Beginning, Section II, Section III, Next Section
Chapter Ten
Posted on Thursday, 16 February 2006
Darcy had retained a vague idea that he disliked the Elliot children;--at least as much as he disliked any children. They were a girl and boy of four and two. Both were handsome -- unsurprising, given their indisputably attractive progenitors -- unfortunately, they also seemed to have inherited their parents' less desirable traits. Walter, the younger, was a loud, ungovernable fellow, while Caroline was spoilt, petulant, and haughty, very like her half-sister Elizabeth. Their mother ignored them, their uncle and aunt indulged them, and Darcy fell half-unconsciously into the role of disciplinarian. For some reason -- he himself was not entirely certain of it -- the children responded to him as they did not the other adults, although they made no pretense of liking him.
Charles and Jenny had no fondness for their Elliot relations, and Darcy and Mrs Bingley were chiefly occupied in breaking up quarrels between the cousins. Walter, thankfully, spent most of his time away from the others; but Caroline more than made up for it. Lady Elliot, after several weeks, eventually noticed enough to complain to Darcy.
"Why don't you speak to your brother?" Darcy asked exasperatedly. "They are his children."
Lady Elliot sniffed. "I am not speaking about Charles and Jane. They are normal children."
Darcy raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon," he said icily, "I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Lady Elliot."
She rolled her eyes, and he could not keep from reflecting that, despite her pretensions, there had always been that bit of vulgarity about her. It was not simply the impertinence -- occasionally even ill-bred impertinence -- of Lady Catherine, but a crassness more akin to -- to -- he tried to think of a comparison, but only Mrs Bennet and her three younger daughters sprang to mind. "Surely you have noticed that Anne is a trifle strange."
Darcy said nothing, and she mistakenly construed this as encouragement. She had never been a really clever woman.
"She does not play properly, and she does not talk. It was not really Caroline's fault."
Darcy did not feel it worth his time to explain that Anne not only talked but talked astonishingly well when she considered the company worth it. Nor could he fault his daughter's taste. "Anne is perfectly -- "
"It is only that we have no money," she confided. Darcy tried to think of a polite way to say that he could not be less interested. "It is so difficult to make her understand that we cannot afford what a baronet's daughter ought to have; and why Anne has so much more than she does, when she is only a gentleman's daughter."
Clearly Lady Elliot felt the loss of a few dresses and feathers as greater deprivation than Kellynch. Westhampton had once said that those who were not born to an estate could not understand its loss, and apparently he had been right; Bingley had only looked blank when Darcy admitted to a grudging sympathy for the family's straits. It was Mrs Bingley who immediately comprehended his meaning.
"You might explain that my family has had more money, for longer, than Sir Walter's," he offered acerbically. "Or that my lifestyle is less extravagant than -- his."
"I could hardly say that," Lady Elliot objected. "She is so sensitive."
"Indeed? I had quite failed to notice."
She forged on. "I'm sure you didn't need to frighten her."
"Lady Elliot," he leaned forward, eyes flashing -- "if your daughter strikes mine again, I will do more than frighten her. I suggest that if this causes either of you distress, you convince her of the unsuitability of her actions. Incidentally, Anne is not strange and I do not appreciate your suggestion of it. I have nothing more to say on the matter." He picked up a letter and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
As expected, Henry Crawford happened to arrange a lengthy visit to a neighbouring estate some three weeks into Lady Elliot's stay. Only a man as impudent as Crawford would attempt to seduce a woman -- even one so willing as Lady Elliot -- under her brother's roof. When he paid a visit to the Bingleys, he fooled no-one, but little could be done, and his charm slowly won the family over. The arrival of the Fitzwilliams, the colonel and his wife, was more than timely.
The brother and sister were, despite their manifold flaws, sincerely fond of one another. Crawford paused in his attendance upon Lady Elliot and Mrs Bingley, his eyes lifting up with a glad cry of "Mary!"
"Henry!"
After kissing one another, introductions to those still unacquainted were made, and Mrs Fitzwilliam gravitated to Darcy's side. Overcome by the instinct to flee, Darcy remembered Bingley's steady friendship, Mrs Bingley's upstanding character, and most of all his sweet god-daughter, and steadied his resolve.
"I understand from my husband that you would like to speak to me, Mr Darcy," she said softly. One of the most difficult things about Mrs Fitzwilliam was that she was never overt, and had only grown more subtle with time. Nevertheless her intense dark stare made the hairs on his neck prickle. He had very much hoped that it was only because there was something about him terribly objectionable, but a conference with his two similarly-affected cousins had relieved him of that delusion long ago.
"I would like -- to ask -- a favour," he said haltingly. Mrs Fitzwilliam smiled winningly and waited. He fidgeted -- this smacked of deceit -- of course he was being perfectly straightforward and -- but still -- it was not -- Darcy sighed. It was one of those moments wherein he wished for a more extensive repertoire of expletives.
"A favour? Of me? I am flattered, Mr Darcy," she said, as charming as ever. The attentions of such a woman were nearly enough to drive a man into marriage -- any marriage, so long as it rendered him inaccessible. Unfortunately, Mrs Fitzwilliam's morals were such that she disregarded such trivialities, as Edward could attest. She had already gained respectability and status through her marriage; it was apparently more personal qualities that attracted her. Darcy bit his lip and briefly wished he were five foot five with warts. Not really, of course, but it was all -- so awkward. Why could she not just find a charming rake like her brother? Of course, people would talk if she was seen with someone like that. Really, there was no escape.
"You probably won't be when I'm finished," he said bluntly. Mrs Fitzwilliam's eyebrows rose slightly. "Lady Elliot, Bingley's sister, is apparently quite delighted with your brother."
"Henry has great natural charm," Mrs Fitzwilliam said mildly, although her eyes were trained on her brother, her expression intense. "Women always fall a little infatuated with him; he can't help it, really." It was true enough that every woman Crawford spoke to seemed to moon after him. He was an unusual man in that he was simultaneously attractive and replusive; women loved him and most men longed to kick him. Darcy himself felt a certain twitching in his boot even as he began speaking to the man's sister.
"You know, of course, that Sir Walter, Lady Elliot's husband, and my father were cousins?"
Her lips pursed. "No, I did not." Her dark eyes went to Bingley's sister, and hardened slightly.
"Scandal, naturally, would be very unpleasant for the entire family. We are all a very respectable lot. The former Lady Elliot, my god-mother, would never have dreamed --"
"Yes, I see." Her expression had turned positively stormy. "Well, surely Henry can direct his attentions elsewhere. There are so many -- " She glanced up at him meaningfully, and he glanced away, flushing.
"He has no reason to do so. But even if he does, Lady Elliot seems not to realise the, er, obligations incumbent upon her situation. It would be dreadful for -- all of the family, really -- if there was any hint of scandal. You understand, Mrs Fitzwilliam, how one may pursue one's -- " Darcy raised his eyes and smiled rather unpleasantly -- "entertainments, without indiscretion or impropriety. Lady Elliot appears to be rather less enlightened."
The only expression that crossed her face was faint surprise, soon gone; she returned his gaze consideringly, then smiled. "You wish for me to -- enlighten her, then?"
"Yes." He weighed his chances, then continued levelly, "It would be dreadful, cousin, were the family name to be sullied in any way. Public opinion is so fickle. Of course, people are generally fickle -- not only women. Their ideas change so rapidly; character is the only constant. Do people ever really change, do you think? Can they?"
Mrs Fitzwilliam's gaze did not waver, and she laughed lightly. "I am not well-versed in matters of philosophy, sir; but I think not. Still, ideas and -- paradigms -- may shift. You have been married, Mr Darcy; sometimes people truly are happier ignorant. Do you not believe so?"
"I would not wish it for myself;" -- he glanced at the colonel, who was talking animatedly to Lady Elliot and Mrs Bingley -- "but perhaps, for some. I am not certain; I would have to give the matter more thought."
"I see." She looked from her brother, to the Bingley siblings, to her husband. "When I have spoken with Lady Elliot, perhaps you shall have come to a conclusion on the matter?"
"Perhaps. My ideas are never set in stone, however."
Mrs Fitzwilliam glanced up at him through her lowered lashes, and smiled demurely. "Ah. Let us hope your friend's sister is as accomodating in her thinking as you."
"Indeed."
"And, cousin -- we have been family these two years. Surely such formality in unnecessary?"
"Very well, Mary." He bowed, and left without making any reciprocal request. Crawford instantly joined him, his brows furrowed.
"That was a charming tête-à-tête I just observed, sir," he began. Darcy looked at him disdainfully and crossed his right foot behind his left, where it could cause no trouble. What a contemptible little man, he thought, as glad of his height as he had disliked it awhile before. He had not the slightest idea how Crawford could have fooled any woman, let alone the vast numbers rumoured.
"Oh, was it?" he replied, falling into his native languid drawl, as he invariably did when annoyed. "I rather thought you preoccupied with Sir Walter's wife."
"She is very beautiful, but I'm afraid the present company has me rather inured to such charms."
"Astonishing," said Darcy.
"I had not thought you particularly friendly with my sister," the man prodded. Insufferable creature.
"I am not." With a scathing look, Darcy said icily, "It was a family matter. I'm afraid I do not have leave to discuss it. Good day." He bowed and left the room with Bingley. They were well on their way to the study when it occurred to him that he was running away from the intolerable pair, and he laughed.
Bingley, his expression still faintly trapped, glanced over at him in surprise. "What is it?" He looked around them, then over his shoulder.
"I have an entirely new perspective on hunting," said Darcy.
Chapter Eleven
Peace reigned at Baildon for several weeks. The less desirable guests departed, Lady Elliot and Mrs Fitzwilliam promising to write one another.
They seemed to have struck up a friendship of sorts. Darcy tiredly wondered what on earth he'd created; but at least they were gone, and as long as Lady Elliot learnt discretion in her dalliances, his design had been accomplished. He sighed, feeling rather -- dirty, really. It was only a very conscious effort that kept him from retreating into his customary detachment, distancing himself from all around him.
They enjoyed the last few weeks of the visit. Darcy spoke with Mrs Bingley about matters other than their children. As subtly as he could -- for he was quite certain that she knew -- he enquired after her family. She said that all but her father were in excellent health, and all but her mother in excellent spirits. Little elaboration was needed on that subject. He smiled and asked no more, instead dwelling on the Gardiners' manifold charms.
"When they were here, my cousin called you her uncle. And then the children could not stop talking." She smiled at him, affectionately.
"Children usually like me," he replied, rather nervously.
"I understand." She sewed steadily, her dark head bent over her work, then glanced up. "Bingley has missed your advice a great deal."
Darcy raised his eyebrows, his expression sardonic. "My advice? I should think he would be glad enough to be free of it."
"Oh, no." She tilted her head to the side, considering her stitching. "He is very fond of you, and grateful for all that you have done. We are none of us perfect, Mr Darcy," she added softly. "Although my sister used to say that some of us are less so than others."
He laughed. There was no need to ask, which sister? "Speaking of which, Hancock should return here tomorrow. He -- Miss Catherine -- " Darcy coughed. "Perhaps, when it is convenient, your family should like to come to Pemberley. Your sister, too, of course."
Mrs Bingley smiled. "Your home is delightful, sir. I believe I may speak for Bingley, when I say that we would be honoured. And Kitty has never seen Pemberley."
"She shall probably see it often enough in the future," he said thoughtlessly. Mrs Bingley looked at him expressively, and he blushed.
"I am beyond redemption, I fear."
"It must be difficult," she said, searching for thread in her basket, "to have so many dependent upon your judgment. And then to be right so much of the time. I daresay it makes it all the worse when you are not."
Darcy decided that he had never given Jane Bingley her due -- even when he had given her more than almost anyone else. "Yes," he said slowly, "yes, it is."
"My husband thinks the world of you. He has so few close friends, you know."
"Yes, I know. It is his way -- to gather a great many ‘friends' who are little more than acquaintances, and -- well, you know. You are married to him."
She smiled mistily. "Yes, I am. I knew what he was like then, and I know him better now. I am very grateful for the care you take of him. He might have been led very far astray, if you had not been there. Thank you."
He started. His scrupulous guidance of Bingley was hardly deserving of thanks; simply the obligation he owed his young, impressionable friend. "It was nothing," he said sincerely. "I am honoured to call him my friend." With a faint smile, he added, "It is not anyone who will put up with me and my moods, after all."
"You are very even-tempered, I have always thought." Then she looked down, and flushed.
"Except when I am not," he agreed gravely. "Ah, I believe I hear Anne calling. Thank you for your unexampled kindness, Mrs Bingley." He kissed her hand and left.
By late spring, they were settled at Pemberley again, and their days fell into an easy pattern. He arranged all business affairs by correspondence, and spent as much time with Anne as he could. After such a long holiday, she did not take well to a structured schedule and the dictates of her nurse-governess, but he was immovable and she eventually became acclimated once more to life at Pemberley.
He was at once content and sorrowful. Pemberley was, somehow, a balm for him. He felt cleansed, and threw himself wholeheartedly into the management of the estate, paying only the obligatory social calls to his neighbours. His time was so thoroughly occupied, he ought not to have time for anything else. And yet -- there was, it seemed, a pervading sadness about everything. It was weeks before he even noticed, one day in which he was on business for hours, and separated from Anne until evening. He knew where she was -- knew she was perfectly well -- did not, in fact, greatly fear for her -- no more than usual, in any case -- and yet, without her incessant questions, her ebullient effervescence, her unconditional adoration, he was -- lost. It was an almost physical pain and he could not understand it.
He soon realized, it was not precisely a new sensation. Grief -- yes, that was it -- and yet, he had grown accustomed over time; and his joy in Anne had gone a long way towards dulling it. Still, it was always with him; when he was parted from her, it flooded over him in great dark waves, and he could not understand. Perhaps, it had been so long -- he had been so preoccupied with what was happening, that he had quite forgotten what was. He had been so oblivious to his own thoughts and feelings that when they came back -- or when he became aware of their existence -- they did so with a vengeance, he scarcely knew what to do with them.
Anne was his lifeline. He did not know what he would have done without her; he did not dare think on it. She was in some ways astonishingly like him -- from his experience with his Bingley and Fitzwilliam god-children, and the Gardiners, he gathered that her speech was highly articulate. Moreover she was learning her letters and had become fascinated with words. Only yesterday she had insisted that he translate her nightly fairy-story into French. He had been very much the same at that age. He still remembered his aunt saying perplexedly, "You are such an odd little boy, Fitzwilliam."
That, naturally, reminded him of Miss Bingley -- Lady Elliot -- and he vindictively hoped something truly unpleasant happened to her. His best hopes on that front lay, peculiarly enough, with Mrs Fitzwilliam; he very much doubted that her protestations of friendship were sincere. Slightly cheered at the thought of Lady Elliot at Mary Fitzwilliam's mercy, he bit his lip and considered. The Kirkby living had finally fallen vacant, and so the Hammonds would be here -- there -- in a few days. Cecily should be all right. The Westhamptons were happy, or so it seemed from Georgiana's latest letter. There were no more rumours about Lady Elliot. All of his far-flung relations seemed to be doing perfectly well. Darcy breathed a rather melancholy sigh of relief. There was only one thing left.
He was not certain whether to be outraged or amused. At first, it was only his determination to remain where he was that allowed him to keep his temper; then, the sheer hilarity of it all struck him, and he laughed. Lady Catherine, no doubt, would not have been remotely pleased at his reaction to her diatribe. He felt no inclination to explain himself or his actions to her. She was neither the head of his family nor his mother, despite her pretensions to both. His reply said as much, in an almost offensively light and cheerful style. His innate perversity satisfied, he spent the next weeks in comparative peace and quiet.
The following months were pleasant, if bittersweet. Anne grew rapidly, and demonstrated that she had inherited a full share of the family willfulness. Darcy, implacable when he knew himself to be right, was the only one who could influence her in the slightest once she had set her mind on something. The others in charge of her usually gave in out of sheer exhaustion. One such time was when the governess insisted that Anne's hair needed cut. Mrs Jones was not one to brook opposition -- a necessary quality for anyone put in charge of Darcy children -- but Anne's vociferous protests brought a bewildered Darcy from his study. Mrs Jones had a pair of scissors in her hands, Anne was protectively holding her dark hair away from her face, and several maids watched on in fascination. Although he usually tried not to interfere in Anne's education, on this occasion he put his foot down. His fatherly soul was horrified at the prospect and he caustically informed Mrs Jones that Anne's hair was not her concern.
"It gets in the inkpot," Mrs Jones said primly. "She must accept respons -- "
"She is three years old, Mrs Jones." People! He compromised, and promised that Anne's hair would be plaited henceforth. Circumstances being what they were, it was Darcy who learnt to brush and plait the little girl's hair. He pursued this accomplishment with the same single-minded attention he had done everything else; but he could not help thinking that certain aspects of fatherhood were rather more peculiar than others.
His penchant for solitude grew rather more pronounced over that time, broken only by the Bingleys' visit. He had never been social, but the energy that had driven him in his twenties seemed to have faded a little. Georgiana, he knew, worried over him, over them both, writing at least weekly, and visiting no less than every six weeks. She was encouraged that he planned to go to Houghton in September, and even more that he actually did so when the time came.
He dreaded it -- not so much his family and their demands on him, which he found rather bizarrely gratifying, but venturing forth from the haven of Pemberley, and worse, Mrs Fitzwilliam was there.
"Mr Darcy, Miss Darcy, what a pleasure to see you here," she said graciously, her kiss burning his cheek. She was a depraved, immoral, wicked woman -- she disgusted him as few woman ever had -- and yet why should he care? Why should he bother loathing her? That was the best word for his feelings, and yet she was utterly unworthy of such attention. Why did he respond so intensely, in a dislike that was nearly bordering on hatred? Why could he not shrug her off as he had shrugged off so many others?
It was only when he started awake, gasping for air, memories pouring through his mind, as alive and vivid as if they had happened yesterday, that he understood. Mary's vibrancy and wit and charisma were misapplied, to be sure -- behind her pretty face and charming ways, there was no deeper, richer core, no thoughtful intellect or fine character -- but on the surface, they were very alike. He had met her and not cared before Elizabeth; it was afterwards. Somehow, for some reason -- although it eluded him -- loathing Mary was part and parcel of loving Elizabeth.
Even more than Catherine, she brought Elizabeth to mind. Not, perhaps, as she was -- he had not seen her since Charles and Jenny's christening, and then only a brief glimpse -- but as she had been, as he remembered her. The flashing dark eyes, the intelligence that had first drawn him to her, before he found any pleasure in looking at her -- the splatters of mud on her skirt, emblematic, somehow, of the profound affection for a beloved sister. Then -- her quieter, somehow softer, ways at Pemberley; somehow, he had felt, he no longer need fear being cut on her sharp edges -- unreasonable, given their history, but the impression remained with him. What had they spoken of? He hardly recalled. Veiled barbs and cold reserve was so much easier -- he had never dreamt that making conversation with the woman he loved could be such a trial. Of course, the company had not been particularly helpful; even Georgiana, dear Georgiana, hardly spoke two words together. And Miss Bingley!
Introducing her to Sir Walter was, he decided, ample revenge.
Yet they had gotten past it, eventually. He absently rubbed his icy hands together, unable to stop the flood, even were he inclined -- and he was not. He remembered that first awkward conversation after he had returned from town. She had been so mortified by Mr Collins -- understandably -- and, quite overwhelmed by his feelings in that moment (the clergyman notwithstanding), he smiled warmly at her. It was with equal parts astonishment and pleasure that he watched her pour tea with trembling hands.
After that, the pair could not keep from talking. He was always quiet in company, but she drew him out easily enough as they walked through the park with no company but Jane and Bingley. Their mutual dislike was so well-established that no one considered how much thrown together they were.
"I am terribly sorry about Mr Collins."
"It is quite all right."
"No, he is really a dreadful man."
"He is certainly a very enthusiastic person."
"He is rather more enthusiastic about Lady Catherine than his parishioners," she said, sharply.
"There is no doubting his gratitude to my aunt," said Darcy, then sighed. "Bingley!"
"Jane!"
Their charges separated with penitent expressions and Elizabeth shook her head. "I would never have thought it of Jane, she is so saintly."
"Bingley is not exactly discouraging her," he remarked, as the man in question briefly pressed his lips against his fiancée's cheek. Darcy opened his mouth, then shut it again with a faint smile. When each slipped an arm around the other's waist, however, both chaperones exclaimed,
"Jane!"
"Bingley!"
And so they talked, speech broken only by rebukes to the engaged couple. At first, Mr Collins supplied most of the conversation, followed by reflections on Mrs Collins' situation, among various other civilities. With conversation came ease, and with ease friendship, but their peculiar relationship, if indeed relationship it could be called, did not ripen any further. Both veered away from the topic of their own feelings, she for her own reasons -- at the time, and even later, he supposed her reticence sprang from her relative indifference. And he -- he was too cautious -- no, frightened -- to risk their delicate accord at so early a juncture. With time -- he had fully intended to pursue her, if he had to hover around the fringes of Bingley family gatherings for the next ten years -- with time, courage would come. Except there had been no time.
He had not thought of it, of her, for so long -- it seemed so long -- why had he not? Once it had overshadowed his every thought. Of course, love changed; and his love, it had been such a part of him, for so long, that it required no thinking about. It simply was. And yet -- Elizabeth. He could think of her now, and, curling beneath the covers, did so. Where was she? How was she? Mrs Gardiner had said that she was chiefly occupied with her father's health -- had Mr Bennet been ill? He did not think so; but often, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps he was an invalid of sorts. She could use a friend, the Gardiners had said, and he had known that they meant more than they said; but for the life of him, he could not, even now, imagine what it was. And Mrs Bingley had said that all but Mrs Bennet were in excellent spirits.
Houghton was so cold. Darcy shivered underneath the covers and fell into an uneasy slumber.
Chapter Twelve
Posted on Saturday, 18 February 2006
"Stephen is so tall," declared the proud mamma; "and the governess can hardly keep up with him. He is reading, and learning to write --"
Anne and Stephen were overflowing with excitement from the moment they caught sight of one another, and had run madly through the halls for apparently hours. Darcy looked around Aincourt curiously; it was quite different from what he recalled, even during his last visit. Much of the more ornate ornamentation was gone, and many of the rooms were lighter and more cheerful. Only so much could be done -- family legend had it that the original proprietor had been determined that all the world should know of his affluence, and Aincourt had always been more splendid than elegant. Nevertheless it was a fine old place, and Georgiana had done a great deal for it.
She looked well; less like a beautiful marble statue and more like the lovely châtelaine of a large estate. Westhampton appeared prodigiously proud of wife and son, and all but Stephen seemed perfectly contented with their life. Once the children's energy exhausted itself, Anne retreating to the nursery to play with the toys left expressly for her purpose, Stephen attached himself to his uncle, clinging to rather than imitating him. Neither of his parents knew what was the matter; Georgiana acknowledged that he had been rather sulky as of late, and Westhampton said that he tended to be moody.
"He has been a great deal better since you came," Georgiana confessed. "I worry about him, a little. He says he misses home."
Darcy thought of his nephew's delight in every nook and cranny of Pemberley, and sighed. "He shall adjust, in time," he said. "Visits, of course, are always welcome; he is as much Darcy as Deincourt."
"More so," Westhampton said ruefully, "going by his looks and behaviour."
"We are not temperamental," said Georgiana pointedly, with an arch smile for her husband. "The Darcys have always been the very picture of sweet-tempered respectability; have we not, Fitzwilliam?"
"We have always been respectable, in any case." He cleared his throat. "Speaking of respectability, I have not yet seen your grandmother, Westhampton."
The other man laughed. "Ah, grandmamma has been in a foul temper the last half-year at least. I never met a more resentful woman, or man, for that matter. I cannot imagine what you must have said to her."
"My aunt, Lady Catherine, did most of the talking," said Darcy. "We did exchange a few words, however."
"Whatever you said, life has been much more pleasant here ever since," said Georgiana, with a fond look at him.
"I daresay it owes more to you two than me," he said, smiling.
"I doubt it," said Georgiana, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.
Darcy woke to a pounding on his door. Somewhat groggily, he opened it, and peered down at an anxious-looking servant. "Mr Darcy, sir," she gasped, "his lordship sent me -- "
"What is it, Sally?" he inquired tiredly. She flushing, appearing to have gone briefly mute as she nervously eyed him, and Darcy self-consciously tightened his robe. "Sally?"
She burst into tears. "It's Miss Darcy, sir. She's gone."
Georgiana was awake and pale, pacing back and forth. There was no sign of Westhampton.
"Where is your husband?" Darcy demanded curtly.
"He's looking for them, with the servants," she said meekly, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes.
"Them?"
She raised her swollen, tear-filled eyes. "Stephen and Anne and Lady Westhampton."
Darcy caught his breath, staring at her. Distinctly unsteady, he briefly clung to the doorjamb before straightening himself. "She took them," he said tonelessly. "Both of them."
Georgiana nodded. "If I had not woken up and decided to look in on him --- everyone says I am too overprotective, but if I had not --- it would have been far, far too late. Oh Fitzwilliam!" She bent her head and began sobbing brokenly. "They are so small, and she has no head for details. Stephen doesn't --- " she struggled for breath --- "have his coat." At this she began crying anew. Darcy briefly put her arms around her, allowing her to cling to him, before both separated and stood separate and upright.
"I shall join Westhampton and the others. As soon as there is any --- news --- I will send someone. Goodbye, dearest."
As soon as he found his brother-in-law, he tersely asked for news, of which there was none. Although a part of his brain was clamouring for his attention, the larger portion was clear, lucid, and dispassionate. He joined the search for the two children and their erstwhile grandparent, eyes darting back and forth as they searched through the snow falling thickly about them. Any tracks that might have been made were quickly washed away, and it was only luck that sent Darcy underneath a thick grove of trees, an edge of desperation aiding his efforts.
"Papa --- " He could hear the low, gasping whisper, and at first thought it only his imagination. The voice grew more insistent, although not louder. "Papa, papa --- "
It was joined by another, "Uncle Fitzwilliam --- please, help, please --- "
Darcy looked up, and to his amazement met the white faces of two shivering children. A hard tightness about his heart relaxed slightly, and he called up, "Stephen, Anne, you must come down. Your mother and I will take care of you now." His conscience jabbed, And you did so well before, didn't you? He ignored it and waited for the children.
"I --- I'm afraid, papa," said Anne. "I can't! I'll slip and break my neck, grandmamma said so!" Stephen nodded shivering agreement. Darcy only hesitated a fraction of a moment before springing up into the tree, taking both daughter and nephew up into his arms, and climbing back down. He wrapped the two slightly-built children in his own coat, and returned to the others.
They were congregated around a prone figure, and Darcy immediately turned the children away before they caught a glimpse of whatever it was. He himself could make out the blue-tinged cheeks, and knew beyond a doubt that she was dead. As the assembled searchers caught sight of him, general relief was voiced through the crowd, and several approached Stephen and Anne, including Westhampton. Both flinched back, staring with wide, frightened eyes. Darcy sighed, and accepted the offer of a horse, riding back to Aincourt as fast as he was able. He could feel how cold both were, particularly Anne, who had inherited his light build and even nestled closely against him did not seem to grow appreciably warmer.
Georgiana was directing the efforts of the house capably and efficiently. There was a man of about fifty next to her. "This is Mr Davis, from Lambton," she said quietly, eyes fixed on the children. They raised their own, and whispered,
"Aunt Georgiana?"
"Mamma?"
The children were quickly stripped of their sodden clothes, cleaned, and put in bed. The anxious parents turned to Mr Davis, who vaguely reminded Darcy of his ‘sister' Mrs Gardiner. "You must keep them warm," he instructed, "and well-fed. They will need all the strength they can get." Correctly interpreting the siblings' suddenly frozen expressions, he smiled kindly. "They are young, and strong. It could have been a great deal worse."
The next days were spent at the children's sides. Darcy and Georgiana scarcely left the room, and never together. For several hours, their condition worsened. Neither seemed to recognise anyone, including both parents, but still cringed back from unfamiliar contact. Anne's situation was the most precarious, and she tossed and turned for days in a high fever. Darcy lived in a grey haze, where one day was hardly distinguishable from the next, catching odd hours of sleep that did little good. The only constant was Anne's small, clammy hand resting against his own, the pulse fluttering against his fingers. It was late one evening that her fever turned, her lifeless grip tightening weakly in recognition.
"Papa," she whispered through parched lips, and Darcy stared blankly for a moment, before crying for the doctor. After several minutes of checking who knew what, Mr Davis smilingly assured him that her recovery was now assured, and went to the other patient. Darcy wearily leaned his forehead against his daughter's hand, oblivious to the tears running down his cheeks.
"Don't cry, papa," Anne said peremptorily.
After she drifted back to sleep, Darcy carefully released her hand, and turned to his sister. "He's going to be fine," she said, smiling through her own tears. "They both are."
"Thank God," said Darcy fervently, glancing out of the window. The stars, which had seemed to him dim and hardly worth looking at, sparkled radiantly overhead. Georgiana expelled a little breath and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Before you came, you said something about a wedding," whispered Westhampton, staring at his sleeping son and niece. He only dared enter when they were fast asleep, unwilling to alarm the pair. Darcy sat upright, rubbing his eyes.
"Oh, that," he said wearily. "Would you mind writing Bingley and explaining that I shan't be able to attend?"
"Write Bingley," Westhampton repeated, blinking a little.
"Yes, please," Darcy returned distractedly, almost fully occupied with the slow rise and fall of the children's respective chests. Regardless of Mr Davis, he could not rid himself of the fear that either or both might die at any moment, irrevocably lost to both himself and Georgiana. He remained with them until the day that he collapsed onto the floor, terrifying Georgiana, who after days of unfalteringly constant attention, was often at the edge of hysteria. Darcy did not wake for three days.
"Anne?" he said groggily. Firm hands pushed him back down, and he blinked in confusion.
"Fitzwilliam James," Georgiana said fiercely, "if you ever think of doing such a thing again, I swear --- I shall --- I shall --- oh, I don't know what I shall do! But it will be very unpleasant."
"Oh?" He struggled to make sense of this, and failed. "I don't recall exactly . . ."
"Do not worry," came Mr Davis' jovial tones, "you only fainted, Mr Darcy."
"I . . . fainted?" Darcy shook his head, and with a wary look at his sister --- who would have been an excellent model for an avenging Fury as she stood there glaring down at him --- sat up once more. "My daughter, my nephew, are they ---"
Mr Davis chuckled. "They are recovering nicely, sir. But you should take better care."
"If only out of concern for my nerves," Georgiana interjected acerbically. Darcy, rather unnervingly reminded of Mrs Bennet, smiled. "Not to mention Anne. If this is how you normally go on, I am of half a mind to keep you here!"
"Georgiana, really ---"
"Lady Westhampton," Mr Davis said softly, lowering his voice discreetly, "your brother should sleep until he has recovered his strength." Darcy threw the doctor a grateful look.
"Take care of yourself," she said fondly, leaning down to press a kiss against his brow. "I shall watch over the children."
Darcy did not doubt it, and his fingers, which did not appear wholly under his command, weakly curled around hers. "Georgiana --- " he said faintly, before falling asleep once m
ore.
Chapter Thirteen
Posted on Monday, 20 February 2006
The shock of having lost command of his own body to such a degree -- fainting indeed! -- was not one easily forgotten. Darcy, although more for his family's sake than his own, was careful not to drive himself to such a state again, regardless of the temptation. As soon as possible, both Darcys returned to Pemberley. Anne, while never gregarious away from those she knew and liked, had grown positively shy. She flinched from sudden sounds, and often it seemed that only pride kept her from bolting when a stranger entered the room. Darcy worried for her, but little enough could be done. Mrs Reynolds assured him that it would pass in time.
"After all, sir," she said consolingly, "she is no worse than you were after your dear mamma died."
Considering that his state of mind had been so disturbed upon that event that he'd been shipped off to Lady Catherine for four years, this was not a great comfort. Darcy nevertheless understood the spirit of the offering and thanked his housekeeper.
In time, Anne did indeed recover. She regained her old vitality, and if she was a little more firmly attached to her father, it was no cause for complaint. Stephen, however, was quite a different story, and Darcy easily read between the lines of his sister's letters. Stephen had never learnt to regard Aincourt as home, and the recent tragedy hardly helped matters. It was no surprise that he did not feel safe there -- regrettable, but inevitable. Darcy offered to have him at Pemberley until he was somewhat recovered. Stephen's precarious health, in his opinion, took higher priority over the question of loyalty to Aincourt, and he said as much to his sister, who fervently agreed. He was astonished that she, herself, stayed only a few days.
"I do not wish to live my husband alone," she explained simply. Darcy nodded. He had known from almost the first that their attachment was a passionate one, particularly given Georgiana's intense temperament, and he was glad of their happiness; but he pitied his nephew. Stephen's nervous, inexpressive disposition rather precluded inclusion within the self-contained family. He could not help that he was so alien to both parents -- nor could Georgiana and Westhampton, although Darcy did not approve. It was no surprise that Stephen preferred Pemberley, then.
Nevertheless, even there he was in far worse state than Anne had ever been. He had not her pride;--at anything unexpected, he fled to his uncle. Darcy supposed -- although he elected not to speak of it, and so could not know for certain -- that he had not been quick enough to shield Stephen from the macabre sight of his grandmother's corpse. He suffered more nightmares than Anne ever had, but less insistent and wilful than his cousin, simply endured for days before Darcy found out.
Slowly, however, the little boy regained something of his old equanimity. Not so resilient as Anne, nevertheless he was very young, and his demeanour within weeks altered from frightened to generally contented, and on occasion even petulant. Darcy was pleased to see Stephen behaving like a four-year-old -- although he brooked no disobedience from daughter or nephew -- and enjoyed his company, as ever dreading the day when he would be returned to his parents.
For Stephen's sake primarily Darcy exerted himself to be somewhat sociable, at least within his circle of acquaintance. He frequently called on his cousin Mrs Hammond, who had changed not at all in consequence of her marriage, except to acquire a certain serenity. She, like Darcy himself, was fond of children, and particularly knew the ways of little boys; Stephen was soon as attached to her as his uncle and cousin had ever been, and often seemed content to simply watch her, his dark grey eyes wide and fascinated.
Closer to home was Kempton, which parish Pemberley House belonged to. Darcy saw the Hancocks at least weekly on Sundays, and usually more as he and Hancock were long-time friends. His wife, although much more sensible than Darcy would ever have expected, was more of a trial; Stephen seemed to find her something of an oddity, and her resemblance to her sister kept Elizabeth at the front of Darcy's mind. He tried to forget her, and failed as he had always done. He knew perfectly well that she had believed his attachment mere infatuation, perhaps even imaginary. He himself wished it were so. And yet not -- he was a better person, for having loved her. The manner in which he had loved her, still did, was quite different from how he loved Georgiana and Anne and Stephen. If, somehow, time or distance could have eroded his feelings, he might very well have been able to pursue another woman, to seek beyond mere contentment; but it seemed that he could not be inconstant even when he wished it.
Darcy sighed. At once, he wished to be left alone -- to never hear of her, to even think of her, again. For better or worse, that part of his life was ever. And yet -- always there was an "and yet." He was thirsty for every detail of her he could discover. Mrs Hancock mentioned, in passing, that her father was "worse."
"It will be a blessing when it ends," she said philosophically. "Not that I wish to see Longbourn in the hands of the Collinses, but papa has suffered for so long, and Lizzy with him. She deserves better."
Darcy heartily agreed.
In May, he was forced to go to town. It was a brief enough errand that he brought the children with him. Stephen, who had never seen it before, was astounded, constantly turning his head this way and that. Although Darcy corresponded regularly with the Gardiners, it had been many months since he had seen them, and he looked forward to it.
They were so perfectly themselves that he laughed, really laughed, for the first time in what seemed a year at least. He was rather saddened, however, by how much older the children were. Twelve-year-old Amelia no longer ran into his arms as she always had before, while Margaret flushed when he smiled at her. Sarah, but five years old, had no such compunctions; but he started when he realized that she had only just been conceived when he met her cousin at Pemberley. Had it been so long? Of course -- yes, it had -- Anne was four and Sarah six months her senior. April. She had been born a full year after that dreadful day at the Hunsford parsonage. Rather odd, that. Six years, thought Darcy, and sighed.
The little boys -- still young enough to deserve the title -- were delighted to see him, and quite interested in Stephen, who was in awe of their superior years and expertise. At first, he nearly leapt into Darcy's arms when they rushed into the room, but Mr Gardiner's easy ways and Mrs Gardiner's kindness soon set him at his ease.
"That poor lad, what has ever happened?" Mrs Gardiner exclaimed as soon as the children were out of the room. Darcy gladly accepted the offered cup of tea, and explained. They stared.
"Everything does happen to you, doesn't it?" Mr Gardiner said. "Are you quite certain he saw . . ."
"Not certain, of course," Darcy said, shrugging. "But I think so, yes. He is still young. I hope he will not remember."
"That is quite possible. But still . . ." Mr Gardiner shook his head. "I pity him."
"He has never been very happy," said Darcy, sighing. "Oh, my brother and sister are perfectly dutiful parents, even affectionate, but a child wants something more. And he is so unlike them, they don't know what do with him. Georgiana particularly worries over him. He cares nothing for Aincourt."
"At four?" Mrs Gardiner laughed. "That is no surprise, my dear."
"He does care about Pemberley. He never wants to leave, when he is there; and only wants to return, when he is not. I wish --" Darcy laughed sharply. "I wish he were mine. I can do little more than advise as it is."
"You seem to be doing more," said Mrs Gardiner softly.
"I ought not. Westhampton would be well within his rights to be infuriated at my interference. When he -- Stephen -- was very small, he wanted to call me ‘papa.' I very nearly allowed it. I should have liked -- but he is Georgiana's son, not mine."
"Fitzwilliam -- " Mrs Gardiner reached out, and laid one hand over his. "No doubt you have heard it before; or perhaps, not enough. But you are a fine man." She smiled suddenly. "I wish you were my brother; although no doubt I would poke my nose into every corner of your life if you were."
"You do that already, dear," Mr Gardiner remarked, and Darcy laughed.
"Thank you, Margaret. I am -- honoured." His lashes dropped against his cheeks, briefly, as he struggled to regain his composure. "Your family's friendship has meant a great deal."
"It has been a pleasure," said Mrs Gardiner, with a sweet smile.
He was at the parsonage, talking over certain finer points of doctrine with Hancock, when Anne dashed into the room. "Papa, Mrs Hancock is -- she is not -- I think she's sick," she said. Hancock turned white and he instantly went to find his wife. Darcy hesitated a moment, then, both children at his heels, followed him. Mrs Hancock sat in a chair by the fire, a letter flung on the table, sobbing into her hands. Hancock was kneeling before her.
"Catherine," he said pleadingly, "Catherine, please -- what is it?"
She only sobbed harder, and Hancock glanced at Darcy, then gestured at the letter before attempting to comfort his wife. Distinctly uncomfortable, Darcy picked up the letter, which was composed of a single sheet of paper, covered by a fine, feminine hand -- albeit a rather careless one. He glanced at the bottom, and dropped it as if burnt. Your loving sister, Elizabeth Bennet it said, and with a painful clarity Darcy guessed at what the letter might contain. He could not read it, but Mrs Hancock gasped out,
"It's papa -- Lizzy writes -- she says that -- he's dead." She recommenced sobbing, and Darcy quietly took his leave of them both.
Darcy stared down at several crumpled sheets of paper, scribbled over, and sighed. What was to be done? He bit his lip, and commenced writing the most particularly prosaic and dull of his attempts --
I hope that Mrs Bingley and her sisters are well, despite the recent tragedy, and that Mrs Collins has managed to restrain her husband thus far. You will have your mother-in-law at Baildon? For your sake, I hope she brings Miss Elizabeth with her. She would no doubt be glad of the company. Please give Mrs Bingley and the children my best wishes --
The letter was posted, and Darcy returned to the other pressing issue at hand. During the entirety of his epistolary struggles, Stephen had perched on one of the chairs, simply watching with wide solemn eyes. Darcy would not presume to speak of it, but the ramifications of his nephew's strong attachment to him had kept him awake more hours than not. Were it not for Anne, he doubted if Stephen would ever willing leave his side, and while flattering, it was also worrying. He betrayed no such behaviour with even Georgiana, let alone Westhampton. Not even Anne -- while she spent a great deal of time with him -- more than any other daughters of his acquaintance -- she was always doing something. Not simply sitting there, a small melancholy statue.
"Stephen," Darcy said gently, "it is June today, and your mother's birthday is in a fortnight."
The child bit his lip. "I have to go back to Aincourt?" he said timidly. Darcy hesitated, then nodded.
"You cannot be at Pemberley always, you know. Aincourt is your home."
"No, it isn't!" Stephen said passionately. "No, no! I miss mamma, but I can't -- I don't -- " he flushed and looked down, whispering plaintively, "Please don't send me away."
Good Lord. The experience of five god-children, four surrogate nephews and nieces, one sister, and one daughter, were all of them insufficient to prepare him for this. Darcy rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I'm not -- I won't -- " he sighed, and started again. "Stephen, do you understand that you belong with your mother and father?"
Stephen hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir." He added wistfully, "I miss mamma. But it's better to be at Pemberley with you and Anne."
Darcy hesitated a moment. "Stephen," he said carefully, "Aincourt is only a place."
His nephew blinked owlishly at this. "I -- I don't understand," he said, biting his lip.
"Even if very bad things happen in a particular place, it doesn't mean anything about the place. It is just a house, wood, stones, mortar, land. People are what make it more. I do not love Pemberley because it is beautiful, although it is, but because I know my father, and his father, and all my grandfathers back through hundreds and hundreds of years, have walked here; it is ours, the Darcys, and I belong because I am of their blood, a Darcy of Pemberley. You see?"
Stephen's small brow furrowed, then he said stubbornly, "I'm a Darcy too. Mamma -- "
"You are a Deincourt," Darcy said firmly. "More Deincourt than Darcy, because you're not just Deincourt from your father, but your mother's grandmother -- my grandmother -- was one also. Do you see?"
"I should like to see mamma again," Stephen conceded. "But I love Pemberley 'cause of you and Anne, mostly."
"Yes, I know. But you must love your mother, and father, too." Darcy crouched down, and pushed some of Stephen's wayward dark hair out of his eyes, cupping his cheek gently. "Stephen, some people -- like your cousins Anne and Cecily -- are happy a great deal of the time, wherever they are -- it's something they carry with them. It's a special gift."
"I am not happy mostly," Stephen confessed, fixing his eyes on the floor.
Overwhelmed by compassion and pity for this lonely, melancholy child, Darcy nodded. "I know." He tilted his nephew's chin up slightly, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You see, there are other people who aren't like that. People like your mother, and like me, and like you. We cannot be happy unless we try very hard at it. Do you understand?"
Stephen chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Anne makes me happy."
"Anne is like that. You cannot help but be happy when you're with her -- isn't it so?"
"Yes, exactly." Stephen smiled brightly, then said sternly, "Just so." Darcy chuckled.
"It's easier to be happy when you're with happy people, sometimes. So, when you go home to Aincourt, what you might want to do, is to spend time with your father. He is usually a happy person too, you see."
"I don't know papa," Stephen said simply.
"You ought to. He's your father," Darcy said immediately, and only realized, flinching, at the hypocrisy of such a statement after it had left his mouth. Stephen nodded soberly, and sighed deeply.
"I should like to get mamma something very nice for her birthday, Uncle Fitzwilliam."
"I shall take you and Anne -- " Darcy glanced sharply at the curtains, which had just twitched slightly -- "to Lambton, and you both can find something for her."
Stephen impulsively flung his arms around his neck, as cheerful as he had been morose just a moment before. "I want it to be the best present in the world, because mamma is the best mother in all the world," he explained. There was a muffled sound from behind the curtain, and Darcy sighed. I shall really have to speak to her about eavesdropping.
Chapter Fourteen
Posted on Thursday, 23 February 2006
In the middle of June, they returned to Pemberley. As he looked back, he could see Lord and Lady Westhampton, waving happily at them, Georgiana wearing Lady Anne's sapphires, which Darcy had had re-set for her. Stephen stood a little apart, gazing forlornly. After a moment, Westhampton hesitantly moved towards his son, placing on a hand on his son's shoulder. Stephen jerked in surprise, but accepted the touch, and Darcy was somewhat comforted, despite the feelings that overwhelmed him as he left his nephew behind.
There were three letters waiting for him there, all from Bingley. Darcy kissed Anne good-night and went to his study to open them. The first was simply idle chatter. The second was much the same, but interspersed within the nonsense were some requests for advice, ranging from the trivial to the interesting. After reading the third, he turned three different shades of grey and reached out to grip the table, the room spinning before he fumbled to a chair and sat down.
Bingley being Bingley, he was quite rationally afraid that the information he sought would not even be included in the incoherent missive. But it was -- Jane is very worried about Lizzy -- she was in the house the longest -- they are in London with the Gardiners -- should be here on the third of July -- doctor says that town is detrimental to their health -- please, I am completely at sea --
Darcy, who for longer than he cared to think about had feltstretched and thin and simply too tired to bother with very much, felt something uncoil inside him. His thoughts raced, and he paced rapidly across the rug as he struggled to make sense of him. He looked at the clock -- ten o'clock. It was too late, Anne -- yes, they would leave in the morning. He stayed awake all through the night, taking care of all business he could manage.
"Mr Darcy?" said Mrs Reynolds, squinting at him.
"Good morning," he said, in a tone that brooked no opposition. She blinked at this, and cautiously replied,
"Good, er, morning, sir. You should not be up."
"I had some business that needed taking care of."
"But sir, couldn't you wait until dawn?" She stifled a mighty yawn.
"No, I have to leave in the morning."
"But Mr Darcy, you just -- "
"Yes, I know. Bingley needs my assistance however -- an urgent family matter -- Anne and I shall leave tomorrow."
Mrs Reynolds looked at her master's face, animated with -- not happiness, nothing remotely like it, but -- purpose -- certainly more than she had seen in years -- and sighed. "Yes, sir. Shall I tell Mr Higgins he is to manage the -- "
"No, please tell him to forward everything to me."
Anne was rather confused by the entire event, and after much questioning, Darcy relented. "You know that Mrs Bingley's papa died?"
"Yes," she said, rubbing her eyes.
"And his house belongs to Aunt Catherine's clergyman now?"
"Yes, papa. You said something about tails but that I can have Pemberley because you don't have one."
Darcy said, "Yes, dear. Well, a few weeks after Mr and Mrs Collins and their children came to stay at Longbourn -- Mrs Bingley's papa's house -- the house burnt down."
Anne sat up, fixing her light blue eyes on him. "Burnt down!" Then she bit her lip. "Is Mrs Bingley's family all right?"
Darcy stared out the window blankly. "Her mother is perfectly well, although somewhat . . . distressed. One of Mrs Bingley's sisters went back into her room, and breathed in a great deal of smoke before she was saved, and is coughing quite a lot, but they think she shall be well. But Mr and Mrs Bingley have so much to do now that he needs my help for business. His steward is not trustworthy."
"What's trustworthy, papa?"
"Someone you can trust," he said. "Like Mr Higgins."
"But you don't let Mr Higgins do things, papa, you do them all yourself," she said ingenuously. Darcy laughed shortly.
"I am not like Mr Bingley, Anne."
"No," she agreed, "you have brown hair, and his is yellow, like mamma's and grandpapa's."
He had not the slightest idea what he would find when he arrived at Baildon. His heart was pounding, and several times the world, as he perceived it, seemed to shift slightly to the left or right, then jerk back into place. Anne was unnerved enough at the prospect of strangers that she clung to his hand tightly, not realizing that she was anchoring him as much as he was her.
"Papa, shall I have to talk?"
"No, not if you do not like," he said softly, only a very small part of his mind on the conversation. The instant he set foot inside the door, Bingley was there at his side, looking pleased beyond measure to see him.
"Darcy," he said, in a sort of half-gasp, "you're here."
Darcy bit his lip. It was no time for smiling. "Yes, I am. What would you like me to do?"
Bingley scrubbed one hand across his brow, and Darcy noted, a little sadly, that there were a few strands of white in Bingley's fair hair.
"Oh! Mr Darcy!" Mrs Bingley exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. She was very much the same as ever, except for the tired expression about her eyes. "We are so glad to see you, sir. And Anne."
Anne smiled widely at Mrs Bingley. "Hello, Mrs Bingley!" she said brightly. "I hope your mamma and sisters and cousins and aunt and uncle and -- "
"Anne," said Darcy sternly.
"-- everyone else are well."
Mrs Bingley seemed caught between a tired sigh and melancholy smile. "Thank you, Anne. The Gardiners are here, they came last night."
Thank heavens, thought Darcy.
"Thank heavens," said Bingley.
"Oh, good," chirped Anne. "Is Sarah here, Mrs Bingley? May I go play, papa, please?"
"If you like. I will be with Mr Bingley, in his study, if you need me." She scampered off, as an anxious servant darted into the hallway. "Mr Bingley, Lady Elliot says -- "
No, please --
"I will mind Caroline, dear," Mrs Bingley said, but her husband shook his head.
"No, Jane, you know that she will not -- that is -- " he glanced at Darcy, and shook his head. "I had better go."
"Then I will take Mr Darcy to the library, I know where the papers you've been talking about are, and he can look them over." Bingley nodded distractedly and left. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr Darcy -- you haven't sat down or rested or anything." She pressed one hand against her forehead. "We are all at such odds and ends. Which would you like first?"
He hazarded a guess at her meaning and said, "If I could look over the matter of Smith's mill, I think we could have it resolved very quickly."
The study was not unoccupied. Rifling through Bingley's papers was his mother-in-law, and at the sight of a letter, still folded although charred about the edges and straight through in some places, his heart clenched. His had been burnt -- it surely had been burnt -- what earthly reason would she have to keep it? -- it was someone else's, a proper lover's -- what was it doing here, anyway? But just as the prying Mrs Bennet reached out for it, Darcy acted without reflection, without even conscious thought.
"This is your sister's, I believe," he said to Mrs Bingley, startled to find the slightly yellowed letter firmly within his own grasp. "It should probably be returned to her."
"Well, really!" expostulated Mrs Bennet.
"Mamma," said Mrs Bingley softly, then turned to him. "I will take it to Lizzy." Darcy handed it to her, certain that she could feel his hand trembling against hers. She gave him a thoughtful look, then her eyes widened and she flushed. "Perhaps you should come with me, sir," she said. "Lizzy is just in the library."
"But I -- " he looked down at the letter. She kept it. She had walked into a smoke-filled room to retrieve it -- he knew, although no one had said so, that this was what she had returned for. In that moment, everything he had known, and believed, seemed to shift a little. He had seen, and yet he had not -- now we see through a glass, darkly --
Clearly visible from where he stood was her name, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, written in his own close hand. Darcy straightened a little and lifted his chin.
"Thank you, Mrs Bingley," he said graciously, sparing only a slight dismissive glance for the furious Mrs Bennet, who had marched away and was blathering about what a hateful man he was and how she had always disliked him, with a judicious comment for her poor dear Wickham thrown in. I never thought I should be grateful for Lady Catherine. She is a model of propriety and good-breeding next to that woman. Darcy smiled at Mrs Bingley. "I should like to see her again."
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth was asleep.
Darcy gave a little sigh that was composed of equal parts disappointment and relief. At least this way he could look at her without being observed -- well, Mrs Bingley could see him, but she must understand his feelings well enough if she knew of the letter. Six years -- he had not thought that six years would work any change on her, even six years spent waiting on a dying father.
I'm a fool, he thought, and pressed his lips together, striving for composure as he took the step that would enable him to clearly see her. It was Elizabeth, sprawled across the sofa, her fingertips dangling over the side. He felt a little like a voyeur as drank in the sight of her, while she lay all unawares. It would be worse, however, if she woke to find him staring at her like -- like -- like a very foolish person.
Elizabeth Bennet was one of those late-blooming women, whose youthful prettiness at twenty or one-and-twenty inevitably gives way to a fuller beauty at seven- or -eight-and-twenty. If he were completely impartial, he might acknowledge that she still was not Mrs Bingley's equal, but Darcy claimed no such neutrality, and still considered her the loveliest woman he had ever set eyes on, not even barring Georgiana. And all this with her eyes still closed!
The sensation of sliding into starry-eyed infatuation ought to be familiar by now, but it was as overwhelming as ever. I have no claim on her affections -- she owes me nothing at all -- he told himself, but somehow it was more halfhearted than usual. He turned slightly -- and saw only the letter sitting on a small table. Mrs Bingley was nowhere to be seen. Darcy felt a bewildered, happy smile curling his lips before he quite realized it was happening, and reached out one hand to touch it tentatively. She had returned for his letter. Why? As a reminder of her mortal frailty? To keep her antipathy fresh?
No. She was not hostile at Pemberley, and she had already kept it by then. She would not risk her life for so mean a cause.
Curiously, he opened the letter -- it was all right, surely, as he had written it and knew perfectly well what it contained? -- and stared. The first paragraph was almost completely indecipherable. Only two words, freedom and justice, could even be hinted at. Much of what followed was the same. He had supposed it would be burnt, that Elizabeth would burnt it, from what he had said -- and worse, how he had said it! -- here. And it had been burnt, but but not at all as he had expected. But nothing ever was, was it? He smiled at the irony of one clear line -- I must have been in error. The effect of smoke and fire grew considerably less on the following pages, for whatever reason. Only near the end did the circumstances of its retrieval seem to have had any effect -- one line of the last paragraph had been completely and neatly burnt through, as if it had been excised out by some divine hand, and so read,
For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions . . . that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
His signature, however, had been altered beyond any recognition but that of the author, and, perhaps, the recipient. Mrs Bennet would never have guessed at her daughter's mysterious admirer -- for that was undoubtedly the suspicion she had entertained. My chivalry was unnecessary after all, he thought with a smile, and carefully replaced the letter. He had a great deal to think about.
Early that morning, he woke to a pounding on the door. Darcy, who had lain awake most of the night, pondering, analyzing, and re-evaluating even the most ambiguous of remarks, opened the door in a decidedly ill temper.
"What is it now?" he demanded. The maid cast a lingering eye over him, before quailing at his expression. Servants these days, he thought, and primly closed his robe, feeling a distinct sense that this had all happened before. "Anne -- my daughter, she is well?"
"Oh yes, sir, it's only that an express just arrived for you, from Pem -- "
He muttered to himself and shut the door, dressing quickly before finding Bingley with a sealed letter in his hand. "I do hope nothing is wrong," the latter said, abominably cheerful.
"So do I." He broke the seal and read it, his brow furrowing.
"Well?"
Darcy simply stared, then went back and re-read it. "It's from Mrs Reynolds. She says that -- that a strange woman has arrived at Pemberley and refuses to leave until she has spoken with me, and they aren't certain what to do with her."
Bingley stared, then smiled a little roguishly. "You, Darcy?"
"No, most certainly not I," he returned sharply. "I have not even looked at a woman since -- " he shut his lips firmly.
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I quite forgot about Lady Rosemary."
Darcy started. "Oh -- yes." Bingley gave a strange look.
"Well, are we to have the pleasure of your company much longer?"
Darcy vacillated a moment. He could go to Pemberley, resolve the matter of The Woman, and return -- but something might happen -- not that something wouldn't happen even if he was there, but what if --
"Yes, actually," he said, clenching his hand as if to relive the sensation of rough paper against smooth skin. "I think I shall stay. Surely a full staff of servants can manage one wayward female for a few weeks?"
Darcy knew that he had made the right decision when he woke once more, at a slightly less ungodly hour. After dressing and avoiding the erstwhile Polly, he went to Bingley's study to continue work on the matter of the mill, and was quickly so caught up in thought that all else faded. Bingley entered at perhaps eight o'clock, looking strained and nervous. He repeated himself three times before Darcy noticed him.
"Oh, Bingley. Hello." He smiled absently, then came back to earth with a jolt, recalling all that had passed -- or not passed -- the day before.
"Darcy, didn't you hear?"
"Hear what?"
Bingley shook his head with a weak laugh. "You never change."
Darcy blinked a little, then, finally, noticed the furor. Mrs Bennet's shrill voice was unmistakable, and Lady Elliot's insistent tones could also be heard. A low sobbing he recognized, after a moment of consideration, as Mrs Bingley. Dear God, no. "Bingley, what is it? What has happened? Is it . . ."
"Lizzy has taken a turn for the worse," he said heavily. "The doctor doesn't know what to do -- he says he hasn't enough experience with these things. And it would take time to find another, and convince him to come here on such short notice, and -- "
Although his heart was pounding in his ears, and the room again tilting a little, Darcy pulled on his inner reserves and divorced himself from everything but what could be useful. "A physician, from London, that is what he thinks is best? Someone with experience? Very well -- it is done. I will send an express to my own this very moment."
And it was done, as easily as that, while a slightly bemused Bingley looked on. "I -- I had better return to Jane. She is very upset."
"Yes, I daresay she is." Darcy could almost feel his ability to keep himself separate strained to its utmost. "Incidentally, what is the difficulty with Miss Bennet?"
"Apparently she was weakened by her state after the fire and caught some lung ailment -- I am not certain, to be perfectly honest. Anatomy was never my forte. But as long as she is well again, that is all that matters."
"Yes, yes, you are quite right."
He only presumed to approach the general vicinity of her room once. He could hear dry, seemingly endless, coughs, and Jane's low, soothing voice. But neither could he force himself to leave until he knew she would be well, no matter what was transpiring at Pemberley. He nearly drove himself mad with inaction until Mrs Bingley kindly advised that he occupy himself with business matters until he could be of greater assistance.
A/N: I thought of leaving it there, but that would be too evil, not that that has ever deterred me before. So . . .
In the next fortnight, Bingley continually made peace between the clashing personalities of his various houseguests, Mrs Bingley attended upon her sister, and Darcy ran the estate. He was horrified at what Bingley had allowed to occur; the steward was embezzling money intended to go to the poor, while at least three tradesmen were cheating him. Darcy sighed. He's going to turn my hair white.
It was then, as Elizabeth began to improve, that Darcy considered the effect that his presence might have upon her. He had guessed -- correctly, as it turned out -- that Mrs Bingley had kept it secret from her ailing sister, and agreed with her. Whether Elizabeth felt more of pain or pleasure in seeing him, it could not be with composure, and would certainly not be conducive to her health. He sighed deeply, reading another hysterical letter from Mrs Reynolds. It would be better to stay away until Elizabeth was completely recovered, however long that took.
So, after frankly discussing certain matters with Mrs Bingley -- and taking her advice, particularly as it accorded completely with his own analysis of the situation -- he retrieved Anne and returned to Pemberley to deal with The Woman.
"Oh, Mr Darcy," said Mrs Reynolds tearfully, "I am so glad to see you."
He felt a jab of conscience and impulsively leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I am so very sorry, there were some urgent matters of business. Bingley's steward had embezzled over two thousand pounds."
"Terrible," she said absently, and led him to the yellow parlour. Although the servants kept it fresh, Rosemary was the only one who had ever spent much time there, as he and Georgiana both preferred the blue. It spoke volumes of the servants' estimation of the ‘lady' that she had been relegated to a room so nearly forgotten.
Although the weeks at Pemberley had clearly improved her health, and certainly her apparel, somewhat, there was something distinctly bedraggled about her. She was tall, and once she must have been plump, but now had grown so thin that it seemed as if her skin had been stretched across a too-large frame. There were bruises across one cheek and down both arms, and Darcy flinched. Although her face was young, her blue eyes were tired and her light brown curls liberally sprinkled with grey at the temples.
"Might you possibly tell us your true name now, Miss Lydia?" Mrs Reynolds asked acerbically, although her eyes were softer than what might be usual. The true reason for her vacillation was clear.
"Lyd -- " Darcy exclaimed, and looked more closely at her. Good God, it was -- he nearly recoiled in horror. She was the same age as Georgiana, down to the very week, and yet it was clear that life could not have treated the two women more differently -- greying hair at two-and-twenty! He drew one hand over his eyes briefly. For nearly three years he had kept a close watch on Wickham, but in the last had slowly relaxed it, as Wickham's laziness rather seemed to preclude such behaviour.
"Mrs Wickham," he said, "to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"
Mrs Wickham threw a resentful look at Mrs Reynolds, who tactfully departed. "I could not stay another minute," she declared. "I knew you disliked him, even though you were at the wedding, and so you would help me."
"Excuse me," he said politely, "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you . . ."
"Wickham will probably be quite angry to find me gone, and with George and Betsey and John too. And since you dislike him so, you'll probably agree to anything that upsets him." She looked at him directly. Darcy was not sure whether he was more astonished at the dramatic change in her, or the utter lack of it.
"Mrs Wickham, I do not know what you have seen of the world -- " Although, he could guess well enough, and fully intended to castigate himself once he got a better opportunity -- "but I'm afraid your understanding of my character is rather lacking. Unlike your husband, I do not go out of my way to afford him pain." He could not but feel compassion for her state, however, and sighed. "You say you have brought your children?"
"Yes, one of the servants did something with them," she said carelessly. "I thought you might be more likely to assist if I brought them with me, since Wickham rather likes Betsey. She and George cannot be separated, and I thought I may as well bring John as not."
Darcy could only stare, not certain whether she was repulsive or simply pitiable. "What do you wish of me, Mrs Wickham?" he inquired.
"Oh, I don't know. But I daresay you're clever and I don't think you're likely to hurt any of us, you're not that sort, are you?" At his astonished expression, she added kindly, "A few of you aren't, you know."
This afterthought had him turn his head away until he had regained his composure. "Thank you, Mrs Wickham," he said dryly. "I would write to your father -- "
"Oh, would you?"
"-- but as he is dead, that is quite impossible."
"Oh, the Collinses must have taken Longbourn then. Where is mamma? With Aunt Phillips and Mary, I suppose."
"At Baildon, with the Bingleys and your sister Elizabeth."
"Oh, Jane and Lizzy! They were always so uppity -- they don't care twopence about me, I'm certain of it."
Darcy decided on pity. "Regardless, you certainly may not remain here, with me, and none el -- Anne, return to your bedroom."
"But papa!"
"Do as I say."
With a startled look -- for he only used such a tone very rarely -- Anne obeyed.
"Oh, is that your daughter? I'd heard you were married. She is very pretty, prettier than any of us ever were. You shan't have any trouble finding a husband for her, even if she weren't rich. It would be a great load off my mind if Betsey looked like that, but I suppose she's handsome enough."
"Longbourn burnt down," he said desperately, and she glanced at him vacantly.
"Oh? Mamma must be happy, now the Collinses will have to spend all papa's money on rebuilding it."
Darcy sighed, and sent for a servant. "Please prepare some rooms for Mrs Wickham and her children; they will be staying with us awhile. And for the Westhamptons -- they will be coming, as well." He had no intentions of being alone in the house with Mrs Wickham and her brood, for quite possibly months on end until Elizabeth mended; if only for propriety's sake, they would come.
"Yes, sir."
End Part II (on a sputter and a gasp...)