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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A DIFFERENT STYLE OF DISPATCH

Elizabeth’s new bedchamber was exceedingly comfortable. While most of the house was sparsely furnished, nearly empty, really, her room had an elegant bedstead, with a settee at its foot, a bureau, two side tables, and a tallboy. The bed hangings were a rich burgundy velvet, matching the draperies. The attached dressing room held two wardrobes and a lovely dressing table with a velvet padded bench, and an enormous looking-glass. The furniture was finely made, and while perhaps the overall look was much darker and heavier than she might like, it was altogether perfectly tasteful.

She lifted the letter from its place in the bureau, staring at it as if it were an adder, ready to strike. What had she said to him, following his frightful marriage proposal? That she would never consider him a gentleman?

Ironic, is it not, that I am now, for all intents and purposes, a tenant of sorts, one of his responsibilities?

Somehow, he had managed to separate her from her family—or rather, his father had. Do I worry about that? she wondered. Do I fear this whole inheritance is a massive scheme to control my future?

“What a fantastic imagination you have, Elizabeth Bennet,” she said aloud to the empty room.

Why in heaven’s name would he invest so much money and so much property into her impoverished, insignificant future? As little sense as his father’s gift made, she at least understood why he might have made it. To ascribe a different motive to the man who could probably have any woman he wanted was absurd. Besides, it was impossible to consider Mr Darcy as a threat. Once upon a time, she had regarded him as cold and feelingless. Now she knew differently.

Oh, he has feelings, to be certain, she thought resentfully. Hostile, unkind feelings.

But along with his more insulting opinions, certain words of his proposal refused to simply fade in memory. ‘Because living well is not about safety and peace, and because I am your best chance for a happy future…I will care for you all the days of my life.’

“Stop this, Elizabeth,” she ordered herself. “Just read the stupid letter.”

Dear Miss Elizabeth,

I have already discarded a dozen false starts to this letter, not to mention debating endlessly the wisdom of sending it in the first place. To be certain, you are owed every word in it; despite this, the notion of upsetting you further and causing more distress than I have already weighs heavily upon my mind. Since you are reading it, you can see that I have decided that apologies and explanations outweigh, at least marginally, those other considerations.

Firstly, please allow me to express my regrets for the disrespect and inconsideration expressed within my offer. As doubtless is apparent already, I am not adept at conversation. I cannot catch the tone, the feelings, nor usually even understand the concerns of others, as I often see done. When I do attempt to contribute, it is obvious to me—at least in retrospect—that I err more often than I succeed. I have developed a terrible habit of assuming that it does not matter what I say; after all, I have supposed, what do others want of me? Is it my charm? Plainly not. In recent examination of these deficiencies, I concluded that I have been living a great lie. What I interpreted as social success, in truth was simply a habitual placement of all burdens of acceptance, excuse, tolerance, or justification, upon everyone else. It is a hard thing, to realise in my twenty-eighth year that I have not yet mastered the basic dialogues of common civility.

Unfortunately, one cannot unsay spoken words, un-hurt the person one would protect with his life. Oh, if only! But no. The sole possibility, in such a grave offence as I have offered, the only resolution I can submit is the promise of a lesson learnt; to never again, insofar as is possible in a man so imperfect, speak without thinking, to use words in such a heedless, relentlessly reckless manner.

Please allow me to reiterate: nothing of what I spoke reflected upon you, personally. Both you and your elder sister possess a flawless civility. I believed, in the moment, that I was expressing obvious truths; however, had you offered, unasked, such commentary upon my relations in the same fashion as I unthinkingly did yours, had you pointed out my sister’s social blunders and my aunt’s frequent habit of meddling needlessly in the lives of others, I probably would have taken equal or greater offence. That I spoke so ill during a proposal of marriage is mortifying—to discover at such a juncture that one has disgraced himself so blatantly. You are lovely and gracious and ought never to have had to tolerate any of this nonsense.

In the matter of Miss Bennet’s feelings for Bingley, I also erred; I had watched them both, and saw the intensity of his regard for her, but did not see any sign that she returned his affections. He is young and has mistaken infatuation for love in the past, and I tried too hard to shield him. I ought not to have interfered, especially seeing as how little I personally know or understand of romance, as you have ample evidence to ascertain. I confessed to him of my errors. He means to try and make amends, but naturally, it will be up to him and your sister. I have vowed never to meddle again.

There remains only to say: I am sorry.

I do not expect you to accept such an insufficient apology. To a man searching for an impossible absolution, these words seem inadequate in the extreme.

I will only add, God bless and keep you.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Elizabeth set down the papers, astonished. For some reason, she wanted to weep. Why? She had never liked him, and then he had hurt and insulted her. Yet, she took the letter up again, reading it back through. And afterwards once more.

Each time she read it, she felt all the more bewildered. Surely, even though the inheritance was his father’s gift, Mr Darcy must consider any insult to be amply repaid. His father, through him, had given her a home, an income, a future. Yet, his letter had not mentioned one word regarding the property and monies left to her.

She picked up the letter and read it through for the fourth time, but the mystery remained: Just who is Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

UPON FOUL MISCONDUCT

Sheffield was as unlike the rural area of Hertfordshire and Longbourn village as was possible to be. Even though her immediate environs were pleasant and very nearly pastoral, she could hear the distant clamour of the water-powered tilt-hammers of the scythe works and could view the plumes of dark smoke rising into the sky from afar. At night, one could see the horrid splendour of ceaseless yellow flames incessantly issuing from the top of Sheffield’s iron furnaces. The peals of church bells, ringing at five, nine, and twelve o’clock, were the melodies to which everyone seemed to harmonise their lives.

In the first few days that followed their arrival in Sheffield, Elizabeth and Mrs Philips were kept busy by the selection of rugs, furniture, new draperies and linens, and by discussions of repainting and wall-papers. Mrs Hawthorne, who seemed a sensible woman, suggested meeting with her cousin, Mrs Whitby, whose employers had recently moved away. In Whitby, Elizabeth found an ideal housekeeper and companion—not only was she an organised, excellent manager, but she possessed a good deal of elegance besides. Her letters of reference included one from her most recent mistress, who claimed to have done her best to convince Whitby to come with them, and who was saddened that she would not.

“You did not wish to remain employed by them?” Elizabeth asked, curious as to why the woman had rejected the continuation of her post.

“I did hate to refuse,” Whitby had answered easily. “Mrs Llewellyn is a good woman, and they were generous employers. But all my family live hereabouts—Wales seems like far-off Egypt, to me.”