Chapter Eight
After dinner, Elizabeth found herself standing alone in the hall. Miss Bingley had flounced her way up to the music room, where she was currently striking the keys of the pianoforte with such force that Elizabeth could hear her all the way down the stairs.
It was a mystery to her how Miss Bingley, with all the advantages of youth, beauty, wealth, and education could behave in a way that reminded her so clearly of Lydia. Miss Bingley’s flirting was reserved for Mr. Darcy, but it was only slightly less brazen, and her insistence that all things be arranged just as she pleased, without regard to anyone else’s needs or wishes, was truly astonishing. It was no secret to Elizabeth why Miss Bingley had not had any suitors in the years she had been out. No man wanted a wife that cared only for her own comforts and not at all for his.
No man wanted a wife who flung unjust accusations at his head, either.
“New books,” Elizabeth said aloud, forcibly changing the direction of her thoughts. She entered the library to a fire burning in the hearth and several lit candles. There was indeed nearly a full shelf of tomes that had not been there before.
The Bingleys were excellent hosts. Elizabeth selected a novel quite at random and sat down to read.
After a few chapters, she flipped back to the start to read the title. It wasSelf-Control. How appropriate. The story had been very popular when it was published last year, but it had not arrived in Meryton’s circulating library yet. Kitty asked for it every time they visited.
Elizabeth typically enjoyed novels, but this story was not for her. There was nothing wrong with it, exactly, other than she could already sense that the villain would exert himself to rather violent extremes to possess the heroine, and she always wondered what sort of a man would wish to marry a woman he had been required to physically force into marriage? Had he no sense of self-preservation? Would he not be checking his wine or soup for poison the rest of his days? No, there was misery enough in life, and Elizabeth did not wish to experience more of it in her reading. It was probably why she did not appreciate Shakespeare’s tragedies as she ought. She far preferred the comedies, for they always came right in the end.
Elizabeth was badly in need of peace now, not more turmoil. So she closed the book and set it on the table. She would ask Charles whether Kitty might borrow it.
Later, as she prepared for bed, she reached into a little locked box of treasures she had brought along with her—Lydia was no longer at Longbourn to steal her sisters’ belongings, but Mamma could be just as intrusive, and Elizabeth had no wish for anyone else to know that she had received a second proposal of marriage that had come to nothing.
She removed her letter from Mr. Darcy and gazed upon it, touching, as she always did, the tender adieu. He had not wanted her gratitude when she offered it, he had not even wished to remain long in her company, but he had loved her once.
She pressed her lips together. This was silly. Jane would undoubtedly invite her to town for the season, and they would meet with Mr. Darcy again. Perhaps she could convince him that she was not the same stupid girl he had proposed to before. She was more careful to suspend her judgment and unwilling to be taken in again by a handsome face and a sad story. Often, she recalled how Mr. Wickham had first asked whether she was acquainted with Mr. Darcy, gauging her response before launching into his lies. She would not be taken in so easily ever again.
Elizabeth folded up the letter and held it for a moment. Mr. Darcy had written to her, but she had never written to him. He was owed an explanation and also an apology, was he not?
Not that she could ever send such a letter. Still, she had no one but herself to whom she could unfold the entire affair. Aunt Gardiner would be a ready listener, but she was not here, and Elizabeth was not entirely sure she wished to share her sad history with Mr. Darcy, not even with her aunt. It seemed something that ought to remain between the two of them most directly involved. She tapped her lip with the corner of the page.
Writing had helped Mr. Darcy explain many things he had been unequal to telling her the night she had so bitterly rejected his offer of marriage. Perhaps composing a letter might help her order her own thoughts, as well as ease the pain and uncertainty that still made her so uneasy in his presence. Elizabeth replaced Mr. Darcy’s letter in the box to keep it safe and then took up the candle, setting it down on the lovely writing desk in the corner.
Be not alarmed, sir, that this letter will repeat any of my words of gratitude which were, recently, so abhorrent to you.
Elizabeth knew every word of Mr. Darcy’s letter, but she would not tease him by repeating all of his phrases so neatly. He would never see her letter, of course, but she felt as though she was speaking to him, telling him what she felt in her heart.
When you appeared at our assembly more than a year ago, I will admit that I thought you a very handsome man. When you announced your opinion of my looks, therefore, I was disappointed. I buried my hurt in the pretence of indifference, not because I believed your insult, for while I have long been told by my mother that I am nothing to Jane, I do have a glass. My sister’s beauty is exceptional, but I am aware I have my own share of the Gardiner looks and that I am more than tolerable. No, the problem, I was very sure, must be with you.
The problem wasnotwith you, of course, though it took me many months to accept that truth. During those months, my own vanity led me to easily accept Mr. Wickham’s lies, though he was nearly a stranger to me. It was such a spur to my wit and self-righteousness to know that you behaved badly even to those you had known your entire life.
When I read your letter, I understood you better, but I still could not like you. By the time my aunt and uncle pressed me to visit Pemberley—and I will here state again, unequivocally, that we were informed the family was not at home—I had learned that you were a man to be admired, not censured. When I toured the grounds at Pemberley and understood how much rested on your shoulders, how many people relied upon you for their livelihoods, how the very towns of Lambton and Kympton lean on the business both from and created by Pemberley, I believe I began to sympathise with you. When I saw the carefully managed abundance of your estate, I began, at last, to understand you. And when you stood before me, charmingly dishevelled after a long ride, attempting to make pleasant conversation, my heart was touched. You appeared so worn, so unhappy, and I wanted nothing more than to care for you. Yet I had thrown away my chance to be of any importance in your life.
To my great relief and pleasure, you did not order me off the grounds at once. Instead you met me with more than politeness, you met me with genuine respect and consideration, and I have never thanked you for that. Let me do so now with the tools that are within my reach.
Thank you. Not for what you did for my youngest sister, about whom we have already spoken, but for loving me once, even if you love me no longer. Idid not understand how having the regard of such a man could change one for the better. And I am changed.
More than thanks, of course, you deserve an apology for what I said to you that night in Kent. I do not think you are the last man I would ever wish to marry. I never did. My sister’s pain was my own, and I grieved for her, but your explanation made me see how a man might view his friend’s behaviour differently than a hopeful sister. You did no more for Mr. Bingley than I would have done for Jane. Have done, in fact. One day, when we meet again, I shall have to tell you the story of how I ran off Mr. Robinson’s distasteful nephew when he was making Jane uncomfortable. Let me advise you thatit includes a partridge filched from my father’s successful hunt and a very hungry pack of dogs.
I believed that in haranguing you I was defending my sister and my friend, but I know better now. You have made amends with your friend, and my eldest sister is happy. You opened my eyes to the person who is now my youngest sister’s husband, and though my cautions fell on deaf ears with my father, you did what you could, even violating your own need for privacy to do so.
I am running out of room on this page, but know that if I could, I should fill twenty such with my regrets. I wish I trulyhadlaughed off your insult at the assembly. How different everything might be if I had! But we cannot go backward, only forward, and I do wish that, Mr. Darcy. If you cannot give your heart again to one who did not value it rightly the first time it was offered, I will think you wise. However, if you are willing to be foolish instead, I can promise you that it would be received with the love and care that it so richly deserves.
I will only say, God Bless You.
E. B.
Elizabeth read it over. “Oh,” she whispered. “I would marry him if he asked. Iwould.” But he would not ask. She had to remind herself of that.
She sanded the letter. When it was dry, she folded it, placed it in her box with the others, and turned the key. “Good night, Mr. Darcy,” she said, placing one hand atop the wooden lid. “Pleasant dreams.”
Chapter Nine
