“You are cynical.” Elizabeth smiled, though half reproachfully.
“I am experienced,” returned Mary smartly. “I have read too many novels to believe that love endures beyond the last page. With a gentleman like Mr Darcy, you would never have been a housekeeper...but alas, it is too late now.”
“Too late?”
“Oh, you have not heard? Miss Darcy is delighted that her brother is soon to be married to a most charming lady.”
Elizabeth nearly dropped her delicate cup of tea. She placed it carefully upon the small table, her hands trembling beneath her sister’s astonished gaze.
“But how do you know this?”
“Miss Darcy told her friends one afternoon that her brother is to marry Lady Elizabeth Ashcombe.”
And this time the pain in Elizabeth’s heart did not pass swiftly; it settled there—and would not depart.
Chapter 17
With immense effort, Elizabeth maintained her composure before her sister. No one must suspect how deeply she had been struck by the news of Mr Darcy’s engagement.
When at last she was alone, she sat upon a chair in her chamber, motionless, incapable even of removing her gown. The suffering was unlike any she had ever known—not regret, nor even sorrow, but a cruel inward torment, as if her heart were gripped by an iron clasp that would not release its hold.
She went over, again and again, all that had passed between herself and Mr Darcy—from that first mortifying evening when he had not thought her handsome enough to tempt him, to the later meetings in Hertfordshire, and then in Kent. She recalled the looks he had given her, looks she had dismissed as pride, yet which she now knew had spoken of admiration—perhaps of affection. And she, blind and spirited, had mistaken an admirer for an opponent and had taken pleasure in the contest.
What had Mary seen between them to believe that he was the man for her? Had she ever truly been drawn to him? The night gave her no refuge from honesty. She remembered that, though she had sought Mr Wickham in a crowd, her impatience to reach Netherfield and to converse with Mr Darcy had far exceeded her eagerness for any other meeting. He had been the centre of every company, not Mr Bingley. His manner—grave yet playful, severe yet kind—possessed that rare union of intellect and tenderness which she had once imagined only in fiction. His modern view of women, his devotion to his sister, his warmth towards Colonel Fitzwilliam—all rose before her in a rush of painful recollection.
She admired him without doubt, yet had never felt aught beyond admiration for a most distinguished person. She had awaited the grand love, but how had she imagined she should recognise it when it arrived? Never had she considered the question in this way. Nor had Jane offered her any help. When she asked her sister how she had known that Mr Bingley was her great love, Jane had replied simply, yet with an enigmatic brevity, “I knew—from the first moment.”
Elizabeth had neverknownsuch a thing with any man. Mr Wickham had pleased her, yet she had ever been far from even liking him tenderly. With others, she had never even approached the slightest wish to flirt.
But what if love might come otherwise—not as a revelation in a single instant, but as a long and silent road?
“It is impossible!” she cried within herself, rising suddenly; her own voice startled her, so strange it sounded in the stillness. The chamber was cold, the air heavy with the scent of extinguished wax. She pressed her hands to her face as though she might drive back her thoughts. Calm...peace...when had she last known either? Until she visited Charlotte, perhaps. But after Kent, something had changed. She had believed it melancholyfor losing Charlotte’s friendship, unease for her friend’s new life, who seemed dull and false—yet none of that had been true.
She had awaited his coming with breathless anticipation, whatever she might have confessed to herself. On that first evening at Rosings, she had been happier than she admitted. His eyes, his smile, the attention directed solely towards her, even the gentle humour with which he sometimes enlivened their discourse—all had enchanted her. And perhaps, had it continued thus between them, something might have been built—a feeling she herself might have recognised. But events took another course. After only a few days, the charming gentleman was replaced by one grave and monotonous, wearied by a continual want of interesting subjects. Looking back, she perceived it must have been then that the great battle within himself began—whether or not to ask her to be his wife. The result of that ceaseless inward conflict was the dull, colourless state in which he had remained during the following fortnight. In a few days, he had grown distant, reserved, almost dull—a man waging some private battle with himself. She saw it now: he had been deciding whether to ask her to be his wife.
And what a miserable contest it must have been. The effort of it had stripped his countenance of animation, his voice of ease.
Then had come Mr Clinton—well-meaning, tedious, and old enough to be her father—who, by speaking ambiguously, had led her to suppose his intentions far different from what they were. Between the two gentlemen—one too silent, the other too old—she had had little chance to comprehend her own heart. Or perhaps there had been nothing to learn; yet, when she lifted her eyes that night to the moon, she knew at last...that the pain within her was love.
She loved Mr Darcy—and she had lost the only moment in which she might have been happy with him.
The instant Mary had uttered the wordbetrothed, she had known—exactly as Jane had once known—that what she felt was love: the love she had longed for, watched for, and which had refused to appear until it was too late.
Had she loved him from the beginning? She could not tell. Had she loved him that first evening in Kent? She knew not. Would she have accepted him, had he offered his hand with a few love-words?
In agony, she found no answer. Most likely, she had fallen in love only on that very night when she learnt that love was forbidden.
Then, in the stillness of the room, came resentment—but of another kind than before. It was resentment born of love, bitter and helpless; for he, who had once declared himself hers, had chosen another days after he had asked her to be his wife. She pictured the other Elizabeth—fair, composed, and noble—and acknowledged that she was indeed worthy of him. But had he truly loved her? Could he, after professing love elsewhere?
At the Parsonage, she had never doubted his affection; yet his pride, his disdain for her family, the injury done to Jane—these had blinded her to everything but offence. Perhaps love had been present even then, veiled by anger and wounded vanity. She could not tell. She only knew that love had taken root within her on the same evening she had lost him for ever.
At last, she sank upon her bed, too weary to undress, and slept in her gown till dawn. When the first pale light entered the room, it fell upon her bed, opening her eyes. For a moment, she hoped it had all been a dream—but the pain remained, and with it the knowledge that love itself dwelled behind the sorrow.
All was lost. Nothing could now be done. Unlike other tales of love, hers had begun with the ending. Jane had, at least, known those moments of supreme happiness when, gazing into Mr Bingley’s eyes, she saw love there and recognised it; for thatwas the true alchemy of love—when it seizes mind, soul, and body...one knows. And she knew...at last she knew...but it was too late.
She prepared for the coming day without knowing how she was to live henceforth. Jane had at least a hope; she had come to London and had made the attempt to meet him, to find out from him what had happened.
For her, there existed nothing.
