Chapter Fourteen

My time with my sisters and mother extended three weeks.

I will not write much about it.

There is not in fact a great deal to be said about it.

I stayed with my dear friend Charlotte Lucas once more — the absence of six months in Derbyshire had not better accommodated my mother to my sin against her by refusing to marry Mr. Collins, and Mary's marriage to a curate whose new parish brought him only two hundred and fifty a year did not lead her to feel accommodated to the situation. Two hundred and fifty was barely enough by the notions of gentlefolk such as my family to marry upon, let alone a sufficient sum for Mama to be pleased with her daughter marrying.

I had, through a period of six months absence, earned merely fifteen pounds for myself — with the room and board as addition, which is no small matter. I thought Mama's frustration with Mary for merely marrying a man whose income would be two hundred and fifty a year, and who planned to take on pupils to supplement the tithes, was ridiculous.

Mama said the first time I saw her the evening I arrived back at Longbourn, "Lord, Lizzy! Why are you here? To crow over how poorly your sister has done? — though Mary, I would never say anything of the sort about any of my daughters, but she is very plain — she would not have done better even if we'd still had a little money. She is not like you, Lizzy, you were meant for better things, but you refused them. And that is why I hate even the mention of your name. Lord! I hate to see you crowing over me with that spiteful smile."

"Yes, Mama." I smiled thinly at her, and I was glad again that I stayed with Charlotte rather than Mama. "There could be no other reason than that to attend Mary's wedding."

"I dare say your employer Mr. Darcy will dismiss you while you are gone — you should not have begged for the leave to visit. I'll not have you stay with me when you no longer have a place. No I can promise you, I won't. I said I would never live with you, and I am a woman of my word."

I rolled my eyes. "You mean with Uncle Phillips?"

"Heavens, what an obstinate and headstrong girl I was cursed with!"

My friend Charlotte Collins was particularly pleased for my company as she confessed Mr. Collins's conversation to be tiring and decided dull. She had defended herself from it after my departure by bribing her sister Maria with new dresses and chocolates to live with her and absorb some of his speeches — Maria then married.

To hear Charlotte tell the story, the principal reason Maria had married was to live a county away from Mr. Collins. Unfortunately Charlotte had no convenient niece or intimate friend to replace her sister with.

Charlotte's marriage was not the sort of wedded bliss I hoped for my sister Mary.

I will repeat again my admonition to any young women of marriageable age: There is certain to be a courting Mr. Collins amongst your acquaintance. Unlike really eligible gentlemen, such men do not find it easy to find sensible and worthy women willing to engage in a trial of the married state with them. You may be desperate to find a husband, and your Mr. Collins can certainly be convinced to make an offer.

Do not.

Unless you have the patience of a saint, such as my Charlotte, you will regret such a choice.

There was another interest growing in Charlotte's life. She was at last increasing and in another six months she hoped to give Mr. Collins an heir to Longbourn. Though the entail had only been for three generations, so it was not such an important matter for her to have a male child as it had been for my mother.

I liked being home.

It was an achingly nostalgic feeling. I knew that every day I spent in my girlhood home was one of a rare species, and that I would not remain for long, and perhaps I would never return in this way to visit. Dull Collins did need to be borne with, but it was only for a little while.

And there were old, dear friends still present in the book room: my father's books. They had been part of Papa's personal belongings, rather than connected to the entailment, but Mama had happily sold them to Mr. Collins upon our leaving.

Yet… I no longer saw my childhood home as a large happy big house. A great place. The seat of one of the leading families of the neighborhood.

Almost small… quaint… so much less than Pemberley.

Pemberley, lovely, large Pemberley.

The rusticated stone walls, the tall tower, the endless galleries, filled with paintings and statues. The ample fields, the pinery, and orangery, and the conservatory for winter flowers. The stables that could hold more than thirty horses. The small army of servants. The library, with its Shakespeare and its ancient Bible, and the thousands of volumes.

I judged everything with an eye like I thought my Mr. Darcy would judge.

I still loved Papa's old library and collection of books.

As for my family, my sisters were very surprised to see me, but delighted. It delighted Mary that all of her sisters would be there, and that she could proudly introduce me to her new husband.

Mr. Matthews was as excellent of a man as Mr. Bingley had promised. I soon learned to like him as a future brother, and while my sister Mary in my memory had always seemed to be rather too focused on her accomplishments, and absorbed in her own concerns, she had matured and become someone who it was easier and happier to talk to.

Jane — my dear sweet Jane. The dearest of my sisters. She was still in love with a wealthy man who could never marry her.

I had never thought I would find myself in a similar situation.

I too was in love with a wealthy man, an excellent man of good character, a man who was kind and generous, and noble in his behavior. A man who stood above his peers. A man who everyone looked at with admiration.

Now that I was absent from him, I fancied that Mr. Darcy knew nothing of my feelings. At least there was not that air of sinfulness that hung over the almost innocent affection between Mr. Bingley and Jane.

Mr. Darcy was free and unmarried and I could have hope that did not depend upon the death of another human.

Jane was not happy.

That was clear.

She was paler than usual — more ethereally beautiful than ever before. She smiled less. And while Jane was authentically, and unreservedly happy for Mary to be marrying, she cried at the impossibility of her ever finding her own happiness.

When I held Jane as she cried, I thought to curse Mr. Bingley for coming to Hertfordshire — but I held myself back from that.

For if he had never come to Hertfordshire, he never would have recommended me to Mr. Darcy as a governess, and I never would have gone to Pemberley. And… and I never would have come to love that fine building, its long galleries, its lovely park, golden red with autumnal leaves in autumn, white with snow in winter, and warm with dirt and green and the blossoming of roses, lilies and bluebells in spring.

I never would have met dear Cathy and dear Georgiana. I never would have come to nestle them deep in my heart.

I never would have met Mr. Darcy…

The neighborhood accepted me — I may have declined in consequence, but I was still well liked, well known, and a fine addition to any party.

The young gentlemen all danced with me and vied for my attentions, and if none of them would have been willing to marry me on account of a lack of fortune, I would have been unwilling to marry any of them on account of none of them being Mr. Darcy. The girls excitedly shared the recent gossip with me — who had married, who had children, who had behaved scandalously. We talked sadly about the acquaintance who died, as we women often do, in the childbed.

I admit that were I a proper heroine I would not have even danced once at the assemblies and parties I attended. After all I should have been made far too desolate by this separation from Mr. Darcy to take any pleasure in anything, except sighing miserably.

Do the heroines of such novels in fact take pleasure in sighing miserably?

From their behavior I suspect they must enjoy it, for they do it a great deal, even when not necessary, but it is not the sort of behavior with which one associates pleasure.

I confess to sighing longingly on occasion during those weeks, but I did not only sigh longingly.

In any case, the lamentable absence of Mr. Darcy did not prevent me from enjoying my return to my home county enormously. There is nothing rational about it. But everyone has a love of home, and of the familiar. I still to this day when I return to the environs of Meryton, and visit Charlotte once more have a sort of joy and contentment about being home.

Strange.

But it was not only that which I enjoyed. I was not an outsider and a governess in Hertfordshire. I was a woman of good family amongst equals, and if I had no fortune, I at least had friends who would not look insultingly at me for my poverty. I was vain enough, and aware enough of the observation of others to like this difference a great deal.

Yet… yet I longed to return.

I longed for home.

I longed for Mr. Darcy's presence, but I insisted to myself that was not my sole interest.

Hertfordshire was no longer my home — Longbourn very much had lost its homeliness. No, Pemberley. Pemberley was now my home.

I continued a regular correspondence for the whole duration of my stay in Longbourn with Georgiana and Mrs. Reynolds, so I knew that the party had dissolved after another week, and then Mr. Darcy had travelled to London with Mr. Bingley, planning to return after a fortnight or three weeks.

Georgiana fully expected this time to see him again and soon, and I was glad for both Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley that they seemed to be renewing the close friendship they had once had which had been interrupted by Mr. Darcy's marriage and the subsequent death of his wife.

After a little less than a month's time with my family, the time that had been set aside for my leave passed.

Mary was married and Mrs. Matthews travelled off with her husband by post to Worcestershire. Georgiana wrote of how she missed me, and how Catherine was anxious for my return.

So I returned.

I wrote to Mrs. Reynolds and Georgiana of my general plan to return within a few days, but I did not give them a precise date and time, as I did not wish to be met in Lambton with a cart or carriage to convey me back the rest of the way, preferring to come by foot.

It was a pleasant walk, particularly nice after travelling more than a hundred miles in two days, sleeping each night on the uncomfortable inn beds.

It was a hot afternoon. A baking sun beat down on me from above, barely fended off by my straw hat. And then, when I was halfway home, halfway to Pemberley, a lovely breeze blew through my hair and dried my sweat as I walked.

Spring had passed and summer was come.

The grasses in the meadows were tall and green. The meadows were full of workers cutting and tying up the bundles of straw to make hay for the winter. Butterflies flocked everywhere. There was warmth and stillness. I enjoyed the sharp smells of the animals in their fields, and of the thick growth. The trees had reached their fullest crowns, and the branches bent heavily under so many rich leaves. There was a bit of dust on the road, and wildflowers by the side.

I passed over that bridge — that fateful bridge — which had in a time of winter, when the world was yet covered in white and snow and ice been the place I met Mr. Darcy.

I paused for a minute, and I tried to draw the picture again in my mind — Captain running around Mr. Darcy, yapping worriedly. His commanding voice telling the dog to sit quietly. The tall black horse, skittering on the ice. The cold in my fingers and toes. The whole picture.

It was difficult to imagine.

The ground was damp and moist, the reeds that had been browned or cut down now sat high. The stream burbled past merrily. The birds, lizards and squirrels rustled in the bushes.

Had this land really been so empty? So barren.

And now so full, so blooming. It was like my heart — yet I knew! I knew! I knew that however happy I might be at present, a winter was coming. For winter always returns.

I shivered despite the sun and sweat, and hurried along.

But soon that melancholy chill disappeared, and I became purely happy, loving every landmark that marked my wending path nearer to Pemberley, loving the sight of that thick vibrant green hedge which represented the boundary of Mr. Darcy's lands. I loved the feel of my feet becoming tired beneath me, and I loved the motion of my muscles propelling me closer, ever closer to home.

I planned to take a stile over the fence, and then return through the park and come up from behind the house. However when I reached that stile, I found him sitting on it, alone on this dirt country lane. Mr. Darcy sat relaxed on the steps, his head shaded by a white summer hat, a book in his hand and he wrote in it with a pencil.

My heart leapt and I could not help but smile widely as I hurried forward, to see him closer.

"Elizabeth Bennet! Brought with the breeze. Brought with a smile as well. Elizabeth — it is very good to see you again."

"You as well, Mr. Darcy! Home! I am delighted to be home."

He made a fake frown. "After you were gone so long? I'd dare say at least a month."

"I did need to remain for all those bothersome banns to be read."

"Yes, and then to eat the marriage breakfast as well — but, Elizabeth…" He paused, trailing off and looking at me with a smile. "Elizabeth, you look remarkably well — a little browned from our summer sun, and your cheeks are blossoming with the season like a rose, and happy. You are happy. I am very glad it did you good to be gone so long—"

"It was merely a month."

"Merely a month! Say no merely to such a word. I swear it felt a period longer to me. At least two months. And no one would say merely two months."

I laughed. But I was really warmed in my heart to see the real pleasure with which Mr. Darcy met me. It was there in his smiling eyes, his serious countenance, and his every lineament. He was happy that I was back again.

I could not help but begin to feel hopes that I knew I should not nourish.

"And your sisters? Did you find your sisters well? My friend Bingley told me about one of your sisters — I dare say he has a tendre for her — and so for his sake I hope she does well. An unhappy situation. One which…" Darcy paused, and a shadow crossed his face as a cloud crossed in front of the sun.

But then he smiled again, and it was gone, all was bright and clear once more. We talked for several minutes more. He needed to move for me to be able to climb the stile, and enter the back of the park around Pemberley, and I did not wish to ask him to do so.

At last though, after I had asked again after Catherine and Georgiana he stepped aside, and with a final, "I am glad to see you home, Elizabeth," he let me in and over.