Darcy's Journey (28 page)

61

Saturday 8
^th
July 2pm

On a clear summer day—breezy, with
cumulus clouds interrupting spells of sunshine—two carriages rounded the
church and turned towards Longbourn. Darcy sat facing Georgiana and Mrs
Annesley, while Elizabeth chattered excitedly with Jane; Bingley’s party
followed in the carriage behind.

As they rolled into the forecourt there
was a huge commotion. Darcy recognised Mrs Bennet’s squawking as she called Mrs
Hill; Kitty Bennet rushed out, followed by two maids and a footman; Mary
Bennet’s face appeared in a window. No sign of Mr Bennet; Darcy hoped he was
not sick or away from home.

He smiled at his sister, who was
observing the boisterous scene with alarm. ‘Bear up, Georgiana. One gets used
to it in time.’

Elizabeth threw him a disdainful glance,
but made no comment. In the other carriage, Bingley had already got down and
advanced to greet the family.

Georgiana’s nerves were as nothing
compared with the reaction of Mrs Bennet, once she realised that the Darcys
were in the party. Bingley had written to confirm that his friend would again
be staying at Netherfield—but without any clarification of his intentions
towards Elizabeth. Mrs Bennet stumbled down the step, squawked again, and ran
straight back inside with renewed appeals to Mrs Hill.

Darcy handed down the ladies, and held
back with his sister while Elizabeth ran to embrace Kitty and Mary. As always
it amused him to observe other families. Nobody could accuse the Bennets of
being elegant or proper; still, there were compensations. Small quarrels sprang
up constantly, but their affection was plain to see.

Mrs Annesley joined Bingley’s sisters
and Mr Hurst, who sent compliments but declined to enter; their carriage set
off for Netherfield. Alone with Georgiana, Darcy swallowed and led her to the
doorway. It was time to confront Mrs Bennet.

Darcy waited in the parlour,
recalling his last visit in the winter. Kitty as before was silent, overawed.
Bingley sat beside his fiancée, relaxed and content now that a date could be
announced. Mrs Bennet was unusually quiet, her eyes flicking between Elizabeth
and himself as if she were trying to divine their feelings. Her countenance was
oddly asymmetric, as if the left and right sides expressed different
emotions—one anxious, the other hopeful. Mary had taken Georgiana away to
the drawing room to view her sheet music. Only Bingley kept the conversation
going, with occasional light interjections from Elizabeth.

Mr Bennet appeared at the door, looking
distracted as if he had been reading, or pondering some deep matter; Darcy rose
immediately to greet him.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Mr Bennet
returned his bow. ‘A word, if you would be so good. In my study.’

Darcy left, exchanging a grimace with
Elizabeth, and entered the familiar study, with its piles of books, and the
coffee table holding a bottle of port and two glasses. On the desk he noticed a
newspaper, with a passage marked. He could not tell whether it was the
same
passage, but Mr Bennet must know: Mr Gardiner would have alerted him by letter.

Mr Bennet indicated an armchair.
‘Refreshment?’

‘Later, perhaps.’ Darcy tried to keep
his voice calm. ‘I can imagine how you must …’

Mr Bennet held up a hand. ‘Please. Allow
me the satisfaction of having my say, even if you have already guessed my
import. I should like, first of all, to thank you, from the bottom of my heart,
for bringing our beloved daughter to safety. Any reservations on other matters
are a pin-prick in comparison.’

‘Thank you. It has been a complex
journey, and as you will know, my choice of route proved unfortunate, and
exposed Miss Elizabeth to danger.’

‘Indeed.’ He pressed his lips together.
‘Was there
really
no alternative?’

‘In the weeks leading up to the battle,
Brussels seemed the safest option. It was protected by British troops, and
provided a relatively short crossing via Ostend.’

Mr Bennet nodded. ‘I realise it is easy
to be wise after the event. But having seen the newspaper reports, I am at a
loss to understand your decision, after the battle, to stay near Waterloo
rather than sailing immediately from Antwerp. That my daughter should be
exposed to the horrors of a field hospital after such slaughter! What could
have possessed you?’

‘I saw it as my duty to remain near my
cousin. As for Miss Elizabeth, I concur fully with your viewpoint. I sent her
to Antwerp with a trustworthy local family, and there she stayed until news
came that my cousin was wounded, and my whereabouts unknown. My instructions
were that she should wait for some days, then leave for England. Instead, with
remarkable courage, she made her way to the field hospital to confirm that I
was well, then insisted on helping.’

‘You made no attempt to dissuade her?’

Darcy leaned forward. ‘Sir, had you been
present, you would have understood. Casualties from the battlefield were
arriving in their hundreds, with just a handful of camp-followers and nuns to feed
them, bandage their wounds, and arrange transport to local villages. I care
profoundly for your daughter, and under normal circumstances would shield her
from such atrocities, but her sensibilities were of minor importance compared
with her value as a dedicated, intelligent helper. I judged she was in no
danger. Nor were the other women at the camp. The men depended on them, even
worshipped them. It would have been far riskier to take her away, along roads
swarming with runaways and soldiers of many nationalities.’

Mr Bennet blinked, and it was a while
before he spoke again.

‘My Lizzy.’ He looked up, as if coming
out of a dream. ‘So. What is this talk of
betrothal?
I was under the
impression that as her father, I had some say in the matter.’ Mr Bennet jumped
up to retrieve the newspaper from his desk. ‘Here! Your
fiancée
.’

‘At times during our journey, we had to
explain why an unmarried man and woman travelled unchaperoned. We agreed that
when necessary, we would pretend an engagement that did not exist.’ He took a
deep breath. ‘Yet.’

‘You wish to marry Lizzy?’

‘More than I have ever wished anything.’

‘And does she return this feeling?’

‘Yes. That has been our understanding since
we left Italy.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Darcy, but it has been
my impression that she does not see you in this light at all.’

‘She has changed. As have I.’

‘Why?’ Mr Bennet poured port, and drank
a sizeable draught. ‘My daughter has no dowry or connections to speak of. Why
should a man of your standing go to such lengths to secure her hand?’

Darcy regarded him provocatively. ‘You
believe Miss Elizabeth unworthy of me?’

He bristled. ‘I most certainly do not,
sir!’

‘And nor do I.’

It was early evening. Darcy and
Bingley had left for Netherfield. Elizabeth sat in her chamber, surrounded by mementoes
of her journey: a wooden doll (she had given the other to Rosie Briggs),
Alice’s sketches, and the rest.

The main business of the day was
accomplished. Her father had demanded whether she had taken leave of her senses
in accepting this man. Had she not always hated him? She had explained their
history at length, including as an incentive Darcy’s role in rescuing Lydia. The
change in Mr Bennet’s countenance had been comical, as if a balloon had
deflated. Belligerence was replaced by relief, and then by astonishment as she
told him of their subsequent meetings with Wickham in Brussels. The good news
had been announced to the whole assembly. Bingley was affable; Mrs Bennet,
hysterical; everyone else, overjoyed. Finally, adding a cherry to the cake,
Bingley made Kitty’s day by inviting them to a ball at Netherfield.

The familiar bedroom embraced Elizabeth
in a cocoon of security. Here she had been a ten-year-old tearaway, fond of
climbing trees, a fifteen-year-old girl in the shadow of Jane’s beauty, a
twenty-year-old flirting with Wickham and needling Darcy. She returned to the
letters that had awaited her at Longbourn, from
Céline,
Alice,
Hilda, Maria Grazia, and others. Nothing from Regina. Smiling, she pulled out Fraulein
Edelmann’s offering to read again.

Lieber
Fraulein Bennet!

So,
Elizabeth Bennet, Mrs Ashley, Mrs Darcy, or whatever you call yourself these
days, I hope this finds you well, and that you still play the pianoforte (and
make fewer mistakes).

I am
back in Salzburg, among cultured people and fine coffee houses and accompanists
who know what they are doing.

Herr
Schubert came last week. He wants to marry a certain Fraulein Grob, daughter of
a silk maker, but has been denied since he has insufficient means to support
her. I exposed him to the full radiance of my charm without success. Men are
truly fools.

Please
put my mind at rest and confirm by return of post that my esteemed musical
partner is restored safely to her homeland!

I
cannot believe I paid 24 ducats for your performances at the concerts. I must
have been demented.

Good-bye
liebchen, from your friend

Hilda
Edelmann

Elizabeth folded the letter and put
it away, tears filling her eyes. An intense nostalgia overcame her as she
reviewed, as if from a mountain top, all she had experienced—the people,
the places, the adventures. Now a new chapter would open. She would be mistress
of Pemberley. Jane would live at Netherfield, or perhaps nearer, in Derbyshire,
if Bingley bought an estate there. But she would return to mainland Europe. She
would sample again its variety of languages, religions, fashions, cuisines, landscapes,
entertainments. They would see Salzburg. Her children would thrill at the
Rhine, the Dolomites, the historic cities. She would keep in touch with Hilda
and Lorraine, and one day they would meet again.

The door creaked and Mrs Bennet entered.
The
dress, they must order the dress!
Such finery she would have, and such
jewels! Jane’s would be nothing in comparison. How handsome was Mr Darcy! How
elegant his sister! How could they have believed him ill-natured? Three
daughters married! If only such husbands could be found for Mary and Kitty …

Elizabeth smiled, agreed when she could,
and accompanied her mother downstairs to join the others.

Epilogue

August 1825, ten years
later

Elizabeth relaxed in her favourite wicker
chair in the conservatory at Pemberley, taking afternoon tea. She was alone:
Darcy had joined Colonel Fitzwilliam in London to petition the government over the
formation of an Army Medical Corps, a cause they had been promoting for a
decade. The outcome, she had little doubt, would be the same as before. Yes, it
was a worthy concept. No, it could not be implemented
at this precise moment
.
Still, they kept pressing, and with Darcy’s schoolmate Robert Peel a rising
star in the cabinet, the future might bring better luck.

A maid asked whether she needed a fresh
pot of tea.

‘No, Bertha. The scones were delicious.’

‘Thank you, your ladyship. Oh!’ The
maid, a pleasant girl but forgetful, stopped in her tracks. ‘A party asked to
see the park. Mrs Horton said they talked foreign, like.’

‘Very well.’ Elizabeth sighed. She
needed to speak with the housekeeper about preparations for the following day, the
10
^th
anniversary of their wedding. But that could wait for now.

She leaned back, enjoying the
warmth and fragrance of the glass-domed room. Darcy would be on his way back;
he planned to break the journey at Bingley’s estate, twenty miles south of
Pemberley, so that they could travel up together in the morning. No doubt he
would bring a
present
, purchased in town: an art work, she hoped, rather
than jewellery, which she already had in abundance.

Marriage had brought them joy, their
mutual fascination as lively as ever. It had brought children too: the heir William,
and Charles, followed by Alice. The boys were outside now, fishing, while the
little girl sketched with the governess. Elizabeth smiled proudly, wondering
whether the girl would emulate her namesake. Mrs Gerard Hanson, known professionally
as Alice Dill, was an artist and botanist of rising reputation; her delicate
watercolours in the Pemberley gallery provided welcome relief from portraits of
Darcy’s ancestors.

Fortune had favoured Elizabeth’s family.
Mr Bennet still lived, passing each day in much the same manner, and growing
ever more eccentric and outspoken. Mrs Bennet achieved the satisfaction of
settling
all
her daughters after a sea captain carried off Kitty, and
Mary accepted a proposal from a clergyman twice her age; unfortunately Mary’s
marriage ended after only six months with the untimely death of her husband,
and although left well provided for, she had returned to Longbourn. Wickham had
recovered well from his wound, but lost his taste for soldiering. He remained
in the north, trying one unlikely career after another, and paying little
attention to Lydia except as a means of begging funds from her sisters.

Darcy’s family too had flourished.
Georgiana married well and lived in town, where she frequented concerts. The
scandalous Lady Webster, now a family friend, had introduced Colonel
Fitzwilliam to a plain but charming young lady with an ample dowry. Only at
Rosings had misfortune struck, with the death from apoplexy of Lady Catherine
de Bourgh. Mr Collins sent Darcy a long letter of condolence, enclosing a
sermon, written for the occasion, on how God calls to His presence those He
loves best. But there was a silver lining: far from being crushed by her
mother’s death, Anne de Bourgh grew in health and confidence, married a distant
cousin, and was now expecting their first child.

‘Ma’am, you have a visitor.’ Bertha
leaned over to collect the tray. ‘A lady from the group touring the park. She said
she knew you long ago. I think her name was
Fontana
.’

‘Can you show her to the parlour?’

Elizabeth passed by her dressing room to
check her hair and powder.
Who could this be?
Her thoughts returned, as
they often did, to friends encountered during their journey across Europe.
Hilda Edelmann, who wrote every Christmas, had married a friend of Franz
Schubert’s—so solving definitively the problem of finding an accompanist
for her recitals. Lorraine de Crécy had visited Elizabeth at Darcy House just
two months ago; she was also married, to the editor of a journal promoting the
independence of Belgium from the Netherlands.

But
Fontana
sounded Italian …

In the parlour, a dark elfin woman in
her early twenties rose to greet her.

‘Lady Darcy?’ The young woman smiled
shyly.
‘Non vi ricordate di me?’

Elizabeth stared at her, then gasped.
‘Maddalena?’

‘The very same! I am with my husband
Professor Fontana, and his sister’s family, bound for the Lakes. We have been
in London, where we visited Mr Gardiner; he said we should on no account miss
the park at Pemberley.’

‘But this is wonderful!’ Elizabeth
stepped forward and kissed cheeks, in the Italian manner. ‘Have you been married
long?’

‘Three months. This is a sort of
extended honeymoon. My husband is Professor of English Literature, and admires
your poets. We are bound for Ambleside, where he hopes to visit Mr Wordsworth.’

‘What a treat awaits you—we also
passed our honeymoon there. Now, let us go to the conservatory, which is lovely
at this time of day. You must take some refreshment. Coffee? Wine?’

‘A glass of
vino rosso
would restore
me.’

Comfortably installed among the orchids
and climbing plants, with a decanter of wine and two glasses, Elizabeth beamed
at her guest. ‘You must tell me all! We have heard nothing since your family broke
off contact with my uncle in 1815. Our last news of your sister was that she
was marrying a count.’

‘We learned of your marriage from Mr
Gardiner, but nothing after that. I had not realised that Mr Darcy would
inherit a title.’

Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Not
inherited. He received a knighthood for services to the War Office.’

‘Our news is mixed.’ Maddalena sighed. ‘Mother
died five years ago, and her loss hit my brother hard. Regina had already left
home, so he was left alone—except for a sister he hated.’

‘Why should he hate you?’

‘Because I saw what he was. Insecure.
Aware of others only as a means of feeding his own vanity.’

Elizabeth blinked, as memories returned.
‘I hope I did not make your life more difficult.’

‘Gabriele and I were enemies long before
you came.’ Maddalena touched Elizabeth’s arm. ‘But it is true that your loss
devastated him. He became a recluse, interested only in his violin. He had a
portrait of you painted from a sketch. Do you remember the artist who visited
and took your likeness?’

‘An exercise in flattery if ever there
was one.’

‘Well, that was it. The portrait
remained at Gabriele’s bedside until his death.’

Elizabeth gasped. ‘When?’

‘Last year, around the time I met my
future husband. There was an outbreak of typhoid fever in Venice, and Gabriele
succumbed.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Elizabeth recalled
Carandini’s dominating personality, his opinions fixed in stone, his obsessional
striving for perfection. How hard to imagine that such a force was no more. ‘He
was never a happy man.’

‘His treatment of you was outrageous.
Had it not been for Mr Darcy, he would have forced you to marry him.’

‘I am told we have a certain 12-year-old
girl to thank for that,’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Did you not help Mr Darcy come to
my rescue?’

‘I threw my doll into the garden!’
Maddalena smiled. ‘Poor dolly! She was never the same again.’

Elizabeth laughed—but with a
twinge of alarm. Had her future hung on this slender strand? Surely not: Darcy
would have found another way. ‘Does Regina own the business?’

‘No, Mario does. The inheritance followed
the Roman tradition of favouring the nearest male relative. I am happy. Mario
is a good man, and looks after everyone.’ She finished her wine. ‘In a way it
is for the best. My brother is at peace, and our family flourishes as it did
when my father was alive.’ She walked to the window. ‘Lady Darcy, I should go
now. My companions are waiting.’

‘But Maddalena, you must
all
stay!
At least until tomorrow, when Sir William arrives.’ She smiled. ‘Or Mr Darcy,
as you knew him.’

‘I wish I could accept, but my husband
is eager to progress while the weather holds.’ Maddalena raised a finger. ‘I
have a present, from my sister!’ She withdrew a parcel from her bag. ‘Fragile.
Take care!’

Elizabeth removed the paper to reveal a
framed portrait, an exquisite vignette of herself at the age of twenty-one. ‘Oh
Maddalena! Is this the painting …’

She nodded. ‘There is a message.’

Elizabeth turned the frame over and saw
a folded note fixed to the back. Opening it, she found just three words,
written in Regina’s hand.

Cara Elisabetta, Perdonami. R.

Forgive me …

From her treacherous friend.

Maddalena had left. Elizabeth, her
mind abuzz, could not bear to remain seated. She paced, thinking of those traumatic
days in Venice, and of the journey in which she had learned to appreciate and
love Darcy—as well as regaining her own self-respect.

She had remained too long in the settled
contentment of Pemberley, their house in town, their families. Gabriele and his
manipulative mother were no more. They could visit Brussels, Salzburg, now even
Venice …

Next year. In the spring. All of them,
the children too.

It was time for another journey.