A/N: In answer to Qwara who asked regarding the timeline of the story, the exact dates of the Industrial Revolution in Britain are contended but generally thought to be between the years 1780-1830, this was the first revolution which gradually merged into the second in 1850. Jane Austen's world was primarily in the South and West of the country, the furthest parts from the reform that was happening in the North. She generally kept to this 'Old World' as it became known, and she set her stories within this framework of gentility which in her case was the middle band. She was a great observant of the human nature and was both lauded and criticised for sticking to such a narrow world, I think it was Sir Walter Scott who once praised Jane Austen for, 'that exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting.'
She purposefully chose not to right about the revolution, the upheavals in France or across the water in America, though she was well aware of the events.
I just wanted to widen the scope a little and exaggerate the level of social difference between Lizzy and Darcy.
Part 6- 'Sea of wretched souls…'
Lizzy awoke the next morning with a head that was still groggy and a stiff neck. She turned to one side and caught sight of Philip sleeping beside her. His breathing was shallow, and his head lay close to her. She saw he was fully clothed still, aside from removing his coat and boots; he lay atop of the sheets. If one thought to look at him then, without knowing his true nature, one would have been inclined to think he was the model husband, filled with kindly concerns for his wife.
He hadn't hurt her then, not last night at least, but she wondered what he had given her to drink. Whatever it was, she was glad it had meant she had not dreamt. She rose slowly and gently and made her way quietly over to the window.
The sun had barely risen; it was a fine streak of fiery red peering out just beyond the hills. It is a magical moment, a sunrise, and a peaceful one, ethereal and serene. To Lizzy it always seemed the time when the world and all its creatures ought to fall silent in reverence to this wondrous act of nature, this continuous beauty of time.
Peaceful and serene, the very elements of which Lizzy had sorely lacked for so many years, and never more so than now, gone was the wonder of a sunrise, replaced with images horrific and destructive. In her minds eye all she saw now in the fine streak of brilliant sunshine and the red glow of the promise of a new day, was David.
David and blood….painfully red and ebbing away.
She shuddered feeling utterly wretched and lost, but realising it was still early, saw there was nothing else to be done. Turning away from the view she went back and lay on the bed. Only now upon closing her eyes, it was all red…all so red.
Being careful to make sure none of her body was in contact with Philips, she chose to stare at the ceiling instead. Sleep be damned, it was not worth the effort.
Lizzy stood at the foot of Jane's bed and her heart fell. She had forsaken breakfast to come and see Jane. Knowing her sister's affectionate and feeling heart she worried about Jane's health, and she was right to.
Jane was not well, the horror of what she had witnessed had brought on such a headache and fever that Jane had collapsed in bed as soon as she had returned. Now as Lizzy looked on Jane slipped in and out of consciousness, muttering inconsistencies that barely made sense.
As she returned downstairs and opened the door to the parlour, the rest of her family stood up. They looked towards her accusingly.
Lizzy could not be surprised; the news of David's death and the circumstances surrounding it had no doubt reached their ears as well. The village had been rife with gossip, and as she had taken that road early to see Jane, from the few souls she had passed even then there had been the same accusatory glances. They blamed her…and they condemned her.
Of all of them, Mary, Kitty and Lydia, it was her mother's reproach that wounded, those weary eyes filled with love and concern for one daughter and bitter accusation for the other.
'Mama…' Lizzy began pleadingly, 'perhaps I ought to remain here, to help take care of Jane?' Mrs Bennet did not make a reply; instead she strode purposely towards the door, and brushing distinctly and coldly past was about to leave without saying a word to Lizzy.
'Mama, please…' Lizzy's heart, that cold heart for so long closed and indifferent was ready to break with the rejection from a mother, 'please may I stay?'
Mrs Bennet with her back still to her, refusing to look and refusing to care, spoke bitterly and in an utterly flat tone, 'No…no, you may not stay.'
Lizzy bit her lip in an effort to prevent the tears as her sisters, first Lydia and then Kitty followed their mother's example and left the room without speaking a word to her. Refusing to look and refusing to care.
Only Mary, who had read something in Fordyce's sermons about forgiveness, looked back as she left, 'Lizzy…' she began.
Lizzy merely shook her head at her, and so away went Mary as well and Lizzy was stood alone. Alone in that room, in that house she had sacrificed so much for. The bitterness threatened to overwhelm her; it grew, an abject blackness, devoid of a graceful light and settled on her heart, a thing heavy and cancerous.
Her mother blamed her, resented her for taking Jane to Hartfield and exposing her to that man. For the first time in her life Lizzy felt a stranger in this house, her family home for which the fight had been so resentful. She felt embittered, and utterly dejected.
But she would not cry, Lady Elizabeth Hartfield did not cry, not even when her own mother… Lizzy, holding her chin up high and proud took a few deep breaths and made her way to the front door of the house. As she laid her hand on that handle and turned it slowly her hand shook violently. She had to place the other on top of it in an effort to gain some control.
It was the realisation, the knowing that as soon as she stepped out of this house, as long as she was no longer welcomed here, only Hartfield remained. There was no where else to call home except that place, and no one else left except Philip.
It was with heavy, heavy footsteps that Lizzy dragged herself back to Hartfield, all the way having to endure her mother's words in her ears. And the people, Longbourn villagers, people she had known all her life, who refused to look at her. They condemned her with a wretchedness that could not have been more complete had she taken that pistol and pulled the trigger herself.
Not even the sight of her beloved cherry tree consoled her today, everything was cold. She looked up heavenwards at the swooping birds commanding the skies as she walked and wondered, 'What it must be like to be as free as all that, because when there was no where else left to run, was there room for one more soul?'
Had Lizzy looked towards the tree, had she even glanced at it momentarily she would have noted the sight of a gentleman departing from it, having waited in vain for the appearance of a certain lady.
Darcy had seen Lizzy walk pasts the field without even looking in his direction. But he had convinced himself she had seen him and was avoiding him deliberately. He had held out hopes that his behaviour at the ball had not rendered her wholly disgusted with him, for though he despised the dangerous game he thought she was playing, he found he could not keep away.
Lady Hartfield had drawn him in, his resentment against what he considered the disparate wealthy could not hold up against his admiration and feelings for her. She had undone him. He realised he was enough in love with her to hang about her if he must, for though he was certain he could never know her as a lover, his heart was lost enough for him to be satisfied with the closeness of an acquaintance.
And What was more he knew exactly why it was he could endure so little from her, find satisfaction of a meagre affection, it was because Lady Hartfield had a smile. Rarely used of course and hidden deep within those eyes, but it was a smile that seemed to encompass the beauteous wonders of the world, and when she turned that smile on you, for mere seconds even, it was as if you were the centre, the heart of that world. And my God, what a feeling it was. She had shone that smile at him, briefly at the ball, and it was heavenly, he felt a lost soul almost, returning home at last.
But when that smile left you, as it had done him, the coldness that accompanied such a loss was heart wrenching. And it was why Darcy was convinced he could be satisfied with so little. If they were acquaintances at the very least, at some point perhaps he would be fortunate enough to have that smile warm his heart once more. He could be satisfied if it was only ever once more.
Darcy arrived back at Netherfield heavy of heart and mind. He looked up as he made his way towards the entrance and spied Georgiana sat at the drawing room window. He noted her face fall when she looked at him; she looked beyond him as well, past his shoulder and down the lengthy driveway. It was clear she was expecting someone.
Darcy threw his coat carelessly on the chair in the hallway, and watched amazed as a servant appeared as if from nowhere to neaten the mess he had made. Georgiana was still sat at the window when he entered the room, he noticed the way she sighed heavily and her shoulders sagged in obvious and abject disappointment. She was waiting for someone, her eager anticipation made her acutely aware of every sound, and she would sit up now and again thinking her hopes had been answered.
Darcy stood stiff and still by the fireplace, he chewed his fingernail in absent mindedness and waited patiently for Georgiana to tell him who her expected and ever elusive visitor was. 'Lady Hartfield told Miss Bingley yesterday that she would call on me along with Miss Bennet.' Georgiana spoke hurriedly barely turning her head from the window, just in case she missed the ladies arrival.
Darcy awoke to all attention when his sister mentioned Lady Hartfield's name, it amazed him that both he and his sister could be the subject of such bitter disappointment at precisely the same time and by the hand of the same woman.
'Mr Bingley is about the grounds hoping to catch a glimpse of the ladies so he can greet them accordingly, but…' Georgiana seemed to have momentary doubts but shaking them off went back to her vigil at the window.
'Georgia…' he called out softly. She turned to face him fully now, her brother only ever called her Georgia when he was angry with her or had some painful news. She looked up at him doe-eyed and dutiful.
Darcy sighed, 'Georgia, she told Miss Bingley she was coming yesterday, and yet she has not arrived. Darling, I saw her walking this morning; she was going in the opposite direction of Netherfield. Georgia…I think perhaps, she is not going to call.' Darcy held his hand out for comfort.
His sister refused to take it, she was adamant he was wrong. 'No, Lady Hartfield asked Miss Bingley to inform me directly, it is a good as a promise surely.'
'The promise of grand Lords and Ladies is never something to be relied on, I thought bitter experience would have taught you that by now, have you forgotten so soon what it was like?' In his own blind dejection, he spoke more harshly to his sister than he had intended.
Georgiana in all her youthful belief and trust held out hope still. 'No I have not forgotten, that is cruel and unfair of you. But they are not all the same, Lady Hartfield is different. Surely you have seen it, her manner of speaking to you, the way she challenged you, even I could see you were impressed. But brother, she put me at an ease within a matter of minutes within speaking with her, her reassurances and kind words had me completely within her grasp.' Georgiana spoke with strength of feeling and conviction he had oft missed since their parents had died. She took his hand gladly now and held it tightly.
'I think I finally fully understood what a truly wonderful thing it is to have a sister.' She looked up at him eagerly in the hope that he would understand her sentiments. Darcy did, but could not allow her to live in such blind hope.
'But Georgia…' he spoke with painful tenderness, 'she has not come.'
Georgiana had never been very good at hiding her feelings, Darcy was glad for it. There ought to be little secrets between brothers and sisters. She was vainly trying to disguise her disappointment. Her disappointment a lady as grand as Lady Hartfield had raised her hopes of being noticed and befriended and just as soon dashed them. Georgiana had lacked a guiding force in her life, her brother had been more than equal to the job, but there were some things better shared between women. Georgiana had longed for a female friend to share confidences with; the prospect of having Lady Hartfield as a confidant had been a hope beyond expectation.
And then there was Bingley, wandering about the grounds no doubt both looking and feeling an abject fool, awaiting the arrival of the woman he loved and a woman whose good opinion he had at last thought he'd gained.
Darcy felt for them both, for them, himself, and anyone else who had ever had the misfortune to be touched by the Hartfields's. For as soon he was certain he was in love with Lizzy, Darcy resented the fact. He had never wanted to fall in love with her, and he wanted desperately to leave her alone now. Every voice in his being screamed that he had known all along that she would always hurt him anyway.
But they were rising uncontrollable in his veins, sentiments at once confusing and painful. Women like Lady Hartfield were better off left alone, they threw a circle of pain about them, that no wondrous smile could do away. And it hurt to the core, it was a coldness he could have well borne it if it was only meant for him, but now it was affecting others so. Others he loved dearly, Georgiana and Bingley, and that knowledge rendered him hopeless. He never thought it could happen to him, but here he was, at once hopelessly hating and loving.
Anything was better than this; he would have endured a thousand broken bones had it saved him from such confusion. Perhaps, he thought grimly, it was time he left, take Georgiana and leave for the busy, dirty cities they were used to. Back to familiar scenes, and a people they understood and leave all this behind, leave the likes of Lady Hartfield behind. He had been a fool, how could he have expected to endure much more of this wretchedness, if after only a few words under a tree, and precious few more in a ballroom, he was so completely undone?
He realised he could never be satisfied with merely being her acquaintance, for him it would have to be all or nothing. And in all honesty, nothing was proving itself the saner option. Yes, it was time to leave.
But not before he had told Lady Hartfield exactly what he thought of her.
Lizzy returned to Hartfield aching for some semblance of human contact, even if it meant speaking to Philip, she was indeed that desperate. But even Philip, the man she was forever normally trying to avoid, had other plans. She was informed by his valet his Lordship had left for London that very morning. Lizzy was alone, entirely alone.
Alone in that house, where that boy had been killed, where he had bled to death in Lizzy's arms. Her feet took her almost of an independent volition down the hallway and towards the place where it had happened. She stood outside the closed door of the study and tried to catch her breath. She raised her hands to her face, and looking at them was horrified, there was blood on them…!
So intense had been her thoughts on what had occurred in that room yesterday, that she had unknowingly dug her fingers into her palms, her nails had cut deep into the soft flesh. There was blood covering her palms, her fingers…it was everywhere. Her breathing was becoming more rapid, and she struggled against the faintness.
'My Lady…' A voice behind her wrenched her out of her demonic visions. 'There is a gentleman who requests an audience with your Ladyship.'
Lizzy sighed and shook her head at the footman, 'Tell him I am not receiving guests, or better still tell him I have left.'
'Well I'm afraid your Ladyship he may not believe you,' Lizzy looked past the servant and upwards into the face of the tall, angry looking Mr Darcy. 'Especially,' He continued, 'as he saw you enter not five minutes before.'
It would have been common courtesy for Darcy to wait, as the guest he ought to have sat in the drawing room and waited on her arrival, but as she had already seen he was not a man to stand on ceremony. She at once folded her hands behind her back; the blood on them was beginning to dry.
'Mr Darcy, I must confess to being surprised to see you here, what can you possibly mean by it sir.' She turned on her heel and began rapidly walking away from the study, away from the ghost that room had newly acquired. One more ghost for Hartfield, another bitter, horrific memory for the pained four walls to absorb.
'After our last conversation, I would have thought anything we had to say to each other would be for ever taken with a growing suspicion. I would find it unnerving to be constantly surprised at what the other would have to say.' She tried to speak with some effort at lightness, but it was inevitably a poor effort. Her words were forced and she fought against the urge to collapse exhausted on the chaise lounge in the drawing room.
But all this, Lizzy's clear discomfort, was lost on him. He could not see past his anger, blind anger, brought on in swathes of jealousy and longing. He would have given anything to cross this great space between them and hold her and cover in kisses. But as soon as one feeling found its prominence, others of an equal passion overtook them, his revulsion at her pride and coldness.
He declined her offer to sit and instead paced the room; she chose to stand as well.
'I do not know the habits of the wealthy, but I think it a poor effort indeed when a lady makes promises she has no intention of honouring.' Darcy words were harsh and his tone deliberately cutting.
Lizzy looked surprised at his words, never mind being surprised at what they both did, or did not say, this was certainly direct. But for the life of her she could not understand what he was alluding to.
She held her head dignified and coolly aloft, 'and I think it a poor effort when a gentleman enters a lady's house with the pretension and nerve to question her honour.'
But Mr Darcy was not listening to her, he had his own anger to expel, and he was determined she would hear him. 'My sister is an affectionate being, she has a tendency to think well of everybody. Heaven knows it is a weakness I have oft tried to cure her of, but she will persist, and inevitably she will suffer the pain of disappointment. And all because of people like you.'
He stopped suddenly, there was so much more to be said so many reproofs yet to offer… but something was wrong; she was not attending to his words. Had it been merely through a pointed and haughty indifference he would have been furious but she seemed genuinely ill. Her features were pale, and she was shaking her head in confusion and an abject absence of solace.
'I don't understand…I can't remember. Your sister, I-I can't…' As she brought up one hand from behind her back to furiously rub her temple Darcy was horrified to see it covered in blood, she left a dark red smudge of it on her forehead just above the eye.
All anger was done away in an instant; he hurried over to her, and in a moment of desolate grief and concern for her, took both her arms forcefully from behind her back and brought them up to look at them closely.
'Your hands!' he exclaimed. They were covered, caked in barely dried blood; he held them palm upwards in his own. He searched her eyes for an explanation, but it seemed she was confused as he; she looked at the blood as if she had only just encountered it afresh.
'It's nothing…' she muttered. But Darcy could not bare the sight it. He sat her down on the chaise, she was shaking head to foot, and Darcy feared if he had not sat her down she would have fallen down. He hurried to the door and opening it with such a violent force he startled the passing servant. He called out to him in a voice that proved itself as commanding as Lord Hartfield's.
'Get me a bowl of water man, and some bandages!' seeing the fool still rooted to the spot, he shouted 'Hurry man!' That stirred him into action; he scurried away with a view to following orders. He returned and so flustered was he by Darcy's commanding tone that he entered the room without knocking. The sight he saw by the far end of the room, beneath the window amazed him.
His mistress was sat on the chaise, holding out her hands, bloodied hands. And there was Mr Darcy, sat so close that their knees almost touched. The gentleman made no effort to disguise his obvious intimate manner of sitting in a posture reserved purely for lovers.
Rather he rose slowly from her Ladyship's side and walking over to servant took the bowl and cloths from him with a gentle, but forceful tug.
'Thank you, you may leave us now.' The servant did, but not without one more curious glace as he departed and shut the door behind him.
Lizzy sat watching the blood from the numerous small cuts on her hands ooze and trickle; it fell in fine splatters on her white dress. She made no effort to stop the flow as the tiny rivulets made their way down the side of her palm and formed yet more droplets.
She watched the spectacle fascinated. There were voices, so many voices; in her head…whispers, screams…recriminating voices…pained voices. And all the time, all that blood on her hands. Whose blood…hers, David's…the demons? She was losing her mind…so many voices.
But then as soon as the onslaught came it was gone, and only one voice remained…Darcy's. His voice, soothing, bringing her back, a calming and deep voice applied as gently as the water he used to clean her hands. She looked at him, his head was bent low, all concentration focused on her palms.
'Forgive me…' she whispered. Her voice was barely audible to her own ears, but he heard her. Looking up he fixed her with a haunting gaze, such sorrow and pity…and he barely knew her.
'I had forgotten about your sister, you have every right to be angry,' she continued as he worked. 'But Jane has fallen ill…and the fault is entirely mine.' He stopped and looked up at her suddenly. She smiled gently at him.
'Could it be that you are the only soul in this forsaken place, in the whole of Longbourn Hertfordshire that doesn't know?' His inquiring and bemused expression confirmed that he was indeed the one soul who did not know.
But she found she could not tell him, she lacked the strength. Let him hear from the gossip in the village, his recrimination would by no means be the worst to endure. She had already lost so much this morning, what was one more unfavourable opinion.
Darcy finished at last, her palms were bound tightly, the edges all tucked in neat and skilfully. He held her hands still and looking up into her face thought he saw with bated breath the secret smile that had so filled with him joy, the smile that for him encompassed the world. But in a flash it was gone, and she merely looked at him then once again as Lady Hartfield and nothing else.
'Thank you…' she removed her hands from his and placed them neatly in her lap. But he was not done yet, there was still that smudge above her eye. He rinsed out the cloth he had been using and cupping her chin firmly in one hand leaned in close to work at the mark, she moved not an inch. His gaze met hers and for a while he stayed that way, cloth in one hand and his lips not inches from hers. His eyes wandered down the length of her exquisite nose, the fullness of her pale cheek, down along the line of her regal jaw, and further…further down that enchanting, proud neck…and beyond.
He forewent breathing lest the spell be broken, and as he leaned in to press his mouth against Lady Hartfield's beautifully soft lips…,
'I think Mr Darcy, it would be best if you left now.' She spoke at last; spoke coldly and flatly to dismiss him.
He nodded and moving back rose to leave. 'Yes…, I think you are right.'