Memory: Volume 3, How Far We Have Come, A Tale of Pride and Prejudice (Memory: A Tale of Pride and Prejudice) (62 page)

“I can understand his feelings.  I am in a similar position, taking such a frightening step into the unknown.  The more I watch you, the more nervous I become.”  They leaned over the table and simultaneously struck their cue balls, watching to see which of them would play first.  Darcy took his off of the table and stood back to observe as Bingley, with a practiced hand, struck the ball and watched the others break around the table.  “The level of work is extraordinary.  The last time I was here in summer, I do not think that I really took in what you did when you would disappear for hours into your study, or off with Nichols and his aides.  I was caught up in the sport and the camaraderie with the other guests.”  He looked at the stick in his hand and smiled a little.

“Well, as much as we enjoy having guests . . .” Darcy chuckled when Bingley rolled his eyes.  “Well, a few select guests, what you have seen over your visit is normal for my schedule when we are just home and alone.”

“Separated from Elizabeth, you mean.  I am amazed to see it is possible.  You could not bear one night apart to see Fitzwilliam on your own.”  He jabbed.

“Perchance we were looking for a reason to escape our guest?”  Darcy lifted his chin at his smiling friend.  “She has her duties as well; conceivably I turn to my work so that she can accomplish hers?” 

“I think that she is glad to see the back of you in the morning.”

“But it makes her doubly glad to see the front of me when I return.”  He raised his brow and Bingley laughed, holding up his hands in defeat. “You do not have to be like me.”  Darcy smiled to see his friend relax a little.  “I will tell you the same thing that I told Fitzwilliam.  Your steward can take care of most of it, but you do need to make your presence felt, and you do need to at least understand all that is involved so that you can make intelligent and informed decisions.”  He studied him.  “That is if you decide to purchase, a lease means very little responsibility for you.”

“Well that is the goal, is it not?”  Bingley’s mood evaporated.  “That is what my father wished for, to purchase an estate.”

“Tell me, has your attitude about your father’s wishes changed since Caroline’s death?  It has been two months now.  I notice that your humour has returned; something must have influenced that.”

“I think that a great many things have influenced me.  I am now grateful for the forced withdrawal from the world, I have spent a great deal of time reviewing my upbringing, and writing to Louisa, comparing our experiences.  I can see where I was pushed differently than the girls, but I still see where we were all encouraged to reach as high as we could.  The sad realization was that Caroline felt that she was a failure if she did not attain the highest status.”

“Hence her desperate affair with Creary.”  Darcy mused.

“What?”  Bingley startled.

“Oh.  I am sorry.”   He closed his eyes.  “You said that you were writing to Louisa, I just assumed that . . .”

“Oh.  Yes, she did tell me, I just did not realize that you . . .”

“Hurst.  He had intimated his suspicions of what had caused your sister’s death when he was here, and when his wife confirmed them, he was quite frankly infuriated with the risk she took with Creary and needed to vent his anger to someone, me.” 

“Oh.”  Bingley sighed.  “Well, I see that we all have the information now.  Does Elizabeth . . .”

“No, she only knows that Mrs. Robinson took a medication to cause the loss.  I needed to reassure her about . . . death following a miscarriage.”  Darcy glanced at him and Bingley studied his expression. 

“She is pregnant!”  He realized, and thought of the glow that seemed to shine from both of his friends’ eyes.

“We have told no one but the staff.”  Darcy spoke to his hands.  “March, we think.”

“Oh, still early days.”  He nodded and reached his hand out to shake Darcy’s then slapped him on the back.  “Congratulations!  How is she?”

“Very well, but increasingly sleepy.”  Darcy laughed, then sobered.  “Now, what has changed for you?”

“I am not so concerned with my connections to trade anymore, and I am satisfied with my position in society.  I have been accepted for who I am right now.”

“You will keep the mills.”

“I think so.”  Bingley nodded.  “And, I think that maintaining only a lease would be good for me as I feel my way through this.”

“I see.  What of Miss Martin?” 

“I am trying not to think of her at the moment.”  He bit his lip and returned to his game.

“Why?”  Darcy stared down at the table and watched his friend miss the shot, then looked at him carefully. “With your decision to remain connected to trade, you clearly do not think that she is unsuitable, she has the same education as your sister, after all.  Are you unsure of your feelings, or is it because you cannot bear to think of possibilities when you may not act upon them?”

“There are elements of both, I am sure, the separation cannot help but inspire confusion, but there is a third reason.”  He pulled the letter from his coat and handed it over to Darcy.

He opened it and read carefully.   “Louisa senses an attraction between Miss Martin and Mr. Robinson.  This could mean anything, Bingley.  Besides, the man is not even a quarter of the way through his mourning.”

“She says that Miss Martin has taken a great liking to Wallace and that Robinson finds that attractive.”

“After your sister’s behaviour, I would be shocked if he did not.”  Darcy shook the letter.  “This means nothing!”

“Robinson may think that Miss Martin would be a good choice for Wallace.”

“You are giving up so easily?  A few lines, noncommittal lines, sway you?  Come on Bingley, either you are looking for an excuse, which I find difficult to believe, or you are reading far too much into this.  I think that Louisa is happily reporting that your brother is relieved to find that women do exist in the world who care for children. And Miss Martin is a woman who cannot help but be smitten by a child.”

“Do you think so?”  He looked up hopefully.

“You will be in Netherfield in a fortnight, whenever . . . here, it says that the Hursts will meet you there on the thirtieth and that Miss Martin expects to come to her aunt on the fifth.”  Darcy looked up.  “What more do you want?”

“Robinson was invited to Netherfield, as well.”

“He is just bringing his son home, why would he come?  If he did, he is in mourning.  He would not be socializing, Bingley.” 

“He does not have to, she is friends with Louisa.”  He sank down onto the table.  “I am finally ready, finally I feel ready to move forward, get the estate, open my heart, fall in love and the woman who I want to love might be happier with my brother.  And after marriage to my sister, who am I to stand in the way?”

Darcy looked back down at the letter.  “She asks after you every time that she visits.” 

“Yes, I saw that.”

“And do you not leap at every mention of her in Louisa’s letters?”

“Yes.”  His expression reflected his hope. 

A slow smile came over Darcy’s face.  “It seems to me that you are both dwelling on memories of each other.  And here you have actually met, unlike my story.  You know that the woman in your mind is not the creation of your imagination.  To paraphrase a friend who once spoke to me at a ball, “Listen to your heart Bingley.  She is beautiful, delightful, witty, and cares for you.  You have been carrying this attraction for so long, there must be something to it!”

“That was me.”  He smiled and laughed softly.  “Unfair using my words against me like that.  I am a fool.”

“I am as grateful for those words as I am for Richard pushing me to chase after Elizabeth.  Take your own advice, Bingley.”  Placing his hand on his shoulder, he gave it a squeeze.  “And I have heard from an excellent source that we are all fools in love.”

20 SEPTEMBER 1811

Once again I am amazed with the woman I have married.  Not only did she organize and direct the annual Harvest Home for our staff and tenants last night, but she was up nearly at dawn marshalling the servants, making sure that everything was packed and ready for our journey to London and Hertfordshire tomorrow morning.  Those lists that she keeps warmly tucked in her bosom are regularly consulted, and I quite enjoy seeing them appear, as she knows very well.  Perhaps she teases me by searching for them?

However, despite the display of confidence and strength, despite the treasured laughter that seems to bubble forth from her like an artesian well, I am sensing a change in Elizabeth.  This is not of a physical nature, her body is undoubtedly changing with the growth of our baby, but this is something else.  For lack of a better word, she is shy.  I know that is not the best choice of word, vulnerable perhaps.  My Elizabeth has become Lizzy in so many ways again.  It is as if we are newly wed, a touch, a glance, the slightest brush of my lips when we are able to steal a moment alone brings on a sigh, a shudder, she melts into me as if I am her refuge, and I would be lying if I said that I did not love how it makes me feel.  I am saying this so badly, I know.  I cannot describe properly what it is. 

Perhaps it is the baby, waiting and anticipating that first movement that is due to come soon.  Perhaps she is beginning to feel fear of losing him.  I see her at times when she thinks she is unobserved, caressing over the place where he lives, whispering to him as she does to our Rosa when she sleeps or is sitting quietly.  Is she encouraging this child to keep growing?  Does she fear for her life?  Love, please, do not sink into that fear, you are my strength, I draw from you.  You will be well.
 

Elizabeth wiped her eyes and whispered.  “I am shyer?  Vulnerable?”  Caressing over the baby, she caught herself and stood from the writing desk, and walked to the window to look out at the lawn below.  She could see the stables and carriage house in the distance, and there were Darcy and Bingley, surrounded by staff, and going over the coaches for the journey with great attention, just as he did every time that they made a trip.  Every detail was set, the inns, the horses, even the food and distractions within the coach were all his responsibility.  He refused to let her take that over.  She watched him rise from where he crouched, checking the springs, then clapping Bingley on the back; he walked over to Onyx and climbed on, kicking him, and rode down the drive, towards the lake, and down the path to the woods.  “You are going to the glade.”  She whispered, and wiped her eyes again.  “You are saying goodbye until we return.”

When he did return, he found Elizabeth asleep on their bed.  He kissed her plump cheek and caressed back her hair, and beside her laid the roses, the last of the year, he had picked from Rosalie’s bush.  Entering the sitting room, he saw that her journal was open, and he sat down to read.

20 September 1811

Fitzwilliam, why is it that you know me better than I know myself?  I am feeling so many emotions right now that I could not hope to identify a single one, much less explain it.  To read your thoughts, I can only agree with the conclusions you have drawn, but there is another that you have missed.  I am glad that I am able to tell you why I am lost to the touch of your fingertips, why I sit up at night and watch you sleep, why my breath is caught in my chest when you suddenly look up to me and catch my eye across a room, why I keep a handkerchief scented with your cologne by my side, it is because I see the man you have become and I believe, my Husband, that I am falling in love with you all over again.  Perhaps more deeply in love is the way to describe it.  You are not the young man I encountered in the park anymore.  I wonder; had we not met that day, if by some miracle you had become friends with Mr. Bingley and he had taken Netherfield, would you still be journeying to London and Hertfordshire tomorrow?  Would this be the beginning of our story, and would I be someone you would have wanted?  How changed we would have been from who we are now.  Am I feeling vulnerable, my love?  Oh yes.  I am feeling how very fortunate I am to be loved by you.

“Dearest Elizabeth.”  He said softly.   “How do you know my thoughts so well?  I was in our glade talking to Father about this, only you are brave enough to tell me your thoughts, and I am too afraid to even think of what might not have been.”  He sighed and closed his eyes.  “Would I have been friends with Bingley?  Yes, I believe so.  Would he have needed my help to find an estate to lease?  Most likely.  Would it have been Netherfield?”  He shook his head.  “Stop.”  The rustle of a gown made him look up to see Elizabeth walking towards him holding her roses.  “Sleep well, love?”

“Yes.”  She sat on his lap and his outstretched arms clasped around her tightly.  “Thank you for my roses.”

“Thank you for my love letter.”  He kissed her cheek.  “I feel the same way about you.” 

“You do?”  Elizabeth looked back and into his warm eyes.  “All over again?”

“Yes, over and over again.”  He laughed to see her pleasure.  “What do you say, when we go to Netherfield, we imagine we are meeting for the first time?”

“That might be difficult at night when we are sleeping side by side.”  Her eyes sparkled.

“We can suspend play at dusk.”  His eyes twinkled back.  “Come love, we are both apprehensive of this journey.   We have terrible luck in London in autumn, and I honestly do not anticipate visiting at Longbourn.  Shall we have a distraction?  Shall I meet the twenty-year-old Elizabeth Bennet for the first time?”

“Who would I be, I wonder?”

“Who would I be?”

“Oh, you would be insufferably proud.”  She said instantly and he looked at her in surprise.  “Well you would not have had me to check you!”

“Then you would be . . . I do not know, but I will think of something.”  He lifted his chin when she laughed.  “Something awful.” 

“Thank you very much!”  She cried and tried to wriggle free.  His arms held her tighter.  “Fitzwilliam!” 

“hmm?”  He nuzzled his nose to her throat.  “Yes, love?”

“I am so glad that we are not meeting for the first time now.”