Page 52 of The Winter of Our Discontent
She nodded with great dark eyes and held the sealed letter to her breast. I knew it was addressed to the maid and also that it was a letter from her sister Jane. I am master at Pemberley, and Wilson knew better than to refuse to answer my questions. Apparently, my wife had been so beleaguered, so alone, she had corresponded through secret means to protect her privacy. I had been appalled to learn this but tooterrified she might not outlive this sickness to indulge my feelings of remorse just then.
Eventually, when she did not break the seal, I began to wonder whether she had the strength to read.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
The idea seemed to distress her, and she clutched the letter tightly as she quietly replied, “No thank you.”
I did not know why her distrust wounded me so. I had certainly earned it. I had heard our whole history, relived in her vivid and often tormented dreams. With a sigh, I closed my book.
“You must wish for a moment to yourself. I am just there,” I gestured to the open door between our suites, “if you need me.”
On the morning of the ninth day after my return from Manchester—or was it the tenth already?—no matter, I was again in my wife’s room. That morning, I was a jumble of excitement. Wilson was, too, I discovered, when she knocked over her little jar of lavender in an uncharacteristically flustered movement.
Elizabeth looked very well that morning. Compared to her appearance of a week ago, she looked wonderful. Yes, she was pale and fragile and so weak her hands shook when she held a teacup. Her spirits wavered from stoic to piteous to petulant, and at times, she became deeply introspective. That morning, she had been a little fractious. She did not want a cap, her plaits were too tight, the sheets were scratchy, the tea tasted like yesterday’s wash water—and did it always rain here in Derbyshire?
Having prepared to put her to rest in the family vault, these fretful complaints could only strike Wilson and me as endearing and hopeful signs of life. We looked upon ourpatient with softened eyes as we told her spring would soon come, and she would be out walking around the lake before she could click her fingers.
When Elizabeth was settled, Wilson gave me a meaningful look, and I said, as offhandedly as I could, “My dear, you have a visitor this morning.”
“I saw Mr Yardley only yesterday.”
“This is not Mr Yardley or Mr Hodge or anyone you expect.”
Her bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly, and before she could outright refuse to see anyone, I went to the door where her sister Jane had been standing for close to half an hour.
My wife burst into the most wrenching sobs as her sister flew through the room to the bed where she, too, dissolved into tears. Even Wilson reached for her handkerchief. I stood at the window and blinked my own tears back from whence they came. I did not deserve to participate in this reunion. I, who kept my wife apart from those she loved for nearly half a year, must see that my only choice was to withdraw silently. Wilson followed me out of the room, and we went our separate ways.
50
ELIZABETH DARCY
Jane had questions. They filled her eyes even though she spoke to me of the blandest nothings. I had questions, too, but I could not even form them. They sat like a grey mass, heavy on the crown of my head because I did not really have the strength to think. My sister was at my little escritoire where the tea tray sat, and I lounged on my window seat like an arthritic cat in a square of weak winter sunlight.
Mr Darcy knocked, and Wilson let him in the room.
“How does your sister fare this morning, Miss Bennet?”
His voice, his face—everything had changed. I did not know him anymore, and because I could not understand or trust this alteration, I found his sudden cordiality more exasperating than welcome.
“As you see, Mr Darcy, she is very lazy today.”
He smiled so tenderly at my sister, and she returned to him an expression of such kind regard that I found I was well past annoyed. I was extremely irritated, in fact. Even Wilson looked at Mr Darcy with a touch of tenderness I did not like. Iwas jealous ofmyWilson, and I did not want her tending to anyone else.
“Mrs Darcy,” he began. He then glanced awkwardly around the room before reluctantly meeting my eyes. “Elizabeth, Yardley thinks I can safely bring Georgiana home. Might you be comfortable if I leave you for two days together?”
Comfortable? I wish you would go away!“Yes, of course,” I replied with a weak, false smile. “I will be happy to have your sister here again.”
By nightfall, however, I was quite restless and even snapped at my beloved Jane when she did not put my pillows right.Heknew how to do it.Hedid not sit there looking minutely at my every expression as if he could somehow extract my tender feelings and put them under a magnifying glass. In the night, I was mortified to discover I could not hold back from asking for my husband.
“Wilson, when is Mr Darcy coming home?” I asked in a detestable whine.
“I expect he will be here by tomorrow evening, ma’am.”
In the morning, Jane perceived my sombre mood as receptive to a commiserating conversation. She never had even a particle of intuition. I didnotwant to ‘talk’.
“Mr Darcy has been so very attentive to you and so kind to me. I was so frightened to meet him again, but he was everything gracious and so deeply grateful to me for coming. He sent an express by private courier to Uncle Gardiner, you know.”
“You mentioned it, yes.” I stopped my eyes from rolling and refrained from pointing out it was aletter, not a declaration from Parliament.
