Chapter Text
“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother, “I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the coveys for you.”
Mrs. Bennet paused, and then continued, one eyebrow raised at Mr. Darcy.
“Mr. Darcy you do fidget so. Perhaps you must be wishing to return to Netherfield, or to be…elsewhere?”
Mr. Darcy seemed to startle a little at this close observation.
Elizabeth cast an expression at her mother that, if seen by another, would reveal her desperation for her mother to stop talking. She was overwhelmed by two mutually incompatible desires: to keep Mr. Darcy in company with herself, and to prevent Mr. Darcy from being in the same room as her mother.
“I apologise, Madam. I regret that I have not had the chance to take proper exercise since we arrived in the country. My friend and I were eager to call on you without delay.”
“Well by all means, do not let me keep you. Lizzy is forever indulging her extraordinary preference for walking. Lizzy, perhaps you might point Mr. Darcy in the direction of one path or another, and Jane, you might show Mr. Bingley the usual spots for shooting?”
Mr. Bingley beamed at this suggestion, then glanced questioningly at Mr. Darcy.
“I would not wish to importune Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, looking in her direction.
“It would be my pleasure, Sir. It is such a fine day. Indeed, your desires coincide with my own; I had just been planning a walk before we heard your call.”
The two elder Bennet daughters retrieved their bonnets, and the gentlemen their hats, and they all walked outdoors.
Mr. Bingley offered his arm to Jane, who accepted without delay. The pair walked ahead of Elizabeth and Darcy. Mr. Darcy and Elizbaeth maintained their silence for several minutes, as they walked. For her part, Elizabeth was glad for this temporary pause. She was still shocked by the gentlemen’s arrival, of which they had had such little notice, and shocked further by their apparent knowledge of Lydia’s marriage to Mr. Wickham. Her composure was not assured, and she felt that her colour must be high.
It seemed utterly impossible that Mr. Darcy would wish to continue his acquaintance with her, or with her family, knowing this news. With a sudden chill she considered that he might have included himself in Mr. Bingley’s return to Netherfield for the purposes of taking his leave of her, for ending their acquaintance in the most gentlemanlike manner he could imagine. The notion that he might come to Hertfordshire to take his leave of her was to contemplate a courtesy on his part so excessive in its consideration that she felt it almost as a cruelty, in the circumstances.
Eventually, when they had turned onto a small country lane, and were undoubtedly out of sight and hearing of the house, Mr. Darcy slowed his pace, and she hers, to follow. Mr. Bingley and Jane ambled further ahead. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth passed through a small copse of trees, and the only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath their feet.
As they passed out of it, he tilted his head towards her, and she realised he was preparing to speak.
“I confess that when were all together in Derbyshire, I had looked forward to—”
He paused, and she wondered what he would say next, and why he would say it, why he must say anything at all. Surely the loss of a future connexion between them was self-evident to them both; he hardly needed to recite its cause or lament it; they must each bear this loss privately. At that she realised, if she had ever doubted it, that a loss it would be, at least to her. Perhaps the loss was felt long ago, for him. She knew he had lost something too, but she did not know when, precisely. Perhaps he had felt a loss of a kind after Rosings, or at Pemberley, or some portion of both. She wondered how his loss compared to her own. Perhaps by the time she had arrived at Pemberley, there was nothing further for him to lose, to lament.
She trained her eyes on the path in front of them.
“—that is, I had looked forward to continuing our acquaintance, our friendship, if I may presume to call it such, Miss Elizabeth.”
I had looked forward to, she noted.
“I take your meaning, Mr Darcy. I understand that subsequent events have rendered that quite impossible. I gather you had heard the news of Lydia’s marriage before your journey to Netherfield."
“I had.”
“It is, it is good of you to come to take your leave of us Sir, but I assure you, I need no explanations. I understand perfectly. Even though it is very good to see you, and I thank you—”
She shook her head, aware that she was thinking and speaking with less than her usual clarity.
Ahead, Mr. Bingley and Jane paused to look over a neighbouring field, their backs to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.
Abruptly, Mr. Darcy stopped walking. He lifted his hand and touched her elbow, his fingers lingering for just a moment before letting go. She turned and faced him.
“No, Miss Bennet; you misapprehend me. I mean rather that I regret the interruption of our conversation that was occasioned by Wickham’s conduct, and what ensued thereafter. I hope–I still hope—to continue, to renew our friendship. It gave me great pleasure to receive you and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner at Pemberley. Georgiana too was excessively pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe we both hope that it should not be the last occasion on which we might enjoy your company.”
In a series of extraordinary statements, this last was the most extraordinary; the suggestion that there should ever be any future cause for their association to continue.
Elizabeth felt astonished by his speech, and reflexively disbelieving of it. She counselled herself that he had always been honest in his dealings with her, and that she had no reason to question the generosity of his offer.
“I thank you, Mr. Darcy. I confess my hopes align with those of you and your sister. I was very pleased to meet Miss Darcy. Having heard so much of her from your friends I confess that I was intimidated to meet her. But having made her acquaintance, I find that for all that she meets and exceeds Miss Bingley’s praise—and the very high standards for accomplishment that I know you set—but I was struck most of all by what a dear, kind girl she is.”
It seemed impossible to say anything of her desire to continue her friendship with him.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement of her words.
“Thank you, Miss Bennet. She is very dear to me. I am pleased to know she may claim you as a friend. Perhaps if you are both in London for the season, in the future, you may have cause to renew your acquaintance.”
At this she smiled broadly, and then, so did he. For a few seconds they stood still, smiling at one another. Then, she felt compelled to speak.
“Thank you, Sir. Mr. Darcy, I find I cannot—”
She moved to turn her face from his.
“Miss Bennet?”
He caught her fingertips, and clasped them in his hand. His voice when he spoke was gentle and firm.
“Miss Bennet, I beg you to do me the honour—befitting our friendship—of sharing with me that which distresses you.” He squeezed her fingers as he made his speech.
“Mr. Darcy, I find I cannot be silent on a matter which has long troubled me. It hardly needs to be said that I erred in my judgment of Mr. Wickham’s character, and that you were correct. The harm wrought by my prejudice in that regard could not be clearer. But I must tell you how much I regret my error in relation to your character, that I did not heed your advice, nor give you proper credit. The propriety of your actions in all things concerning Mr. Wickham; in all things, shames me endlessly when I think of how I spoke to you; how poorly I judged your character.”
He took a small step closer towards her; he did not relinquish her hand.
“I had not given you any reason to think well of me. I regret that it took this event for us to understand one another on this topic, but you cannot take the blame. Wickham is practiced at deception. I had the experience of many years to inform my knowledge and actions, and I can only regret that I had not endeared myself to you and your family well enough that I might have shown how my words ought matter. I take no pleasure, of course, that this event has transformed your thinking. I should much rather have you think ill of me, and not have you and your family troubled in this way.”
She took her own small step towards him, and they were closer than they had ever been, other than when they had danced together at Netherfield. She could see the detail of the fine linen of his shirt and the arrangement of his cravat.
“No, sir. It was not this event that transformed my thinking. As soon as I received,” here she paused, conscious that for the first time, she was to raise, by implication, their private conversation in Kent, and what had followed it; “your letter, I saw the truth of your words, and the truth of Mr. Wickham’s character. I could hardly bear to think of what he had done to Miss Darcy. Meeting her in Derbyshire only showed me further the gravity of the injury that was, thankfully, averted.”
“I am touched that the letter soon made you think better of me, at least in one regard. I admit I wrote that letter in an ill temper, and have long regretted that my means of expression betrayed the bitterness of spirit I briefly had, but that I assure you, has long since passed.”
Somehow, despite the intensity of the moment, she managed to hold his gaze.
“The adieu was charity itself.”
His eyes seemed to dip to her lips, and then return to meet her eyes.
“If I had not written in such haste…I have had an excess of time to consider how I ought to have written that letter. I am honoured that you read it, and with such charity.”
The heightened emotion of the moment felt impossible to maintain. She squeezed his hand lightly before letting go of it. When she spoke, she adopted a satirical tone.
“Mr. Darcy, we would dishonour the traditions of our friendship if we were to pass the entirety of this conversation in praising, understanding and apologising to one another. Such mutual understanding might befit another friendship, but not ours. Come, we must have some disagreement; you must let me tease or misunderstand you, and then I may return the favour.”
Mr. Darcy’s grin showed his pleasure at this piece of conversation.
Elizabeth returned his smile, and then they both looked ahead to see Jane and Mr. Bingley turning, apparently beginning to walk back in the direction of Longbourn. Without discussing it, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy did the same. For her part, Elizabeth wanted to maintain their distance from her sister and Mr. Bingley. As they made their own turn, Mr. Darcy offered her his arm, and Elizabeth accepted.
“There is one final matter I wish to discuss with you, Miss Elizabeth. When I returned to London recently I went to see Mr. Bingley.I apprised him of my role in separating him from Miss Bennet, and I begged his forgiveness. I advised him that my purported intelligence on that matter was faulty. I said to him that if he were to try to renew his acquaintance with Miss Bennet, that I would support him in pursuing it again.”
Her surprise at this revelation could not be understated. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on his arm. They both inclined their heads towards one another slightly, as though to forward the privacy of the moment.
“May I ask how he made his reply?”
“I think the slightest encouragement or hope would have been enough for him to return here. He immediately made plans to do so. I cannot speak to what may happen, and of course, I cannot speak to Miss Bennet’s desires, but I know, I know he has not forgotten his friendship with your sister.”
“Mr. Darcy, I thank you, truly.”
He responded wordlessly, laying his other hand across her fingers where they rested on his arm.
…
After the gentlemen had left, Elizabeth experienced a feeling of elation so precious to her that she slipped upstairs to her room so that she might enjoy it in private. She looked out the window at the familiar scene below, at the gardens of Longbourn and the fields beyond, and thought of all they had discussed. She had met with Mr. Darcy, and spoken of many of the issues that lay between them. To know that he thought well of her, well enough to seek her friendship, and to forward her friendship with Georgina, more, that he had taken the trouble to attend her in order to tell her these things, was a great comfort.
Since Elizabeth’s return from Derbyshire, when she had imagined the possibility of them meeting in the years to come by chance or through some mutual acquaintance, she had imagined the pain of her uncertainty as to his opinion of her. To know that he viewed her charitably, that he did not blame or resent her for her role in the matter of Mr. Wickham and Lydia, or any of the rest of it, was a deep source of contentment that she had not thought she would have. She knew she would cherish this knowledge as long as she lived, whatever her other disappointments in the matter.
And, Jane and Mr. Bingley! The prospect of their reunion, the prospect that Jane might find her happiness with Mr. Bingley, was more than she had dared to hope.
As she thought on all that occurred, she felt grateful for what had transpired, and everything he had communicated. But her earlier feelings of elation began to mix with feelings of despair. Misunderstandings aside, the fundamental truth remained. He had offered for her, and she had rejected him, cruelly, if rationally. But if Elizabeth had doubted at Pemberley, or in the days since her return to Longbourn, she no longer doubted that she might love Mr. Darcy, that perhaps she was already well on her way to loving him.
And now, there was no prospect of another offer, no prospect he might love her again or renew his addresses. It was one thing for him to be willing to continue his—and his sister’s—friendship with her. It was perhaps inevitable, given that he had given his blessing to his friend to rekindle his connexion with Jane. They were sure to be in company together on occasion, and he would wish for their relationship to be cordial. But his cordiality was not love, nor was it marriage. It reflected his charitable view of her and what had passed in their acquaintance. It was meagre sustenance. He did not think ill of her. But she would never have his love.
As she had only a few times in her life, Elizabeth cried herself to sleep that night.