Beginning, Previous Section, Section IV, Next Section
Posted on: 2008-08-21
"So you see, it was all for nothing!"
Darcy smiled as he looked down at the lady walking beside him. She was still a well looking woman. Not classically beautiful, she had never been that, and a certain asymmetry had always clung to her. But her beauty had come from within and a set of expressive eyes.
Thus, her true beauty would never fade unless her mind did.
"I assure you, Mrs Davis, there was no trouble."
Speaking to Maximilien had been no trouble. He had not been offended by his interest. If Max had been offended then he had taken his revenge in pouring his troubles out to Darcy. Darcy had not remembered being quite that dramatic at one and twenty. He would have to tell Ash that if his heir found university too much of a trial then the stage would be the perfect place for him. Although Darcy thought he would wait until Ash had annoyed him to give him this advice.
"Thomas seemed to think -- " Elizabeth's forehead creased.
"If there was anything, it was after my departure. But Max, it seems, is being used as a cisibeo quite against his will. It will do him no harm."
Elizabeth smiled and then quickly schooled her expression to something neutral. Darcy thought she knew what he was thinking.
"I think it might have done me the world of good."
"I was not wondering."
Darcy nodded disbelievingly.
"Perhaps a little. I am sorry, however, to have put you in the position, and to have at the same time convinced my son that I have no regard for him."
"It is difficult to change one's perspective."
"Indeed. He has always been my child. Now he is a man and it is his right now to defend his sister. He has been proving this to me over the last couple of days."
Thomas Davis had thrown himself into the challenges of manhood over the last couple of days. Visiting Ash and expecting a lazy afternoon over port and good conversation, Darcy himself had found himself interrogated about the subject of tenant farming and crop rotations. If only Fitzwilliam would show as much interest!
Indeed, Darcy had been teaching Fitzwilliam about running the estate since he was able to walk. Darcy would sit him on his horse and take him about the grounds, showing him all he was able. Of course, he expected that it would take some time to fully immerse him in his responsibilities. He had time.
But now having seen Elizabeth, and seen her son, he wondered. Perhaps he did not have time on his side. An unfortunate accident, a sudden inflammation -- anything at all could separate him from this world and leave his son with a heavy burden. Why had he not thought this way before? He knew it himself; his own father had passed away when he was but twenty-three.
The easy answer was that he hadn't wanted to face his own mortality. The easier answer was that he hadn't wanted his son to face his father's mortality. But he had never wanted to shy away from the difficult paths.
Seeing the position that young Thomas Davis was now in, and his own struggles to find his position in the world, spurred Darcy into action. Yet another time in his life that someone with Bennet blood had taught him how to act correctly.
It was unsurprising that Fitzwilliam was at home; he once again wondered why his son bothered to pretend that he was not living under his father's roof.
Fitzwilliam had looked unsettled when Darcy had called him down to his study.
"You wished to see me, father?"
Darcy nodded and gestured for his son to close the door behind him. Darcy had dismissed his steward for the moment. Of course Gavins was the man that his son should speak to, for as much as he could learn from his own father, there was plenty Gavins could teach him.
Old Wickham, not tainted by the faults of his son, had been an excellent steward. Darcy could see that now and he had been wrong to dismiss the man the minute he had taken the reins at Pemberley. He hadn't turned Wickham out of the house, but given him a good retirement. There was nothing fundamentally unethical in his treatment of the older man, but Darcy knew in his mind that his disrespect for the older man's wisdom was beyond abhorrent.
How much he would have learnt if he had just been lenient? Darcy let these thoughts fall away and turned his mind back to his son.
"These are some legal documents pertaining to the sale of some of Pemberley's lands."
Fitzwilliam looked blankly at him.
Darcy knew his son was not stupid. Indeed he knew he had the same degree of intelligence that he had had at that age. Bookish intelligence, Darcy hastened to remind himself. The intelligence in the ways of the world, and self knowledge had taken some time.
No, his son was not looking blankly at him because he did not understand the documents proffered to him. He just did not understand why his father was showing them to him.
"You wish to know why I am showing you these documents?" asked Darcy.
"Yes, father."
"I think it is time that you take more of an interest in your inheritance."
"I did not think I had been disinterested. I apologise for my behaviour if there has been something to complain about, sir."
"You misunderstand me," Darcy wondered if it was a wilful misunderstanding. "I am showing you these documents because I wish for your opinion."
He wanted to test in some way the current understanding of his son. Added to this was the fact that the best way to learn was through some degree of practice. It was not enough to merely lecture upon subjects. Theory often wildly differed from the practice.
Too many times he had seen sons who just blindly copied the actions of their forefathers without actual thought. It was how many a grand estate fel: mismanagement. Unless you understood the reasons behind a decision, you would never be able to make proper decisions yourself?
This did not just apply to matters of business. When he had proposed to Amelia he had made himself clear. Amelia had been able to understand why he was asking her and made her decision accordingly. His reasoning had been so confused when he had asked Elizabeth, so how could he have expected her to understand and make a proper decision?
He was not so self assured to think that if he had been clear and gentlemanly in that first proposal that the proper decision would have been an acceptance. It might have still been an improper decision for her.
"My opinion, father?"
Darcy blinked at his son, "Yes."
"On the sale of some of our birthright?"
"To a worthy neighbour, who would make far better use of the land than we could."
"How could that be possible?" said Fitzwilliam. Darcy looked up sharply. It sounded as if some of that improper pride had instilled itself in his son without his ever meaning it to.
Instead he saw mere questioning in his son's eyes. Although he wondered what his son saw in his eyes.
It was an understandable question. If the land, which did not add much to the Darcy's revenue, was better used why did they not use it better?
"Mr Cavill has land that, in conjunction with our small parcel of land, can be properly used."
Fitzwilliam nodded, and looked over the document again. "I think it's a high price to pay."
"For the Cavills?"
"For us," said Fitzwilliam.
Darcy was puzzled. The money that would be forthcoming from the sale of land could be moved into industry. Darcy was sure that industry was the way of the future. He mentioned this to his son.
Fitzwilliam shrugged.
"You do not think so?"
"No, with that I agree."
"Then of what are you talking, Fitzwilliam?"
"May I ask why the sudden interest in showing me your plans for Pemberley, sir?"
"It is time, and it is not as if your time is currently being better spent."
"And this very moment is the time?"
Darcy asked for clarification, he did not understand his son's question.
"It has nothing to do with the fact Thomas Davis is currently running all about town attempting to learn which turnip is best for recultivating the earth?"
Darcy smiled, "I admit that Davis' exertions brought my mind around to the matter. But I am sure I would have ... "
"I thought so," said Fitzwilliam. "I beg you will excuse me."
"Fitzwilliam?"
"It is an excellent plan." With that his son nodded and left the room.
"Mr Darcy?"
It was only with Elizabeth's voice that he realised that he was still in the park with her, not still in that room with his son.
"I beg your pardon, my mind was wandering. We were talking of your son?"
Elizabeth laughed, "No, Mr Darcy, we had quite moved on from that subject. I was admiring the herbaceous borders."
"Can anyone admire herbaceous borders?"
"If they are being polite. May I inquire as to where your mind was wandering?"
Darcy had his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "My son. Fitzwilliam has been rather difficult of late."
"I am sure I have said this before, and it has been said many times to you, but I think it takes a great amount of strength to raise him alone."
"I had help. Amelia's mother while she was still able to deal with an active boy. Lady Catherine. Your sister, my sister..."
Darcy was still not sure what the effect of so many influences had been on Fitzwilliam. He himself had tried to be a steady rock. An example. Perhaps that is why it was suddenly so difficult to interact with his son as an equal. He had so long attempted to present a model for his son to follow that he had never appeared as a man to his heir.
"That is not quite the same as a mother, or a father," said Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, he was sure, had thrown herself into her relationship with her children. They would have climbed into bed with her on a frosty morning to tell tales to her. He could imagine it. Both because he knew her, and because she could not be so different from her sister.
Amelia had not been that type of woman, but Darcy wouldn't denigrate her memory. Love was shown in different ways. He was not that type of father either and he did not think of himself as a neglectful or terrible parent.
While perhaps Amelia and he had similar parenting styles, they would have clashed over various teachings for their son. Amelia believed in cutting wit and not undue pride. Whereas Darcy had lived that life and lost.
It was best then to have parents with differing styles? Darcy was not sure.
"I hope that I have done my best, even though I am unsure of my success."
"I think every parent shares your opinion. We both have difficulties with our sons."
"And no one could deny that we are such differing spirits ... "
Elizabeth smiled at that. "No, so perhaps it is just the way of sons, to cause difficulties, no matter what the parents have done."
With that, Darcy's worries seem to clear. There might not be any real problem with Fitzwilliam.
He was sure being sent down from Oxford would have preyed heavily on Fitzwilliam's mind. His son did not like being denied something that was important to him. It was a good lesson then to understand the consequences of one's actions could have personal repercussions of the negative variety.
Better that he learnt it over something so trivial as being kept away from his studies than over something that could really damage his future.
"I discussed a matter of business with him, and it seemed to displease him."
"You should have discussed it with my son, Mr Darcy. My son seems determined to know everything."
"It might have been the comparison I made between our sons that caused the difficulty, ma'am." Darcy was not sure where that insight came from, but he was suddenly sure that had been the reason his son had been cold. He could not deny being compared to any man was an unpleasant prospect.
He had lived through his father's comparisons of Wickham and himself. He should apologise to Fitzwilliam. Make it clear that he was not comparing the boys. Thomas's sudden interest in his responsibilities did not make him think his own son was irresponsible. Indeed, showing an improper amount of interest in his father's business would have made his son seem forward. Darcy would not have minded a great deal, but he knew that would be how it would have seemed to the world.
He recounted his musings to his companion.
"Comparisons! I thought once that if someone once more made comment about Jane! I was young and hadn't quite learnt how to guard myself against such comments. I thought perhaps I could be taller like Jane. Or suddenly I would become blonde. Strangely I never thought I could be as good as Jane."
Mrs Bennet had been quite clear in her effusions for her eldest daughter. Most of the village of Meryton had been in raptures over her. Jane Bennet was beautiful, Darcy could not deny that. But it had been a cold calm beauty that Darcy had rarely appreciated.
He wondered how the comparisons to her sister affected Elizabeth. When he had first known her, he might have laughed at the idea that anything could affect Elizabeth. But upon knowing her better, upon knowing himself better, he knew that such things had left their mark upon her.
"Do you not think Mrs Williams felt similarly?"
"In any comparison Jane would never be the loser."
"I can think of a number of attributes of yours that Mrs Williams does not possess."
"Flattery, Mr Darcy?"
"Truth, Mrs Davis."
"It has been many years since I have been hurt by an unfair comparison. Your son, and mine, are denied one ability, that neither of us can teach them."
"Experience."
"Indeed. I hope you will speak to young Mr Darcy."
Anyone else that dared to tell him what he might do with his son would have been given a reproof. No, that was incorrect; there were close friends that could speak to Darcy thus. Although they would speak to him, Darcy found himself curiously unwilling to seek advice himself.
A fault. He recognised that, but one he still could not cure.
If his wife had lived he would not have had to seek advice elsewhere, humbling himself. His wife, whoever she was or could have been, he knew now would have been an extension of himself. Of his body, of his mind and of his conscience.
Elizabeth's steps faltered for a moment, and she looked up at him. He knew she was about to apologise for her words. Again the passage of time had made her more reticent and cautious. Or she had learnt the power of her words.
But she had nothing to apologise for; while he had proposed to her when he had not truly understood what he wished for in a wife, he had wanted her to be his wife. When he had understood what he wanted, and what the words truly meant, he had seen her at Pemberley and his mind had not changed.
The world around them had changed, but not his wishes.
Of course the bitterness set in, the confusion all of that, but it did not change the fact he had once needed her, and if he had once thought of her in that way was it impossible that he could do so again?
He had perhaps not allowed himself to think on the subject as firmly as he suddenly did then, but long dormant feelings had come bubbling to the surface once again.
Elizabeth Davis was not Elizabeth Bennet. But he found himself responding to her despite this.
Darcy knew that her troubled history with her family had changed her. It had changed her sister; it had changed him. It could but not change them. But he found himself open with her, and while it was originally forced through sheer determination, but now it seemed natural.
It seemed natural to talk of their former relationship with ease and humour. Their dance at Netherfield brought amusement in its remembrance, not pain. When she worried about her daughter, Elizabeth turned to him and he felt it natural to turn to her.
Of course he had misunderstood her too many times before. When he had made his presumptions before Hunsford, his disregard for what was in front of his eyes at Hunsford, and afterwards...when he had misunderstood the reasons for Elizabeth and the Gardiners leaving Pemberley.
It was not only her; he had had misunderstood his cousin and his engagement and misunderstood the future Viscountess. In his marriage there had been misunderstandings. Amelia had not trusted in him and he had misunderstood the reasons for her behaviour.
The truth was an important thing, and he would rather be rejected now than labour under a misapprehension.
He stopped his steps, causing her to stop several paces ahead of him. Elizabeth turned to look at him quizzically.
"I find -- " he cleared his throat.
‘What do you find, Mr Darcy?"
There was no teasing in those words and he wondered whether she had any idea of what he was about to say. Although how she could divine his intentions when he could not consider how to articulate those feelings, indeed what precisely those feelings were.
"I find. I find that I must speak to you on a subject of importance. I hope I have learnt the lessons of the past and I must communicate to you -- If I did not communicate this to you then I think we could not consider ourselves equals in understanding of each other. In short -- " Although it was quite obvious to the both of them that his little speech was anything but short." The intensity of my feelings for you, Elizabeth has not diminished."
Posted on: 2008-08-29
Elizabeth thought for a moment her heart had stopped. It must have, because if it leapt into her mouth it could hardly be where it was supposed to be, doing what it was supposed to be doing.
She had no idea what she was thinking let alone what she wanted to say.
The moment hung suspended there, until it was broken by Emily running towards them.
"Mama, do you not think these the prettiest flowers?"
Elizabeth caught Emily's hand and squeezed it, "Yes, they are beautiful, but they will wilt if we are not careful." They were in Hyde Park. Kitty's home was not far from here, she told herself. "Aunt Kitty's, we shall go put them in water at Aunt Kitty's. You should like to see Clara and Bella would you not?"
She was well aware she was rambling and Emily was looking at her strangely. Emily's eyes flicked towards Mr Darcy and before comprehension could dawn, Elizabeth found herself hurriedly excusing her daughter and herself and dragging Emily away towards Park Lane.
"Mama, why are we walking so fast?"
"The flowers mustn't wilt!" Elizabeth's voice, she knew, was suddenly much higher pitched than it normally was, and she sounded like her mother.
They reached Ashbourne House, and Elizabeth found herself urging Emily to go find her Aunt and cousins and show them her flowers.
Elizabeth batted away any assistance from the footman who wished to take her bonnet and pelisse.
Up in the sanctuary of what must be the nursery or schoolroom, Elizabeth paced, feeling hot angry tears scalding down her face.
How could he reduce her to this? Once more?
The idea that Mr Darcy had been concealing these feelings. The idea that his wife was living with...Elizabeth could not even think it. How dare he reduce his wife's memory? Elizabeth could never think of doing that to Henry.
The idea that perhaps he had pined for her all this time made her feel somewhat ill. It should have been romantic; it was supposed to be romantic, but what happened in novels and what happened in real life was very different.
Elizabeth paced up and down and released her frustration.
"Emily said you had run mad, I must say I did not believe her."
Elizabeth turned to see Kitty standing in the doorway. Her sister closed the door behind her.
"Elizabeth?"
"Oh do not question me, Kitty."
"Emily said Mr Darcy was with you."
Elizabeth pulled the ribbons of her bonnet and wrenched it off her head, and stripped off her gloves to shove them into it. "Insufferable."
"Darcy is frequently insufferable." Kitty had a smile on her face. "I had thought an argument would have erupted much sooner between you."
"It is hardly funny, Catherine."
"Well if I do not know what it is that you have argued over, I can hardly react properly."
"He told me that he never loved his wife. That he always loved me!"
Kitty frowned. "Darcy announced in the middle of Hyde Park that he never loved Amelia and he always loved you? He used those exact words?" Her sister sounded disbelieving.
"No, not those exact words. He said, ‘The intensity of my feelings for you, Elizabeth, have not diminished.'"
"Well and how did you get from -- " Kitty sounded confused.
"He loved me first! That is what it means." It sounded so arrogant and Elizabeth hated the fact she sounded arrogant.
"Were you still in love with Darcy when you agreed to marry Henry?"
"No!" The answer came automatically, but Elizabeth could hear it being a defence. "Perhaps."
There was no perhaps. But it had not meant she did not love Henry. That she was not in love with Henry. Darcy had gradually, faster than she had expected, and surely become her past and Henry her present and future.
"But that does not mean you were not in love with Henry," said Kitty, somehow echoing her thoughts.
Elizabeth sat down on one of the chairs. "But he loved me best, that is what he meant." Elizabeth didn't need to clarify which he she meant.
"And do you love Thomas best because you have loved him first and longest?"
"Do not be ridiculous!"
"I find love is ridiculous." Kitty pulled a chair over to sit next to Elizabeth. "Can I tell you something?"
Elizabeth nodded.
"I was so young when I married Ash. It is not like Jane. Do you think Jane does not love Reginald, because she once loved Bingley? That it died completely?"
"I don't know." And she didn't. Jane was still an enigma to her, as much as she had been to Darcy.
"I was saying, I was so young when I married Ash. You do not think I have not met gentlemen that I could have loved?"
Was her sister confessing what Elizabeth thought she was confessing?
"You misunderstand me," said Kitty, and Elizabeth felt ashamed. "The road not travelled... if only I had met them before I had met Ash, my life might have been very different. Love isn't that simple, Lizzy. There are so many different kinds..."
"You think I have overreacted?"
"No, just reacted to the wrong thing. If you wish for my opinion ... "
"I do," said Elizabeth.
"My opinion is that Darcy did love his wife. There were trials and tribulations. If she had not succumbed to her illness I believe they might have been happy still. But she did succumb and perhaps he has had more time to think. He could not have you, Lizzy." Kitty paused, "Well he could have, but in a very ignominious way. Darcy would never have disrespected Henry in that way, or you. So he moved on. That I promise you. There is no best in love. You can love twice in this lifetime; concurrently or consecutively."
Elizabeth smiled. "And how did my baby sister become so wise?"
"Time. And five children."
"Mama would be so proud."
"Only of the fact three of them are sons!" retorted Kitty. Kitty tilted her head to one side. "Are you sure, Lizzy -- " she broke off and bit her lip.
"Do not worry about offending me," said Elizabeth, thinking that must be why her sister did not continue.
"Are you sure you have not reacted in this way because you might be thinking the same thing?"
Elizabeth did not know. Darcy was her past. But now her present and future had left her, perhaps...
She shook her head. "I do not know. I should mourn my husband."
"Henry would have wanted you to be happy."
"Of course he would. But with another man? Should my happiness revolve around another man? My children should be enough."
"Enough to drive you witless," said Kitty, "I heard about Max."
"Oh!" She had not wanted her sister to discover that. "I meant no offence, just ... "
"They would not suit and they are ... "
"Far too young and ..."
"Henrietta is a little wild and Max is ..."
"A little too like his father."
The sisters laughed. Kitty squeezed her hand, "See we are in complete agreement and charity."
"Emily must think me mad."
"I think all children think their parents a little mad."
Elizabeth had certainly thought that about her parents. Still thought it of her father. Then the thought struck her. She had not answered Mr Darcy. She had left him alone standing stupidly in the middle of the park. A more hideous rejection than Hunsford. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Mr Darcy. I left Mr Darcy in the middle of Hyde Park! What must he think of me!"
"He is probably thinking ‘my dearest Elizabeth, you have not changed.'" Kitty laughed.
"This is no laughing matter." Although Elizabeth could not help a small giggle escape her lips. "He has certainly not changed. Once again, suddenly and without warning he -- I lie, it is not entirely without warning."
"I said that you were both trying so earnestly to be open with each other, to prove you were both all right with this reunion. It is just an extension of that honesty. I do not always think honesty is the best policy but in this situation, it is."
Elizabeth did agree, except how was she supposed to meet him now, in company? She must tell him her response, except she did not know what that was. What could have been a friendship was suddenly more than that and she had to change.
Kitty had not noticed her sister's distraction and was babbling on "...of course it is so much better now. If you had been twenty, something would have had to be said, but now? It is just a statement, nothing else."
"What are you talking of?"
"I mean there is nothing improper in your interactions; having been married is a glorious thing. There might be some talk of course, but imagine if you were twenty!"
"I am hardly concerned with the opinions of society."
"But Darcy would have to be let down or accepted if you were twenty. Now you might merely regard it as a compliment."
A compliment. It was a compliment, thought Elizabeth. It meant she had not changed. She was still the woman she was at twenty. The woman he had loved. She thought on that some more; well actually, that was not in fact a compliment. It meant she had not changed.
"A very Darcy compliment. Does this mean I have not changed an iota in all these years?"
"Do I look like Darcy?"
"Well I can hardly ask him!"
"You can, and you will," said Kitty sounding certain. "Or I will."
Elizabeth quickly forbade her sister from doing any such thing.
"Careful!"
It seemed to Thomas an incredibly late instruction. By his reckoning he and Max had already sent the ancient wooden trunk flying into one possibly priceless vase, knocked the banister too many times to count and gouged out part of the Darcy's hallway.
"Clearly if you were in my position," said Max, blowing blond hair out of his face, his hands being otherwise occupied, "then we would not be having these problems."
"If you were in my position, we should have had more accidents. It is my house, after all, I know the best way to take this trunk downstairs."
Thomas tried not to laugh when he heard his cousin mutter ‘What is this ‘we' you speak of.' He already had sweaty palms.
"Perhaps you should put it down and have a rest," said Darcy finally.
"Where? Where should you like me to put it?!" Max sounded frustrated. Thomas had a fair idea where Max might choose to put the trunk.
Thomas was sometimes uncomfortable with the notion of servants. They had had, he thought, the perfect number so that they might be part of the family almost. Here they became quite faceless, and Thomas did not like the idea of faceless unknown people knowing his life; the most personal details of that life no less.
However, in this circumstance, he was quite happy at the idea of footmen. He did not know why he and Max were lugging more of Darcy's furniture around. He'd returned to his rooms after visiting his uncle and found himself ordered to assist and bundled into a hackney cab.
He was surprised that he was asked, since he had not thought Darcy was precisely speaking to him. Although he could not, Thomas thought, still be thinking of the ridiculous notion that his own mother threatened the memory of the marriage of Mr and Mrs Darcy! Surely not.
"Darcy," said Thomas, having lowered the trunk to rest precariously down the stairs.
"Yes, Davis," said Darcy.
"Is there a reason that you have not asked the footmen to do this?"
Darcy was usually a very upright person, but somehow he seemed to stiffen even more.
Even Max seemed to be eyeing him warily.
"I will not lower myself to ask."
That seemed a contradiction in terms. Did he not think lugging items around London demeaning? Thomas could have sworn Darcy would have thought so. Before Thomas could, perhaps unwisely, probe into this new thinking from the other boy the front door opened.
Looking over his shoulder, Thomas saw Mr Darcy Senior enter his home with a face that looked like thunder.
He stopped short when he saw the trio of young men grouped on his main staircase.
"Gentlemen."
Thomas thought that the older man tried to force his face into a smile for the occasion. But it was obvious something was perturbing him. Thomas tried to put it out of his mind that he was sure Emily had told him yesterday how she was to go walking in the park with Mama and Mr Darcy.
"What have we here?" It might have just been the fact he was listening intently, but the joviality sounded false.
"Darcy cannot live without this trunk, sir," said Max.
Mr Darcy looked at the trunk and smiled, "You cannot live without your childhood mementos, Fitzwilliam?"
"I think they would be preserved better with me," said Darcy stiffly.
Thomas felt like his head was yo-yoing between the two Darcys except what was being lobbed between the two players was almost flying over his head and Thomas had no idea how much Max was even inferring from the conversation.
For whatever it was that Darcy meant by his statement, his father clearly understood it, turning slightly red.
Thomas thought he was breaking the tension, by commenting that some sort of assistance to continue the trunk on its way would be very welcome.
"Of course. I do not understand why Gregory and Raymonds are not assisting."
"I did not ask them to," said Darcy. "They offered, of course."
"I am glad they did..." Mr Darcy looked suddenly tired. "I have had a trying afternoon. I would be glad of it if you just spoke as you found, Fitzwilliam. I do not need another moment of second guessing what is going on in someone's mind..."
"Very well, Father, I do not wish for any assistance from you, or the house that you keep." Darcy took a breath, "I do not, naturally, mean to devalue the time and effort in raising me, it must have been difficult for you - " He seemed to wish to say more but Thomas thought it was a look at him that made the other boy stop.
It was possibly the most awkward situation Thomas had been in his entire life. Mr Darcy Senior's hand slipped from the banister and he turned on his heel to enter what Thomas was sure was the study. Mr Darcy Junior turned on his heel and stalked up the stairs.
"You know I feel that if this trunk does not hold all of the Darcys' rare and valuable treasures, I am going to be quite disappointed," said Max.
Thomas gave a wry smile at Max's attempt to lighten the mood, but Thomas thought perhaps he should have given his mother a more explicit warning.
Posted on: 2008-09-04
Darcy poured himself a generous glass out of the decanter. On the wall of his study hung a portrait of his late wife; he silently raised the glass to her. He had a habit of raising his glass to her, today he just had a particular reason.
A knock at the door, and Darcy wasn't sure he could cope with the earnest look of Thomas Davis. But it was not Thomas, it was Maximilien.
He did not blame Elizabeth per se for her reaction to his declaration. She was in shock. He was in shock. Darcy was not sure what he expected. She could hardly have fallen into his arms, even if that was what she wanted to do. She was not out of mourning for her husband. She was certainly not out of the society dictated period, but Darcy did not think internally she had finished her mourning.
Why had he said anything? What could she do with this information? All it had done was transfer the burden from himself to her.
Darcy had seated himself at his desk, his elbows leant upon it and with the glass suspended between his hands he regarded the portrait more deeply than he had in a while.
She had sat for it just before their marriage. Whatever she was thinking when she sat, it wasn't about him. Or if the painter had captured the eyes and the expression in the later sittings, perhaps she had thought of him.
Amelia had caught his attention across a room; a laugh, which had annoyed him because he had been determined not to enjoy himself. It had been his Aunt's party, the only reason he had attended. She'd looked up, seen his regard, his negative regard and continued listening to the tale being told to her by some long forgotten lord.
Annabelle, his cousin, had pulled his sleeve later on in the night and told him that Miss Watson had asked her ‘who is that man who had clearly lost his fortune -- or his dog?'
Darcy smiled at the memory. He had asked her, almost seriously, whether she equated dogs with money. Amelia had responded with a smile that she'd known men to be just as upset over a dog as they were over losing a thousand pounds in a sitting. Her tone had implied what she thought of such men, and he had agreed with her.
It had been the beginning. It had also been the end.
When she was on her death bed she had put her hand on his face and told him he looked like he'd lost his dog.
Darcy could still not believe how flippantly he had answered ‘Not my fortune?'. Amelia had said she never believed that of him, and if he suddenly became that man she would haunt him for depriving their son.
They'd spoken of other things that night. Things only barely touched on before. Amelia had given her consent and her support to his remarriage. He was young. There was Fitzwilliam to consider. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted to leave this world with no regrets.
Darcy knew she'd written a letter, or more than one letter, to her mother and to their son. Those last letters had been entrusted to him to hand over when specified but he'd never read them. What Amelia had to say was between her and Fitzwilliam.
With his solicitor was another letter, waiting for him to read if he remarried. That was her instruction. Perhaps it was a desire not to read that letter that had kept him from succumbing. That may have been her intention, but he'd not seen insincerity in her eyes. She did want him to be happy, and if that involved a second marriage, so be it.
He could have not even considered her feelings, or anyone else's; no one would have blinked an eye if he had remarried. It was expected. Perhaps not if theirs had been a great romance but it had not been. They loved each other, there was no doubt, but not like star crossed loves. They weren't Romeo and Juliet. Although Darcy had always found that parallel distasteful and strange. What was so destined and romantic about such a fantastical love? The courtly stories were not much better.
Either way, Darcy had been set free by Amelia. He doubted Elizabeth had been similarly set free by Henry and even if she had been, she hadn't yet liberated herself.
"Sir?"
Darcy realised he'd been staring at the painting while Maximilien had looked on curiously. A sense of embarrassment washed over him, caught out in such a private moment.
"Max."
"I wished to tell you that..." the younger man fidgeted slightly, "I was not old to be so with Oliver... but how upset I was when Alex and then Bella entered our lives. I did not understand why my parents would wish to replace me. I thought they should send them back where they came from."
It was a very clumsy analogy, Darcy told the boy so, "and might I add, Maximilien, that you were six when Alexander was born?"
Max shrugged, "I think the point stands. If it is a little weak, this one is not. If I am a disappointment, my father might disown me and still have two sons to replace me. You do not have that luxury. Neither does Fitzwilliam."
Darcy followed the point through, "You have two fathers to replace Ash? Not that I blame you ... "
"Sir, I mean that I am not the sole focus of anybody's attention and I do not feel that I have to focus solely on anyone either."
Darcy acknowledged the point, it seemed easier than arguing further.
Thomas reassured the cab driver that his cousin would not be long, and sure enough Max emerged from the townhouse and nimbly leapt into the hackney.
"What did you have to go back for?" asked Thomas, who could see nothing in the older boy's hands.
"Nothing," said Max. "I just had to speak to Darcy."
Thomas didn't press his cousin, indeed he did not know which Darcy Max even meant, and focused his attention on making sure the trunk did not fall from its precarious position.
Just as he did not expect Max to reveal his conversation, he did not expect the younger Darcy to give either of them any thanks when he returned.
It was his day to be surprised. Thomas was lying on his bed trying to decipher some of his father's notes. He had written to ask the Squire to send some of his father's effects to him. The best way of coming to grips with everything would be to return to York, but Thomas found he did not wish to leave London.
Not because he felt that York was beneath him now that he had experienced London. Nor was it because his friends in York were so far below his friends in London, Thomas found that thinking abhorrent. He found he could not leave his mother. She was an adult, certainly, but Thomas thought she needed him. She might not realise it, but she did.
He had put aside the papers to read a little more of Tom Jones. Max had suggested it; there might be minimal or no duelling, but it was bawdy. Thomas wasn't sure that should be an indicator of good reading material, but he understood where Max was coming from.
So it was with surprise that he looked up to see Darcy standing in the doorway.
"Darcy."
"I see my trunk arrived with minimal damage."
Thomas supposed that was Darcy speak for thank you and told the other boy he was welcome. Thomas thought that Darcy wanted to say something else but was waiting for him to ask. He should indulge him; after all he had spent the last year almost drowning in questions that no one would answer, someone who wanted to tell him things was a rarity. It was, however, a combination of the fact it was Darcy and the fact Thomas was sick of Questions and Answers that made Thomas obstinate and he said nothing.
The next time Thomas looked up, Darcy was gone.
His trunk however wasn't. Darcy might have been thankful that they brought it in for him; he wasn't so thankful that he brought it in from where Max and he had dumped it.
There was no way that either of their two elderly servants would be able to drag it anywhere. If Darcy just left it there, he clearly expected either Thomas or Max to move it.
"Darcy!" yelled Thomas up the stairs, when there was no response Thomas ran up them and barged into Darcy's room.
Darcy was in his shirtsleeves and was on the verge of saying something cutting, when Thomas cut him off. "Did anyone teach you good manners?"
"Of course," said Darcy defensively.
"Then move your trunk!"
Thomas practically pushed Darcy down the stairs. Why did he have to become involved with the Darcy family, who seemed to exist to torment his family?
Before he'd even heard of this family, he'd thought his mother had always been his mother, that before he could remember she had just been his mother with no life and purpose bar that which brought him life. Now he knew more than he wanted to know about how complicated the world was and could be. He knew what could happen if assumptions were made and if one did not think before one spoke.
Of course Darcy could never lift it on his own, Thomas knew that, but as long as Darcy did some of the work, he did not mind helping.
It turned out to be heavier than both of them could manage, and they ended up dropping it just as they manoeuvred it into Darcy's chamber. The old hinge shattered on impact, spilling some of the contents onto the floor. Thomas only bruised his shin but Darcy cut himself and, swearing, went to find his liniment that Max had borrowed.
Thomas pulled the lid back into its rightful place and reached to put back the contents that had slipped out. These had been placed on the top, and were letters. Old letters. Some addressed to Darcy and some addressed to Mama.
Letters. Like the one Darcy had mentioned when he'd tried to impale him at the fencing masters.
"You want to read them."
Thomas turned to see Darcy had returned, wrapping a bandage around his hand.
"I was just returning them," said Thomas. "I would not read another person's correspondence." Thomas turned the one addressed to Mama over in his hands.
"My grandmother left them to me."
Thomas was not surprised. Darcy's morality and sense of duty might be skewed as far as he was concerned, but he felt they would share the idea of reading other people's correspondence without permission.
"Read them." Darcy just looked resigned and left the room, leaving Thomas with the writings of a dead woman.
"Mr Darcy."
Darcy looked up from the desk; he had not moved since Maximilien had left him. He had attempted to continue with some of his business affairs but his mind wandered. One of the footmen had entered the room; Darcy signalled him to continue.
"A lady is here to see you."
Darcy tried to smile, but inwardly he groaned. It was either Georgiana or Kitty. If it was Georgiana then it was likely just to be a general concern into his well being. Georgiana would wish to make sure that he was not too greatly upset by the fact that Elizabeth was in London. She would distract him by talking of her own children, of her paintings, of anything in order to distract him.
If it was Kitty, then it was likely to me a much more painful interview. He knew that they were near Ashbourne House when he made his disastrous proclamation. Elizabeth would have gone directly there and it could not be hoped that Kitty would not know about what had happened.
Elizabeth might have told her sister, if she had not then Darcy had every faith that Kitty would have winkled it out of her.
No, it was his luck, or his just desserts that it would be Kitty and he would have to explain himself. He should show her into the drawing room as was proper; in fact he was sure that his servants had already done so. But she could pace better in here.
It would be best if he led off discussion, so as soon as the door opened Darcy stated very firmly, "I know what you are here to say and ... "
Except it wasn't Kitty.
It was Elizabeth.
"Do you?" said Elizabeth.
"Elizabeth..." said Darcy, suddenly realising she had visited him -- for all purposes she was a single woman -- and he had invited her into his study! Darcy ran his hand through his hair. "We should ..."
"Talk?" He could not see any trace of amusement or teasing in Elizabeth's face or voice.
"I was going to say perhaps we should retire to the drawing room, it would be more proper."
"You were expecting somebody else?"
"I was expecting your sister or mine."
Elizabeth nodded, "I see no reason to retire anywhere. What I have to say can be said here as well as anywhere."
Darcy invited her to sit, and noted that she chose the seat where she could not view Amelia's portrait.
"Mr Darcy, I ..." It seemed that for once Elizabeth was out of words.
"I should apologise to you once again for my behaviour. My actions were ungentlemanly."
"They were surprising, but I would not judge them so harshly, Mr Darcy."
"Selfish at the very least. I should not burden you with my feelings."
Elizabeth stiffened; he could see that her hands that lay in her lap had tightened around her reticule. "Perhaps I should judge what I am capable of receiving."
Darcy thought perhaps he should apologise once again, but her actions belied her words. She had run off! She had come here clearly without much thought to what implications her actions might have to him or to society. It was perhaps not wise but he told her as much.
Elizabeth reddened.
"I do not mean to offend you, Mrs Davis, but I feel we should speak the truth. That is why I confessed to you this morning. That is what I meant to do, now I have time to reflect ..."
"Now that you have reflected, you regret telling me that you never loved your wife?"
Darcy started. He had never said that. He would never say that. It would be a rejection of everything. He could not compare his love of Amelia and his love of Elizabeth. That was not because his feelings for one were inferior to the other; they were merely different. Of course if Elizabeth had accepted him at Hunsford, or he had arrived at Lambton before the Gardiners and she had left then he would have never married Amelia.
His relationship with Amelia had been strained at times due to disagreements and misunderstandings, not to mention her health. But he could hardly imagine his life with Elizabeth would have been idyllic. He could not pretend that perhaps in the middle of some small argument he would not have thrown Wickham at her head; that she had not seen through Wickham. He had told Elizabeth he did not think he could have been the husband he was without her, and it was she who had taught him not to expect perfection. That a relationship could have storms and tempests without being a failure; that he could love and respect someone with whom he disagreed. He could have never been a successful husband to anyone without that knowledge, unless he had married a milksop. He would not have been happy then either.
If nothing else, if there was no other reason to hold affection for Amelia, then there was his son. His frustrating son. His son with whom Darcy could only assume he was making mistakes.
But Darcy had remembering looking at him for the first time and being amazed. He had continued to be amazed. Appalled as well occasionally. There could be no doubt as to how he felt about Fitzwilliam, even if he could not show it as well as he would like.
Amelia had given him a son, and if she had been a cipher, that would be a reason to love her. She had not been so, so Darcy was glad that there were other reasons to hold her in esteem.
He could only imagine that his current thoughts showed across his face as Elizabeth looked distressed.
"Darcy, I ..."
"Elizabeth. I never would say that to you. That is not what I said. My feelings for you are separate ..."
"I know," Elizabeth broke in, "I just... It was unexpected and I was foolish; I should not have said such a thing. You have had quite some time to come to terms with everything, I have not had that luxury."
"Of course," said Darcy. "That is why I should have..."
"Suffered in silence as you did before?"
Darcy smiled, "It was hardly suffering."
"I thought you were suffering."
"Because you mistook my expressions."
"I cannot help but do so where you are concerned." Elizabeth paused, "I do want to continue our discussion."
Darcy held his breath. Was she about to speak to him about her feelings? She had cleverly avoided any hint. He knew from their first meeting that it had not been a rejection of him that had led to her marriage to Henry Davis. Timing, miscommunication -- everything but not being in love with him in fact.
Except that was twenty years ago. A lifetime ago.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and Darcy was half hope and half in agony of what she was about to say, "I think you should tell me about your wife."
It was not so unexpected. She wanted to know about his life, about his reasoning, his feelings, and she wanted to make up for her assumption. At some point she must talk to him about how she felt, but this was not the time.
So Darcy began talking of Amelia.
Posted on: 2008-09-12
Thomas shut the trunk carefully.
He'd been given permission to read the letters, but he still felt uncomfortable. Those who had written the letters had not given him permission and it felt intrusive reading the letters of two women who were not around to explain their words more fully. So he had only looked at them cursorily. He was not sure what Darcy wanted him to learn from them.
Darcy had lied. He had learnt that much. Mrs Darcy's letters did not mention his mother. Mrs Darcy's letters were as he expected: the letters of a woman who knew she would not be around to impart wisdom. The letters of a woman who did not want to leave her infant son.
The letters to her mother (Mrs Wilson) were not so focussed and Thomas wondered at a woman who would leave her grandson the letters she'd received from her daughter without first censoring them. Thomas told his own mother things he assumed that she would take to the grave. For instance, many grievances with his sisters that he never wanted his sisters to know about: he did not really wish that Emily was returned to the stork (when he had believed in the stork); he just had needed to say it to someone.
Clearly Mrs Darcy had spoken similarly to her mother. There were mentions of his mother and Mr Darcy in those letters. Thomas could only laud Mr Darcy for his honesty to his wife.
He also could not entirely blame Darcy for his behaviour if these letters were all he knew of his parents' relationship and of Mr Darcy's feelings for ‘Elizabeth'. It was strange for his mother to be an Elizabeth, but the woman Mrs Darcy wrote about was more ‘Elizabeth' than his mother ‘Mrs Davis'.
Letters were a one-sided sketchy representation of real events, worse than that they were someone's perception of a real event.
So Thomas could not take Mrs Darcy's version of events as gospel. Neither could he take them as gospel of Mrs Darcy's feelings. They might capture a moment in time but he could not be surprised that anyone would be upset to find that their husband or wife had once loved another, particularly if that was after the marriage.
He wondered how his father reacted. If there were similar letters, to the one's Thomas had just read but with the name Henry Davis scrawled across the bottom. If there were, Thomas had no desire to read them.
Elizabeth set the teacup back on its saucer. She was alone in the drawing room. A household matter had called Darcy away for a moment. A flustered maid had mentioned the word ‘smoke' and Darcy had shot away immediately. The fact he had not returned to hurry her out of the house, and she heard no shouting, meant she was fairly secure in the fact the house was not burning down around her ears.
She was glad she asked him to speak of his wife to her. Perhaps it shouldn't reassure her, but it did. He hadn't pined for her per se. But he had been unhappy. Unhappy in his loneliness and in his past decisions; unlike her, he had had the luxury of time.
Three children, a husband, the village; all allowed Elizabeth no time to think of the past. She only thought of the past as it gave her pleasure, she had had no energy to do anything else. Gradually those memories brought her back to Jane; no that was far more to do with Jane's good nature than herself. Of all her sisters, it was natural that it was Jane she reclaimed the most; they had had the strongest bond for so long.
With Mary, she had always had a difficult relationship, and Mary seeing her thoughts and her portents of the future (so often proved correct) so dismissed by her family was quite happy to disconnect from Longbourn and her old life when she married. Elizabeth thought now perhaps she had more in common with Mary than she had previously suspected.
She had been too proud to try and mend fences with Kitty. In turn her sister was equally as stubborn -- or perhaps fearful. Kitty's weakness had always been to attach herself to a stronger body and be swayed by them. Perhaps she had no longer wanted to surround herself with such things. It had been both their faults, but the primary fault was her own, Elizabeth knew that; she had caused the rift, she should have been the one to make the move.
But she had been busy.
If Henry had never happened, if the children had never happened, if it had all been ripped away from under her feet earlier, she would have had the leisure to reflect and repent earlier than she did now.
She would have been lonely. No, she and Darcy were not so different, it was merely their circumstances. Reversed, it would have been Darcy happy and content with his Amelia.
Reflecting on the past, or what might have been, did not help in the present. It left them both exactly where they had started. His realisation that he might be happy again with her and Elizabeth wondering whether she was ready for such a thing.
Darcy had said that Amelia had left him a letter in case he ever remarried, he had avoided looking at her particularly when he had mentioned that but she knew he was thinking of her.
Had Amelia meant for her husband to open that letter when he planned on remarrying, when he had picked a potential bride, or after the event? What would she have written to Darcy?
Elizabeth wondered what she would have written to Henry. It was only the work of a brief moment: she knew what she would have written. She would have wanted him to be happy. If that happiness meant that he never married another then that is what she would have wanted. If it had meant remarriage, that is what she would have wanted.
Of course it was expected when a man lost his wife, and had small children, that he would find a new mother for them. Darcy, it seemed, would never follow convention.
Elizabeth knew what the village gossips would have made of it: a romance unable to be broken, a man callously refusing to do his duty or a man waiting for the ‘right' woman. It might be that all were the case in Darcy's situation.
"Elizabeth?" Darcy sounded concerned.
"I was just lost in my thoughts," said Elizabeth, trying to smile reassuringly.
"You must forgive me."
"I thought we had discussed that."
Darcy hung his head for a moment, but Elizabeth did not think he was chastened by her comment, rather he was trying to hide a smile, "I meant for my having to leave you just then."
"Households must come first. I would not want it to burn down around my ears."
"I do not think there was any danger of that; my chef dislikes the new range. Anything modern he dislikes. He was hoping that a small plume of smoke would decide the range's fate in his favour -- no doubt he dreams of it adorning a scrap heap somewhere. Perhaps if I gave him more to do he would not be quite as unhappy."
"You do not host many dinners?"
"I can count the number of times I have had guests -- of the non-family kind -- over to dinner since Amelia died on one hand."
"And your chef has stayed with you?"
"I did not say that. This would be my fourteenth chef. They stay their year and that is all. Pemberley servants are more loyal to me."
"Or they have nowhere else to go," teased Elizabeth. "Not that I think you a harsh master. After all, I still remember Mrs Reynolds' sincere appreciation of you."
A look of fond remembrance passed across Darcy's face, "Mrs Reynolds was the very best of women."
If this was twenty years ago, Elizabeth thought, Darcy would have at least by now asked her if he dared to hope. He would have brought up the reason Elizabeth had broken with propriety, for all she was a widow, and come to his house alone.
Her third marriage proposal, her Henry, after she had told him she had no answer, had asked her to give him at least hope.
"I will not speak of this to you again, unless you choose to open the conversation, Elizabeth, but please tell me now if I am a fool to hope."
Of course she had given him hope. Ultimately she'd given him a positive answer to his question.
The difference between a twenty-six year old Henry or even a twenty-eight year old Darcy and the Darcy that sat opposite her? He knew, like she now did, that hope was the one thing that no one could gift. He would wait.
Thomas glared at the man sitting next to him, who had just elbowed him in the chest for the fourth time in half an hour. He had never been in charity with Darcy more.
That young man sat on the other side of Max asking, yet again, why they could not have sat in the box kept by their parents. Instead the three were seated in the pits with everyone else. Thomas had to admit it was entertainment enough where they were sitting but he had not heard one iota of singing. He could just about see those on the stage, but that was all.
"This is an experience," said Max, brushing an unknown food -- well Thomas hoped it was food -- substance off his coat.
"I would think the opera was enough of an experience," said Darcy frostily.
"For my first time, I would have liked to have watched the opera...." added Thomas. He needn't bother adding ‘instead of for low flying objects' to the end of the sentence.
Max sounded annoyed, "Well, if I knew both of you were going to be so difficult about a genuine London buck experience I would not have suggested it."
"Then it is settled: we shall repair to my father's box." Darcy stood with some difficulty; even though those on the benches did not seem to be paying any attention themselves to what was on stage, they loudly protested their view being blocked. Darcy however did not seem to notice, nor did he either sit down or push his way out. His attention had been grabbed by something or someone above him.
Thomas craned his neck around to see what had done so; it was his mother. Sitting in what Thomas could only presume was Mr Darcy's box. Or perhaps the box Mr Darcy shared with Lord Ashbourne. Either way the choice now seemed to be: sit in the cramped stalls or sit with his mother.
Darcy had made his choice and hurriedly sat back down.
"Decided to continue to grace us with your presence?" said Max dryly.
"I was never going anywhere."
Max turned to look over his shoulder and did not even need to seem to search out what had upset the other boy. He looked back at Thomas and shrugged.
"I have not seen this production before, is it a good rendition?" asked Elizabeth.
"Tolerable," was Darcy's response.
"Well I know what tolerable really means in the dictionary of Darcy..."
Darcy flushed; "I beg that you would -- " Elizabeth was about to assure him that she was really only teasing, when Darcy recovered himself. "I am glad that you are so ready with your translations. I wonder what you would have thought if I had said that it was ‘fine'."
Elizabeth was bemused. "I must not have come to that entry."
"Reading backwards? Most peculiar."
"I prefer to think of it as forward thinking."
"To know the end first?"
"It is a talent I have sometimes wished for outside of books."
"It does not spoil your enjoyment?"
"Not in the least," said Elizabeth blithely, knowing they were not really talking about books.
Darcy paused before speaking, "You do not really read the end of books first?"
Elizabeth laughed, "No! That would really spoil the enjoyment."
"But you wish for such a peek at life?"
"Sometimes. But I am glad it is just a fantasy. If I really had the choice to see how my actions would fare, I am not sure I would take it. If I had seen what would happen to end my marriage, before I answered Henry? I would have seen the pain of losing him -- but not ..."
"I understand perfectly."
Elizabeth did not doubt for a moment that he did. In fact she could not think of a time when they were in such perfect charity with each other. Something could only spoil it.
"I am glad that you invited me. It is a pity though that my aunt could not accompany us."
Elizabeth wondered if Darcy realised that Mrs Gardiner had constructed an elaborate plot in order to extricate herself from the invitation. Her aunt thought that Elizabeth had not realised what she was doing, and perhaps before Darcy's declaration she might have been blind. But now she was exceedingly sensitive and able to see what her friends and family might have been hoping for.
"It is a great pity that this was ..." Darcy seemed to be trying to place the words "...inaugural dinner of the ladies of ..."
Elizabeth relieved his suffering, since while he could not remember the particular excuse, the look on his face showed he knew it was an excuse. "Please do not try to remember my aunt's nonsense."
"I never have thought of your aunt as nonsensical."
"You were surprised that I had such respectable relations," replied Elizabeth tartly.
"Pleased might be a better word, and I always found myself surprised around you." Darcy looked down over the stage, it was clear that the interval was soon to end, "Do not hold my folly against me. I promise you that I was trying ... "
"I do not believe you needed to try, not there, not at Pemberley."
"Regardless, do not hold such against me."
It seemed that she was always being applied to for forgiveness.
"I am endeavouring to think of the past only as it gives me pleasure. I will do so in this case, as long as you promise me that you will do the same."
Darcy smiled. "I do not think I need to promise that." But he took her hand and kissed it.
It did not seem to Elizabeth that she needed to make a decision. Her mouth and her body were doing it for her.
Darcy pulled his cravat from around his neck and carelessly let it fall to the floor. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered what Elizabeth saw when she looked at him.
He would never have been so unsure of himself before. But now what did he have to recommend himself? A home: Elizabeth had one of those. A heart: Her children gave her theirs unconditionally. Conversation: he was not so arrogant to think he alone could give her that. The list could go on, and he could not find one single thing that was not fulfilled.
On his side there were plenty of blank spaces to fill. Twenty years had reversed his thinking. Then he thought only of what he could give her. What she would be a fool to refuse. Now he could only think of what she could give him.
Darcy swiftly removed his cufflinks and put them in a dish on the dresser. The letter wedged between that dish and the wall caught his attention.
After his confession to Elizabeth and their conversation in his study and drawing room, he had instructed his solicitor to recover the letter. It had been sitting there now for a couple of days.
Darcy had not opened it. Not because he was unsure of the meaning of Amelia's requirements to open. She had asked him to read it on his remarriage, but it could have meant when he decided to do so, when he had announced it, or when he had done so. Although, it would be an understanding new wife who would allow her husband to read a letter from another woman on their wedding night.
No, he had not opened it because he did not wish to open it until he was safe from the contents.
He would be physically safe from them if he opened it after the service; no words could unbind a holy union. But his mind might still be swayed.
Darcy had thought of burning it. Then it could pose no threat to him, or his future happiness whatsoever. Maybe he should burn it to prove that his life was beginning again that the past was locked away. But Darcy found he did not want to miss Amelia's last ever conversation with him. Whatever it may be.
He fingered the aging paper, and thought of that evening, of the Opera, of Elizabeth. Most of all he thought about himself, and he made a decision.
Carefully he slid his finger under the seal.