Elizabeth nodded, realisation only now occurring to her, although throughout the days spent on the estate, it had been clear. Mary had a natural aptitude for such responsibilities, much like Lady Catherine. At the same time, Elizabeth harboured but one desire—to return to London. Perhaps, in other circumstances, she too might have devoted herself to themanagement of the estate, but not when every moment she spent away from Darcy was a moment lost. Mary had been a blessing, taking on all the responsibilities that would naturally have fallen to Elizabeth. She would return to Pemberley and assume all those burdens in the future—a future she already dreaded. But she longed for London at present, and nothing could persuade her to stay.
“Write to Darcy and ask whether he approves of you continuing what you have done thus far. If he agrees, as I suspect he will, we shall ask Mr Buxton to find us a respectable lady from the parish who would be willing to serve as your companion.”
“My companion?” Mary asked in surprise, yet Elizabeth could see that she was pleased by the idea of having a lady’s companion.
“As an unmarried woman, you cannot stay here alone, and besides, I would feel much more at ease as well.”
Not only had Mary been writing to Darcy daily, but he had responded just as regularly. Although each letter began with ‘Dear ladies’, they were evidently addressed solely to Mary. On several occasions, he had even dictated orders for Mr Balfour or a tenant and sent them to Mary for execution. It was easy to surmise that Darcy understood Elizabeth’s eagerness to depart and likely felt the same—wishing for her to return to London as soon as possible.
Scarcely had Elizabeth spoken when the letter was penned, and Mary, reassured, clung to the hope that Darcy would grant his consent.
“Is there another reason you wish to remain?” Elizabeth asked, watching as the colour rose again in her sister’s cheeks. “Reverend Buxton?” she asked, and though Mary offered no explicit reply, the answer was clear.
Pemberley might become something far more than a mere visit for her sister.
And the more Elizabeth pondered the matter, the more unexpected yet excellent a solution it appeared—for the daughter Mrs Bennet had never hoped to see married.
That last evening at Pemberley, however, the reverend occupied her thoughts not only because of Mary but also for another reason. They had spoken at length of his experiences on the frontlines—of the suffering young men, of the extraordinary military and civilian surgeons who had tended to them in battle.
He had told her of Charles Bell, a civilian surgeon who, beyond performing amputations, had been particularly interested in musket-ball injuries.
“Military surgeons possess great experience in such wounds, treating dozens of injured men daily,” Reverend Buxton remarked again that evening after painting another harrowing picture of life and medical care at the front. And with that, Elizabeth abandoned her book and hastily penned a letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s response to Mary’s enquiry arrived the following morning, on the day Elizabeth’s departure was set. He was pleased with her decision to remain. He sent a brief yet formal letter appointing her as his direct representative in numerous estate matters.
As Elizabeth gazed out of the carriage window, watching Pemberley recede into the distance, she smiled and waved at her sister, who was standing on the front steps accompanied by Mrs Annesley, a lady of middle years from Lambton, who had willingly accepted the position of Mary’s companion.
Mary had not once thought to pack her belongings and leave with her. In truth, Elizabeth had tacitly accepted thatshe would remain, regardless of Darcy’s response. His letter, however, had resolved the matter perfectly for everyone.
It was possible that by the time she returned to Pemberley, Mary would already be living at the Parsonage. But at the mere thought of the future, a wave of sorrow engulfed Elizabeth, for she longed for her husband so intensely, so strongly, that she could not imagine how she would endure when he was no more.
Chapter 30
The journey from Pemberley to London was the longest and most dreadful of Elizabeth’s life. Nothing could soothe her—not the scenery, not the swaying of the carriage, not Anna’s attempts at conversation, and not even the books she had stacked beside her within easy reach.
“Mr Darcy is well,” Anna repeated at least a hundred times a day. Still, nothing could calm her fear that she might find a message about him at every inn they stopped at, while at the same time she hoped with a desperate fervour for an answer from the colonel that did not come.
Finally, she reached London after travelling from morning till night.
“Where is Mr Darcy?” she cried. And only when the butler told her he was in the library could she breathe again, running straight to him without glancing about her or greeting anyone.
Yet, no one took offence. Mr Talbot quietly closed the door behind her and stationed himself there to prevent anyone from entering.
And she continued to run until she was in his open arms, that had been waiting to receive her for such a long time. She forgot all the restrictions, all the precautions they had upheld for so long, and nestled into his embrace in the armchair. The next moment, their lips met in their first kiss, both suddenly paralysed by the intensity of that brief touch in which months of longing and obstacles were swept away, and love became possible for one fleeting instant. He held his breath and closed his eyes, savouring her lips, while Elizabeth believed she had died. Horrified by what she had done, she let herself slide gently to the floor, her eyes filling with tears, her heart stopping in a pain as vast as the universe.
“Darcy,” she murmured, shaking him slightly. He opened his eyes in surprise.
“Elizabeth, what are you doing down there? Come back into my arms.” So elated by her kiss, for a moment, he, too, had believed he had died. “I want to kiss you again. Do not leave me like this,” he said, attempting to lift her up. But she sprang to her feet, even more frightened, and stepped away from him.
“No! What are you saying? What are you doing? I could have killed you with my madness!”
“And what is the name of your madness?” he asked, plunging into bliss, for this was the first time since he fell in love with her that he felt she had feelings for him in return. Before leaving for home, Mr Bennet had told him many things about her and her feelings. Still, they had been just that—words narrated by a man unaccustomed to articulating such emotions. Darcy had received them as a kind of consolation prize. But the woman who had just leapt into his arms, the trembling lips that had given themselves to him without hesitation, and the small,unmistakable sigh he had heard—those told another story. Yet Elizabeth’s stories were unlike anybody else’s, and he did not dare to imagine more than affection.
“You know well what it is called,” she said evasively, once again fully aware of his circumstances and their situation. Once more, she was ready to make any sacrifice to keep him by her side for as long as possible.
“Do not answer me with riddles,” he said thoughtfully, though his eyes shone with laughter. And she smiled.
