Into Kent (22 page)

“It is a matter involving my honour, Fitzwilliam; Wickham fed her a lie about me that has damaged my character in her eyes. I have given her an account of the man, complete and accurate, to counter this lie, and she may wish to verify it with you: that is all.”

“‘That is all’?” demanded the Colonel. “
All
? You have told Miss Bennet things I have withheld from my own parents!”

“I have, yes.”

“Dirks, what has got into you? To have revealed your sister’s…error in judgement…I could have sworn you would never share that with any living…” the Colonel’s voice trailed off, and he stared at his cousin. “Miss Bennet is the lady,” he stated.

Darcy looked at him, but said nothing. Colonel Fitzwilliam pressed him: “Dear Lord—Dirks—is Miss Bennet the one you want to marry?”

“She was,” Darcy acknowledged in an emotionless voice, “but that matter is closed, Edmund, and I would ask that you not mention it again; nor would I have Georgiana told of Miss Bennet’s presence here amongst us: it might distress her.”

“In Heaven’s name, Dirks, what...” the Colonel stopped on seeing his cousin’s face. “Very well; if that is what you want.”

“Thank you, Edders. Truly—thank you.”

The Colonel’s face was troubled, and he was quiet the remainder of the short walk to the Parsonage. As they drew near the house, Darcy told his cousin, “Fitzwilliam, I shall not stay long, but if Miss Bennet should happen not to be in, might you wait for her a bit? I would have this matter settled before we leave, if possible.” His cousin frowned and looked pensively at his friend, but only nodded. Darcy placed a grateful hand on his shoulder.

It so happened that Elizabeth was
not
yet returned, to Darcy’s great relief, and he staid only minutes before departing. On regaining his rooms, he sent Perkins down to Lady Catherine with the message that he was indisposed, and would come down when he felt more himself. He settled into a chair, staring directly ahead; in time his weariness worked on him, and he nodded. He did not stay long at rest, though, and he passed the remaining morning hours dozing fitfully: falling into a dark and exhausted sleep, only to awaken shortly thereafter, from a discomfort which was as much mental as it was physical.

He went down to dinner, just to get out of his rooms: neither he nor the Colonel had much to say; their aunt, attributing this to their disappointment at leaving Rosings, kindly took upon herself all discussion required at table that evening. Darcy, of course, was disinclined to even attempt conversation, and Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed very preoccupied, and looked often in Darcy’s direction. This state of affairs lasted through breakfast the next morning; Darcy, having slept as little on his last night at Rosings as he had on his first, had little energy for anything save the barest minimum demanded by courtesy. The Colonel, ever the gentleman, roused himself at the end to say his thanks and pay his respects properly before they set out. Darcy said what he could, but all he could wish for was to be in the coach and on his way home.

The two spoke little on the trip, as the Colonel did not wish to intrude on his friend’s temper, saying only “You know I shall not press you, Dirks; only do let me know, when you can, what this has all been about.” Darcy nodded, but still found nothing to say. They parted sombrely at Knightsbridge, and Darcy went on alone. When he arrived back in Grosvenor Square a short ride later, he forced himself to revive sufficiently to greet his sister, then, pleading fatigue from his trip, he went up to his rooms.

Taking off his travelling clothes, he went to wash the dust off his face at the washstand; splashing the water on his face, he pressed his hands against his eyes and stood there for some time, vacantly listening to the drops of water fall from him into the basin. His strength and resolve seemed to fall with them, each one leaving him weaker and more vulnerable; for the first time since he had left the Parsonage on that evening nearly two days before, he stopped fighting against the injuries he had received at Elizabeth’s hands: his utter exhaustion, coupled with an unprecedented and extreme weakness of spirit, rendered him unable any longer to resist; as his spirits ebbed, an expanding pain in his chest caused him to slowly pull in on himself; his breath came in shallow draughts, and he sank down until only his elbows held him, head nearly level with the basin. His tortured emotions crushed him utterly: he could find no release, no way to escape his suffering. He recognised that something essential within him had died, the loss of which he did not know how to survive; he had been cut off, in some manner, from his life—when he tried to think of next steps or new directions, he could sense no future ahead of him at all: he had no prospects of happiness, foresaw neither strength nor purpose; it was as if his very soul had been dissevered from him. He staid there, transfixed by the deep, oppressive pain of heartbreak, and the sharp agony of shame, for a very long while: how long, he did not know. A chance noise of some one passing by his door brought him upright at last, lest any one should enter and see him in this state. He wrapped his wounds and pain back up as best he could inside him, binding them in with that pride which would allow no one to see him laid thus low; but anger no longer befriended him, and he was without protection from his injuries: pride alone kept him from his knees. Suffering unceasingly from the wounds that do not heal, for the first time in his life, Darcy of Pemberley had no slightest idea of what to do, where to turn, or how he might go on.

End of Volume
II

Appendix

EDITOR’S NOTE: The correspondence between Mr. Darcy and his sister is given in chronological order by correspondent. References are given to the appropriate replies, where applicable.

Letters from Miss Georgiana Darcy

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Bath

Thursday, January 9, —

Dearest Fitzwilliam,

We are arrived in Bath; the roads were poor, especially through Wiltshire, but Aunt Eleanor and I are none the worse for wear. We have only just finished settling in, and we are in the drawing-room with every one—a very lively scene, I declare! I am nicely out of the way here in the corner at the secretaire, where I can see and hear every thing as I write.

Goodness, but our young cousins are a noisy group! —although of course they are very young. I have just had one (Fitzwilliam, I can
not
think of his name—is that not horrible? It will come to me, though) try to pull me out of the chair where I sit, to come play, and he has undone my sash in the process. But there is one very dear little one, little Thomas, so sweet and quiet as he sits by the fire at his mother’s feet! I have got him to smile, and I have promised myself to get speech of him before the evening is gone. He is shy, not yet five, with the fairest hair and biggest eyes of any child that ever was seen.

My aunt is very much in her element, and to listen to her talk with her sisters you would think them still in earliest youth: so eager to hear and to tell all the news from each side! —they can none of them speak fast enough. I have just counted up the number of people in the room, and there are a round dozen: sisters, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews; how different from our life at Pemberley! Their Christmas holidays must be a sight to behold. I am sure to have a pleasant stay here amongst them.

Little Thomas has just waved a tiny wave at me, and I shall end this to see if I might further my acquaintance with the gentleman.

Write soon, Fitzwilliam, and tell me how you do.

Your loving sister,

Georgiana Darcy

*For reply, see Darcy, January 15.

*****

Bath

Friday, January 17, —

Dear Fitzwilliam,

Bath seems, if such be possible, even gayer and more bustling than London. We have been to the pump rooms nearly every day, this evening we are to go to a concert in the Octagon Room, and Wednesday there was a chorale in the Upper Rooms. It has rained twice, yesterday for the whole day, keeping every one cooped up, and the young ones suffered for it: so boring to be within the whole day long! Some of the boys did, in fact, escape from their governess to the outer world, only to return in a wonderful state of disarray and dirtiness.

Oh, there is altogether such a coming and going, such staying and leaving, such a fine commotion amongst all our friends; it is beyond describing! Shall I confess to you that I find it wearying at times, and am only too happy to be here at the secretaire where I might step aside from the crush for a half-hour of repose? Little Thomas has come to stand by me as I write; we have become fast friends—in large part, I believe, because I am the quietest of his relations. He
is of delicate sensibility, and likes having his feelings catered to; not at all like his boisterous elder brothers. He stands to my left and holds my hand when he can, asking all manner of questions. He is fascinated by words on a page: I think he conceives pen and ink to be some sort of magic; he is very curious as to how I might be speaking with my brother thus silently: I believe he finds the idea very appealing. He is altogether a most charming little boy.

I have received yours of the 15
th
, and I think I agree with you, Fitzwilliam, that a little time from the pressing concerns and commotion of Town would do you good. I would happily seek an invitation for you to come to Bath, but for the fact that I fear the children would be almost as vexatious to you as are the fashionable set in London; they, some of them, are made more free by association, and their fond and indulgent parents see in this only good. Therefore I shall resist the inclination to ask you here, for your own sake.

Your description of the finding in Egypt fires my imagination with visions of the Pharaohs, and the knowledge and wisdom that might still be trapped in the writings of the ancients. It is, perhaps, unfortunate that it is taken by the French, but did you not tell me once that science transcends national boundaries? Surely so rare a find will not be hoarded up and secreted away from the world in this modern age, when even heads of state are philosophers of renown? I trust that this will be the case.

I must ascend now to dress; we are off to the theatre to-night, although I do not know what we are to see; I always forget to ask these things. I shall let you know when next I write. Till then, be well, dearest Brother; and I hope you may find some amiable destination to lure you from Town.

Your caring and affectionate sister,

Georgiana Darcy

*For reply, see Darcy, January 26.

*****

Bath

Tuesday, January 28, —

Dear Brother,

We have had a delightful visit, but I begin to be anxious to be home. My aunt, too, has said that she has had a sufficiency of relations, and has begun to think of returning to London.

In your letter of the 26
th
, you mention that you contemplate a visit to Oxford; I hope you find the looked-for guidance from Mr. Pender. I wish I might see your university one day: your descriptions and stories about it always make me long to make the visit myself.

I have tried, Brother, to take your admonitions to heart and forbid the familiarities I spoke of in the younger set here—I cannot but confess, however, that I have largely failed: not that I disagree, of course, but they mean no harm, and see in me, I think, one who is not so distant from them in age that they need hold me in awe; nor would I have them do so, in truth—I have no wish to be awful and forbidding in character, or even simply by virtue of my age. I find myself caught betwixt and between: neither suited to join in their frivolity, nor in the more stately and meaningful discourse of my aunt and her relations. In either case, silence seems my best response, and the course I find easiest to follow.

I have tried the library here several times, but, as Bath is meant for diversion, the library’s contents have never been much thought of. It does offer a convenient shelter, however, as I believe I am the only inmate of the house who goes into it.

I hope and expect to see you soon, Brother, and as Aunt Eleanor has not spoken of a stop in Hampshire, I trust we will be back in London by the second week in February, at the latest. Until then, please take care of yourself; I remain:

Your loving and homeward turning sister,

Georgiana Darcy

*****

*Grosvenor Square

Thursday, April 10, —

Dearest Fitzwilliam,

I have received your letter from Tuesday, and yes, you are entirely too cruel, indeed! It is one thing for you to say such things to me, but I pray you again, promise not to speak them aloud to any one; it terrifies me to imagine the result of such disobliging expressions getting abroad. I wonder you can even think them, Brother; what our father would say I do not know! And I certainly shall not ask the Rector to pray for any one capable of such meanness. There!

Now! I am pleased that Cousin Edmund will have more pleasures open to him than in years past, but what of you, Fitzwilliam? Will you truly have nothing to do there but labour on Lady Catherine’s books? I know that is why you go, but, if I mistake not, was that not your complaint last year, the lack of diversion? I remember you saying that Aunt Catherine’s library was “pedestrian, at best”; is there nothing at all to divert you for an entire fortnight? That would be such a shame.

I always feel such sympathy for our cousin—imagine living with Lady Catherine, and always being so ill; poor thing, how she must long to breathe free and be strong! Whenever I have, in prior years, thought myself trodden down or ill used by the world, I have often used Cousin Anne as a reminder of those things for which I should be thankful.

I have been enjoying the use of
our
library while you are absent; Mrs. Annesley has offered to bring me any number of books, including novels, from a lending library she frequents. Would this be proper, Fitzwilliam? I admit to a certain curiosity, but one hears such dreadful things about novels and the low impressions they create, I am very hesitant. I shall wait for your guidance in this matter.

That, dear Brother, is all from here, I am afraid. I hope you continue well, and that you will be free to return home soon.

Your affectionate sister,

Georgiana Darcy

*For reply, see Darcy, April 14.

*****

Grosvenor Square

Wednesday, April 16, —

Dearest Fitzwilliam,

Your letter of the 14
th
, was, I confess, too deep for my poor brain; the one part I did understand and find amusing, though, was your adieu, wherein you said there was little more to be said for you: after four pages of dense philosophical debate, it is no wonder that there should be little more to be said! But you are
too
bad to Mr. Collins, and he a clergyman—for shame, Fitzwilliam! I vow you only say these things to make me blush, and why you would bother, when you are too far away to see your success, I cannot imagine.

From what I could make of your letter, it is a question of marriage: when it is acceptable and when not, and with whom, is not it? Is this something you have under consideration, Fitzwilliam? In writing that last I had thought I was tea
zing, but on reflection, I now ask it in earnest: is this something you have under consideration, Fitzwilliam? I do hope you would not let me be surprised by a decision such of moment. No, I know you would not. It is well; I breathe again.

Mrs. Annesley has suggested I mention to you a Mrs. Francis Burney, an author of one of the novels she had in mind for me to read. Do you know her works, and whether they might be
altogether wholesome? Oh, and let me not forget to mention that Aunt Eleanor has instructed me to tell you that there will be another dinner
and
a ball, on your return from Kent; while you may be certain I would never take such liberty, I did think it would amuse you to hear.

Your
devoted sister,

Georgiana Darcy

*For reply, see Darcy, April 20.

*****