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Darcy stared over at Gardiner. “Liz-zy,” was all he could force his mouth to say. There it was, the name he had been longing to utter all day, the saying of it swallowing every other word in his hard-won vocabulary. “Liz-zy.” He scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to get past it, to say more, but what?
I am her friend!he wanted to shout. I would be so much more. She will not have me.
“Until Brighton, I had not seen her in well over a decade, not since she was a sharp-chinned little pixie. But the instant she mentioned Longbourn, the years melted away.” Gardiner sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as if lost in memories.
“The day I last saw her, those many years ago, she had escaped from the nursery—again—and joined us in the parlour. Bennet wished aloud for his book, and she raced to bring it to him—the right one, too, amidst so many other titles. There she was, holding it out to him whilst he ignored her, second after second, her little arms beginning to tremble because it was such a heavy tome, my temper burning hotter with every passing moment. Finally, she dared say, ‘Papa, here is your book for you, please’ as sweetly as a tiny child could. Does he even glance at her? No. Instead, he calls meanly, ‘Frances, take your brat back to the nursery and out of my sight before I throw her out of my home’.”
“Devil take it!” Darcy roared. “Hanged, drawn, quartered.” But his wrath choked off his words, and he pounded his desk in frustration and rage.
“Hold, man, hold.” Going to the pitcher, Gardiner poured him a cup of water.
“‘Come not between the dragon and his wrath’,” Darcy muttered but took the cup anyway, drank it when he rather wished to throw it at something; not since trying to leave Younge’s imprisonment had he been this furious. It took him some moments to gain control.
“Liz-zy…not deserve. No one deserve, least all her.”
“I agree. I told you once that my falling out with my family indirectly brought me to you. That was the crux of the breach, and afterward, Bennet did what he could to ruin me. Not in his power, of course.”
“Ruined…you and Liz-zy. Enough.”
“But the fates decreed otherwise, did they not? They intervened in a rather miraculous way. She saved your life, I think.”
Darcy nodded.
“You have compromised her. When I understood the situation, with her so alone, so friendless, I nearly lost all my powers of diplomacy; it was all I could do not to await you there and demand you do the right thing by her. In all honesty, my inclination is to demand you do it now. It is only my respect for Lizzy that prevents me. Her payment for all she has done on your behalf ought not to be the loss of all her powers of choice. I would not wish her tied to one who does not want her, for she is the very best of women, and deserves someone who realises it.”
How could I explain? She does not want me, would not have me! And who could blame her?
After a moment, he realised he had only one recourse—to show Gardiner that he had already proposed and had already been rejected.
He stood. “Wait,” he ordered, unable to prevent his peremptory tone. He was prepared to humiliate himself, but he did not have to like it. He went to his study, to his desk. Working the key, he unlocked a particular drawer and withdrew a book, recently purchased at a shop in Lambton, cheaply bound and not at all worthy of the grandeur of a place in Pemberley’s library; it was a copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. It had reminded him of Lizzy, of her pathetic inheritance, and he had found he could not leave it behind.
Inserted within its covers was the last letter he had dictated to her, addressed to Lord Matlock but meant to ensure she knew his intentions. He hated to read it, to invite the pain of it again over wounds barely scabbed over, but if he were going to allow Gardiner to view it, he ought to at least be able to face, himself, those sentiments that had once so disgusted her. He could not imagine speaking aloud any of it.
The sight of her handwriting was still familiar, though back then, the words slid off the page whenever he attempted to read them. He could see her even now, covered head bent over a writing desk, stray curls escaping at her nape, her face lovely in profile.
My dear Lord Matlock,
I am to be married.
“Bold,” he said aloud, “as…had not yet asked.” Shaking his head at his overeager beginning, he continued.
She should not have been my first choice, or any choice at all—I perhaps should never have looked at her. Her family is more closely related to trade than to aristocracy. I assure you I understand the ramifications of this. I have thought it through carefully, and while I cannot be happy at the idea of bringing such a family into our circle, other principles guide me. I know your special interest is the same as mine—wondering if such a bride will have a deleterious effect upon Georgiana’s prospects. I am convinced, however, that my sister can rise above the embarrassment—I would never have chosen one who would bring shame upon us, despite her deficiencies of blood.
He felt his face flush as he read the paragraph. Although he had meant to reassure Matlock that he understood her inferiority of birth and the consequence he was wounding, those conditions were dwelt upon with a warmth which was very unlikely to recommend his suit. Had these been his exact remarks? It seemed impossible; she must have edited them. But would she have made them harsher than his own? Hesitantly, he continued.
You will, perhaps, wonder if my choice means I am not in my right mind. Whilst I cannot fault your concern, I ask you to withhold judgment. A rose may blossom amongst weeds—I only remove her from such before they choke her. Miss Bingley is accomplished in music, singing, drawing, dancing, and all the modern languages. As well, she shows an affection towards and reliance upon her sister that speaks well of family felicity. She has had the running of her brother’s house for some time, a not-insignificant accomplishment.
Miss Bingley!She had believed him to be speaking of Miss Bingley! Since he was certain he had not dwelt upon Caroline Bingley’s accomplishments, those additions to the letter must have been Lizzy’s—who, he remembered, seldom hesitated to embellish his words when she thought them lacking. He felt an instant of overwhelming relief. If he could blame his ineptitude on a misunderstanding, he was more than willing to let it stand. His memory was sometimes spotty of those earlier days—although he had been on the road to recovery by that time, he had still been, in retrospect, not at all himself.
But no. One of the last things she had said to him had echoed in his mind ever since:
“Since you choose me against your will, and since you so plainly worry this choice will prove to your family an absence of reason and character, I can assume you will have little difficulty overcoming any regrets at my refusal.”
He had picked at her words in his memory often, like a scab he could not quite leave to heal. His words in this letter were not completely unfamiliar—he had worried that his choice indicated an absence of reason. The feelings of being so overwhelmingly attracted to a young woman of such obscure origin had disturbed him, had disturbed him since those feelings had begun in early June. In the time since their parting, he had almost waited for his feelings for her to subside, along with the rest of his madness.
However, they never had—and now he knew, they never would. Every time he reviewed the past, he could only remember her kindness and compassion, her fearlessness, her care for his sister then himself…and of course, her beauty, the passionate kisses, holding her in his arms, even talking for hours. His memory of those things refused to fade; he expected to grow old warming his heart with them.
No.By the finish of whatever was contained in this letter, she had understood his intentions. He nearly groaned aloud, despairing of what he would next read.
