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Chapter Sixteen
In the morning, I learned that Mrs de Bourgh now suffered from a terrible fever as a result of her injuries. I told Clara the details of what occurred in the gold parlour, deciding that, in this case, countering the potential of false gossip with the truth was a better plan than maintaining strict discretion. And then I sought out Mrs Reynolds privately.
“What have you heard about what happened yesterday?” I asked directly. “You need not varnish the truth. It is best we know exactly how bad the gossip.”
If she was surprised by my question, she did not show it. “Most of it is nonsense,” she said. “As if you would be taken in by the likes of Mr Wickham, in your own home. The old master cared for him, ’tis true, but he has turned out very wild. And the idea of Mr Darcy losing his temper, even touching the old lady in anger! Balderdash!”
“You are sensible, of course,” I replied, seeing that I had correctly interpreted the reception of yesterday’s events. “Mrs de Bourgh has allowed grief to consume her mind.”
“A terrible truth,” she nodded. “Of course, everyone knows Mr Wickham is not welcome here. Mr Darcy made it very clear after his treatment of poor Sally—a housemaid, you understand—that he was not to return.” She furrowed her brows. “It was one of the few times the master and mistress openly disagreed. Mrs Darcy did not believe Wickham had done, er, what he was accused of, but of course, he was her cousin. We none of us like to believe the worst about our relations. Still, Sally told me and she was no liar, and I told the master, and he stood for her. Had Wickham run out of Hopewell, he did, or at least away from the few who still received him. Helped Sally resettle elsewhere, as well. Gave her a new start.”
To my relief, it was evident that Mrs Reynolds would never believe anything Wickham said, and I blessed poor Sally for naming her despoiler. If the village was of a like mind, his assertion of ‘numerous friends’ and threats of ominously influencing public opinion were empty ones. “Mr Wickham claimed that the first Mrs Darcy hinted to others that she was mistreated by Mr Darcy, and that is why talk of his culpability in her death will not fade. I hope you will do your part to dispel any such malicious gossip. Mr Darcy is the very best of men, as I am sure you would agree.”
“I certainly never heard the mistress speak of Mr Darcy with anything except respect.” She hesitated. “Perhaps they had their troubles. Many marriages do. You may believe that I will not tolerate any scandalmongers in this house.”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. And, perhaps grief has disordered Mr Wickham’s mind as well, that he would say such things. Mrs de Bourgh threw herself against the windows right before our eyes. There was not a thing either of us could have done to stop her, we were so shocked. Mr Darcy and I believe that living here, where she and her daughter were so happy together, is increasing her grief rather than diminishing it. We hope a drastic change of scenery will help her recover more completely. Mr Darcy will remove her to her old home in Ramsgate as soon as she is well enough to travel.”
I did not mistake the look of relief upon the housekeeper’s face. “Very good ma’am,” she said.
“Feel free to repeat this information to the household, in order to quell speculation. I was alarmed by Nancy’s fear of Mr Darcy yesterday, and remain appalled by the treatment I received by certain tradesmen in Hopewell. It is all ridiculous. I have known Mr Darcy for many years. My sister is married to the vicar who holds the living at Matlock Court; my husband is well respected by all, from the Earl of Matlock and his countess to the lowliest servant. The very idea of fearing him is preposterous.”
It was, perhaps, a bit of hyperbole; Jane had never mentioned Mr Darcy at Matlock Court. I had, personally, spoken to the earl perhaps four times in my life, and I believe our conversations had more to do with the weather than his relations. But one could assume.
“Of course, Mrs Darcy. Pemberley is loyal to Mr Darcy, and always will be. I have spoken to young Nancy. It will not happen again.”
“I do not wish her to be disciplined. I only say this because I cannot abide the idea of anyone here living in fear,” I said, nodding. “There is no reason for it.”
After leaving the housekeeper, I took my letter case to the green parlour; it was another of my favourite rooms, for it looked out onto Pemberley Woods. It took me some time to compose myself enough to begin writing. I wondered whether I ought to offer to bring Mary to Pemberley—an unappealing thought—and what Kitty, never an admirer of Mr Darcy, would have to say about my marriage to him. Most of all, I wondered why Mr Darcy sought me out at Rosings after all these years, how he could possibly have remembered me, despite his claim of a long-ago attraction. Had it to do with his rescue of Lydia? It seemed more likely. Since he took responsibility for Wickham’s seduction and her subsequent difficulties, he might also assume obligation for other consequences of it, such as my parents’ deaths, perhaps even my lack of marriage prospects, though sacrificing himself on that altar was quite a stretch. He had indicated that if I was at all the same person he had known eight years previous, he was determined to propose marriage. But what had he really known of me then? That he liked my hair?
I had not even liked him in those days; I had thought him arrogant and unkind. I had believed every disparaging word Lieutenant Wickham uttered. Later, when Wickham’s many unpaid debts to my neighbours became well known, I entertained doubts that the story of his lost inheritance was truthful. And then, when the true extent of Wickham’s depravity was revealed, I even hoped the unlikely story was true, and that someone—even the callous and arrogant Mr Darcy—had gotten the better of the cur.
But mostly, I had forgotten him. It seemed wrong, somehow, now that I loved him so.
* * *
February 1, 1820
My dearest Jane,
I hope this letter finds you in the best of health, and that you are devoting several hours each day to rest and ease. But I know you will not, and I shall be required to write to Mr Tilney to ensure you are taking good care. I received your letter requesting reassurances that all is well at Pemberley. If I have failed to convey this in previous letters, please understand from this one: I am happy, very happy, to be married to Mr Darcy. I know we did not like him, so very long ago. We were young, and we did not realise his character was of the finest. He has shared some private reminiscences that explain why his temper was not perfectly calm during the months he was in Meryton—but truly, I misjudged him.
I have realised that you must have encountered him over the years at Matlock, though you have never mentioned it—perhaps not wishing to recall to my mind any past unpleasantness. My husband is never comfortable with people who are less known to him, but I hope you have seen his essential good nature, regardless. I feel confident that you, with your kind heart, have long ago forgiven him for any misunderstandings.
And now I must share something that, however difficult the memories, is sure to reveal to you his goodness.
Prepare yourself for something very wonderful: our sister Lydia lives! Yes, it is true. You know, of course, that we were sadly deceived in the character of Lieutenant Wickham. It seems that Mr Darcy has had dealings with that scoundrel going back many years. (You are not to believe the stories W. shared with us regarding him and his inheritance, which are all lies—if you ever did believe them. As I recall, you were the only one who gave leave to doubt from the beginning.) Mr Darcy discovered what had happened to poor Lydia through his aunt’s connexion to Mr Collins. Oh, Jane, he sought her out! I quail to think of the indignities he must have borne in order to discover her. She was in the most vile and desperate of situations, but he arranged her passage to America, where she very much desired to go. He did not admit this, but I believe he must have given her something to live upon once she arrived, because she seems to have prospered most ideally. She is married to a successful man named Brackett and they have two children. We may write to her through a business associate of Mr Darcy’s, although she may not acknowledge us, considering Mr Collins’s edicts and the deleterious effect they had upon her. Nevertheless, if you wish to enclose a letter to her in your next missive to me, Mr Darcy has promised to ensure she will, eventually, receive our correspondence.
I finished with assurances of our coming visit in the summer, and said nothing of Bingley, of course. She must already know—must have discovered through her connexions to the earl—of his marriage to Georgiana. How very like Jane, that she had never mentioned a word of it to me. Had I heard of it in 1817, in my ignorance, I might have been bitter indeed. No, she had kept it all to herself. How astonished she must have been when she received word of my hasty engagement to Mr Darcy, with what she knew of my long ago and too-oft expressed opinions of him! No wonder she had required Mr Tilney to do his best to delay our wedding!
I wrote a similar letter explaining Lydia’s circumstances to my aunt, which I knew would be most heartening to her. To Kitty, I wrote a rather longer missive, announcing my marriage to Mr Darcy and giving the details of Lydia’s life. Kitty had suffered Lydia’s loss most deeply, and, I think, felt somewhat responsible. Although she had not known the extent of Lydia’s plans, I knew she felt a good deal of guilt and sorrow over the affair. She had married the first young man to ask her, a nephew of my Uncle Philips acting as his clerk, and while it was not an auspicious connexion—my father would never have approved it—I believed she was happy. As the Philipses had never had any progeny, and as my Uncle Philips is prosperous enough, and intends to provide for his clerk and eventually turn over his practise to him, her prospects are good. Her guilt, I felt, had kept us from having a closer connexion. She has something of my father’s intelligence, and a surprisingly sly wit—my Aunt Philips often bearing the brunt of it, all unknowing. Still, in the last few years, her letters had been…softer, full of news of her son and the daily doings of Meryton, which I had found comforting. I believed this letter would bring her a good deal of comfort in return, as well as astonishment.
I struggled with what to say to Mary—and hence, to Charlotte. In the end, I simply announced my marriage and my new direction, with no explanations whatsoever. If Kitty wished to reveal Lydia’s fate, she was free to do so; I, however, would not invite any of her opinions, conjecture, or judgments—or, worse still, Mr Collins’s, expressed through her letters. Mary would always be…Mary. She would likely be happiest living out her days at Longbourn, which she loves.
Mrs de Bourgh’s fever continued to rage. I would never be the sort of person who would hope for another’s death, but I did not precisely miss her and her criticism and hatefulness. I still longed for the day when she was healed and on her way to Ramsgate.
I went into the village again and again; my husband insisted upon accompanying me. I was not sure his attendance did any good, for he mostly glowered like a very large, grouchy bear, ready to growl at anyone who might dare disrespect me. No one did, of course, while in his presence. I did my best to demonstrate such warmth and affection as I felt appropriate in public, counting it a victory when I managed to get a smile from him.
Georgiana and her husband arrived for another visit. I was very glad to see her, for Mr Darcy was preoccupied with a great deal of estate business and I was hardly overwhelmed by visitors or invitations. At least Miss Bickford had now managed the awful drive up and down the mountain three different times, and my wardrobe was nearly sufficient for Mrs Darcy.
