Page 27 of A Quiet Affection

“You are not.”

“Please do not try to convince me upon this point—but I shall happily accept that long familiarity makes it soyoudo not findme to be a particularly shocking sight. It is strange. I didn’t care at all about the scars when it first happened. But now I do.”

“You were a child, and now you are becoming a young woman.”

“Which proves,” Lizzy replied laughing, “the whole point you wished to make. I understand. I do. Oh, but I hate it. I hate change. Even before the fire I depended upon our correspondence. You’d send so many letters to Papa, do you remember?”

“I do.”

“I hate anything of loss. I have lost enough. Why must everything I like always change and disappear?”

That did not deserve a reply, and they both knew it.

They sat together for some minutes more on the planter, Darcy’s arm around Elizabeth, and she leaned against him, as though she were still a small child. Even though she was not so small anymore, Elizabeth took great comfort from his warmth and great size, and the strength of his arm. She never felt like she was alone and helpless when he was near.

Darcy said when he went to get up, “Lizzy, you must know, you must understand—you arenotugly. I am not saying this to comfort you with a sweet dishonesty, but to help you to understand a true fact of some importance. Do not think as though you are, and do not expect men to treat you as though you are.”

“I know that—”

“You do not know. If only you could see yourself, you would know very differently. Your scars hardly signify.”

Elizabeth was able to hear Fitzwilliam make his partings the next day with tolerable self-control. She was not fond of crying where others could see her, so she did not. But she did cry, and she wasangry at herself for growing older, and Fitzwilliam for making so much of it.

The months of summer passed in a normal enough manner, except that Fitzwilliam was not there, and Elizabeth was sad for that reason. Even in that, there was reason to hope for future happiness. Georgiana and Elizabeth both agreed that it was very likely that Fitzwilliam would stay at Pemberley for most of the year once he had returned, now that he was graduated.

Wickham hung endlessly about Jane, making it impossible for Elizabeth to speak to her sister at any time except for if she went to her rooms in the evening.

Elizabeth and Georgiana continued to play upon the piano, and Elizabeth was happy to find that there was little jealousy in herself as Georgiana’s abilities came to overtake her own. Elizabeth probably was a little better still at the piano, but she was four years older.

When she listened to Georgiana play Beethoven or Bach, Elizabeth frequently cried.

But Georgiana’s voice was nothing to Elizabeth’s, and so they were well matched for the duets that they entertained the drawing room with. Mr. Darcy sometimes called them down to perform when he had other families for dinner. This was something that he’d never done before this year.

Fitzwilliam’s long letters to Georgiana always included the promised messages to Elizabeth, and with Georgiana’s help, Elizabeth directly wrote her own messages to him into her letters. So, it was almost like they still were exchanging letters, and that was not near so terrible as she had imagined it would be.

Mr. Darcy though was different.

Elizabeth could not precisely say in what manner, but his voice had changed, and it was now weaker and less resonant. He spent an unusual amount of time in private, and several times he did not call them to the drawing room on a day when no one visited.

It was a hot year, and near the middle of September, Mr. Darcy travelled south to London for two weeks.

When he returned, he spoke very little for the next several days, and he kept himself closeted with Mr. Wickham for many hours each day. Elizabeth thought that there was a dreadful anxious feeling in the air, and Georgiana felt it as well.

Mr. Darcy had travelled south to consult several eminent physicians upon an advancing ailment. The information that he had received from his physician in Derbyshire had been of the most concerning nature, but that old friend had suggested he visit two distinguished medical gentlemen in London, to see if they could offer hope.

They did not.

The crisis was not likely to be immediate, he could expect another four months of life at least, and might hope for six months, or even a year. But it was exceedingly unlikely that he would see two more Christmases.

It was odd to Mr. Darcy that he was not more unhappy. He had always expected that he would face his doom with calmness, but he had not anticipated that it would be without much feeling at all. Certainly, it was not a matter for joy, but he had no urge to cry, to rage against the heavens, or to be maudlin.

He would have his strength until he did not.

After he was an invalid, he would live for as long as he did.

And then he would die.

There was no reason for emotion.