Bloody hell,but she has patience!I raved inwardly. To workso tirelessly, and for so many months, to gain a footing with me, only to use me to position one of her sisters at Pemberley!
But she did not have enough patience to have waited until I was well and truly caught up in her easy presence.My memory was long, much longer than she gave me credit for, in fact. She had ensnared me, obligated me to marry her against the inclination of my soul, and now, at last, she showed her hand. Bit by bit, her family would arrive. They would be made useful at first, and then slowly earn privileges and positions and introductions. I would subsidise their livings, fund their entrance to society in London, dower, and promote them.
I had let scales grow over my eyes somehow, and when they fell, I looked at Mrs Darcy as though examining a specimen through a cold glass case. She sat to my right as I drove towards the great house, giving every appearance of being thoughtful, capable, and yet ever so slightly delicate. She invited me to feel tender and protective towards her, and I hated her anew for almost having achieved her goal.
Not for the first time did I think of annulment, of divorce, of sending her to my property in Scotland, or to my leasehold in Ramsgate. I spent the night engrossed in a fantasy of buying a tract of land in America and sending my wife there to keep company with native chiefs and the hordes of Irish escaping starvation.
Let her be Joan of Arc in Virginia, I thought grimly. She could charm a Spanishbandidoand give him a shack full of natural sons and daughters, all barefoot and shirtless, trained to fraudulence, trickery, and thievery.
I could not get away fast enough. I left for Manchester half an hour before full light in the dourest, most determined state of mind.
37
ELIZABETH DARCY
Stupid girl!
This had been my inward chant when I had put pearl pins in my hair before that fateful assembly. This was the inward chant I heard now whenever my mind wandered. I had fallen into a dream in that small window of time when Mr Darcy and I were amiable and united. Dare I say, I thought we were becoming friends? But no, I opened my mouth and poked the bear. I found myself again alone at Pemberley with a host of troubles, and now, winter was coming down on us with a vengeance.
“Is Mr Darcy away, ma’am?” Mr Yardley asked quietly. We were at one of our Sunday dinners with the addition of the Rogers. Miss Compton stayed at home with a cold.
“He is in Manchester on business. Do you make your sick rounds tomorrow?”
“I do.”
“I wonder if I might go along with you. Carl and I might drive by and collect you if you are not averse?”
“I would welcome your company, and I have no doubt my patients will be glad of your visit,” he said, adding with a touch of amused irony, “And my horse will appreciate a day of leisure in his shelter.”
“Who will you visit? I will make sure I have baskets for everyone.”
“I visit the Travers, Butters, Pirtles, Goodwins, and Anthonys tomorrow,” he said with a carefully neutral expression. Still, his eyes sought mine, and we had a silent moment of understanding. He was set to visit those affected by the confidential matter.
We turned our attention back to the others sitting around the table.
Stupid, stupid girl!I would have to relive the scene of my error and visit the Travers. To my shame, I had not gone there since, sending young John out bundled to his ears with baskets and firewood.
I had gone everywhere else instead, including a tour of Curate Hodge’s poor box, which is a room off the back of his tumble-down parsonage. He is a very good man, Mr Hodge. But the rector who is in possession of the living is an acquisitive, worldly man who cares little and helps even less, living as he does in his lucrative parish in Chesterfield, while the man who does all the work in Lambton survives on a pittance. I do not understand why a living adjacent to Pemberley is not in Mr Darcy’s hands, but the system of religious benefice is one I best not think on lest my blood begin to boil.
Stupid, stupid girl!
I strained to be good company. The liveliness I enjoyed the last time Mr Darcy left Pemberley was difficult to feign, but for Georgiana’s sake, I madean effort. In truth I staggered under the burdens of worry, of great responsibility, and most acutely, of feelings of abandonment. As if my marriage were not isolating enough, my father had turned his back on me.
As I walked the halls of Pemberley, I ruminated deeply on the matter of his response to what took place that night at the assembly. In the beginning, despite what he had said to me, I had believed that he placed an unreasonable degree of blame upon me for the scandal. But this was irrational on my part, for in fact, all of us bore the blame and the pain—not only of the incident—but also of his decisions thereafter. As I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders and climbed the stairs to my room after another interminably long and dark day, it was suddenly clear to me that my father had a fragility of character that had allowed his shame to ruin him. He was a broken man in every sense. I knew all too well what it was to experience public humiliation, but being a woman, I had learnt to live as best as I could after such a blow.
My father, whose source of pride was his deeply perceptive intellect, was punishing himself for his blindness in the matter of his daughters. His habits of self-interest had never trained him to overcome any obstacle, and upon reflection, I saw he had never forced himself to do what he did not want to do.
Thus, when the time came to face the world in a state of deep disgrace, he had ostracised himself, which was within his right. But to shun his family because to look at us was to see our ruination reflected back at him and thus drive the thorn of his failure as a parent further into his heart was a sort of madness. That was how I chose to see the matter, for anything short of a broken mind constituted a selfish indulgence of his wounds that I wouldnever forgive.
As I lay in the dark, I thought of Hertfordshire and my former life as though they were lying in a faraway place, as far and as fantastical as the Maldives. Had I ever really woken to the sounds of Mary’s clomping on the keys of our battered old pianoforte? Had I really looked upon the antics of Kitty and Lydia with droll amusement before I grabbed my shawl and climbed Oakham Mount? Had my mother’s constant warble of gossip, Hill’s strident announcements of company, and the wrangles and tangles of five girls in close proximity all contributed to a kind of comfortable music that never ceased in the background of my life?
Pemberley was so quiet. We were stately, we did not squabble, nor did we laugh until tears streamed down our cheeks. The servants spoke in proper tones of hushed efficiency, and never, ever was a door slammed in frustration. I began to wonder whether anger was necessary in order to unleash joy, for in my former life, there was always a constant swing between these two opposite states.
Between these recollections and my plaguing thoughts I swung most painfully, returning again and again to the refrain of disbelief in my own stupidity. Why? Why had I spoken of Mary? What better way to remind Mr Darcy of his entrapment than to speak of my family? What better way to make him suspicious of my motivations than to suggest he add my own poor sister to the list of his dependents?
That night, and many before it, had been long and sleepless, and as I stood at the window and stared at my distorted image in the glass, I strove to rid myself of the impression I was caught in a state between living and dying.
“Must you go, ma’am?”
