Peace reigned at Baildon for several weeks. The less desirable guests departed, Lady Elliot and Mrs Fitzwilliam promising to write one another.
They seemed to have struck up a friendship of sorts. Darcy rather tiredly wondered what on earth he'd created; but at least they were gone, and as long as Lady Elliot learnt discretion in her dalliances, his design had been accomplished. He sighed, feeling rather -- dirty, really. It was only a very conscious effort that kept him from retreating into his customary detachment, distancing himself from all around him.
They enjoyed the last few weeks of the visit. Darcy spoke with Mrs Bingley about matters other than their children. As subtly as he could -- for he was quite certain that she knew -- he enquired after her family. She said that all but her father were in excellent health, and all but her mother in excellent spirits. Little elaboration was needed on that subject. He smiled and asked no more, instead dwelling on the Gardiners' manifold charms.
"My cousin slipped one day, and called you her uncle. And then the children could not stop talking." She smiled at him, affectionately.
"Children usually like me," he replied, rather nervously.
"I understand." She sewed steadily, her dark head bent over her work, then glanced up. "Bingley has missed your advice a great deal."
Darcy raised his eyebrows, his expression sardonic. "My advice? I should think he would be glad enough to be free of it."
"Oh, no." She tilted her head to the side, considering her stitching. "He is very fond of you, and grateful for all that you have done. We are none of us perfect, Mr Darcy," she added softly. "Although my sister used to say that some of us are less so than others."
He laughed. There was no need to ask, which sister. "Speaking of which, Hancock should return here tomorrow. He -- Miss Catherine -- " Darcy coughed. "Perhaps, when it is convenient, your family should like to come to Pemberley. Your sister, too, of course."
Mrs Bingley smiled. "Your home is delightful, sir. I believe I may speak for Bingley, when I say that we would be honoured. And Kitty has never seen Pemberley."
"She shall probably see it often enough in the future," he said thoughtlessly. Mrs Bingley looked at him expressively, and he blushed.
"I am beyond redemption, I fear."
"It must be difficult," she said, searching for thread in her basket, "to have so many dependent upon your judgment. And then to be right so much of the time. I daresay it makes it all the worse when you are not."
Darcy decided that he had never given Jane Bingley her due -- even when he had given her more than almost anyone else. "Yes," he said slowly, "yes, it is."
"My husband thinks the world of you. He has so few close friends, you know."
"Yes, I know. It is his way -- to gather a great many 'friends' who are little more than acquaintances, and -- well, you know. You are married to him."
She smiled mistily. "Yes, I am. I knew what he was like then, and I know him better now. I am very grateful for the care you take of him. He might have been led very far astray, if you had not been there. Thank you."
He started. His scrupulous guidance of Bingley was hardly deserving of thanks; simply the obligation he owed his young, impressionable friend. "It was nothing," he said sincerely. "I am honoured to call him my friend." With a faint smile, he added, "It is not anyone who will put up with me and my moods, after all."
"You are very even-tempered, I have always thought." Then she looked down, and flushed.
"Except when I am not," he agreed gravely. "Ah, I believe I hear Anne calling. Thank you for your unexampled kindness, Mrs Bingley." He kissed her hand and left.
By late spring, they were settled at Pemberley again, and their days fell into an easy pattern. He arranged all business affairs by correspondence, and spent as much time with Anne as he could. After such a long holiday, she did not take well to a structured schedule and the dictates of her nurse-governess, but he was immovable and she eventually became acclimated once more to life at Pemberley.
He was at once content and sorrowful. Pemberley was, somehow, a balm for him. He felt cleansed, and threw himself wholeheartedly into the management of the estate, paying only the obligatory social calls to his neighbours. His time was so thoroughly occupied, he ought not to have time for anything else. And yet -- there was, it seemed, a pervading sadness about everything. It was weeks before he even noticed, one day in which he was on business for hours, and separated from Anne until evening. He knew where she was -- knew she was perfectly well -- did not, in fact, greatly fear for her -- no more than usual, in any case -- and yet, without her incessant questions, her ebullient effervescence, her unconditional adoration, he was -- lost. It was an almost physical pain and he could not understand it.
He soon realised, it was not precisely a new sensation. Grief -- yes, that was it -- and yet, he had grown accustomed over time; and his joy in Anne had gone a long way towards dulling it. Still, it was always with him; when he was parted from her, it flooded over him in great dark waves, and he could not understand. Perhaps, it had been so long -- he had been so preoccupied with what was happening, that he had forgotten what was. He had been so oblivious to his own thoughts and feelings that when they came back -- or he became aware of their existence -- with a vengeance, he scarcely knew what to do with them.
Anne was his lifeline. He did not know what he would have done without her; he did not dare think on it. She was in some ways astonishingly like him -- from his experience with his Bingley and Fitzwilliam god-children, and the Gardiners, he gathered that her speech was highly articulate. Morever she was learning her letters and had become fascinated with words. Only yesterday she had insisted that he translate her nightly fairy-story into French. He had been very much the same at that age. He still remembered his aunt saying perplexedly, "You are such an odd little boy, Fitzwilliam."
That, naturally, reminded him of Miss Bingley -- Lady Elliot -- and he vindictively hoped something truly unpleasant happened to her. His best hopes on that front lay with Mrs Fitzwilliam; he very much doubted that her protestations of friendship were sincere. Slightly cheered at the thought of Lady Elliot at Mary Fitzwilliam's mercy, he bit his lip and considered. The Kirkby living had finally fallen vacant, and so the Hammonds would be here -- there -- in a few days. Cecily should be all right. The Westhamptons were happy, or so it seemed from Georgiana's latest letter. There were no more rumours about Lady Elliot. All of his far-flung relations seemed to be doing perfectly well. Darcy breathed a rather melancholy sigh of relief. There was only one thing left.
---
He was not certain whether to be outraged or amused. At first, it was only his determination to remain where he was that allowed him to keep his temper; then, the sheer hilarity of it all struck him, and he laughed. Lady Catherine, no doubt, would not have been remotely pleased at his reaction to her diatribe. He felt no inclination to explain himself or his actions to her. She was neither the head of his family nor his mother, despite her pretensions to both. His reply said as much, in an almost offensively light and cheerful style. His innate perversity satisfied, he spent the next weeks in comparative peace and quiet.
The following months were pleasant, if bittersweet. Anne grew rapidly, and demonstrated that she had inherited a full share of the family wilfulness. Darcy, implacable when he knew himself to be right, was the only one who could influence her in the slightest once she had set her mind on something. The others in charge of her usually gave in out of sheer exhaustion. One such time was when the governess insisted that Anne's hair needed cut. Mrs Jones was not one to brook opposition -- a necessary quality for anyone put in charge of Darcy children -- but Anne's vociferous protests brought a bewildered Darcy from his study. Mrs Jones had a pair of scissors in her hands, Anne was protectively holding her dark hair away from her face, and several maids watched on in fascination. Although he usually tried not to interfere in Anne's education, on this occasion he put his foot down. His fatherly soul was horrified at the prospect and he caustically informed Mrs Jones that Anne's hair was not her concern.
"It gets in the inkpot," Mrs Jones said primly. "She must accept respons -- "
"She is three." People! He compromised, and promised that Anne's hair would be plaited henceforth. Circumstances being what they were, it was Darcy who learnt to brush and plait the little girl's hair. He pursued this accomplishment with the same single-minded attention he had done everything else; but he could not help thinking that certain aspects of fatherhood were rather more peculiar than others.
His penchant for solitude grew rather more pronounced over that time. He had never been social, but the energy that had driven him in his twenties seemed to have faded a little. Georgiana, he knew, worried over him, over them both, writing at least weekly, and visiting no less than every six weeks. She was encouraged that he planned to go to Houghton in September, and even more so that he actually did so when the time came.
He dreaded it -- not so much his family and their demands on him, which he found rather bizarrely gratifying, but venturing forth from the haven of Pemberley, and worse, Mrs Fitzwilliam was there.
"Mr Darcy, Miss Darcy, what a pleasure to see you here," she said graciously, her kiss burning his cheek. She was a depraved, immoral, wicked woman -- she disgusted him as few woman ever had -- and yet why should he care? Why should he bother loathing her? Because that was the best word for his feelings, and yet she was utterly unworthy of such attention. Why did he respond so intensely, even in a dislike that was nearly bordering on hatred? Why could he not shrug her off as he had shrugged off so many others?
It was only when he started awake, gasping for air, memories pouring through his mind, as alive and vivid as if they had happened yesterday, that he understood. Mary's vibrancy and wit and charisma were misapplied, to be sure -- behind her pretty face and charming ways, there was no deeper, richer core, no thoughtful intellect or fine character -- but on the surface, they were very alike. He had met her and not cared before Elizabeth; it was afterwards. Somehow, for some reason -- although it eluded him -- loathing Mary was part and parcel of loving Elizabeth.
Even more than Catherine, she brought Elizabeth to mind. Not, perhaps, as she was -- he had not seen her since Charles and Jenny's christening, and then only a brief glimpse -- but as she had been, as he remembered her. The flashing dark eyes, the intelligence that had first drawn him to her, before he found any pleasure in looking at her -- the splatters of mud on her skirt, emblematic, somehow, of her rich love for a beloved sister. Then -- her quieter, somehow softer, ways at Pemberley; somehow, he had felt, he no longer need fear being cut on her sharp edges -- unreasonable, given their history, but the impression remained with him. What had they spoken of? He hardly recalled. Veiled barbs and cold reserve was so much easier -- he had never dreamt that making conversation with the woman he loved could be such a trial. Of course, the company had not been particularly helpful; even Georgiana, dear Georgiana, hardly spoke two words together. And Miss Bingley!
Introducing her to Sir Walter was, he decided, ample revenge.
Yet they had gotten past it, eventually. He absently rubbed his icy hands together, unable to stop the flood, even were he inclined -- and he was not. He remembered that first awkward conversation after he had returned from town. She had been so mortified by Mr Collins -- understandably -- and, quite overwhelmed by his feelings in that moment (the clergyman notwithstanding), he smiled warmly at her. It was with equal measures astonishment and pleasure that he watched her pour tea with trembling hands.
After that, the pair could not keep from talking. He was always quiet in company, but she drew him out easily enough as they walked through the park with no company but Jane and Bingley. Their mutual dislike was so well-established that no one considered how much thrown together they were.
"I am terribly sorry about Mr Collins."
"It is quite all right."
"No, he is really a dreadful man."
"He is certainly a very enthusiastic person."
"He is rather more enthusiastic about Lady Catherine than his parishioners," she said, sharply.
"There is no doubting his gratitude to my aunt," said Darcy, then sighed. "Bingley!"
"Jane!"
Their charges separated with penitent expressions and Elizabeth shook her head. "I would never have thought it of Jane, she is so saintly."
"Bingley is not exactly discouraging her," he remarked, as the man in question briefly pressed his lips against his fiancée's cheek. Darcy opened his mouth, then shut it again with a faint smile. When each slipped an arm around the other's waist, however, both chaperones exclaimed,
"Jane!"
"Bingley!"
And so they talked, speech broken only by rebukes to the engaged couple. At first, Mr Collins supplied most of the conversation, followed by reflections on Mrs Collins' situation, among various other civilities. With conversation came ease, and with ease friendship, but their peculiar relationship, if indeed relationship it could be called, did not ripen any further. Both veered away from the topic of their own feelings, she for her own reasons -- at the time, and even later, he supposed her reticence sprang from her relative indifference. And he -- he was too cautious -- no, frightened -- to risk their delicate accord at so early a juncture. With time -- he had fully intended to pursue her, if he had to hover around the fringes of Bingley family gatherings for the next ten years -- with time, courage would come. Except there had been no time.
He had not thought of it, of her, for so long -- it seemed so long -- why had he not? Once it had overshadowed his every thought. Of course, love changed; and his love, it had been such a part of him, for so long, that it required no thinking about. It simply was. And yet -- Elizabeth. He could think of her now, and, curling beneath the covers, did so. Where was she? How was she? Mrs Gardiner had said that she was chiefly occupied with her father's health -- had Mr Bennet been ill? He did not think so; but often, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps he was an invalid of sorts. She could use a friend, the Gardiners had said, and he had known that they meant more than they said; but for the life of him, he could not, even now, imagine what it was.
Houghton was so cold. Darcy shivered underneath the covers and fell into an uneasy slumber.