“I shall be brief,” he began. “Margaret and I have no direct heirs. There are nephews and a niece, but they are interested only in the income of the Hampstead estate, not in Hampstead Hall itself, nor in the education of young ladies. To be candid, I have long sought someone who might be more than Principal.”
Elizabeth stopped, looking at him curiously. She could not distinguish his features clearly, yet in some strange way, she felt she already understood what he meant to say.
“You are an exceedingly intelligent young woman,” he continued. “You have probably perceived that we—I always say we, for to me Margaret is present in every corner of this place, in every object—need an heir to the Academy, not to the London house nor to the estate at Hampstead.”
“Heavens,” murmured Elizabeth, overwhelmed.
“You understand…I knew you would. For a fortnight, I have been in discussion with our lawyers, but I did not invite you until now. I wished you to become more accustomed to the work, which is difficult in so many directions. Your decision to remain has been the event I awaited, though I had begun to despair that it would ever arrive. If the idea pleases you, the Academy may be yours after my death.”
“Mr Clinton!” Elizabeth was deeply moved. “But I am a stranger—someone whom you have known scarcely three months.”
“It is enough, believe me. I have waited twelve years for this moment.”
“But how can you know…?”
“I know,” the gentleman replied firmly. And in the darkness, Elizabeth smiled sadly, for in love it had been the same—she had known. For that reason, she believed him. Sometimes intuition is stronger than any rational knowledge.
“But do you truly believe I shall be equal to such a charge?”
“Certainly. And being not only the Principal but also the Mistress of Hampstead, you will still be at liberty to marry.”
“But all that I should inherit from you would pass into my husband’s possession if I were to marry…and you do not even know him,” she said with a touch of humour, at which Mr Clinton laughed softly in the night.
“The lawyers have devised a solution. It is a kind of entail…I know how odious that form of inheritance is to you, yet in this case it is precisely what we require. Your husband would be unable to sell or alienate the property—it is somewhat more intricate, yet assuredly a solution.”
“But I am a woman.”
“What few people know is the exact form of an entail. Anyone may inherit, provided it is not expressly limited to the male line. Your ancestor left his estate to the men of the family. Still, if it were not specified, it might descend to any relation, provided that the person were of the family.”
“Yes, I knew something of it, but as it did not concern our own case, I gave it little thought.”
“Unfortunately, to name you as my heir is somewhat difficult. Yet”—Mr Clinton hesitated—“there exists a simpler path than through the lawyers: to institute the entail and for you to consent to become my wife.”
Elizabeth drew her arm sharply from his. Between astonishment and amusement, she looked at him—the third proposal she had received.
“Wait,” he said, motioning her to continue along the path towards the house, though without again taking her hand. “I do not expect an answer now. You hesitated for some weeks beforedeciding the former matter, and this is far more difficult, as I well understand. Yet our marriage might be precisely what you decide it to be—entirely upon your conditions,” he added with difficulty, for in truth she was still a young lady, though certain matters required to be plainly stated.
Elizabeth inclined her head and said nothing; even that silence was a victory—over herself. She required time, and on that difficult evening, she was unable to make such a decision.
As they ascended the steps towards the door, he said, “There are three days remaining. Then the girls depart. Go home yourself, and when you feel, we may speak again.”
In the light of the hall she looked at him, and he met her gaze. He knew. She suddenly wished that he had been the only one to observe them so closely during that dance. He might not have understood the particulars, yet the conclusion was plain: she was deeply, irretrievably in love with Darcy, and she could never be his wife. Never, perhaps, until that very evening, had Mr Clinton truly believed she might consent to be his, though somewhere in his mind he had nourished that hope since Kent. Yet the dance with Darcy had betrayed her, and he understood that for many years she would love no one else. It was the only circumstance in which she would marry without affection. He was an older man, and in time—when the wound in her heart had healed—she would be free again to love. Until then, however, the advantage was his.
At that moment, and for a long time thereafter, he was the only man she could imagine marrying. For, in truth, and in a manner wholly selfish, she would not be marrying him but the Academy itself. Beyond the pleasure of being mistress of such a place, she recalled that small house of no more than five bedchambers and a parlour full of charm at the edge of the estate, nearly four miles from Hampstead Hall, where her mother and unmarried sisters might reside in the eventof misfortune. And for the first time in many days, she fell asleep without effort and dreamed of nothing but senseless or unimportant tales.
Chapter 23
The last day arrived, and though a faint sadness stole into her heart, she knew that after those weary and difficult months, she needed Longbourn and her family to recover her spirits.
For some time, she had left Mary to attend to the young ladies and their departure, while she herself walked towards the pond to breathe and find enjoyment in the quiet. She looked about her attentively, imagining that all those things might one day be hers. Yet the only feeling that seized her was an overwhelming sense of responsibility. It was not as though she possessed those grounds, but rather that they possessed her, laying upon her shoulders the immense duty of keeping all in perfect order at the Academy, and of ensuring that the place should remain as beautiful when her task was done as it was now.
Absorbed in these reflections, she did not perceive that she was no longer alone until the last moment. Turning her head, she discovered Mr Darcy beside her, as silent and thoughtful as herself.
“Wherein lies our fault?” he asked at last, his face averted, his eyes fixed upon some vague and distant point.
At another time, Elizabeth might have laughed and taken his arm; she might have replied, with her accustomed light sarcasm, that their acquaintance had been fashioned from the outset by errors and misconceptions—beginning with that first evening when he had declared, with chilling frankness, that she was not handsome enough to tempt him. But no such words arose now. She remained silent, her heart beating so violently that it seemed as though it must betray her distress. The sorrow which had taken hold of her banished all trace of levity and bent her countenance into an involuntary expression of grief.
It was only then, after a long and motionless pause, that he turned and looked at her; and in his eyes she beheld the same sorrow—quiet and profound.
