Chapter Eighteen
After the display was over, we descended the tower in silence.
Mr. Darcy spoke more to Mr. Clarke, and then he had Lady Catherine ejected from the house. As he spoke to them, I slipped away to my bedroom, near that tower door where she lived. Where Mrs. Darcy lived.
I entered the bedroom, and I for once remembered to slide the bolt into place, locking me away from the rest of the world with a heavy metallic thud.
I expected to sob, and cry, tear at my hair and curl onto the bed with shuddering gasps.
Quiet.
I spoke to myself: Look at your blighted and empty hopes. Look at what had been a blooming happiness, and sob.
Except, I could not sob.
Not even a silent tear leaking from my dry eyes, and rolling down my cheek.
I sat on the bed and looked at the box in which I'd hidden the torn wedding veil, still sitting on the dresser.
Symbolic.
I looked at the bound up chests piled against the walls, in preparation for a honeymoon that never was to happen. I looked at the tiny desk, upon which sat a box with a pearl necklace Darcy had pressed upon me, and at the stove in the corner of the room, its iron smokestack rising upwards to the roof.
Perhaps after twenty minutes there was a knock, and then the handle to the door was tried. Mr. Darcy, I was sure. But upon discovering that door was bolted shut, he made no further attempt to gain entry.
I tried after a while to think, to make plans, to determine what I might do next. But there was no ability for me to think. The obvious answer, the only answer, was the answer that my heart quailed from, and that I could not face cold yet: I must leave Pemberley.
My mind circled around, useless for any application, going in odd directions, and focusing on nothing. And always before me was the blankness. The blankness of my room. The blankness of the vista out the window. The blankness of the future.
Where would I go?
I might immediately return to Hertfordshire — it was painful beyond speaking to think of facing their eyes, their knowledge of what had happened to me, now that I was abandoned, turned into a scandal and a public spectacle in such a way.
And Mr. Darcy could follow me there, and I had a notion he would.
I sat in this blank state for many hours. It had been shortly before noon when the interview in Mrs. Darcy's chambers had been completed, and I did not move, I did not stir once from where I had sat down on the bed until it was well into the evening, and the sun was setting, illuminating the clouds with a lovely pinkish hue.
I at last rose, needing water, being parched by the events of the day, and needing to walk and stretch. I thought I ought take a walk through the park to clear my head — a walk always seemed to help me.
Walks helped after my Papa's death.
I did not think I would so easily find peace after this. I missed my father, but that was an ordinary thing, and that grief could follow an ordinary pattern.
When I unbolted the door and stepped into the hall, he was there.
He'd been seated on one those light wooden chairs with a high rounded back that had a cushion pressed into it.
Darcy rose immediately upon seeing me. "Jove! Jove! — thank heavens. I grew worried for you. I heard no sounds from within. No pacing, no moving, no fiddling with your trinkets upon the desk, or the items packed into your chests. Only an absence. I'd expected, expected to hear sobbing. Do I mean so little that you do not sob?"
His face was tortured, pale and harried. His eyes had dark sunken circles round about them.
"No, Mr. Darcy — I am tortured to the quick. Deep in my heart. But I am dry, I am parched. I — I…"
"Oh God! Oh, heavens forgive me. I hate to see it. To see how I have hurt you. To see how… The heavens will not forgive me for bringing such a look into your eyes, Elizabeth. No — they never shall. Neither shall you — I see it now. No man can hate himself for such a mistake, such a sin — no man can hate himself more than I do. I despise myself for seeking to draw you into such a situation without your knowledge. For not speaking openly — oh, Elizabeth, I fear you shall never forgive me."
Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. His eye was filled with pain, remorse and such misery that I could hold nothing against him.
And nor ought I have — all his sins would be judged by God, and that he tried to induce me to enter a false marriage under false pretenses… I ought to have been angry, but I remembered that look in his eyes — so often there. That look like the look of a trapped mouse, desperately seeking any hope of escape.
I could no more hate such a creature for its violent efforts to escape than I could hate Mr. Darcy for his immoral burst of effort to burst free from the cage his youthful folly had placed him in.
"You know. Elizabeth. You know I have behaved very wrongly," Darcy said to me.
"I know."
"Then shout at me, reproach me. Lash me with your sharp and fast tongue. You can have a furious temper when motivated — use it now. Speak to me as you feel."
"I cannot. I am parched. Too tired. Too sick in the heart — I need water."
He sighed and shuddered, and then took me by the hand.
Darcy led me down the hall and the stairs. I was half insensible, I had no notion where he led me. He placed me down in a snug sitting room, one kept empty for the most part, where guests could meet for small conferences away from the general group in the drawing room. There was a pitcher of water upon the side table, and a decanter of wine. Darcy gave me some of the water first and then the wine mixed with water.
He pressed me to drink. Now I began to cry. It was when I saw his kindness, when I knew that we would be separated soon — separated forever. And I would miss him, miss him so dearly. My beloved man — the man I had desired to take as my husband. He had nearly become mine. Mine forever more — but no. It had never been close. He had never been mine, nor nearly mine.
That was why I sobbed, to consider that he always had been the property of that creature, and my dear, dear Mr. Darcy deserved happiness, such a man deserved a happiness that could never be his.
"More of the wine, Elizabeth. More — it shall do you good. Strengthen you. Refresh you."
"Thank you — thank you." I did swallow more. But I pushed away Darcy's hand when he turned to refill the glass. I did not wish to lose my senses.
"Do you feel better? Refreshed?"
"By far. Far better."
"Jove. That is good — that is good. Take some more water then."
I did.
When I placed down the glass, Mr. Darcy sought to kiss me, as we had become used to doing during the weeks of our engagement. His lips would have tasted sweet and smooth on mine.
But I refused him access to my mouth; I turned my head away, and I pushed his chest away with my hand. Had I done as I wished, I would have let him to kiss me if only for the comfort I would have derived from the act.
"So I see!" Darcy exclaimed. "The husband of Anne de Bourgh — you will not kiss the husband of Anne de Bourgh. You consider me to have already an object for my affections, a mouth on which to place my kisses, a body which I might hold and caress. You see the office already filled."
"Though you perhaps have no person to whom you can turn, there yet is no place for me to fit within. No office that I can fill; none which I would not be ashamed to fill."
Darcy stood again and he angrily walked back and forth. The floor trembled under his feet. "So! So! Because I already have a wife — you must regard me as the worst sort of man, to have plotted to steal your innocence from you in such a way. To take you into my home, into my bed — and illicitly. You must think the very worst of me."
"No, Mr. Darcy, no. I can never think poorly of you."
"She is not my wife. Not in any real sense. What is a wife? The companion of one's life. She is no companion. A wife is faithful. She is not faithful. A wife is loving, and gentle, full of beauty and sweetness. She is hateful and harsh, full of ugliness and rancor. No, no I have no wife. And lacking a wife, the place is yet there for you to take. The office is unfilled, and I have chosen for you to enter it."
I stared at him, dry eyed again.
"You'll come to agree with me — You cannot think that I must be tied to her forever. Surely not. I refuse it. I refuse it — you'll not harm me in such a way. Nor yourself. You'll not fail to see… fail to see… it was not a real marriage! Never a real marriage and—"
"The church, Mr. Darcy. The church and the law. They do not agree." I had to choke off my speech for my throat caught, and my voice broke.
"A curse upon the church. A curse upon the law."
I did not say anything. The tears were nearer. I knew I would sob again before I left this room. I wished only… I wished only that I might sob into Darcy's shoulder, and let him hold me and comfort me as my tears streamed down my face, and as my body was wracked with that inner pain from deep inside — I wished I could let him fill that husbandly office for me.
But I could not, for he could be no husband to me while he was married to another woman.
Darcy paced once more. "Let's leave — The plans are still in place. Delayed a little, but no difficulty to find a new boat. I am tired of England. Dreadfully tired. I hate every stone, pebble and puddle in this whole country. Tired of the clouds, rain, and trees, tired of the smelly sheep, and most of all tired of the heavy hills — enough with England. Enough. A curse upon it. Away for many a year."
"Mr. Darcy, shall you take Georgiana and Catherine with you?"
"Georgiana? If she wishes — her decision I would say. She is old enough. Catherine? Yes — if you wish her. Though she is old enough for a school. Being with other young girls may be best for her. That would be best, I think."
"You must be kinder to Catherine — she cannot help her parentage. You must — she does love you."
"So you have counseled me before. So you have. But do not flog me with her fate now — it is all the same to me. If you wish her as a companion upon the road, then you shall have her. But you now have seen Mrs. Darcy — do you now understand more of why I found it so hard to forgive her that parentage? Were it merely Mr. Wickham, were it merely that she was the spawn of an adulterous union, and not my child at all — I could easily be kind to such a creature. I could, I swear it, I could. But to be kind to the daughter of my tormenter? Of that demoness who sits and broods upon all that I loved once? That is hard. But for you, for you I undertake even that."
"She is not—"
"I know! She deserves no blame. Hold not the child accountable for the sins of the father. But yet the Holy Book said that a bastard shall not enter the assembly of the Lord — not even to the tenth generation. A simple solid, religious principle. But I know, I admit the wrongness of my sentiments. Yet I am wrong in other respects as well, as you know well. I ought never have lied to you — I ought have come to you openly, and begged you to flee away from me, from this country, this land, and to live together as husband and wife on such terms as fate allows us. But you may have Catherine as your companion, as your student even, if you wish. I know that you do—"
"I cannot. She must find another governess or another place. You know that I can care for her no longer."
"You mean you wish to give all your time to me? I am not so—"
"Do not make a pretense of obtuseness. Mr. Darcy, you know that we must, before society and god, we must now be torn asunder, and I must travel my own way, and you will be left to pursue your path as best you might. And that is what must be."
He looked at me with ill-concealed unhappiness. The curl of his lip showed me that he was not ready, not ready at all to give up the argument. He had convinced himself into bigamy; he now wished to convince me into becoming his mistress.
"I do think…" I hesitated as Mr. Darcy looked at me, a wildness in his eyes. A passion that might drive him to anything. "You ought to travel, and away from here — oh, now I see why you avoided Pemberley. Oh, alas, now that it can do me no good I understand why your eye was always drawn, like to the most horrid visage, to the tower of Pemberley. But alas — Mr. Darcy, take Cathy, take Georgiana with you. Both of them. You must not be alone. Solitude will not make you happy. It is not in your character—"
"A curse upon my character. I have done a great deal of late that is contrary to my character."
"Never a curse upon you. You must have a companion, and—"
"And I choose you as my companion! Elizabeth, I choose you. I have always chosen you, from that moment I first looked you over, as you came up to be my support when my horse slipped on that ice on the bridge near to Lambton. Ever since then, you have been my sweet angel, my dear love and I must—"
I mutely shook my head as he spoke. It took a great effort, a great control of my spirit and soul to stay cold before this passion. And it tore at me, in the heart it tore at me. I felt as though I acted wrongly to deny him, and I cried.
Darcy exclaimed. "Obstinate creature. I have learned to think differently — I have been forced so far. Can you not come with me?"
I shook my head.
He paced furiously, angrily, as a lion or a tiger might if ensnared in the tiny cage of a menagerie. It hurt me to look upon him so, in such a state, but I knew that I had no choice but to refuse him in this way, else my soul would be lost, and lost forever.
"Elizabeth, dearest, dearest, most beloved Elizabeth — do you not love me? Do you not love me even if we cannot… cannot be husband and wife? Surely you still care for me, even if you cannot gain the position and the status that I wished to offer you, to drape you with. Surely you—"
"Mr. Darcy, I have some concern yet for my soul. For morality."
"A curse upon all souls. A curse upon morality — If only you understood. If only you understood every detail. Every particular of how you have come to be necessary to my heart. Elizabeth, if only—"
"Do not tell me. I care too much for my honor, my family's honor, and as I have said, for my own soul to become your mistress. I yet have three sisters unmarried, and—"
"A curse upon your sisters." Darcy then grimaced, as though he realized that it was not as politic of a thing to curse as to lay curses upon all souls, morality itself, and his own character. "That is — oh, the deuce with it all. You know what I mean."
I did, and for a moment I laughed wetly through my tears. His manner drew it forth. Even now he could make me happy, even as my heart was pierced to the quick, even at this extremity when I must gather the strength of soul to rip myself from Mr. Darcy's side — forever.
Even in such an extremity, I dearly loved to laugh.
He seemed heartened by the sound as well, and he sat down next to me and took my hands.
I could not resist him. I was determined, entirely determined that I must leave him, and see him nevermore from this day hence — if so, what harm then to wallow in the happiness his presence brought me, for only a few minutes. To let him hold my hands, to let my eyes linger over his dear, dear much beloved face.
No harm, no harm, I told myself.
And so I believed, for I was determined that I would not let matters progress so far that I would show him more kindness than I could with clear conscience. But I am glad Mr. Darcy did not put me to the test, for had he made a serious effort to seduce me that night, I do not know what the end would have been.
No, to write that is a subterfuge.
I do know what I would have done. I would have been seduced easily, had Mr. Darcy truly made the effort.
I could not have resisted him, and the remainder of this tale would have turned in a direction very different indeed.
He did not now seek to kiss my hands, or seek to kiss my mouth. Instead he listened to me laugh and exclaimed, "Ah that is the sound I love most of all! That is the sound that is highest in my estimation. Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth, could I only live to hear your laughter, and were there nothing else in my portion in life I would be most happy — but let me tell you. You are curious, I know you must be most curious upon how this happened."
I mutely nodded my head in reply to this statement.
"The tale you have heard has been in its essentials true, until the story comes to my wife's supposed death — wife? No, she is no such true creature. And she never has been. Were the nature of things better arranged, were the law not a blind, unjust prison to bind about us, I might have sought and received the dissolution of our ties many years before. There was in fact a way that could have happened — had I made a parliamentary bill against her, when she was found abed with Mr. Wickham all those years ago. But I feared scandal. Oh that I had! Oh, I wish that I had! Today, today nothing of the sort is possible any longer."
"Mr. Darcy, she is your lawful wife, however you may wish the law different."
"Yes, yes — a chain round my neck. You loop it around as well. I am trapped. Trapped — and there is no way I can escape this clutching trap — Elizabeth, do you know what it is? What it means to have, as the result of such an error, to have your life destroyed at twenty? Irrevocably ruined."
"Mr. Darcy, you wished to tell a story."
"Yes, yes I did." He released my hands, and he stood and paced again for a time. He was silent but the storm cloud sat upon his face. I had hope though for his happiness, even without me, for his expression was clearer, as though he could now stand straighter and stare cleanly into the eyes of the world. He was happy that the dread tale was now known to all.
At last Mr. Darcy returned and sat to speak next to me again. "The tale in the main was as you have heard — Mrs. Darcy became ill with a fever from the childbed, and she began to rave and rant and scream. It shocked me to hear it — to see such a creature speak with such a passion. She is a small thing — you can hardly tell with her madness, and the fierceness with which she will bite at you. She is near as dangerous I say, nearly as dangerous as a man grown full. And her skin burned hot.
"The doctor was certain that she would die. I expected it. We waited. I had dismissed the servants who were not known to us or trusted, for what she ranted was of a most scandalous nature. Only the housekeeper, the doctor, and my father's old valet were with us. Day upon day we expected her death — oh, would that it had come. Oh I would… I swear before you, with God as my witness, that I would give my left hand, and the vision in both my eyes if she were dead."
I felt a cold chill at this self-mutilating oath, solemnly sworn, as though some uncanny presence was in the room, looking upon us, and hearing the bargain made. I feared it, I feared this feeling — and I feared once more that Mr. Darcy might do himself some harm — or as bad in my way of looking at it, do some harm to… the creature. I cared nothing for the fate of Anne Darcy, but I cared dearly for Darcy. If he harmed her, he would then fall under the harsh strictures of the law, and the even harsher strictures of his own consciousness.
"At first we thought that it was merely her decline towards death — but instead… the fever cooled, and she was quiet again. She lay insensible for more than twenty-four hours. And then… then she awoke. But her wits… such as they ever were, her wits were gone, robbed by the febrile seizures. In their place… in their place she now spoke quietly, swearing to bite us, tear us, and suck our blood. She attacked me, she attacked her mother. She attacked my uncle the earl who was likewise present. Any time she had a knife fall into her hands she would try to stab. My father's old valet nearly bled to death when a vein in his arm was nicked by her — she had meant to stab me through the heart and he saved my life."
I shivered.
"And there was that booming laugh. As though she found it all so funny. She would fight, and claw and bite, and then laugh. Insane. She was insane. Finally free from whatever constraints she'd allowed to her cruel behavior in the years past."
"And so you locked her up in the tower?"
"And hired Grace Poole, for a substantial wage, much beyond yours, to be her caretaker. You are now twenty and two?"
"Yes."
"Older than I was then, but not so much older — you'll not excuse me for my youth. Nor should you. Any time in these years past I could have ended the charade — shouted out to the world that my family and I hid a lunatic. That yes, I was yet married, and that yes, the Darcy and Fitzwilliam families could produce such a scandal — I thought of it. Many times I thought of it… I know not why I delayed. Except…"
"Except?"
"Except I hoped to one day meet you."
I could say nothing to that.
"So there I was. Twenty years of age; a wife madder than a hatter, but who would not die. We had to make the choice of what to do with my mad adulterous wife, who shouted out to all who came near how I murdered her lover and how she wished to drink our blood. At first, I thought there was nothing to decide about the matter: She was my wife — my mistake made, I must live with it. It would be my duty to care for her, to have her protected on the estate — I did not wish to send her to Bedlam. Once as a lark I went there with friends — Mr. Wickham amongst them — we had toured the halls…" Darcy shivered. "I could not bear to torment her in such a way. She tormented me, but she was yet a living creature, and I had sworn to stand by her in sickness and in health when I married her. I at that time took my vows seriously."
"Mr. Darcy, do not — I know you take all your vows seriously. You are a man whose goodness has not been destroyed by—"
"A curse upon all my vows!"
I smiled sadly at him. He smiled sadly back at me.
"Lady Catherine was resolute against such a plan. She also did not wish to see her daughter in Bedlam. But she did not wish her daughter, her Fitzwilliam blood, to be known for weakness of mind either. And my uncle… my uncle hated the thought of all the talk that would come from this. He did not want it known that his niece was a madwoman. So the two of them, with no input from me, hatched the scheme — There would be rumors, but it would be for the best. Certainly for the best if we hid the facts from the world, if we made it seem as if nothing had ever happened."
"Why did you agree?"
"It seemed easiest — I regretted marriage to her. I would much prefer to not have to make the pretense of any connection. I would be free to go elsewhere. And no one would know. Except… I would know — that was the knowing that poisoned my heart. But no one else would know. I travelled around the continent — and farther. I saw Egypt, like Byron, and Greece, likewise like Lord Byron. I had a thought to catch a disease there like Byron, and off with me. But my constitution was too strong for such."
I looked at him seriously.
"You have that look in your eyes — your question 'and then' is implied in the tilt of your head and the arch of your lovely eyebrows. You can draw any speech from me. There is little more to the tale. I travelled for a time with Georgiana, and then I sent her to school in London, and we spent the holidays together. I avoided Pemberley, only returning when business required it. I have never been the sort of man who could leave the management of my affairs entirely to the handling of my stewards, but I refrained from spending more than a week or so at a time at Pemberley from the time we locked Mrs. Darcy in the tower to the day when I first saw your face — Georgiana never lost her love for Pemberley, and she wished to stay near Catherine. She always saw my treatment of Catherine in the same light as you have. But having seen her mother, can you still blame me for resisting the child?"
"Yes, in that, though nothing else I do blame you."
"Ha." Darcy laughed. "You are always an obstinate creature. A sweet obstinate creature. And there is the end of it — the story. The whole of it. Sordid tale, start to finish. The only addendum is that I met you one clear evening on the road to Pemberley, and with your acquaintance woke some hope of a fresher future in my blighted heart — Jove, by Jove, am I glad it is all out. All told — come what may, be despised as we might be, I am glad the world now knows, and everything shall be told to all the whispering neighbors, and the desire to rescue the family from the scandal of a mad woman shall now have made the whole story twice as terrible — I only wish Georgiana and you had nothing to do with the matter. I despise all forms of disguise — a preference learned through unfortunate experience. And now you know."
"Yes, now I know, Mr. Darcy." My voice was quiet, and small. He spoke as though I yet had a place in this whole matter, as though there yet was a we between us. But there could be no such future.
"It is like… like a rock upon my shoulder has rolled off. And now all is known to everyone. It is not so terrible, is it?"
"Mr. Darcy—"
"We can still… still leave for Italy. The coast of France — Spain and the islands of Greece, to see the people Byron died for — the food is lovely. Goat meat and peppers and sauces unknown in Britain."
"You know I cannot travel with you."
"You've seen her. How can you claim me to be bound, bound eternally, until death — my death from griefs and sorrows — to that creature. Elizabeth, you who love me, who desire me. See how you cannot be compared to her, how you must be—"
"Mr. Darcy." My voice was full of tears. "Mr. Darcy, you cannot run on in such a way. You know that—"
"I know nothing! A curse upon all that I know!" His nostrils flared, and his limbs were all aquiver with the passion he held. For an instant I feared him in his anger and in his grief. "I only know that a mistake, one mistake, one failure of reasoning, when I was yet a callow fool creature, ordered by my parents to run into such a condition — such a single mistake should not blight every hope of future happiness."
I bit my lips to keep from kissing him. And I longed to embrace him and comfort him in his grief. But I knew — I knew that if I did, I knew that our blood was hot, and young and passionate. It would end in sin, in the ruin of my honor, and perhaps a stain upon my immortal soul.
Would it be such a sin… and even if it was, was it right to leave him in such a state? And for such a cause.
Tears poured down my face, silently, but shudderingly.
Mr. Darcy's own eyes were not dry.
He settled himself next to me again. "So I see, Miss Bennet — is that to be it? Or, Elizabeth? Ought I refer to you as Miss Bennet? Should I be cold, cold when I have been so warm? Will you, will you turn your delicate finely carved face from me? Will you duck your head away from me if I seek to kiss you? Will you—"
Darcy came close to me, and I did indeed duck my head away, sobbing, as he tried to kiss me.
"Elizabeth. Elizabeth… my Elizabeth — can you not… must you—"
"Mr. Darcy, you are married… I cannot."
I jerked myself away from him, from his eyes, and shaking my head I rushed past him through the door, and then up into my room. I entered and bolted the door.
My heart pounded.