Page 1 of The Winter of Our Discontent
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ELIZABETH DARCY, LONGBOURN
My life—Elizabeth Bennet’s life—had been severed, permanently, into two parts. So unthinkable was the event that transpired at the Meryton Assembly only a handful of days ago, a guillotine blade cleaving my existence in two could not have been more definitive. These two different lives, now wholly disconnected from one another, did not relate. Simply put, one life ceased and the other had now begun.
Before the assembly, I was known by friends as a vivacious young lady. My detractors complained I was a pert and independent girl in need of restraint. I believe I was considered pretty next to a beautiful older sister, and more than a few feared my brutal wit which was softened, but only just, my father said, ‘by a pair of mischievous, laughing eyes’. In my defence, I will say that yes, I possessed a mind bent towards satire, but I could laugh at myself as much as I laughed at my neighbours.
I had laughed at myself as I put pearl pins in my hair thatevening, taking care to look as fetching as possible. “Stupid girl,” I had said to the image in my mirror.
This particular assembly had caused an uproar in my rural village, and though all the fuss was silly, I was not immune to the excitement. As it turned out, a wealthy young bachelor had taken the lease on Netherfield Park on the quarter day, and he would be introduced to the local gentry when we gathered at the assembly hall. He reportedly brought a crowd of eligible bachelors with him, and according to my mother, all her daughters would find husbands on that first Saturday in October.
I did not expect togeta husband, but I did entertain the hope of meeting new people with sense, education, and a cosmopolitan view of the world. But in fact, Ididemerge from the event with a husband. The remaining four of Mrs Bennet’s daughters, however, were left without the slightest hope of ever marrying anyone. Perhaps that, of all the cruel consequences of that night, was the hardest blow. To know that Jane, my favourite sister and dearest friend, was condemned to impoverished spinsterhood sometimes stole my breath away and forced me to swallow a gasp of horror.
For my own life, I felt nothing but a strange sort of resolve. This was not a feeling of strength, but more a sense of life proceeding or of finding comfort in the act of putting one foot in front of the other. I most certainly did not feel the horror for myself that I felt for Jane. Nor did I pity myself or weep and rage over a life now ruined. Those tantrums had naturally arisen in the days after the assembly, but by the third day of sobbing until I vomited, I gave it up, for resistance at that scale was unsustainable. A deadly, grave calm stole over my soul, and with it came a whispering sense of that which was imperturbable—that in me which wished to survive whole.
Jane was allowed to stand up with me as I said my vows, but only after being told by my father that if his eldest daughter wept one tear, he would have the deacon escort her out of the church. Our mother kept to her room, forbidden by her husband to witness her daughter’s wedding, an event she had talked of since we were infants.
We married early in the day, and though it was close enough to walk, my father grimly took the reins of our tattered, small barouche and drove me, his second daughter—his favourite daughter—to the church.
We sat silently. I stared at my gloved hands, and Jane stared at the passing landscape. The day was notably fine, but for once sunlight was not warm, nor did it bring me joy. I reached for my sister’s hand, imagined the coldness of dread in the fingers underneath her glove, gave it a firm squeeze to say all that was left to say between us, then returned my hand to my own lap.
Mr Manson, our curate for more than ten years and a man who had always treated our family with warmth and respect, received me with a cold, wordless nod. There stood Mr Darcy, smouldering in silent condemnation, as he bowed perfunctorily at our meagre party.
“My cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” he said.
The man next to him, shorter and stockier, with the telltale creases around his eyes that suggested a sense of humour in other circumstances, regarded me with a stony face before he, too, stiffly saluted us.
I turned towards Mr Manson. There would be no happy, casual conversation. The deed must be done.
Mr Darcy also turned. He did not offer his arm, instead, he stood rigidly next to me during the recital of vows. Vaguely, I realised I should be scoffing at the irony ofpromising to love and honour this man, but irony no longer appealed to me. The words we spoke rang hollow in the nave. What befell me was beyond my means or capacity to change, and as I stood before God, I knew I must humbly submit to fate or be driven mad by it. Between surrender and madness, I chose the one that would better serve my sister Jane.
The register appeared before me. I smelt ink and heard the loud scratching of the quill. I signed my maiden name first before memorialising my new name.
Elizabeth Madeline Darcy
Elizabeth Bennet lay dead on the altar of matrimony. Rather than inspiring new anguish, I grasped hold of that image and took a fortifying breath.
The day of my wedding, the fourteenth of October, was when Mrs Darcy laid Lizzy Bennet to rest.
Jane’s cheek was ice-cold on my lips. I would not put my arms around my sister—that would cause my heart to break all over again. My father’s eyes did not meet mine as he handed me up into Mr Darcy’s carriage and closed the door with a snap.
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Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy did not ride in the carriage with me. He and his cousin rode alongside.
We arrived in London in the late afternoon. The bustle of the city slowed us to a crawl and the drizzle of rain at dusk seemed a fitting accompaniment to our miserable arrival at my husband’s townhouse after such a wedding. The household lined up to greet the new mistress. I heard the shuffle of feet, a few discreet coughs, and the noise of the carriage taken away to the mews as I solemnly met them. I suppose I deferred the inevitable moment my husband and I were left alone by asking the butler, Mr Harrison, and the London housekeeper, Mrs Spencer, to introduce me by name to each of the footmen, the maids, the cook, and her kitchen girls.
With their hands clasped behind their backs, Mr Darcy and his cousin stood expressionless in the hall during this formal proceeding. Mr Harrison then directed us into an elegant saloon where the aroma of lemon oil and gleamingsurfaces daunted me nearly as much as the grim faces worn by the two men who faced me. Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed and excused himself with a curtly uttered, “Mrs Darcy.”
Mr Darcy seemed on the verge of speaking when Mrs Spencer entered and asked whether we would sit down to dinner. My husband gestured that the decision would fall to me, so I cleared my throat and said, “A simple supper in an hour would do very well for us, Mrs Spencer. Although,” I said meekly, “I do not know where to suggest we sit down.” At home, we had always used the breakfast parlour for our light and casual suppers.
“Even on occasions when they have no company, Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy prefer to use the dining room in the evening, ma’am,” she replied.
I thanked her for the suggestion and agreed to be led to my room to refresh myself. I looked once at Mr Darcy before I curtseyed and left the room. Perhaps I wanted to assure myself I was not dreaming.
Mrs Spencer spent ten minutes acquainting me with the suite, ascertaining if I had any particular preferences, and introducing Naomi Wilson, newly hired, to serve as my personal maid.
Wilson began to make immediate arrangements for me to wash and turned to empty my trunk.
