Page 137 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“Lizzy, I know you are displeased, but it was truly not possible to take Lydia with us. Considering how much the colonel and his wife insisted, it would have been discourteous of us.”

“I cannot disagree, Jane. Perhaps I have been too hasty in imposing my will. The colonel is a trustworthy man; I should not doubt his guardianship over her.”

“Mr Wickham was not there,” Jane continued.

“And that made our visit much more agreeable,” Elizabeth replied.

Jane chose not to add anything, she only looked out of the window.

The streets of Brighton were full and animated, as well as the shops, the parks, the promenade—everywhere they looked there seemed to be a small gathering, a small party, a place of entertainment. It was an enjoyable and arousing uproar, to which was added the smell of the sea and a breath of wind that chilled the warm air.

“Should we purchase something for our cousins? And a new bonnet for Mary?” Elizabeth suggested. Jane hesitated a moment, then agreed. It had been a while since the two sisters had spent any time alone in an unfamiliar environment. They knew nobody around them but felt comfortable enough to walk by themselves along the street with the shops, admiring the window displays and purchasing small gifts.

When they returned to the carriage, Jane let out a small cry of surprise, startling Elizabeth.

“Jane, what happened?”

The carriage began to move, while Jane struggled to regain her composure.

“Nothing… It is just that…I saw someone who…A gentleman…He looked very much like Mr Bingley.”

“Mr Bingley? Are you certain?”

“Yes… No, I am not certain. I mean, I thought it was him, but I cannot be certain; there were several other gentlemen with him and I only spotted him from behind.”

Elizabeth held her breath for a moment; unwillingly, her mind hurried to make some disturbing connections that she tried to dismiss.

“Gentlemen? Anyone we know?”

“No, of course not. As I said, I must be wrong,” Jane concluded.

Then she fell into a thoughtful silence, which Elizabeth tried to break several times but met with no success. Watching her sister’s apparent turmoil, Elizabeth’s resentment returned; as much as her opinion of Darcy had improved, it was beyond a doubt that his intervention had hurt Jane and that the wound was still painful. For that, she could not forgive him, nor his so easily influenced and indecisive friend.

If Bingley was in Brighton, meeting him again could be the best of luck or the most dreadful misfortune for Jane, whose heart seemed to not have healed yet.

During dinner that evening, Elizabeth and Jane struggled to listen to their cousins’ stories. The children were enchanted by their new friends, Annie and James, and eager to share the news in four different voices.

“And Lizzy, they have a puppy! His name is Hunter! Is it not a nice name! Mama, why can we not have a puppy?”

“The puppy belongs to James, and Annie has a kitten—Smudge—because she is white and has a black spot on her head. And blue eyes. I want a kitten too!” Margaret added pleadingly.

“And James is an excellent swimmer! They will come to swim with us tomorrow—their mother said they are allowed to! He will teach me to swim,” George said, while their younger siblings only nodded approvingly.

Despite their effort to engage in their cousins’ enthusiasm, neither Elizabeth nor Jane was in their usual disposition, a fact that did not go unnoticed by their aunt. Later, after dinner, they discussed the day’s events at length, but Mr Bingley’s name was not mentioned.

∞∞∞

Bingley’s plans seemed to have suffered a change, because instead of his presence at dinner, Darcy received a note in his messy handwriting, explaining that Dawson and his friends insisted he must remain overnight. Apologising for not being able to refuse them, Bingley promised he would return the next day after breakfast. Darcy met the information with an understanding smile and little surprise. This was Bingley—incapable of resisting his friends’ insistence and always eager to be in the middle of any social gathering.

Darcy had dinner by himself, in the solitude of his chamber. There was not much he could do, so he wrote to his sister Georgiana, to his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and to his uncle, Lord Matlock. Then he attempted to read but his thoughts were still wandering. The night was warm, quiet and calm just like the previous one, with the same bright sky.

He gazed through the window, trying to imagine what his mother had felt, there in that chamber, more than thirty years ago. How had she spent her lonely nights? Who was the recipient of her musings and torment? He had not had time to gather enough information, but from what Mrs Clarke had said, the families living nearby seemed decent, but simple people. Could the painter—the author of the letters—be one of them? Or perhaps someone who just visited them? Might his quest meet with any success, or was it just another vain struggle?

Midnight came and went and Darcy still could not sleep. The chamber seemed too hot, the bed too soft, the silence too heavy. Without much consideration, he left the room, then the house, careful not to wake anyone.

Dressed only in his trousers and shirt, he walked through the garden towards the shore. Abandoning his shoes by the gate, he continued across the stones barefoot, closer and closer to the water, then plunged in.

The chill of the sea stirred all his senses and, as he began to swim further from the shore, his torment slowly diminished. His body, fighting the water, moving towards the moon and leaving the shore behind, became lighter, the tension and pressure slowly disappearing, until he lost track of time and distance.