Bingley had been so looking forward to being master of a country house, to going to the public assemblies and meeting his neighbours. Thanks to Darcy, he had not had the chance to do any of it. Guilt rose up, but could be felt only dimly under the hopelessness that consumed him.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat, but kept her eyes carefully lowered, refusing to look at him. And how could he blame her? He was not doing a very good job of making her feel at home with him, ignoring her as he had for the first twenty minutes of their marriage. He tried again to clear his throat and get past the lump that had risen there. “Have you ever been to the north of England before?” he asked.
She turned to him quickly, as if surprised that he was speaking to her. “I have not. But I am interested in the Peak District. My aunt grew up there, and she and my uncle have travelled to the north several times,” she answered. “I hear it is very beautiful.”
“That it is,” he agreed. That was a safe topic, at least. He could talk about his home county all day long if he had to. “And though I cannot be said to be an impartial judge, I think Pemberley one of the loveliest estates in the district. It is situated not far from the base of a mountain, and there is a very pretty wood that encircles the whole of the property. The gardens, too, I hope you may enjoy,” he said. Darcy stopped abruptly. Why had he waxed poetic for so long, without so much as giving her a chance to respond?
“It sounds as though you are very proud of your home,” she replied. There was almost a smile on her face, which he had not seen since he met her that first day in the woods.
“I am,” Darcy agreed, feeling blank. He must say something to continue the conversation, surely. “Have—have you ever thought about living in the north?” he asked.
She blinked. “No, I must admit I have not.”
Darcy bit his lip, feeling the fool. How had he expected her to answer such a question? “Perhaps you wished to marry a gentleman with a nearby estate, so you could have stayed close to your family?”
Her weak smile faded completely. She looked down at her gloved hands, tense and unmoving. “I must confess, I had always wished to marry for love. That is a great deal to ask from a marriage, even when there is mutual understanding. If I could have the good fortune of having that wish granted, I would have been willing to live anywhere, as long as I could have been near my husband.”
Darcy looked away. Her sincerity was only too obvious. Though she had not seemed to speak with any intent to blame him, he could not help but blame himself. There would be no love match for Elizabeth Bennet — not now.
Elizabeth was not the only one who was reeling. He had intended to marry a woman of excellent fortune and connections, as well as for love. In marrying Elizabeth, he had gained none of these. Her dowry was only a thousand pounds, and her family’s behaviour had shown a serious want of propriety. If Elizabeth were anything like her mother, this marriage was doomed to be a humiliation from the start.
∞∞∞
When the hour grew late and they stopped at an inn for the night, Darcy ordered separate bedchambers. The privacy was a relief, but not enough to put his mind at ease. Unable to sleep, he let his mind run in the chaos that he had kept at bay during the carriage ride. What had he got himself into? It was true that Elizabeth had proven incredibly brave and composed during a week that would have likely broken another young woman. He supposed it helped that she had her family to support her.
During the long week of hurried preparations, he had been grateful for Bingley’s company. Miss Caroline Bingley had been out of spirits all the while, seeming to grieve an opportunity lost to her once and for all. At least he had not been found in a compromising position with her.
That was a horror too great to contemplate. He cared for Bingley as if he were his own brother. But Miss Bingley was something else entirely. He would have been miserable with a wife so designing, so intent on society and improving her position in it. And despite what Miss Bingley thought, he suspected she would not have been happy with a husband whose interests and tastes were so different from her own.
Elizabeth’s interests and tastes were, as yet, a mystery. She liked reading, even if she would not claim the title of a great reader. She liked country walks and was evidently a woman of some independence. But what might come in the future was, as yet, a mystery. And whether anything might be salvaged out of the disaster of their marriage was equally unknown.
Oh, Georgiana.His poor sister, with a marriage yet more imprudent than his own. She had actively chosen her fate, yet given her youth and innocence, she might yet be considered innocent of the error. He worried for her. He was still angry at her.
He missed her.
During the past week of horrors, he had missed his beloved sister more than ever. Anger and shame could not change that. In the midst of such uncertainty, having Georgiana with him would have been everything. Instead, she was somewhere in London, her fate unknown.
He tried to close his eyes and let sleep overtake him, but it was no use. He could not get Georgiana and worry for her well-being out of his mind.
On a sudden whim, Darcy swung his legs out of bed. He lit a candle and went to the tiny writing desk in the corner of their room. Taking out a piece of paper, the inkwell and quills from his leather carrying case, he sat down to write.
Dear Georgiana,
I will spare you my reproaches on the subject of your elopement. I can only hope Wickham has continued to treat you as you deserve. But if you ever find yourself in trouble, I beg you would come to me. I am still your brother and I am still here.
Perhaps I understand this better now, for you are not the only one who has made a blunder of your life. After a series of accidents that led to me being discovered in a compromising position with a young lady, I have been forced to wed. I know this will come as a shock, since you know how carefulI have been in choosing a future mate. She has none of the accomplishments that I expected in a wife. You know that I have thought long about such things. She does not draw or paint; she does not speak all the modern languages, and she comes from a family who, I am afraid, are far from what Father would have considered suitable. Her dowry was only a thousand pounds.
Darcy stopped, resting his head in his hands. None of that really mattered, did it? Miss Caroline Bingley had all of those accomplishments, save for the artistic skill, and he had vowed never to enter an alliance with her. His own thoughts surprised him. It was an interesting consideration. Yes, Miss Bingley did not have the lineage and connections that his father would have wanted, but Darcy had never considered this to be the reason not to marry her. It was her spirit and character — the lady herself, in fact — that had prevented him from ever having any designs on his best friend’s sister, despite her fortune and accomplishments.
He sighed and went back to drafting his letter.
None of it matters now. From one accident, my whole life has been altered, as has yours. I only wish that we had been able to speak frankly to each other about your feelings. If I had been more present in your upbringing, perhaps none of this would have happened. And you would still be home, at Pemberley, safe. We would still have the closeness that I have been mourning since receiving your husband’s letter this last July.
There was no use. He knew his letter was far too raw and candid to ever mail to her. But he felt lighter for having at least written what he had been keeping locked inside all this time.
I am and will forever be your brother. We may not be able to enjoy the closeness we once had — not without some very candid conversations. But I will always love you.
Your faithful brother,
