The Misses Jane Bennet and Ellen Taylor, a gentlewoman and maid of all work wrapped in a greatcoat five sizes too big, simply stared at the most peculiar sight of Mr Darcy, master of Pemberley, owner of half of Derbyshire (the miserable half according to Lizzy), sitting on a log and bawling his eyes out.
A child crying, a young lady, or even a mother would be well within their range of experience. This, however, was new ground for both, who knew what everyone did: men were taught not to cry. According to accepted lore, the lessons were taught through the simple expedient of having all the males they knew from the time they came off leading strings, taunt or beat them if they thought to do so.
Jane had always thought it a peculiar sort of weakness in men that prevented them from acknowledging such emotions; yet the world was as it was, and not as she thought it should be. She did what she always did when confused: she recalled the voice of her most sensible relative, who always had something smart to say.
Always fall back on propriety and good manners Jane. Basic politeness. Basic manners. Neither are all that complicated when you get right down to it. Exit a chair for an elderly or injured person. Help a child or mother in need. Give a crying or ill person a handkerchief. Talk softly or loudly so you may be heard. Offer soothing remarks. These little civilities cost you nothing and make the world work. Sooner or later, you will be in a situation where you do not have the slightest idea what to do, so fall back on good manners and kindness, and hope someone else will return the favour when you are in need.
Aunt Gardiner was never a bad person to emulate, and with Jane having no idea what to do, she fell back on long habit.
“Mr Darcy, pray take this,” she said, handing a clean handkerchief.
He looked both embarrassed and confused but took the proffered linen reflexively. The master of Pemberley used it towipe his eyes and blow his running nose. His bout of crying was just about over, and he was glad to be done with it.
After he offered his thanks, Mr Darcy stared directly between her and Ellen with an unfocused gaze—almost the look of a haunted man. Considering how often she and Elizabeth had visions they did not like to admit to, Jane imagined one of the gentleman’s ancestors trying to instruct him about a game in which he had little skill.
At long last, he brought his eyes mostly under regulation. “I thank you. I will have this laundered and returned to you.”
“That is unnecessary! The handkerchief is not even mine. Feel free to keep it.”
Darcy examined it carefully and noticed one of the corners was initialledEB. He was puzzling over it, wondering if it was what he thought, when the elder Miss Bennet decided to take pity on him again.
“As I said, that is not mine; it is Lizzy’s. Should you ever be in her company again, you may return it if you feel the need, but she will never miss it. Embroidering them is one of our chief occupations, even though it is a pointless waste of time. Lydia steals at least one a week, so this will never be missed, and Lizzy would not begrudge it anyway.”
Jane watched his reaction to the news and caught a look of pain, as well as a brief flicker of a smile, wash across his face before he restored his normal demeanour, which seemed stoic to Jane, and taciturn to Elizabeth. The gesture was so fast it could have meant everything or nothing, so Jane was inclined to let it stand.
Shedidnotice that he seemed overly careful in folding the handkerchief and placing it in his waistcoat pocket.
It had been some time since Fitzwilliam Darcy had seen a vision of his mother talking to him. It almost sent him into tearsagain, seeing such a clear vision standing directly between Miss Bennet and Miss Taylor.
One of these days, my son, one of these days, some woman is going to pull you off that high horse of yours. Your father has taught you to be overly proud of the Darcy name, and the Fitzwilliams are not known for piety or good sense either. If you do not mend your ways, you will have a reckoning someday. Listen well and mark my words! It may take three or four women to do it, but some day, if you do not change your ways, you will rue your excessive pride. Continue as you are now, and you will end up like my sister Catherine, wallowing in your own consequence, and just as unhappy. I only hope whoever brings about your reckoning will be able to see my real son before ‘tis too late.
After Lady Anne Darcy died when Georgiana was three years old, Darcy saw her often and found her advice comforting and entirely sensible. Yet somehow, over time, both the visions ofher—and he had to sheepishly admit—her good sense, gradually faded away. The crush of responsibility, and the sheer terror of being hunted by matchmakers, had gradually built a shell of reserve that very few penetrated. Apparently, his mother’s ghost was either disinclined or not up to the task.
In a moment of clarity, Fitzwilliam Darcy had an epiphany:Until this moment, I never knew myself.
His mother was right, and he missed her counsel more than ever—but it occurred to him that Jane Bennet had much in common with Lady Anne Darcy. Stand them together, as they had just appeared in his vision, and they could pass for sisters much more readily than his mother could with her own sister, Lady Catherine. Both ladies were tall, blonde, and beautiful by the current fashion. Both were serene and presented a calm façade to the world. Whether they shared the same core of iron when tested remained to be seen. Had Mrs Darcy survived to see her son grow, she would doubtless have corrected him years earlier; or, if not, she would presently be standing beside him, beating his head with a rock.
Once his crying was done, Mr Darcy rose from the fallen log and looked from one woman to the other as he collected his thoughts. In truth, he was simply watching his mother chastise him again, hoping to enjoy her vision one last time, or perhaps receive some better advice from her.
It made him wonder where his life had gone wrong, when the best advisor he had was many years dead. At what point had he let his conflicting vision of himself as a great and powerful man, coupled with the insecurity of being thoroughly unable to understand the fairer sex, driven him to behave so abominably? At what point had he lost all semblance of good manners, or even good sense? What demon possessed him to make a proposal so terrible to a woman he thought he loved that she fled the county with nothing but the clothes on her back?
Neither the young lady from Hertfordshire nor the young maid seemed inclined to speak first, so he carried on.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Taylor. I do apologise for that ungentlemanly display.”
Ellen Taylor, whose tongue often ran ahead of her mind, replied, “Tis not a thing to be ashamed of, sir. In fact, ‘tis a good thing. I would count it something to take pride in, and promising not to indulge in future seems silly to me.”
Her mind caught up after that to the realisation she had just chastised a very influential gentleman—perhaps the most consequential she would ever meet, so she stammered, “My apologies, sir… T’aint my place to say. Pray, accept my humble apologies.”
Several thoughts struck Fitzwilliam Darcy’s confused mind right at that moment. The first was the possibility that Miss Taylor was one of the three or four women his mother predicted might pull him off his high horse. If his mother’s theory regarding his excessive pride was indeed correct, there were exactly four. There was, of course, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who very well might pull him all the way from his high horse into his grave—if he could ever find her.His cousin Anne was obviously a willing participant in the endeavour. It seemed likely Miss Bennet and Miss Taylor would make the third and fourth. It seemed appropriate—almost perfect—almost predestined.
Miss Taylor was an interesting woman. She was a servant, clearly not overly prosperous, yet not in the least intimidated. She had been embarrassed by her impropriety and offered the humble apology expected of a servant who spoke out of turn, yet she did not retreat. She flushed for a moment, but the young maid now stared at him, waiting to see what he would say. He thought he ought to speak before the moment was lost.
“Miss Bennet, I am not avoiding your questions, but may I digress with Miss Taylor for a moment? She has spoken withsome much-appreciated candour, which is far rarer and more admirable than it should be. I find myself even further in her debt and wish to reciprocate.”
Not entirely certain why she asked those three questions in the first place, Jane discovered that losing her temper was not as diverting as one might suppose, and she was uncertain she really wanted the answers. However, she was nothing if not resilient, so replied in her usual unperturbed manner.
“I am at my leisure. You may answer any time you like, or not at all. Meryton is no further away than it was ten minutes ago.”
