Pemberley (19 page)

And what has he not cancelled? thought Elizabeth bitterly. Any event that would give pleasure, whether to the children of the men who work here so loyally for him; or to neighbours and friends, for whom an evening at Pemberley is the high point of the year, that is the sad truth of it. Why does he do this? Because he feels no happiness and pleasure in himself: he still grieves over the woman he loved: he cannot bear for people to laugh and show their merriment, any more than he can withstand the laughter and romping of little children!

‘I do not speak only of Mr Wickham – now, alas, joined to the Darcys through marriage,' said Lady Catherine. ‘I speak of the supposed Colonel Kitchiner.'

‘How dare you, Madam?' said Mrs Bennet, whose awe for Lady de Bourgh was exceeded by her desire to think highly of her unprepossessing suitor. ‘The Colonel may not be a whole man – '

‘He is certainly not a whole colonel,' said Lady Catherine stiffly.

‘What can you mean, Lady Catherine?' said Master Roper, who had been looking through a folio brought from the library by Mary Bennet. ‘I believe you have evidence to support my suspicions.'

‘I paid a call yesterday on the Dowager Countess of Mornington, at Mornington Park, not three miles from here,' said Lady Catherine. ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam, a close relative of ours, is a guest
there for the season. I asked him a simple question. Colonel Fitzwilliam was able to answer me without hesitation. In short, my dear Elizabeth, Colonel Kitchiner is not and never has been attached to the – Regiment.'

‘What?' cried Mrs Bennet.

‘He was certainly not at the battle of Borodino,' said Master Roper, ‘for I posed him several questions on that campaign – nor did he lose his limb in warfare, for I was able to ascertain that the method of fixing a wooden leg such as his has been quite superseded. It is probable that Colonel – I beg your Ladyship's pardon –
Mr
Kitchiner was injured in a fall some years ago, suffered the loss of his leg, and never fought in the Peninsular Wars at all!'

‘Eliza!' cried Kitty Bennet, who had giggled at this with as much enjoyment as Miss Bingley and Miss Darcy, who were convulsed. But she now saw her mother swoon. ‘Lizzy, go to Mama! Oh, Mary, fetch the smelling salts! Oh!'

‘I have never extended my charity to those unable to control their emotions in public,' said Lady Catherine, as poor Mrs Bennet was taken by Elizabeth and her sister to a sofa, the window opened, and a glass of cold water called for. ‘I should have thought Mrs Bennet would be grateful to hear the true origins of Mr Kitchiner – who, Colonel Fitzwilliam informs me, is a tradesman in a seaside town. Are these the kind of people to be given free admittance to Pemberley?'

A few days after this, the party at Pemberley dispersed. Without Mr Darcy, the guests showed themselves ill at ease; and for all the fare, and the celebration of Christmas, there was widespread relief when it was over.

Miss Darcy went to stay with Miss Bingley in London, where they thought to see Darcy and involve him in their amusements. Mrs Bennet informed her cousin in Manchester, Mr Kitchiner's sister, that she would come and visit her, for a short duration, for, as she said to Elizabeth, ‘whether he be a colonel or not, he has offered to settle eight thousand pounds on the girls.'

Lady Catherine and the silent and sickly Miss de Bourgh, accompanied by Master Roper, departed for Rosings, ‘where tradition has it that a discreet gathering takes place to mark the New Year; I expect to receive a visit from Mrs Fitzmaurice, whose family has been as long as ours in the country.'

Jane and Charles Bingley, with their children, were the last to leave. They took with them Kitty and Mary Bennet – for neither showed the slightest inclination to stay at Pemberley with no ball to make ready for; and Elizabeth was left alone in the house, but for Mrs Reynolds and the servants. She frequently passed by the portrait of Mr Darcy in the picture galley – the very portrait she had first seen, when brought for the first time to Pemberley by her aunt and uncle Gardiner – and she recalled perfectly the expressions of admiration the picture had elicited; for he was handsome indeed, hanging on the wall. She did not stop, however, or indulge her feelings by looking up at him; nor did she go to the table where the miniatures of Darcy and Wickham stood, in a salon kept ready for her, but never used. Mr Darcy was
everywhere about: it was hard enough to reclaim her own sense of herself, before contemplating a grim future.

The library was the only part of the house where Elizabeth could regain a memory of what she had once been – however fleeting this memory inevitably proved to be. She had been happy, at home as a child; a library brought tender thoughts of her father; and the fact that this new addition to the famous Pemberley collection of books and folios was dedicated to him brought her at least a fond memory of Mr Darcy, also – for he had respected the dignity of Mr Bennet and wished to show the world he did so. These thoughts often proved painful in the extreme – but they were preferable to the imaginings by which she was visited, if she walked into the village, or stayed in her bedchamber. Here, at least, was the calm of books; the impartiality of tomes written by authors long dead, who lived on still in this house, where everything that had been of value to her had died.

Mr Gresham was often in the library. He supervised the last stages of carpentry, and was as happy in his habitat as Master Roper had been pompous and overweening. He was an avid reader, but did not flaunt his scholarship. Elizabeth felt him, also, to be drawn to her; for he coloured exceedingly when she came in, past the pillars of the new annexe; and frequently she felt his eyes on her, as she selected a book to read, or searched for her father's favourite works.

There was no harm in spending time with Gresham – so Elizabeth reasoned with herself. Was it not a pity that Pemberley, where he had spent his youth just as much as Mr Darcy – should go, not to him – who knew every inch of house and land so well – but to Master Roper? Was it not permissible, when she had been left to occupy herself as best she might by a disaffected spouse, at the saddest time of the year, for her to enjoy his company, when soon he would go south to resume his studies – and, after that, might never come to Pemberley again? Was she to be walled up here, like a wife in the Gothic tales she had so derided when she
was a girl? Most telling, was she not still young now, and in need of a charming companion of her own age?

Whatever reply she gave to herself, even this ceased to be an option. Mr Gresham received instructions from London that he should go there immediately; he was to work for architects employed on the scheme for a crescent in Holland Park that was to be built by Mr Darcy on his land; and there was no time to waste, as he must be of assistance before he returned to university. Darcy had been nothing if not fair. Elizabeth admitted this with a heavy heart. He would take what he wanted from those who were his dependants, but he would not stand in the way of their freedom. Hers was a case not dissimilar to Gresham's: Darcy had wanted from her an unconditional love she had not found herself able to give; now he left her free to decide how she would pass her life, without imposing himself further on her. She must have sighed, for Gresham came over from the window where he stood examining an illuminated manuscript, and smiled at her.

‘It would be good for you, Mrs Darcy, if you would take a change of air,' said Gresham gently. ‘Why do you not go south, when I go? I shall be happy to escort you.'

‘No – I am asked to London,' said Elizabeth, to whom it had become second nature to make this pretence, in order to satisfy the curiosity of retainers and neighbours, many of whom were surprised to see Mrs Darcy quite alone at Pemberley at this time of year. ‘But I hope to resume my charitable work in the village' here her eyes could not meet Gresham's, nor his hers – ‘and I intend to set up music lessons, as before, for the musically gifted children of the workers on the estate.'

‘You should go south and see the spring – it takes long to come, here,' said Mr Gresham.

After he had departed, the days did indeed hang heavy at Pemberley. Elizabeth determined to visit Jane, for although there was a young baby to care for, and all the domestic duties concomitant with this, she felt the want of a friend and confidante desperately.
She would go only for a short visit: to see her sister's happiness, and hear her wise counsel, would restore her spirits; for soon, she knew, she must decide on a course of action that would take her away from Pemberley and all the memories of eager anticipation the place held for her.

The Bingleys were well settled at Barlow, and, if Elizabeth found Jane a little pale, she ascribed it to the inhospitable northern climate and to the rigours of recent childbirth. The house was warm and agreeable; little Emily's toys were everywhere about – but, as Elizabeth was to discover as she found her way again round the rooms, there was no sign of the child herself.

‘You will not find her here,' said Jane, when both sisters were seated by a fire and drinking tea. ‘Emily has left for Whitby today, to take the sea air. The nurse goes with her. She has been most unwell – but she improves and the fever is gone. Now all that is needed is the return of the roses in her cheeks – poor mite!'

Elizabeth expressed concern and asked what had ailed Emily; and, as she did so, she felt keenly her exclusion from the world of childhood illnesses and recoveries: from life itself, as it did more and more appear to her, since the sound of children clapping and singing had been stopped at Pemberley, with the cancelling of the party. Only the shrieks of the young Wickhams had been there, Elizabeth recollected grimly, and
that
had been enough to stifle any maternal longings.

‘Why, Emily was a victim of the influenza,' said Jane with some surprise. ‘Did not Darcy tell you – that this was the reason for cancelling the party at Pemberley?'

‘Why, no,' said Elizabeth, and she saw her sister note that she coloured up violently. ‘I was told nothing of this.'

‘There was an outbreak in the village,' said Jane, ‘and Darcy was concerned that the children would make themselves worse if they were exposed to cold and snow on the way to the party – for they wanted so much to come. He was right, I believe, although
they had so much looked forward to the occasion. Little Emily succumbed to the influenza only when we had returned here – I would not have travelled with her in such a condition!'

‘But why did not Darcy tell me?' cried Elizabeth. ‘He tells me nothing at all – except to insult me on the subject of poor Mama!' And here, to her own discomfiture, Elizabeth broke down in tears and confided the story of Lady Catherine's part being taken by her nephew, to Elizabeth's everlasting mortification.

‘But Lizzy,' said Jane, when she had come to the back of her sister's chair and leaned over her and kissed her, ‘Darcy did not wish to alarm you, when the influenza was at its height in the village, and it seemed some of the children might lose their lives!'

Especially his own child, thought Elizabeth.

‘He knew what love and attention you had given to the concert – he could not bear to see you burdened with anxiety, when you had us all at Pemberley. And now, for all the trouble over Mama and Lady Catherine – Darcy has plans in London that will make ample repairs!'

‘What can they be?' said Elizabeth, and found she could no longer look at her sister candidly.

‘Darcy confided in Charles,' said Jane, with the simplicity of manner her sister had all her life trusted and loved. ‘Before he left Pemberley, he swore that he would never forgive himself for his insolent remarks about Mama. He designs a house for her, in London, in Holland Park, where she can give a ball this summer for Kitty!'

‘A house?' said Elizabeth – but, for all the gratitude she was intended to feel, she knew only the sadness of her situation. True, she had misjudged Darcy over the cancellation of the entertainment for the children of the men on the estate. And she could almost smile at the thought of his efforts to improve the position of poor Mrs Bennet. But the past; the ghost of the Frenchwoman and the child that was no ghost at all – these she could never banish from her memory.

To Elizabeth's further mention of the Frenchwoman, Jane could only respond with patience and a hint of reproof: ‘Lizzy, you dwell too much on the past! Leave Pemberley; come and stay with us for as long as you wish. Please, dearest Lizzy!'

‘I shall leave Pemberley,' said Elizabeth, as the infant Bingley was carried in and Jane resumed her motherly duties. ‘But I shall not come here to burden you with my troubles, Jane. I need time to think – to breathe – away from Pemberley. But it must not be here!'

Elizabeth returned to Pemberley in low spirits. The sight of the village children, who waved to her as she went past, recalled to her the kindness shown by Darcy in sparing her the cruel facts of the influenza. She knew she had misjudged him. Yet go she must and as soon as a destination could reasonably be decided upon.

Elizabeth's prayers were answered – or so it appeared – when, on returning to Pemberley, she found a letter on her table in the sitting-room. It was from Charlotte, the friend of her youth who had been Charlotte Lucas and was now Mrs Collins, and she smiled at the kindness of the wish expressed within its pages:

My dear, very dear Eliza.

How long it is since we have seen each other! You will know, perhaps, from your Mama that I expect a child in the spring. I long for your news – how grand it must be at Pemberley! Mr Collins tells me of it every day – though I believe he was there only once for a few hours, when Lady Catherine stayed with Mr Darcy. Most of all, how is Mr Darcy? Is your marriage all you dreamed of, Lizzy? I am quite positive it must be. Oh, if only you could come here and visit us! But Mr Collins tells me there are so many engagements in Derbyshire at this time, to which Mr Darcy and yourself are committed – that you would never have time to come to Longbourn! In the spring, perhaps? For we enjoy a very mild climate at present, and daffodils are coming up ahead of time.