After many hesitations, and after recounting the many pieces of news from Derby, including the fifteenth-of-August ball, she wrote to her aunt:
What I am about to write will seem to contradict all that I have always believed concerning marriage. Yet I know you will not scold me, for in some measure it was always your opinion that a marriage founded first upon respect might still blossom into love. We have disagreed on this subject so manytimes. I demanded love; you argued from your own experience that your arranged marriage had transformed itself most happily into affection. But my father chose differently for us. He gave us the freedom to choose our husbands, and in the case of Jane and myself, that freedom came to signify exclusively that marriage ought to rest upon love alone.
I remember how vehemently I once declared that love must come before every other plan or material consideration, whilst Mamma lamented such ideas, and you argued gently that marriage concerns not only two spouses, but children also, and that their future must matter to any woman as much as her own happiness, even to me.
I did not understand what you meant, or perhaps I did not wish to understand it. It still appears degrading to marry merely to secure a comfortable life for oneself and one’s children; yet now that my father is dead, and the truth is this, that he has left us in such desperate circumstances, without a home or sufficient income, I have begun to feel that perhaps you were right.
I am very happy here, yet I cannot remain forever. Though Mrs Cooper insists that I shall receive a salary, it is not enough to live independently, nor to assist my family. Unfortunately, no future position is likely to grant me true independence. I am a rational woman. Marriage alone remains to me, and my father is no longer here to choose a husband for me. Is it not paradoxical? My father would never have forced me to marry anyone, even a gentleman approved by himself; yet now I could almost wish for those eyes of his which searched so deeply into the souls of others, and which so often warned us against certain characters or encouraged our friendships.
My father is no longer here either to agree with me or to oppose me, and therefore I must now rely upon myself, but alsoupon that wonderful inheritance he left within my mind: the independence with which he taught me to live, which means not only the freedom to choose, but also the ability to accept.
Yes, I do not know what I should do if Mr Darcy were to ask me to marry him today. That is the truth, and this uncertainty troubles me more than anything else. I cannot place myself fully within such a situation and reason calmly upon it, because, not being real, it carries no true emotion; and I am convinced that only if it truly occurred should I discover my answer.
The letter did not end in the fire, but departed for London the following morning. Elizabeth wished she might receive Mrs Gardiner’s reply immediately, yet even the most hopeful estimate allowed four days. It was hardly likely the letter would arrive before the ball, when she would see Darcy again.
She did not desire direct advice, but she felt certain that somewhere within Mrs Gardiner’s reply she would discover something which might help her understand herself. For the true difficulty was not Mr Darcy, but Elizabeth herself. Had she altered so greatly that she might accept a marriage without love? And was such a change merely a calamity forced upon her by her father’s death, or an evolution brought about through grief, which might nevertheless grant her a new understanding of life, perhaps more mature and nearer to reality?
She remained for some time by the window before lying down upon her bed, yet sleep did not come. She wished to dance with him at the ball, yet there were moments when she almost desired to leave Derbyshire before seeing him again.
∞∞∞
In the carriage which conveyed them to Pemberley, a certain tension established itself almost immediately after they departed from Derby. Darcy knew perfectly well the cause of it—his cousin wished either for confidences, or to scold him, or perhaps to encourage him.
For years, indeed ever since they had become the closest of friends, theirs had remained a splendid relationship, though not a profound one. They confessed everything to one another, yet it was actions rather than feelings. Miss Elizabeth had disturbed that balance which had endured so long. Darcy was willing enough to place the blame on her, yet in truth, he knew that his own feelings were responsible, whilst the colonel had helped him to arrange thoughts he had never before possessed.
“If you continue staring at me in that manner, I shall descend and walk to Pemberley,” Darcy threatened, though with a smile. The light from the exterior lanterns filtered through the windows and illuminated sufficiently the bright eyes fixed upon him.
“You are my guest,” replied the colonel playfully.
At another time, Darcy would have indulged him, descending for a few moments only to return at his cousin’s amused entreaties, but he was not in such a humour tonight.
“Yes,” he said at last, with marked emphasis, “we spoke, she is wonderful, and I am confused. Is that sufficient?”
“That you are confused is far from satisfying me, because I do not understand what is happening to you when everything appears at last to grow clearer.”
