Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (143 page)

But then she went on, even as those thoughts were going through my mind.

‘I can no longer help thanking you – ’

Thanking me? Not blaming me, but thanking me? I scarcely knew what to think.

‘– for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.’

Unexampled kindness? Then she does not hate me! The thought made my spirits rise, though cautiously, for I did not know what she had heard of the business, or what else she was going to say.

‘Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.’

Gratitude. I did not want her gratitude. Liking, yes. Loving, yes. But not gratitude.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘exceedingly sorry, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted.’

‘You must not blame my aunt,’ she said. ‘It was Lydia who told me of it, and then I asked my aunt for greater detail. Let me thank you again and again,’ went on Elizabeth,‘in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake
of discovering them.’

Generous compassion. She thought well of me, but in what way? I was in an agony of suspense.

‘If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone,’ I said. My voice was low and impassioned. I could not hold my feelings in. ‘Your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.’

I stopped breathing. I had spoken. I had let out my feelings. I had offered them to her, and could only wait to see if she would fling them back in my face. But she said nothing. Why did she not speak? Was she shocked? Horrified? Pleased? Then hope rose in my breast. Perhaps she was kept silent by pleasure? I had to know.

‘You are too generous to trifle with me,’ I burst out. ‘If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’

It seemed to be an age before she spoke.

‘My feelings are so different…’ she began.

I started to breathe again.

‘…that I am humbled to think you can still love me…’

I began to smile.

‘…now I receive your assurances with gratitude and…and pleasure…’

‘I have loved you for so long,’ I said, as she slipped her hand through my arm and I covered it with my own. To claim her was a joy. ‘I thought it was hopeless. I tried to forget you, but to no avail. When I saw you again at Pemberley
I was overcome with surprise, but quickly blessed my good fortune. I had a chance to show you that I was not as mean-spirited as you thought me. I had a chance to show you that I could be a gentleman. When you did not spurn me, when you accepted my invitation, I dared to hope, but your sister’s troubles took you away from me and I saw you no more. I could not let matters rest. I had to help your sister, in the knowledge that by doing so I was helping you. Then, when she was safely married, I had to see you. I was as nervous as Bingley when we arrived at Longbourn. It was clear that your sister was a woman in love, but I could tell nothing from your face or manner. Did you love me? Did you like me? Could you even tolerate me? I thought yes, then I thought no. You said so little – ’

‘Which was not in my nature,’ she said with an arch smile.

‘No,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It was not. I did not know whether it was because you were displeased to see me or merely embarrassed.’

‘I was embarrassed,’ she said. ‘I did not know why you had come. I was afraid of showing too much. I did not want to expose myself to ridicule. I could not believe that a man of your pride would offer his hand when it had already been rejected.’

‘His hand, no, but his heart, yes. You are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry, and by accepting my hand you have put me forever in your debt.’

‘I will remind you of it, when you are cross with me,’
she said teasingly.

‘I could never be cross with you.’

‘You think not, but when I pollute the shades of Pemberley, it is possible that you might!’

I laughed. ‘Ah yes, my aunt expressed herself forcefully to both of us.’

‘She told me I would never live at Pemberley,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I ought to dislike her for it, but I am too much in charity with her. It is her visit that brought me to you.’

‘She came to see you?’

‘She did. In London. She was in high dudgeon. She told me that she had been to see you, and that she had demanded that you contradict the rumour of our impending marriage. Your refusal to fall in with her wishes put her sadly out of countenance but it taught me to hope.’

I spoke of my letter. ‘Did it,’ I said, ‘did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?’

‘It made me think so much better of you, and so immediately, that I felt heartily ashamed of myself. I read it through again, and then again, and as I did so, every one of my prejudices was removed.’

‘I knew that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.’

‘The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as
that implies.’

‘When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.’

‘The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.’

I could not do it. I could not let the past go without telling her of my parents, good people in themselves who yet encouraged me to think well of myself and meanly of others. I told her how I was an only son, indeed an only child for much of my life, and how I had come to value none beyond my own family circle. ‘By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.’

We talked of Georgiana and of Lydia, and of the day at the inn when Jane’s letter had arrived. Talk of Jane naturally led to her engagement.

‘I must ask whether you were surprised?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.’

‘That is to say, you had given your permission. I
guessed as much,’ she teased me.

By this time we had reached the house. It was not until we went indoors that I realized how long we had been away.

‘My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?’ asked her sister, as we sat down at the table.

Elizabeth coloured, but said: ‘We wandered about, not paying attention to where we were going, and became lost.’

‘I am sure I am sorry for it,’ said Mrs Bennet, in a whisper loud enough for me to hear. ‘It must have been very trying for you, having to talk to that disagreeable man.’

Elizabeth was mortified, but I caught her eye and smiled. Her mother may be the most dreadful woman it has been my misfortune to meet, but I would tolerate a dozen such mothers for the sake of Elizabeth.

I could not speak to her as I wished to during the evening. Jane and Bingley sat close together, talking of the future, but until I had asked Mr Bennet for Elizabeth’s hand, she and I could not indulge in such discussions.

It was time for Bingley and me to return to Netherfield. I was able to relieve my feelings a little in the carriage going home.

‘I have already wished you happy,’ I said. ‘Now you must do the same for me.’

Bingley looked surprised.

‘I am to marry Elizabeth.’

‘Elizabeth?’

‘Yes. I proposed during our walk. She has agreed to marry me.’

‘This is capital news! Almost as good as my own. She is just the wife for you. She is the only person I have ever met who can stand up to you. I shall never forget the way she teased you when she stayed with us at Netherfield, when Jane was ill. You were bored and in one of your stately moods. Caroline was admiring everything you said and did. I remember thinking it would be a tragedy if you married her, knowing she would confirm you in your conceit. She would convince you that you were above everyone else in every way. Not that you needed a great deal of convincing!’

I laughed.

‘Was I really so arrogant?’

‘You were,’ said Bingley. ‘You know you were! But Elizabeth will make sure you never become so again. When do you mean to marry?’

‘As soon as possible. Elizabeth will need time to buy wedding clothes, and if she wishes me to make any alterations to Pemberley before she arrives then I will need time to attend to it. Otherwise, I would like to marry at once.’

‘Changes to Pemberley? It must be love,’ Bingley said. ‘I am sure I hope you will be very happy.’

‘We have been talking about that, Elizabeth and I. We have decided that you and Jane will be happy, but that we will be happier.’

‘Oh no, on that we will never agree.’

The carriage rolled to a halt.

‘Will you tell Caroline, or shall I?’ asked Bingley, as we went in. Then he went on immediately: ‘It might be better to let me tell her, or she might say something she regrets on first hearing the news.’

‘As you wish.’

On entering the house, I retired to the library, to think of Elizabeth, and of the future.

Tuesday 7th October

I met Caroline at breakfast, and I was pleased to see how well she comported herself.

‘I understand I am to wish you happy,’ she remarked.

‘Yes. I am to be married.’

‘I am delighted,’ she said. ‘It is time you took a wife. Who would have thought, when we came to Netherfield last year, that both you and Charles would find true love.’

I ignored her droll tone.

‘Perhaps one day you might be as fortunate.’

‘I do not think I will ever marry,’she declared. ‘I have no desire to let a man master me. When is the wedding to be?’

‘Soon.’

‘Then I must see my dressmaker. Two weddings in so short a space of time will require careful planning.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Louisa. ‘We must have something new.’

Soon after breakfast, Bingley and I set out again for Longbourn.

‘Caroline was very well-behaved,’ I said to him. ‘I thought she took the news well.’

‘She was not so very well-behaved when I told her,’ said Bingley,‘but I reminded her that if she was not civil about it she would find herself excluded from Pemberley.’

We arrived. Mrs Bennet was all smiles as she greeted Bingley, and all grimaces as she made me a curtsy. How will she react when she knows I am to be her son-in-law?

Bingley looked at Elizabeth warmly, so that I am sure she guessed I had told him, then he said: ‘Mrs Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again today?’

Mrs Bennet was all too ready to fall in with his suggestion, eager to allow him a little privacy with Jane. She suggested we walk to Oakham Mount. Bingley, in lively humour, said he was sure it would be too much for Kitty, and Kitty agreed she would rather stay at home. It is a change to have Bingley ordering my life for me! But I could not complain, since a few minutes later I found myself out of doors and free to talk to Elizabeth.

‘I must ask your father for his consent to the marriage,’ I said, as we wandered towards the mount.

‘And if he does not give it?’ she asked with an arch smile.

‘Then I will have to carry you off without it,’ I said. ‘Do you think he will withhold it?’ I asked her more seriously.

‘No. I am not afraid of what he might say. At least, not once he comes to know you, though to begin with he might be surprised. When Mr Collins’s letter came…’

She broke off.

I looked at her enquiringly.

‘Mr Collins wrote to him, telling him that I must not marry you, as it would anger Lady Catherine!’

‘And what did your father reply?’

‘He is too busy savouring the joke to write back.’

‘I can see I will have a difficult time with him. Will he think I am joking when I ask for your hand?’

‘I don’t believe he will dare,’ she said.

She spoke lightly, but I could tell she was troubled.

‘I will take pains to know him,’ I said. ‘He and I will come to understand each other better, and I will make sure he does not ever regret giving his consent.’

We walked on.

‘And then there is my mother,’ she said.

‘Will I stop being that man, do you think?’ I asked her with a smile.

‘Don’t,’ she said with a shudder. ‘If you knew how many times I have blushed for her, or wished her to be silent. I think I will tell her when she is alone,’ she went on. ‘Then she will have a chance to overcome the first shock, and perhaps it will make her more rational when she speaks to you.’

‘Exactly Bingley’s feelings, when deciding it would be better if he told Caroline!’

‘I wonder if she will continue to find your handwriting so even once you are married?’

‘I fear not. She will probably think it uncommonly untidy.’

We reached the top of the mount.

‘Well, and what do you think of the view?’ Elizabeth asked me.

I turned to look at her.

‘I like it very much,’ I said.

She looked so beautiful that I gave in to the urge to kiss her. She was surprised at first, but then responded warmly, and I knew our marriage would be a happy one in every way.

We walked on together, talking of the future. I am eager to show Elizabeth Pemberley, not as a visitor, but as its future mistress.

‘You will not mind my aunt and uncle visiting?’ she asked.

‘Of course not. I liked them.’