It seemed impossible, inconceivable, almost unreal—like a splendid dream—and yet it was real.
When he was less than fifty miles from Longbourn, the turmoil—now only one part of his existence—began to recede, driven off by the thought of Elizabeth’s face. At last, he could think only of the woman he loved…the woman to whom he had offered marriage…the woman he had left for another, though she had begged him not to marry…the woman he could not forget.
For a few miles, he imagined the extraordinary sensation of taking her into his arms. Elizabeth was as pure as a water lily, but she was not timid. She would flourish in love as she did in everything else—with passion, courage, and a lively curiosity. She was the mistress Pemberley needed. She—with her rare independence and her hunger for life—was the woman he needed.
But after another twenty miles, anxiety returned. What if she were already engaged? Impossible—Bingley would have told him. Or what if she found the situation—his intention to divorce—too difficult to accept?
He arrived at Netherfield at four o’clock in the afternoon, after a frantic ride through rain and, at times, snow. Before he even entered the house, he sent a note to Elizabeth—one he had prepared on the first day of his journey.
The house was empty, as he had desired; his valet and a maid, who had arrived a day earlier, were the only servants in attendance. A generous fire awaited him in the parlour, with a glass of brandy and light refreshments set out. He drank, but could not eat—too tormented to do anything but pace the room, hoping she would come.
Chapter 19
Elizabeth was reading with her father in the library when the message arrived.
She thanked the butler almost absently, supposing the note must be from some acquaintance in Meryton, perhaps inviting her to tea. Then she recognised the hand and the seal, and her heart almost stopped. She held the letter for several moments, unable to open it. What news could he possibly have for her—what could he wish to tell her or show her? Perhaps only that he was content with his new wife.
Her father raised his eyes from his book when he noticed her unusual stillness. She seemed overcome by emotion, and yet she delayed, the letter unopened in her hands.
At last, she broke the seal—and the colour left her face.
Dear Miss Bennet,
I arrived at Netherfield a few minutes ago.
Please meet me regarding an urgent and essential matter.
Please come alone.
Yours respectfully,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
She understood nothing. What urgent matter could still exist between them? For one dreadful moment, she feared that something had happened to Bingley or to Jane. Then she recalled Jane’s remark—that Darcy had left for Pemberley scarcely two hours after his wedding. He could not have come from London, but from his estate.
“Is there a problem, Lizzy?” her father asked, with evident concern. She was not one to display her distress, and yet it was plain enough to a loving parent. For once, however, she did not turn to him for advice, choosing instead to bear it in silence, while he wondered whether there was anything he might say to ease her pain.
Elizabeth hesitated, then said, “Papa, do you trust me?”
Mr Bennet understood her at once. She did not ask for confidence in her character, but for trust in her judgement.
“Yes,” he replied, without hesitation. “I trust you. I believe that, from now on, you will examine your heart as carefully as your mind before you decide.”
Elizabeth looked at him, wondering how much he had guessed of what had passed in recent weeks. He could not know the particulars, but he might suspect that she still suffered from that pain of her own making.
“I promise that I shall tell you and Mama everything. But now—please take me to Netherfield.”
“What do you wish me to do?” her father asked.
“The message is from Mr Darcy. He is at Netherfield, and he has asked me to come alone. I will not risk my honour with the same man to whom I have already lost my heart.”
Mr Bennet said nothing; but at last his suspicions were confirmed. Elizabeth was in love with a man who was now married. He waited patiently for her to frame her request; still, he was prepared to do anything for her—even to set propriety aside.
“I need you to wait for me in the library.”
He inclined his head. It was not the worst way to pass the time.
They travelled in silence during the short drive. There was nothing to be said. Elizabeth struggled to remain composed. She expected to find Darcy and his wife together—and yet, from one moment to the next, she refused to picture such a meeting.
