AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ispent a great deal of time over the next week simply…walking. The area was a pretty one, the weather unseasonably dry, if cold. Mrs Spengler’s property encompassed an apple orchard, as well as grazing grounds. I enjoyed walking in the long grass, envisioning how the place would appear when the trees were heavy with fruit.
My life felt quite purposeless when compared to my goals and dreams of only two weeks past. Then, my head had been full of plans for Pemberley and an estate school and learning how to be the best mistress possible. I expected to grow in love and connexion with my husband, and him towards me. Instead, I merely walked, meandering amongst dormant trees, dead grasses, and lifeless grey skies.
I had been reduced to waiting impatiently for the mail delivery, then feeling a new rejection with every absent letter. None arrived, from my husband, at least.
It was Georgiana who wrote first. Sadly, her news was most unwelcome. She said that public outcry was such that there would almost certainly be a coroner’s inquest. She and Bingley were doing their best to be supportive, but neither had much influence over the state of affairs—and her brother had booted them from Pemberley as well. The letter was not long, but included a caricature purchased in a London print shop, sent by some ‘helpful’ neighbour. In it, a man bearing an unmistakeable resemblance to Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in the middle of mounds of dirt littered with bones, attempting to shove an excessively tall beaver hat down over a monstrous pair of horns jutting from his head. The caption read, ‘Nowhere to Hide’.
I tried to understand his distance. He was a fiercely protective man—even, it seemed, towards near-strangers for whom he had somehow assumed responsibility. He would hate for me to be tarred with the same brush; I was certain he wanted me far enough away from Pemberley that I should not be mocked, scorned, or otherwise distressed by the encroaching scandal.
But I did not care about caricatures. If they drew one of me, I would frame it and put it on the wall—laughing all the while. If anyone could have goaded Mr Darcy to violence, Anne de Bourgh or Wickham ought to have driven him to it long ago, and yet he had never, it seemed, given way; the thought of him as a danger to Caroline Bingley was, simply, ludicrous. I wanted to be beside him in this adversity—but even more, I wanted him to want me beside him. I tried to conquer my hurt, yet it seemed he had put me completely from his mind.
The next day, the post arrived with a letter from Mr Tilney, informing us of the safe and happy arrival of our new niece. “A baby girl, at last!” my aunt cried. “Jane must be so pleased!”
I was ecstatic for her, and then overwhelmed by a sudden and horrifying wave of jealousy so strong, I was speechless with it. I turned without a word and fled the room, seeking the privacy of the empty parlour. There, I pushed my palms into my eyes, trying to halt the onslaught of stupid tears.
Of course, my aunt followed me immediately, sitting beside me and gently patting my shoulder whilst I regained control.
I meant to say that it was only my joy causing such emotion. I meant to find false words of cheer and happiness. Instead, I blurted bitterly, “I think I almost hate him. I will never have a marriage like Jane’s. I will never have a family of my own! He sends not a word! Not even a short note to see if I am well! Nothing!”
My aunt looked at me sharply. “Forgive me, Niece. I have not seen any letters posted to him, from you, for him to answer.”
I rolled my eyes. “He expelled me from his property, from his life. What am I to say to that? Plainly, he does not wish my affection. Should I express my anger and hurt, instead? Should I be as my poor mama, plaguing a husband who barely tolerated her?”
Her expression softened. “Your parents’ marriage was often a difficult one. But my dear, you know that your mother seldom understood matters as they really were. Your father lacked the patience to explain. In this situation, there are other circumstances at work, having nothing to do with like or dislike. I am certain Mr Darcy would take seriously anything you wished to say.”
After a moment, the bitterest truth tumbled from my mouth. “With nearly every difficulty, every time we are at odds, he retreats from me. It is up to me to make amends, to take any steps towards reconciliation.” I told her of how, displeased with my disobedience in visiting Hopewell, he had withdrawn all the way to London, only returning when I wrote to him. And other disagreements, requiring me to venture into his rooms, his territory, so to speak, and aggressively demand understanding. “Just once, I would like him to make the first effort, however small. Especially in this situation, which he controls.”
My aunt sighed while I seethed with resentment—tensing as I prepared to hear a lecture on my duty, and what I, what our entire family, owed him.
“What do you wish your last words to him to be?” she asked instead. “If today were your last day on earth, what would you say then?”
I looked at her askance. “I never did ring a peal over him the way I did Papa,” I said stiffly. “I believe I have learned some self-governance, though I felt Mr Darcy’s rejection most cruelly.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. “I did not mean to imply you said or did anything wrong. It is only…once I, too, thought I had all the time in the world to say everything that matters most. My last words to your uncle were not ones of anger. As he was leaving for his warehouse, I asked him to see about getting Mr Baker to look at the porch rail. That is all. I did not add any expressions of affection or care, I am certain.”
I squeezed her hand in return. “Uncle knew of your love for him.”
“Yes. But all of our words are final, now. Nothing more can be added. I hope they were enough, but I wish there had been fewer exchanges over home repairs, and more of important things. You have every right to be angry, darling. I know you do not wish a marriage like your own parents had. You saw your mother begging for the crumbs of your father’s attention, in all the ways least likely to result in getting it. But very often, it takes great strength to exercise humility. To let go of your sense of ‘rightness’, in exchange for something more important. I wish, now, I had done so more often. Of course, your uncle would never have taken too much advantage. He would not have seen my needs unmet, my wishes disrespected in favour of having things all his own way. Perhaps you cannot trust that Mr Darcy would feel the same.” Squeezing my hand once more, she left me alone with the warmth of the fire and the cold reality of her sorrow.
‘All of our words are final, now.’This struck me with a tragic sort of power. No, I did not fear that Mr Darcy would wish me to transform into a servile version of myself, such as his aunt, the dowager countess, had wanted. I would never be my mother, and Mr Darcy would never be my father. If I, or my husband died today, our last words to each other would be…nothing. Was that what I wanted? It somehow seemed almost worse than had they been words of anger, the silence a sort of ultimate indifference.
And so I fetched pen and paper, and stared for a long time at the sheet, picking through and discarding every word that occurred to me. Most of them were too angry to put to paper, for I had not learnt to conquer my resentment. Of course, resentment was not all I felt, either.
I missed him almost desperately. But if he did not wish for my affection, how was I to express it? Upon reflection, I realised I had erred in refusing to go to him that night after he had pronounced my expulsion. Only now could I see that my refusal came as much from fear as from any desire to avoid paining him with unrequited love. What if I begged to be allowed to stay, and was denied? My pride, hurt, and cowardice had combined to allow an acceptance of a fate with which I most heartily disagreed.
If there was one flaw I would never accept in my character, it was cowardice. It was always better to know than to wonder, and resentment hardly made for a comfortable alternative.
Dear Sir,
I wish you would come to see me, as soon as you can spare the time.
Sincerely,
Your Wife
I sent it by regular post. Mayhap it would take a day or two to reach Pemberley. Perhaps after all, he would not come. But he might write to tell me why he would not. I could be satisfied with that, I decided. It would be something.
