A Private Performance (29 page)

K
ITTY DRIFTED INTO SLEEP
, barely waking when she coughed.

At midnight, she awoke.

“Lizzy,” she whispered.

“Dearest Kitty.”

“It was always my secret desire to be like you, Lizzy—” Then came the noisy battle for the indrawn breath. “Am I not a foolish girl?”

Elizabeth felt an exquisite tenderness then, tenderness like a bruise.

“I always loved you, Kitty, though I scarcely told you so,” she whispered.

Kitty smiled. “Do you wuv me, Wizzie?” she gasped. There was a horrible rasping sound from her throat. Elizabeth looked at her in consternation, not unmingled with fear. “You cannot … have forgotten?” Kitty said.

Only then Elizabeth realised Kitty was laughing at the family joke of a three-year-old Kitty trailing after the sister she adored. Now her eyes, enormous in her thin face, asked for the familiar response.

“Oh, very well then, I love you,” said Elizabeth, in a poor imitation of the snapped response of old. ‘How I have wasted my opportunities to love!' she thought.

Kitty smiled again and her eyes closed.

Her struggle for breath continued through the night. The physician dozed off at times, but Elizabeth was beyond fatigue. Edward sat in dumb wakefulness on the other side of the bed.

Towards morning Kitty's eyes flew open. Elizabeth searched frantically for understanding in their vacancy. Kitty seemingly struggled to see clearly the face before her.

“Edward,” she whispered.

“I am here, darling Kitty,” he said.

“Edward, I made you promise …”

“I will always hold your memory sacred.”

“No, Edward.” She looked at him in a moment of clearest focus.

“I release you.” He saw, in the girl's eyes, a glimpse of the woman he would never know.

He sank to his knees, clutching her hands. “Do not leave me, Kitty, I beg you.”

She put one thin hand upon his face.

“Thank you, Edward.” His lips framed the question, but he could not speak.

“You, only you … made me feel … of significance … in the world.”

Elizabeth covered her eyes with her hand.

Kitty slept. The silences between gasping breaths seemed interminable.

Her eyes opened once more. Elizabeth dared not look at Edward, for her sister seemed to stare into another realm. Kitty closed her eyes. There was a sound from her throat, then silence.

 

Elizabeth and Edward sat there for a long time in the silence, until Wilkins came and led Elizabeth away, undressed her and unpinned her hair. She put her hands over her ears at the horrible sound of Edward's cry. She lay on the bed, thinking she might never sleep again, and fell asleep at once.

Before dawn she awoke and waited for Wilkins. She was numb with weariness, but knew she could sleep no more. She breakfasted with Edward, who seemed not to have slept at all. Elizabeth found her throat so tight that she could not eat. She took a few sips of tea.

“I hate to leave you, Edward.”

“Truly, do not concern yourself on that account. Mother is here and I expect the Bingleys this afternoon. I have had a letter from Rushly.”

“There is none better than my sister to assist you. Has Mr. Darcy sent a carriage for me?”

“Your coachman says he left Pemberley at first light. The horses will be rested sufficiently to leave before luncheon, if you wish.”

“Good-bye for now.” For the first and last time, she kissed her brother-in-law's cheek.

 

Wilkins sat with her in the carriage, longing to be of assistance, but her mistress seemed unaware of her existence.

Elizabeth had not wept since her first knowledge of her sister's illness. She looked from the window at field and farm-house, sweep and fell. Nowhere could she see the familiar. ‘Everything is become strange,' she thought. They reached the gates of her home. ‘No. I am the stranger,' she thought. ‘Pemberley will never again be so dear to me. This is not truly my home as I am no longer loved and honoured by its master.'

From the top of the hill, where the drive curved down to the house, she could see right across the lake. On the far side, she made out the distant figures of Georgiana and her cousin. They looked up, and waved. She raised her hand and turned away her head.

She climbed the steps and went in. Mrs. Reynolds came to meet her. Elizabeth barely took in her words of condolence.

“The master is with the steward, madam. Shall I send for him?”

Unhearing, Elizabeth passed her and mounted the stairs to her dressing room. As she went up, the window shades were silently lowered, one by one.

Once in her night-gown, she said: “Leave my clothes just as they are, Wilkins. You need rest yourself.”

Alone, she opened the door of her bedroom. In the light coming in at the edges of the curtains, the cold emptiness of the room was revealed, and the undisturbed cover of the bed. She gave a little cry. He was not there, of course. There would be no comfort in the cold silk of those sheets. She went across to the door to his room. He would have slept there, she knew. She would lie in his bed with the scent of him in the sheets. She decided that, if the door were locked, she would give up hope. She reached out, her hand shook, the knob turned, and the door swung open.

She heard his footsteps cross the room behind her.

“You wish me to go.” She turned, leaned against the door frame for an instant, took a step towards her own bed and was falling.

She sighed as his arms caught her. She leant against him.

“Why did you labour so to steal my heart, only to reject me?” she whispered. “I have loved you from my soul … and you …”

She moaned as he lifted her into his arms. She felt the warmth of him, of his shoulder against her cheek.

He said, “My beautiful Elizabeth, why did you not tell me?”

She wanted to say, ‘I did, I did tell you,' but it would not have been true. Always she had let him believe that she loved him less than she did.

“I was afraid.”

“I am too dull a man for you to fear the loss of my affection. There are no bounds to my love for you.”

She kissed him, looking at him most tenderly, and said, “It is true that you are very dull.”

He lowered her onto the bed. “I believe I have earned some little flattery, one compliment, perhaps, after two years and a half of devotion.”

“I may think of something, by and by.”

She laughed and her eyes filled with tears. In his arms she wept, for relief, for happiness and for grief.

T
HROUGH THE FOLLOWING DAYS
, side by side with the pain of Kitty's death, there was a new kind of happiness growing between Darcy and Elizabeth.

Although doted upon, even spoilt, as a child, Darcy nevertheless believed—in his heart—that his worthiness lay in his position in life and in his ability to emulate the father whom everyone had so much admired. Now a wonderful notion had entered his head that Elizabeth loved him, and deeply, for the man that he was, rather than in spite of it.

It was some days before she could ask: “Why were you so cold towards me at Deepdene?”

He mumbled a few disjointed sentences, while she looked at him with growing incredulity.

“I cannot believe it,” she said. “You were jealous? And of Peregrine Whittaker, of all men? You must have known I disliked him.”

“You disliked me at one time.”

“So it followed that every man I disliked, I should finish by falling in love with? In any case, I did not dislike you when I first knew you. I hated you and that is a much more promising passion.”

“Do you deny that you gave me cause?”

“Certainly I did not do so intentionally. I have never sought his company.”

“No, but he took every opportunity to speak to you, and you did nothing to discourage him. You were laughing at me together that last evening.” She blushed. “You said something about me. What was it?”

“That … you never converse with toads. That is hard to believe, I know. It was a rather silly conversation. Forgive me, dearest, but I was hurt and angry. You rebuffed me in front of him.”

“You rebuffed me the night before when I wanted you desperately. I believed I knew how to approach you, so that you could not help but show me if your heart were still mine.”

“You seemed to have withdrawn your love and approval of me, yet still … I was there for your use.”

“Good God! Elizabeth, my own! You felt that?” He bent his head over her hands and kissed them tenderly. “All I wanted was proof of your love.”

“Fitzwilliam, how could you think I would dishonour you?”

“I did not imagine you would behave dishonourably; but I could not bear the notion that you might prefer another man, in your heart.”

“You would never have doubted the depth of my feelings for you had I been more candid.”

A quiet little interval passed. Then she said: “I do hope you noted my attempt to mollify you. I thought it very dutiful of me to apologise when my behaviour had been so exemplary.”

“I did not perhaps receive your apology very graciously.”

“You were generosity itself,” she said. Skilfully mimicking Darcy's chilly tone at the time, she said: “You have done nothing to justify complaint.”

There was that instant reaction of pained hauteur with which he had always met anything like derision. He felt her shaking with repressed laughter as she kissed him.

He began to laugh.

 

Elizabeth received a kindly letter of condolence from Lord Bradford. He humbly begged to be allowed to pay his respects in person, as he would be passing through Lambton on a particular day. Georgiana had as good a grasp of arithmetic as any young lady and knew it would be six weeks to the day since his walk in the Deepdene pleasure gardens with her.

It may be safely assumed that she arranged for her sister and brother to be unfortunately prevented from joining them in another walk. The water was glistening blue in the sun. This time she gave not a single thought to jumping into the lake; she only thought of jumping over a canal.

Lady Catherine, perhaps, had experienced enough of the loneliness of being always right. She thought, more often than she liked, of the kiss she had denied her daughter when they parted at Rosings. She received a letter from Darcy that quite scotched the plan she had formed of bringing Georgiana to live with her. However, the news it contained of Georgiana's engagement was highly gratifying to her family pride. Yet what pleasure could she have gained from the connection if she were not on speaking terms with that branch of her family? She reflected that it was, after all, the third epistle Darcy had sent her since their estrangement. While it lacked a tone of humility and apology she would have liked, Lady Catherine de Bourgh did something she never did. She compromised.

“Wonderful!” cried Elizabeth. “Pray do not look long in the mouth, my love. I know you are fond of her, really.”

“I have no inclination for her society if she does not treat my wife with respect,” he muttered.

“Think what gratification I shall feel on teaching her to do so,” she said, and laughed at his expression of alarm.

“A jest, my dearest,” she said, but he did not know whether to quite believe her.

“Well, she is my mother's sister; and I take comfort in the fact that she is acknowledging you at last, albeit with so little grace. She has had many trials with the younger branches of the family.”

“Next year, sometime, you will represent the youngest branch no more,” said Elizabeth.

“Can you mean, Elizabeth, that I am to be a parent?”

“You must own me to be obliging.”

“Indeed, I do.”

Pemberley
Spring, 1826

T
HE CHESTNUTS SPREAD THEIR FAMILIAR
shade across the grass, the ducks and swans swam in circles on the lake, and the scent of the flowers drifted deliciously on the breeze.

Mr. Bennet looked around him. What gratification Mrs. Bennet would have enjoyed at this scene! Three years had gone by since his lady's nerves finally succumbed to life's assaults. He sighed.

“What is it, Papa?” Mary leaned over him. “You are thinking of Mama, I know. Find comfort, as I do, in knowing that she is in heaven and looking down upon us now, blessing us.”

He groaned, “Oh, God.”

“Did you say that you are cold, dear Papa? See how your blanket has slipped from your knee. You will take a chill.” She tucked the blanket around his legs. Lydia laughed aloud.

“Lydia!” said Jane, gently. She turned to her father, “Mama died with such pride in her family and joy in her grandchildren.”

“Lord, the fuss she made when your Henry was born, Lizzy,” cried Lydia. “Such an achievement—for all her praise, one might have thought you had produced a giraffe!”

Her husband gave a great snort of laughter, and wiped his big purple nose. Darcy frowned, but Lydia was not afraid of him.

George Wickham had always believed that his brother-in-law ought to support him, and finally he'd had his wish. Darcy had paid all the expenses of the discreet home for the well-heeled insane in Belgium where Wickham spent his last days. After a few years of remission, the final stage of syphilis had addled his brain so fast that he had little time to repent his past or fear his future.

Lydia had proved a more prudent matron than maiden, never relenting in her refusal to risk further infection. She always did fall
on her feet. At five and twenty, she was a buxom, attractive widow and retired to a watering place to live on Wickham's half-pension and her annuity, augmented for her by her relations. There she met a middle-aged widower who suited her very well. He was scarcely over mourning his second wife, a well-bred young woman, when some less elegant quality in Lydia caught his eye. On their engagement, he fastened a diamond necklace around Lydia's plump white neck and stole a kiss beneath her ear.

“Oh, you are a devil, Houlter!” she smirked.

He beamed fondly on her now, and his chest puffed out at the sight of the swelling beneath her sash.

Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes. His gaze wandered to his eldest daughter. Dear Jane, at the height of her beauty, with a lovely full figure, was holding the youngest of her five children in her lap.

Jane and Bingley had proved her father wrong in his prediction that they would never be able to make decisions. Good-natured and accommodating as they were, they came to all sorts of conclusions about what to have for dinner and which carriage to take out for a drive. Even in more important matters, Darcy let Bingley run his own life, so long as he obtained approval before taking action.

Jane never seemed to notice this, marvelling only to see her father give way under the domineering care of his maiden daughter.

‘If only Mary had enjoyed the happiness of marriage,' she thought.

However, Mary was reasonably content with her lot. It had been a blow when Mr. Brown had married a young lady with five thousand pounds and dimples; but when Mary thought back, she recalled faults in his character that would have made difficult that total submission she felt was called for in a wife. She had yet to see a man worthy of that from herself.

In Hertfordshire she reigned supreme as the only daughter remaining with the district's foremost gentleman of means. Only lately had she cause to reflect on other possibilities when one of Uncle Phillips's clerks had paid considerable attention to her at her
aunt's recent dance party. Would he raise his sights to such a height as to pursue her? Could she stoop to consider him, if he did?

Mr. Bennet looked at Elizabeth and smiled. She must have travelled on a rocky road at times, learning when to give in graciously and over which matters to assert herself. For Darcy, past forty now, was as wilful as ever; was strong and clever; and was her husband. Yet her self-respect and, yes, her pride, had won Darcy's respect and her father could not have hoped for a better marriage for her.

‘Only Kitty is missing,' mused Mr. Bennet. ‘In life she seemed to lack substance to fill even the limited role allotted to her; yet in death she left a gap that no-one could fill.' He sighed.

“Here are Mr. and Mrs. Turner arriving,” said Darcy, going across the grass to greet them.

For a time, Turner's friends had feared he would never get over Kitty's death. Then, two years later, officiating at Emily Edgeley's wedding to a young curate, he encountered Anna again. She had felt tears pricking her eyelids at the sight of the premature lines etched in his face. Anna had never allowed herself to ask too much of life. She never expected to take the place of the pretty, light-hearted girl to whom he had attached himself with such devotion. Nevertheless, by the time he again heard Anna play, Edward was falling in love once more. He only broke through all her careful reserve when he knelt on her father's worn carpet to ask her to be his wife. Elizabeth had welcomed the opportunity to know her better, and came to highly value her friendship. Now Anna was received as a regular guest at Pemberley.

Mr. Bennet's grandchildren romped on the grass at a distance, under the eyes of a small army of governesses, tutors and nannies. One of the boys ran to plant himself in front of the old man.

“I have beaten them all, Grandpapa, even George and John, and they are twelve years old! I am the strongest and the cleverest.”

“You are plainly the most conceited,” said Darcy.

“Am I, sir? Am I, Mother? Is it conceited of me to be proud of my achievements?”

Elizabeth smiled. “If you believe those achievements place you above others, Henry, you are indeed conceited.”

“Pride cometh before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,” intoned Mary. Henry stared.

“None shall say I am haughty or proud when I am a man,” he declared. “I mean to be just like my papa.”

Elizabeth could not resist a little sideways glance at her husband, and he had the grace to faintly blush. There were strange grimaces on the faces of the others and a smothered snort from Lydia. Darcy felt a quick surge of indignation.

The rumble of wheels presaged the arrival of an enormous barouche.

As Darcy and Elizabeth escorted a grand old lady across the lawn, the children assembled in order of rank.

“Well, Henry Darcy,” she said. “It is your birthday.”

“Yes, Lady Catherine. I am ten years old.”

“Do not expect congratulations from me, my boy. I consider it no especial achievement to reach such a puny age. Here is your sister, also much grown. Catherine!” The little girl's dark curls bobbed as she curtsied to her great-aunt. Darcy had been happy enough to name his daughter for Elizabeth's sister, with the proviso that she not be addressed as ‘Kitty' for he loathed pet names. As the indomitable old lady sat receiving the reverences of each person in turn, little Catherine pressed up to her grandfather's side, with the confidence of a favourite, and whispered: “Aunt Mary is very wise, Grandpapa.” Her great dark eyes sparkled. “Many could learn a lesson of humility from her.”

“Hush, child!” he said, but could not resist a chuckle.

At that moment, Anne, Countess Reerdon, emerged from the house, leaning on the earl's arm. She went to Lady Catherine and kissed her most graciously.

“Lady Reerdon!” said Elizabeth. I hope you have benefited from your rest.”

“I thank you,” said Anne faintly. “I feel a little better.”

“Her headache is much improved, I think,” said Reerdon.
“However, she is still very weary from the journey. No, Freddie! Be gentle with Mama; she is not well. I have taken the liberty of sending to London for her ladyship's doctor, ma'am.”

“It is not a liberty in the least. Dr. Wells will always be made comfortable here, my lord.”

“Humph! I hope I shall not be expected to share a table with a physician,” said Lady Catherine. “Nowadays one never knows what to expect. Why, only last February, I had a barrister not three persons down from me at the Goddards' table.”

“Oh, really, Mama!” snapped Anne. “Sir Egbert is received everywhere. He is the Solicitor-General.”

“He is in receipt of a salary!” roared Lady Catherine, her lip turned up.

“I suppose not all clever fellows can be born rich,” said Reerdon.

“Indeed,” agreed the countess. “And I hardly think my doctor can be rated as an ordinary physician.”

“Oh, Papa, look who is come!” Little Catherine began to run across the lawn.

Elizabeth and Darcy walked over to where a carriage was drawing up in front of the house. The footman opened the emblazoned door and respectfully handed out a tall, graceful figure, all in black.

Her hosts bowed.

“Marchioness,” said Darcy. “You do us honour. Welcome, your Ladyship.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam, pray don't!” she cried, lifting her heavy black veil.

The marquess emerged from the carriage. He greeted his hosts, then turned to his wife.

“Georgiana, dear. Try to accustom yourself to it.”(It was their first excursion since the old marquess finally passed away at the age of two-and-eighty.)

Georgiana did accustom herself to her position. She had always been silent in company, yet now her each word was treated as a special favour. It was disconcerting to have her formidable aunt give
way to her but the compensation was that Lady Catherine never scolded her again.

Anne and Georgiana had elevated themselves beyond the excesses of Lady Catherine's influence. Her Ladyship had some compensation in Henry's wife. She had frowned in displeasure when she first saw the dark curls and expressive eyes of Henry Fitzwilliam's betrothed; he always was a fool for that type. They were left behind at Rosings to await the birth of their second child. Mrs. Fitzwilliam's high spirits had proved easier to quell than those of a certain other lady.

Lady Catherine bent her severe gaze upon Elizabeth. The evident happiness of that marriage was galling. Why had Darcy not got the whip hand at once? Above twelve years married, and his wife was still always the first in his thoughts, the first to whom he turned to share laughter, the first to consider in everything. It was outrageous, when the woman ought to have been meekly thanking him, every day, for the honour and benefits he had conferred upon her.

What benefit had her nephew obtained from the union? None that her ladyship could perceive.

Yet he had benefited immeasurably. Darcy was learning a lesson of faith in himself. Demanding of others, he was even more demanding of himself. Confusing talents and performance with human essence, he had feared losing Elizabeth's love to someone who embodied everything that he was not. She had no need for such a man. She had already all the resources for laughter and diversion within herself. She needed him, his strength and uprightness and the utter steadfastness of his affection. She could only fully love and learn to express that love when she had learned trust, which childhood experience had denied her.

 

One day, when looking back on their various misunderstandings, Darcy had quietly said: “It is as Bolingbroke wrote, ‘Truth lies in a little and certain compass, but error is immense.'”

“How very learned you are. How shall I catch you up?”

“You cannot, and that is as it should be.”

A little frown had appeared between her eyes. He continued: “Otherwise I should find it impossible to guide you.”

“I see,” said Elizabeth and laughed at all the adventures and misadventures to come.