Today, she had wrapped herself in the folly’s latest magical gift—a shawl spun of wool so fine and soft that it felt as though it was woven of clouds.
Sudden, overwhelming despair hit her, and tears burned her eyes. “How could you?” she cried. “Why do you spoil me like this, practically forcing me to fall in love with you?”
There was no answer, could be no answer. Mr Darcy was no fantastical beast, invisible to her, and she did not live in a fairy tale. He was a real person, who did many wonderful, considerate things for her so that she could more willingly, if still not happily, marry another man. He was kind, and yet the kinder he was, the more desolate she grew.
Roughly wiping away the wetness on her cheeks, she whispered to the flames, “I have a thousand entries for my book now. ’Tis your name, Mr Darcy, repeated a thousand times.”
Only a day later, Mr Bingley beamed across the dinner table at his affianced bride. The grand announcement had been made that very afternoon, and her mother and, more quietly, Jane, were in transports of joy.
Elizabeth was doing her best to keep a smile on her face. She wasveryglad for Jane; it was one less burden upon her heart to know that the happiness of one of her beloved sisters was assured. She could not help that the news also brought the knife edge of pain, and she did her best to suppress it, to fix only upon Jane’s joy and thrust away her selfish sorrow.
It was nine days since Elizabeth had last seen Mr Darcy, and for the first time, she had not allowed herself to go to the folly that day. How could she continue to accept his gifts, even temporarily enjoying his borrowed largesse? It was wrong, and encouraging his well-meant intentions made her situation worse, not better.
Or so she repeated to herself in stern lectures, morning, afternoon, and night.
Unfortunately, she found that the ache of not having even that slight connexion to him only intensified the pain of loving him.
It does not matter whether I go to the folly or not, she acknowledged.The damage to my heart is already done.
“Papa, I have a message I wish you to include in your next letter to Mr Collins,” Mary said from her seat beside Elizabeth. “You must send him an invitation to return to Longbourn, as soon as possible, if you please. Much as I would like to invite him to join us for Christmas, because it is a particularly sociable time of year, a vicar must be with his flock during such an important season. Would you please ask him to return next Monday?”
Her father raised a brow. “I am to be forced to pen love letters now, am I? How low have I sunk, that I play matchmaker for Mr Collins?”
“I have not promised to marry him yet,” Mary said. “You must not count upon that outcome.”
“Oh, Mary, you have no compassion! You make a wreck of my poor nerves!” Mrs Bennet cried, even though she was too delighted with Mr Bingley and Jane’s engagement to truly put much energy into her complaint.
Elizabeth covered Mary’s hand with her own. “You have made a decision?” she whispered.
“I ammostlydecided,” Mary murmured. “I shall know for certain when I see him, I feel sure. Thank you for speaking with me in a rational manner yesterday. It was very helpful.”
“Any time, my dear sister.”
Mary leant over a bit closer, ensuring they would not be overheard. “Should you ever need to discuss any concerns of your own, please know that I possess a willing ear.”
Elizabeth turned sharply towards her, but Lydia chose that moment to make a loud announcement.
“Lieutenant Wickham has deserted his regiment! Penelope Harrington told me that Mr Harrington confirmed it with Colonel Forster. Wickham struck the quids, all the fellows say. To Mr Denny alone, he owes a mint.”
“Watch your language, Lydia!” Mr Bennet warned severely. “No one at the dinner table wishes to hear about the gambling obligations ofanyone. The topic is closed.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “They say he owes even more to the merchants in town!”
“Lydia!” her father reprimanded.
“I am not speaking ofgamblingbut ofdebt!” Lydia insisted. Kitty giggled. Mr Bennet returned to his meal.
As Jane blushed and Mrs Bennet began another soliloquy upon her nerves, Elizabeth struggled to contain her temper. Her father overlooked his own flaws as easily as he ignored the comportment of his family.
Mr Bingley chimed in as though there was no impropriety in the manners of her younger sisters. “Actually—and just between ourselves—Darcy has stated his intention of making the merchants of Meryton whole. I believe everyone in town knows his history with the despicable Wickham, but Darcy says he ought to have warned people about his old friend sooner. I think he takes too much upon himself. I, personally, heard enough to know that much of Wickham’s treachery was fairly public, and any person foolish enough to take his note likely deserved what he got. But Darcy will not hear of anyone in the area being hurt.” He shook his head in a mixture of admiration and wonder.
“Whereisyour friend, Mr Bingley?” asked Mrs Bennet. “We have not seen him at Longbourn in days. I hope he is not feeling poorly.”
It was an obvious bid for gossip, and it was Elizabeth’s turn to blush—for more reasons than her mother’s ill manners.
Mr Bingley showed no sign of reproach; he only continued in affectionate commentary. “Darcy is always so busy, with so many duties and tenants, not to mention his devotion to the needs of his entire family, especially his young sister. He needed a rest, and Netherfield has proved the perfect place for him to find it. He mostly spends his days riding out, although he has gone to London twice—only for the day, though.”
Elizabeth listened with rapt attention.
