At the writing table where, in recent weeks, she had penned letters to her aunt, her father, or Jane, she now would have written but one letter—to Mr Darcy. Of course, she could never bring herself to actually do such a thing, but it was certain that, on that very night, she wrote it in her mind, reproaching him and reproaching herself. After all, they might never have married, but they could at least have remained friends. However, that state of relative reconciliation vanished at dawnwhen she remembered that it was due to him that Mr Bingley had abandoned Jane.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth spent the following days almost entirely at Rosings. She played the pianoforte alone or with Miss de Bourgh, and later they spent hours discussing books in the library. It was an unexpectedly agreeable surprise, for the timid young lady with whom she had exchanged only a few words over the past two months turned out to be an avid reader.
In that peculiar atmosphere that was not entirely devoid of charm—amid Lady Catherine’s orders, the music room, and her conversations with Anne de Bourgh—Elizabeth delayed calling for the carriage to take her to London. Yet she packed her belongings, partly to reassure Charlotte, who seemed increasingly eager to be left alone with her husband and sister…and, of course, with the inhabitants of Rosings.
Thus, a few days later, when Charlotte knocked on her door after breakfast, Elizabeth was surprised to hear her announce in a sharp voice that the carriage had arrived.
“The servant is waiting in the hall,” Charlotte cried and glanced hurriedly around the room to ensure Elizabeth’s belongings were not scattered and felt reassured upon seeing the packed trunk.
“Why did you not mention that it was coming today?” she continued, not reproachfully but in the flat tone that had characterised their conversations of late.
Elizabeth made no reply, just as puzzled as Charlotte. Descending the stairs, she recalled what her letters to Jane and Mrs Gardiner had contained, confident she had not requested a carriage.
The mystery deepened when she saw an unfamiliar servant waiting for her in the hall.
She cast a reproachful look at Charlotte, for at Longbourn, any strange servant accompanying a guest or coming alone was invited into the kitchen to warm himself or cool off and provided with food and drink. Such courtesies, however, did not seem to be part of the Collins household’s customs. Overlooking these habits, Elizabeth invited the man into the kitchen. He politely declined, handed her a letter, and informed her that he would await a reply in the carriage.
“What reply is he expecting?” Charlotte asked rather irritably. “Whether you are leaving? He has come all this way and you plan to stay?”
Elizabeth did not hear her. Looking at the letter, she did not recognise the handwriting. Then, seeing the name, a wave of heat engulfed her from head to toe, so surprising was the sender. But she kept her composure and made her way to her room under Charlotte’s watchful eyes, though not before saying, “It is from Aunt Gardiner. Jane is unwell.”
“Jane is always unwell,” Charlotte replied with marked indifference, and to Elizabeth’s relief, she did not follow her upstairs.
Once in her room, Elizabeth hurriedly shut the door, reopened the letter, and read the sender’s name again as if she might have been mistaken. Miss Darcy’s handwriting was flawless, but as she read the brief lines, Elizabeth noticed that the ink was smudged in places—clear signs of tears that had fallen uncontrollably as the letter was written.
Dear Miss Bennet,
The day after we arrived home, my brother was shot while returning from his club. He lost a lot of blood and was unconscious for two days, but yesterday afternoon, when hespoke for the first time, he said only one thing: “Please, write to Miss Bennet and ask her to come. We need her.”
The physician has been unequivocal: Fitzwilliam is in a critical state; he cannot be moved at all. Any movement is life threatening, and his only wish is for you to visit us.
I join my brother in his plea and ask you to come. I do not know for what reason he calls upon you, but I, for my part, need a clear mind such as yours to help me through the days ahead. It is all I can write for now.
I have sent a maid along with the carriage to accompany you.
Hoping that we shall meet again soon. Yours desperately,
Georgiana Darcy
The letter unsettled Elizabeth profoundly, to the core of her being, shattering her world—a world that, until then, might not have been entirely beautiful but had at least been familiar. She looked about herself, and the worry and pain she felt made everything seem distant, cold, and terrifying.
It was curious if not strange for the Darcys to seek her help when they had a family of their own—uncles, cousins, aunts—but she did not linger on that thought.
In a matter of moments, her decision was made. She could be capricious and unforgiving, stubborn, proud, or prejudiced—she had many flaws—but the instant someone sought her help, she was ready to assist. There was no need for reflection, no need to make plans or ask too many questions. In that dramatic situation, two people with whom she had shared pleasant moments were in need of her, and she did not hesitate to give them her aid.
For now, her main problem was dealing with Charlotte and the others she must take her leave of in Kent; she must not let them see her profound distress.
Fortunately, Charlotte did not return to help her gather her belongings or share those last moments together; that was the last good thing that happened in that house she was leaving without a trace of regret.
Within an hour, the carriage departed from the Parsonage, but when she closed her eyes, resting her head against the cushions, she did not remember clearly what had happened before her departure. Charlotte, Maria, and Mr Collins were shadows she had left behind, their words or gestures bearing no importance.
She briefly stopped at Rosings to bid farewell to Lady Catherine, who knew nothing about what had happened in London—that was obvious. She behaved like she always did, forbidding Elizabeth to leave in the first moment but then saying goodbye in an almost amiable tone. Elizabeth revealed nothing about Mr Darcy; It was not her duty to inform his family. Lady Catherine unexpectedly waved as she left the room, and Anne de Bourgh offered her a pale but regretful smile.
Then she climbed into the carriage, and the journey into the unknown began.
Chapter 15
