Mr. Darcy's Decision: A Sequel to Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 21

  CHAPTER 28

  “I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh.”

  October brought Jane and Bingley to Derbyshire and much of that month was spent with the couple going between Pemberley and Great Fordham Hall. Jane threw herself wholeheartedly into the office of being aunt to baby Fitzwilliam.What a delight this cherub was, a solid, dark-eyed baby of an easy disposition.

  “Like the master,” observed Mrs. Reynolds. “Just the image of him! So good-natured. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when they are children are good-natured when they grow up.”The housekeeper’s observation amused Elizabeth, at once for its being unfounded and for the fact that the woman had so often repeated it.

  Jane and Elizabeth were so happy to be reunited and the friends likewise, for Darcy and Bingley valued each other’s company. In happy reflection on the fortunate outcome of the previous year, Darcy and Elizabeth began in November to make plans for a ball at Pemberley.

  “For Christmas! We shall invite everyone,” said Darcy,“you will make up a list for the invitations, Elizabeth, and have them sent sooner rather than later.”

  Elizabeth was at once taken up with all the arrangements, the flowers, the food, the orchestra. All of her days for a great many weeks were filled with the organization of the assembly. “I have never in my life set about such a task,” she said to Mrs. Reynolds who immediately set out to reassure her mistress. “Oh you are doing a fine job, ma’am, a fine job,” she said. “Lady Anne would have been proud to see it. She was a great one for everything being perfect and you are just like her. No detail unattended. Her arrangements were always very much admired.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “So I hear, I am quite daunted by the prospect of attempting to equal her successes.”

  The housekeeper again gave her mistress words of encouragement but Elizabeth held firm the belief that she must not accept all the credit. “Oh I do not know how I would have seen to all my duties at Pemberley without your guidance, Mrs. Reynolds. I have taken so much credit for managing great affairs when really the accolade is yours if only those who have praised me knew it,” said Elizabeth.

  “Oh you flatter me, ma’am,” said Mrs. Reynolds, “but you are not to worry yourself, it will be a wonderful evening, truly wonderful.”

  “And very interesting I am sure,” said Elizabeth pointing to the guest list,“if Lady Catherine decides to grace us with her presence. And Caroline Bingley has been invited. What lively conversation we shall be favored with, there will be no shortage of cutting remarks, disapproving looks, and sly comments, all of which make for a certain form of diversion I suppose.”

  As the weeks passed and the replies gradually arrived at Pemberley Elizabeth went eagerly through them and divided the cards into neat piles representing those who graciously accepted the invitation and those who regretted that they could not. On finding Lady Catherine’s card stating her regret, Elizabeth felt none. Caroline Bingley, however, was amongst those who would be attending.

  “Oh well, I shall be as civil as possible,” Elizabeth said,“but I am not sorry that Lady Catherine will not be favoring us with her company, I wonder how Caroline can dare to accept when the de Bourghs will not come, she is at Rosings for the winter. She has more audacity than I thought,” said Elizabeth, studying the acceptance card from Miss Bingley. Examining it further she realized at once her oversight. “Oh heavens,” cried she, “Lady Catherine will be seriously displeased, Caroline Bingley writes that she will be accompanied by Anne de Bourgh.”

  As Elizabeth rightly imagined Anne’s decision to attend the ball had caused Lady Catherine the severest of displeasure.“This is Miss Bingley’s doing I suppose,” the latter said to her daughter, “well, I am not impressed, she pays no mind to your health or constitution, what can she be thinking dragging you off to Derbyshire for a ball?” For once Anne de Bourgh chose not the meek response her mother expected. She rose with quiet deliberation from her seat and said quite plainly, “You must not blame Miss Bingley, Mother, it was I who insisted upon going and I intend to enjoy every minute of it, I have even been learning to dance.” This last was announced with so triumphant a lilt to Anne’s voice that Lady Catherine found herself quite unnerved. “Learning to dance?” cried she in disbelief. “What kind of deviant influence has taken hold of you child?”

  Caroline Bingley had entered the room and risking the loss of Lady Catherine’s approval owned responsibility immediately.“I am afraid, madam, that the deviance you refer to is all mine, I believe it will do Anne good to be treated as most young ladies are and you will be overjoyed to know that she dances very well.”

  “Overjoyed? You are seriously misled, Miss Bingley, my daughter has never shown any inclination towards entertainments such as these you speak of.”

  “Oh, you are quite mistaken, your ladyship, she has every inclination towards the enjoyment of dancing, music and dare I say, eligible young men, all of which will be in plentiful supply at Pemberley.”

  Anne blushed slightly, which had the immediate effect of altering her sickly appearance.

  “What have you done to my daughter?” demanded Lady Catherine with a harsh look at Miss Bingley.

  Caroline Bingley smiled knowingly.“I hope, ma’am, that I have unwittingly found a remedy for her ailments.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favorable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.

  On the evening of the ball Elizabeth remarked to Mrs. Reynolds that the time since she first came to Pemberley as mistress had escaped so quickly. She could scarce believe that Christmas was soon to be upon them.A light snow had fallen and made a magical scene of Pemberley. Pure white flakes fell like ivory stars and nestled on the branches of the wintering woods.The quiet sanctity of the chill days reflected the peace that had at last settled in her heart. She reviewed the year past in her mind but her present joy colored all previous resentment and washed away the pain of foregone tragedy. She looked from the nursery window over the park.

  “So still and hushed,” she whispered, “but soon we shall have carriages and guests arrive, it will not be so serene then,” she said, leaning over the prettily dressed crib and kissing her infant. He did not stir at her touch or the rustle of her gown.

  Mrs. Quinn said to Elizabeth, “You look beautiful, ma’am, perfect, this will be a great occasion, I do not believe we have had a ball like this since old Mr. Darcy’s day.”

  Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. “No indeed, my husband says you have not.There are over two hundred guests expected, I must save my breath if I am to greet all of them.” Leaving Mrs. Quinn to nurse young Fitzwilliam she went to walk the Long Gallery.

  The strains of the practicing orchestra could be heard rising up from the ballroom. She paused for a long while to admire the fine portrait of her husband. She had been captivated by the painting from her first seeing it the previous August and her enchantment with his image was as complete as her adoration of the reality. How handsome a likeness it was, how cleverly it depicted his strength and everything that was good about him. For he was good, truly so, and her knowing him in the most intimate way had proven his excellence beyond doubt. It was so perplexing for her to recall that she had ever thought him even disagreeable.

  But to remember that she had decided him to be wholly bad was at once a mystery to her. How painfully she recalled the naivety of her determination to dislike him. In her recollection, she made a study of her previous misplaced sentiments and was not happy to note them. I who credited myself as a great observer of human behavior, she mused. How foolishly I misled my own poor heart, she thought, and considering her old self to be opinionated and unforgiving she sought justification and amusement from her memor
ies and so conceded; He was disagreeable it is true, I cannot reproach myself too harshly, we were both of us difficult creatures. Elizabeth spoke her reflections in the softest of tones. “To think how I once despised him yet could not admit to admiring him.”

  Darcy had walked the length of the gallery and reached his wife’s side before her reverie was broken. He wore full evening dress with a cream silk trone d’amour neckcloth and though his fine features and figure required no improvement, his elegant attire dramatically enhanced his appearance.

  “Elizabeth, may I ask, to what does your quiet discourse tend?” he said.

  Elizabeth, surprised at first, then shy to have been caught speaking only to herself, turned to face her husband; her eyes met his. “If I do not tell you shall think me secretive and if I do I am afraid you shall think me very foolish,” she protested playfully.

  “I know you to be neither, so there is no great risk in revealing your thoughts to me,” said Darcy.

  Elizabeth turned her gaze again on his portrait. “You are not a bit altered, Fitzwilliam,” she observed.

  “You are mistaken, I am much changed,” he said, himself observing the likeness. He pointed to it. “I am the better part of a decade younger here, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth could not disagree with him, for the painting originated from his father’s lifetime; the subject could be no more than one and twenty. There was no dramatic alteration in him now, a maturity had set his features, he gave more the appearance of a man of the world than he had, there were indeed changes. But they were subtle.The Darcy in the portrait was neither a husband nor a father. She admitted that a certain youthfulness was shown in the painting that was no longer apparent in the man, but the loss of it was not to be mourned for in its place were qualities far more attractive and valuable than mere youth.

  Darcy was still regarding the portrait. “I look at this man with detachment. I look at his eyes; they are eyes that have not yet looked upon you. His mouth hints at a smile but there can be no sure reason for his pleasure, his lips have not had the delights of yours, Elizabeth,” he said softly and encouraged her to look again on his likeness.“It is certain he had a heart, this man, but it is empty because you had not yet filled it.”

  Elizabeth offered her hand to him; he raised it for a kiss.“I love you, Fitzwilliam,” she said,“with all my heart.”

  “And I love you, Elizabeth.”

  They spoke then of matters past and Elizabeth confessed that she had stood bewildered before the painting, unable to reconcile her previous animosity to the man who she now adored.

  “It is past, Elizabeth, we must let it be so.”

  “Yes, let the past die quietly taking its ghosts to rest alongside it, I cannot be haunted by them anymore.”

  Darcy was silent for a moment. “I must confess something to you my love,” he said, producing some neatly folded sheets of hot pressed paper from his pocket. “Forgive me, I came across this when I was at your desk confirming details of the orchestra’s instructions.”

  He gestured for Elizabeth to take the letter and she did so. She recognized her husband’s hand and every word written, though not recently read by her, was familiarly painful to interpret.

  The letter ran:Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

  Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge.The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister; and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honor and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr.Wickham.Willfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favorite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry.The necessity must be obeyed and further apology would be absurd.

  I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before.At that ball, while I had the honor of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend’s behavior attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him.

  Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening’s scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error.Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert that the serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain, but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.

  My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavored to forget, because they were not immediately before me.These causes must be stated, though briefly.The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honorable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that, from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection.

  He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, rem
ember, with the design of soon returning.The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London.We accordingly went, and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal, regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own.To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much.

  There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it.That they might have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable, but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.