Beginning, Section V, Section VI

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Chapter XXVI

Posted on January 25, 2010

My husband's study was not a domain I frequently entered. When I did, the scene which occurred was most often unpleasant; usually, I was being called on the carpet for some misdemeanour or another. Last time we had both been at our most unhappy with one another. I had not re-entered since. Despite his threats to speak with me the following day, he had never bothered summoning me for yet another discussion.

Peeking through a gap in the door now, I realised how odd it was to see him calmly sitting behind his desk working. At least he appeared to be in a good mood, I thought as I knocked on the door. He looked up. "Come in." His voice was completely even, he only seemed surprised when he realised I was at the door. "Elizabeth? What can I do for you?"

I paused awkwardly, wondering still how to broach the topic, but I looked him straight in the eye and began, "I wished to speak about Mr George Wickham."

He frowned sorrowfully. "Go on then," he pushed me, clearly not attempting to make this easier for me. I scowled deeply; why would he never meet me half-way?

I took a seat, though he did not offer me one this time, making it clear I was intent on talking this out properly. For half a minute we glared at one another across the huge expanse of his desk, neither of us said a word to the other. "I wished you to know I am aware of Mr Wickham's past behaviours."

I watched as he slowly digested the words. Both his eyebrows lifted in surprised unison before it was razed by a scowl of confusion and hurt. "And?" he said patiently, still ensuring I was responsible for all the groundwork.

"I realise that I was unjust accusing you of maltreatment as I did," I conceded. "You have been more than generous with him considering."

He did not say anything. No thank you, no apology, no nothing. It was all I had come to expect from him. Yet it was not enough. I felt my ire rising. I bit down hard on my lips to contain my anger. He really could not care what I thought, or knew, or did. I was well aware of that, yet each time it injured me anew. Could I really mean so little? Could I have made so little impact on his life? The answer was, of course, yes. "Have you nothing to say?"

"What is there to say? You have conceded your mistake." He took up his pen and began working on the page of accounts again.

"And what of yours?" I asked with deceptive tranquillity.

He did not even look up, he made no acknowledgement. But of course, he was infallible.

I remained completely civil, determined I would not become angered with him, for harsh words never served he and I well. "Did you ever consider, sir, that had you been honest with me about your dealings with Mr Wickham from the very beginning of this affair, much could have been avoided?"

He put the pen down. "Elizabeth, how can you lecture me on honesty when you went behind my back to visit Eveline?"

"You know you never told me I was not to visit her either. Yet another example of your swooping commands," I replied childishly.

"You knew you were in the wrong, or you would have told me of your visits."

"I do not see what she has done that is so very wrong."

"You do not understand how it is."

"I might if you would tell me something, anything." I could feel the conversation beginning to escalate into an argument. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before continuing, "I never know what you expect of me, sir."

"I expect you to behave as a wife." His own response was thankfully muted and calm.

"There was nothing untoward in my exchanges with Mr Wickham, you must know that. Had I known anything of what had truly happened, I would never have questioned your judgement and brought him here."

"You should not have questioned it anyway, Elizabeth. You are always trying to provoke an argument between us with you incessant questions."

"And you insist on ignoring what displeases you. Your sister, me, even Mr Wickham – you acted as though he did not exist," I answered him immediately, without thinking. But it was the first time I had realised it. My husband ignored what he did not like. What he could not control. First, he had banished his sister from the family circle. Then, when I had arrived years later, he had proceeded to behave as though I were invisible.

I could understand the latter; neither of us had been happy with our marriage, but it had been impossible for me to pretend, to go on as if I were single, still at Longbourn with all my sisters. I had been cast into responsibility for my family, his family, servants; and he had offered me nothing. He had acted as though I was not there, as though I needed no assistance. I had been forced to find my own way and my own place, when all the while he had just gone on as normal.

And as to Mr Wickham, since his last visit, he had barely been mentioned; my husband only muttered and grumbled vague responses where Wickham was concerned. How could anybody have been expected to know what he felt?

"Never, not once did I fail to acknowledge George." He looked at me with an emotion I could not understand.

"When he was gone from Pemberley, you would not have any of us speak of him, you did not even say he had gone to study the law in town." I spoke gently, tentatively.

"Because I neither want to, nor have to explain my every decision, my every action to you," he told me seriously.

I sighed. We were right back at the beginning again. He had told me nothing. I reminded myself of Eveline's insistence that I should not take his behaviour personally, that he was like that with everyone, aloof, cold, independent. But still. "Why?"

He sighed impatiently, "You are my wife, it is your duty to obey me," he told me coldly.

It was, I realised, how he expected things to be; how it must have been with Lady Anne before me. This much I could presume from all I had heard of their marriage. Yet in both cases, had his assumed autonomy provided a content family life? None of us had been happy. Neither myself, nor Lady Anne, had been willing to accept his dictates; my husband had married two women with whom he would never see eye to eye. Lady Anne had wanted power and respect, their personalities had clashed where their opinions might have met.

For myself, I had wanted nothing more than acceptance and trust, something impossible to gain when our hopes had been so perversely opposite. He wished to forget me. I wanted nothing more than to fit in. He expected my obedience. I desired some independence. I realised now that it was impossible. He and I could never be completely content in our marriage, but he did not feel the need to improve, where I did.

I was unlikely to ever receive what I had come to seek. He had taken no note of anything I had said. I was destined to be trapped on the perimeter of his attention.

I stood. "If you expect me to apologise for my friendship with your sister, then you are to be disappointed. She is your sister, and you may consider her marriage imprudent, but at least she had not relegated herself to misery and inequality of feelings. I will concede my error of judgement with Mr Wickham, but I will not take sole responsibility for it."

"Very well," he replied distractedly. He seemed hardly conscious of my presence any longer.

"I am taking the girls to arrange flowers for Mr Thursfield at Kympton. I shall see you at dinner," I said civilly as I reached the door. I could be thankful, at least, that our conversation had been almost civil.

Even were I still convinced Mr Thursfield was partially responsible for usurping the living from Wickham, it would have been almost impossible to dislike him. He was a man of great humour and intelligence, but more importantly still, he was a man of integrity and kindness – exactly suited to life as a clergyman. My son-in-law's choice simply could not be faulted, and knowing who might have taken the living had my husband not changed his mind, it was impossible to be ungrateful.

As it was, Mr Thursfield was unwed, but the younger girls and I made frequent visits to the village to aid him in his wife's stead. The area lacked another woman truly suited to these purposes, and I was certainly not displeased to have to perform them. Neither were the younger ones cross and bothered undertaking this duty, as they sometimes were with the other responsibilities I attempted to educate them in, for Mr Thursfield could always be trusted to keep us entertained with chatter and nonsense. On that particular afternoon – as the younger girls arranged flowers for an upcoming wedding – he exuberantly retold the myth of the Golden Apple of Discord; his imitation of Hera was not one to be missed, and my sister's were keeled over giggling.

It was difficult for my grey mood to linger, and I gradually felt my anger towards my husband ebb away, to be replaced with a mellow humour, and I found myself soothed as I arranged flowers at the end of the front pews.

My husband and I might never be especially fond of one another's company, but I was not solely dependent upon him alone. I had friends and acquaintances here about who valued me as much as I valued them. They may not be the first companions of my husband's choice, but what should that matter, when he and I were destined to lead lives as separate from one another as respectability would allow?

It was habit that we would repair to the cottage Mr Thursfield resided in for refreshments once we had completed the flowers. The lady who cared for his meals had been to prepare tea, and Kitty served us all while Lydia teased him for the umpteenth time over his decision to reside in a cottage and not the rectory. "Why would you live in this small cottage when the Denley's old house has been empty for years?"

It was futile to explain why single Mr Thursfield, the temporary curate, would not wish to live in the vicar's house to Lydia. "You should marry then, Mary would have you I'm sure!" she screamed, while Mary hushed her younger sister. "Only Mary would think of a clergyman, mind, for we are too pretty and rich to want you."

"Lydia!" I scolded her. "Your mouth can run on."

Mr Thursfield looked confused for a second before he smoothly changed the subject. "Have you any news of your sister in town?" he queried, "Darce wrote she and your relatives accompanied him to the theatre last week."

This was news which surprised me. Jane certainly had not imparted that – her letters from Town were as commonplace as they had been before my marriage. I wondered if perhaps she had been keeping any other news from me, and more importantly what would be the motive her silence? My son-in-law had thought to share this with his father's curate. While I had determined the friendship between Darcy and Mr Thursfield was as intimate as with his cousin the colonel, it did not account for my sister's reticence. I could only imagine she had no wish to raise any further expectations within the family, which Mamma especially may have were she to hear of Jane's activities within the ton.

"She mentioned something about calling on Miss Grimston; apparently it was a somewhat hectic occasion," was all I could offer in response.

Mr Thursfield pursed his lips, "I can quire imagine Miss Grimston has many friends and admirers in constant attendance now the season is in full swing." He smirked slightly at the thought. Clearly his friend had not written to him of any attempt to call on Miss Grimston himself – I wondered if he had made any effort with her at all. The prospect he might not have pleased me immensely. I wondered if my husband had heard anything to the contrary; he would not tell me either way.

The girls were starting to fidget; they had heard all Jane's news before. Lydia, being of a particularly impatient nature, was the first to shamelessly interrupt our exchange with more of her impertinence, "When are you to be ordained, Mr Thursfield? Georgie says you are certain to stay here now, even though Mr Wickham was set to live here once."

"Lydia!" Georgiana, Kitty, Mary and I all gasped at her further audacity. I was bemused at the girls apparently knowing as much estate business as I did.

"Mr Wickham is studying law now," I reminded her quietly, wondering how to escape this scene politely.

"Your brother says Easter would be as good a time as any, Miss Lydia." Mr Thursfield replied with perfect calm, despite the awkward nature of our conversation. "I am fortunate he has been generous enough to consider me."

"Girls, will you wait for me outside; see that the carriage is prepared," I requested. Lydia grumbled something about servants' work on her way out. I turned to Mr Thursfield. "I must apologise, Lydia can be quite forthright at times."

"Please you must not concern yourself." He smiled, all easy manners. "I find it warming you are so open with them. My friend, and indeed his father, have been known to desire their privacy certainly, but it is a relief to find you are all so open with one another amongst your intimate circle," he conceded gracefully.

What could I say to that? When they had perhaps been listening at doors? Or were privy to some irresponsible servant's chatter? There was nothing I could say, so I smiled and took the blame for conveying matters which were hardly their concern.

"It must be pleasant to have the company of all your sisters and mother. My own mother often wished for a female confidante or two. Though I do believe four sons was quite enough for her to handle."

"I can only imagine," I responded with a laugh.

"Not that we were not quite the most well behaved and polite little fellows." He winked at me, and I laughed before bidding him farewell.

"I shall see you Sunday, ma'am, I've been invited to dine." He bowed, once he had handed us all into the carriage and waved until we were quite out of sight.

Mr Thursfield had quite a talent for subtly reminding a person of their blessings in life. Our visit to St Alkmund's had thrown into perspective the extent my husband's distance should truly affect my life. I was surrounded by a network of friends and relatives who quite absorbed me. I had constructed an existence which did not necessarily demand his respect, approval or even his presence.

While that reminder did not specifically ease my discontent with the state of our affairs, it did throw into perspective that my situation could be far worse. I was not reconciled with his denial of my position within the family circle, but I had at least determined it was time to admit my defeat, and stop struggling to gain an open acceptance from him.

There were other ways I could, and had, demonstrated my worth within the family and about the estate – even if those oldest and most familiar with Lady Anne's regime and my husband's autocracy still opposed me. Amongst the tenants I was liked and valued; I might even say I had friends beyond my intimacy with Alice Wainwright. My sisters and mother would always value me; but his children also seemed to hold me in some esteem too. Georgiana was no longer quarrelsome and sullen, surely that ought to be considered progress.

With Mr Thursfield's reminder, I ceased to worry and brood over my husband's inattentiveness. Certainly it did not please me, not in the slightest, but there was no use in troubling either myself or him with my constant pleas for acknowledgement or involvement in his life at Pemberley. It was simply pointless, I came to realise. He would never see any worth in my presence, beyond that of a competent housekeeper and care-giver to his daughter and her education. I was useful and necessary to him only in a practical function; beyond that, he wanted no involvement.

It would have been a bitter pill to dwell on, but instead of causing myself further upset, I concluded to give it up. He wanted no form of emotional involvement in our marriage, we were barely even friends for all the time we spent together. No doubt the disparity in our ages was at least partly responsible, and that alone would be hard enough to overcome.

Knowing I was of worth to others though, my family, the tenants and some of the neighbours, his family and the servants, helped me to realise that Mr Darcy's approval was no longer as important as it had once been. Certainly when we had been newly married, and I had felt so isolated and alone, I had craved his approval; I had simply not given it up, thanks to my stubbornness, when it was no longer so essential.

And though perhaps it was not the happiest of paths, life at Pemberley succeeded in becoming more tolerable once I had admitted defeat. My husband and I were not involved in a perpetual disagreement. In honesty, all the animosity had been on my part, and his indifference to my pleas and objections had only increased the chilled atmosphere. Certainly there had been occasions when I had been able to set aside my resentment, but I was most often left feeling that he found my very presence troublesome. Who would not find that degree of apathy painful?

Instead, we were able to get along with our lives quietly. I stopped troubling myself to educate him as to my actions and whereabouts. He continued on as before. We dined together, though at least once a week I travelled to Elm Manor and dined alone with Sophie. I visited Mamma, called on the neighbours, attended to correspondence, visited tenants, observed the girls' classes and saw to household affairs. All in all, I found as much to occupy myself as he found to occupy himself with. So it was that we rarely met.

When we came together, we were not silent, nor strained, we simply discussed trivial matters. We got on well enough; as long as we did not attempt to make any mention of our marriage, we could behave in a perfectly amiable manner. In public, we gave no indication of discord between us, and appeared at least as content as our friends and neighbours, raising no suspicions as to the simply bizarre nature of our relationship. Sometimes I wondered if there had ever been a marriage quite like ours, both unwilling and utterly unmatched.

It sounds cold and terrible, yet my decision to stop trying so hard for acceptance actually made for a better marriage in some ways. No, he did not suddenly make an attempt to invite me into his life, but we simply behaved to one another as the other expected. I knew he would be simply polite and kind enough, and all along he had wanted me to not place demands upon him. I think he would have been happier from the outset if I had been a pretty young wife who did nothing more troublesome than spend far too much on clothes and pretty things.

Perhaps it was not my ideal, but it worked best. And the more I looked to the example of others, the more I realised we were, at least, not alone in this sad state of affairs. It was not exactly consolation, but it was something.

The constant tension which had existed between us for two and a half years had finally eased. Eventually, we could at least call ourselves content and reconciled to our relationship. It made for such pleasant living, my husband actually on occasion began to seek out my company. About once a week, he would approach me and suggest some new entertainment or another, and although we were always accompanied by the girls, and even my mother, and once or twice Sophie, it was not something we had attempted since that first visit of Mr Wickham's. And I was finally able to take in various sites in the Peaks and nearby towns.

Summer was soon to be upon us, and I noticed a certain distractedness in my husband's demeanour. A permanent frown of concern seemed to be etched across his forehead, and in all his interactions, he seemed distant. I did not even consider inquiring as to the source of his distraction; I was sensible enough to be able to discern its source. Slowly the families who had wintered in town began to return to enjoy summer at their ancestral homes.

The Nevilles were the first to return. No longer overshadowed by the threat of a spinster daughter, they did not feel it necessary to make the absolute most of the season – their speedy return caused no true concern. Once word reached us of the imminent return of the Bertrands though, it became startlingly apparent the season was officially drawing to a close. It was then that my husband became truly absorbed in his worries.

I had endured much the same last season. There was no need for me to pry into his personal feelings to understand the root of his concerns. Once again, there had been no word of a marriage between his son and Miss Grimston. Evidently my husband believed that two seasons in town ought to have been enough to ensure there was no other woman more suited to taking on the mantle of the future mistress of Pemberley. Perhaps there were other concerns, too, which increased his eagerness to see his son married and settled, but at the time I failed to divine them.

The only thing which kept him from utter alarm was that we had yet to receive word that either intended to return to Derbyshire with any great haste. I suspected that Miss Grimston would not return until Darcy's plans were decided; I had yet to settle upon Darcy's motivation for remaining so long. Perhaps he simply enjoyed the variety town could offer which Derbyshire could not.

I would not have minded especially, the longer he remained in town, the more I was spared my role in orchestrating meetings between him and Miss Grimston. The longer their pseudo-courtship continued, the more intolerant I became of Miss Grimston's deportment. But it had been arranged Darcy would accompany Jane back from our relatives, and so the longer he hindered in town, the greater my anxiety to see and speak with Jane became.

Her letters throughout the course of her stay at our Aunt and Uncle Gardiners' had been vague, to say the least. It was apparent she wished to shield myself and Mamma from any knowledge of her enduring melancholy. Consequently, Jane's letters had become nothing but short retellings of outings she enjoyed with our relatives and the high-jinxes of our little cousins. Yet I knew there was more she had failed to speak of. There had been but few mentions of her interactions with any of our neighbours, except the odd report she had called on Cynthia Middleton or Miss Grimston, and no word at all of Caroline Bingley. I hoped she might tell me more once she had returned.

I could only wish that Darcy would see fit to return to us with Jane soon enough. But since he had failed to mention a word of such plans to my husband, we were both forced to wait anxiously: my husband for the announcement of an engagement, and myself for the return of my dearest sister.

Chapter XXVII

There were unanticipated changes afoot in Derbyshire. I had expected much of the summer season, though almost none of those involved the extraordinary events which occurred. My husband, Sophie and I were almost the only members of Derbyshire society who did not pass winter in town; we were comfortable in our small circle but would undoubtedly welcome the changes wrought by a wider society. Yet it quickly became apparent the summer would not proceed as the previous one, which had been almost entirely without remarkable incident.

My husband's reaction to his son's return was discomforting in itself. There was a startling degree of animosity between the pair. I knew my son-in-law's marital status continued to be a source of contention between the pair of them, but I had not realised that my husband's opinion on the matter had become so desperately fervent. Besides, I could detect no particular course for concern. Darcy had still to refuse his father's proposal. The truth was he could not.

Since his return, Darcy had seemed remarkably sociable; there was not a day that went by which did not see him out with the younger Parkins or Thursfield or young Mr Morris. And then he seemed to throw himself eagerly into responsibilities about the estate. Sometimes a whole day could pass and we none of us would see hide nor hair of him. "If only he showed such enthusiasm for his other responsibilities," I heard my husband grumble one evening after receiving a note excusing him from dinner.

The root of my husband's frustration at his son was evident enough. For despite all his apparent gallivanting with the neighbours, he seemed to scarcely make time for Miss Grimston or, in fact, his family. With each call Jane and I made at Chicaneby Hall, it was apparent Miss Grimston was finding it more and more difficult to conceal her disappointment at his absence. She was naturally quite capable of concealing her true anxiety after a moment or two, and were I not convinced of the total want of affection on either his or her part, I might have felt some sympathy for her.

I did find, however, some empathy, for Darcy's evasion of his family and Miss Grimston was, in truth, quite frustrating. I had yet to thank him for his correspondence in the spring, and I did wish to express my gratitude. Truthfully, his explanations had meant much more to me than he could possibly imagine. But how was I to ever thank him when he seemed to be evading any company at Pemberley?

That first month of his return, it was a rare occasion when our family circle was completed by his company. When he did unwillingly appear, my husband proceeded to bombard him, so it was hardly surprising he chose to stay away for several days. The conversation always followed the same course; my husband would look up from his studies, "Have you any plans for the morrow, Elizabeth?" he would ask, always drawing me in to his wretched conversation. He was rarely interested enough to enquire after my activities.

But whatever my response may be, he would always attempt to dismiss or alter my intentions, by reminding me of Miss Grimston. If he found success in organising me according to his satisfaction, he would round on his son. "You must accompany Elizabeth," my husband would state simply. Then he would go about re-arranging his son's life in the same manner. As it was, he was rarely successful at persuading us both of the import in calling on Miss Grimston.

Calls on Miss Grimston always put Darcy in the foulest of moods, and they never provided me with the opportunity to speak privately with him, for he insisted on riding and not taking the carriage, though it was generally known to displease Miss Grimston. She, on the other hand, was always in her most impressive element on the all too rare occasion Darcy deigned to call on her.

She always intended to dazzle him with displays of good breeding and please him with her apparent aversion to frivolity. He remained stoic and ill-humoured throughout her pretty speeches and declarations. "I have heard the most intriguing rumour, Mr Darcy," Miss Grimston leant forward conspiratorially one morning. "The Duke is to be remarried soon, and that shall mean we may see something of him this winter. I expect there shall be gatherings. Shall that not be pleasantly refreshing?"

"If the report proves true, I should not allow it credit until it is announced," he responded crossly, reminding her that he could not be concerned with any woman's talk.

She looked taken aback by his rather cross response, but continued. "Oh, but I have it from only the most reliable source. And the duchess shall arrange only the most wonderful gatherings for us and the Nevilles, Conrads and Bertrands, I quite expect. She shall certainly improve our time in Derbyshire."

"Really," he responded disinterestedly.

"Quite so, sir, she is quite the most cultured lady. I hope to ask her opinions of Corrine compared to Delphine. Now you know I do not often read novels, I much prefer histories."

"You are aware of Mrs Darcy's fondness for a good novel?" he asked, looking to me for the first time that morning. I scowled at him.

"Well," she began again quickly, "a lady must be allowed some indulgences, and you know, sir, I am not of a frivolous nature. Indeed, I am always diligently attempting to enlighten myself, am I not, Grandmamma?" she floundered, looking to Lady Grimston for guidance. It was not long before the discussion had picked up again, and she provided us with a monologue of her thoughts on the Pope's imprisonment.

Our sporadic calls on Miss Grimston constituted the greatest part of time he and I passed together. It seemed to me he was being almost perverse in his aversion of me. Clearly I was mistaken in thinking his opinion of me had improved by any great degree. But I did not take personal offence; for it was apparent he wished to avoid all his family at that time.

While Darcy did not wish to spend any significant amount of time at Pemberley, Miss Bingley swiftly made it known that her brother's intentions were quite the opposite. She wasted not a moment in revealing this to me as soon as he had confirmed his homecoming. For myself, I received this news with enthusiasm for my sister, knowing now he had lacked no affection for her the previous summer. But I was one of a very few who eagerly welcomed his return.

My mother pretended not to care anything for Mr Bingley – what business could it be of hers? She sniffed and then proceeded to ask for further details all the while declaring it could be nothing to her, and that she did not wish to know anything of that shabby young man. It was quite evident her feelings were quite the contrary, however; Mamma had eventually been forced to recognise Mr Bingley as exactly the type of man for Jane. Nor could she deny that seeing Jane financially secure would not be a tremendous benefit.

Jane had behaved as though she thought nothing of the news, but it was clear she was uneasy. Her spring in London had done nothing to rid her of her pervading melancholy over Bingley's hasty desertion in the autumn, and she continued to see fault in her own conduct in the affair. The intense speculation on the part of our mother and the neighbours convinced her she had not deported herself as she would wish. Now she was more determined than ever that they should meet as common and indifferent acquaintances, and that she could rouse no scorn for her manners towards him. She had no desire to be considered a fool twice. I hoped she would not succeed, for then Mr Bingley would be yet further dissuaded by Darcy's arguments.

Miss Grimston, when she found out, had been appalled; she clucked and fussed over Jane, "You poor dear!" she had cried much to my sister's mortification, "If Caro thinks his return shall win her friends, she is much mistaken! After what he did, I wonder either he or she can presume... I suppose it should be expected people from trade lack delicate sensibilities, they think of only their own ambitions, and Jane was the best opportunity Caro ever had."

It was true enough Caroline Bingley had found her opportunities in town thwarted. Her relationship to Mrs Hurst of Grosvenor Street had not been enough to launch her into the ton when Miss Grimston had yet to forgive her for a naive and foolish error. From the few glimmers of information I had obtained, Caroline and her family in Town had received but few invites; they were shunned by many and neglected by acquaintance. For her failure, she could credit Miss Grimston, whose influence was blithely followed by England's most fashionable, and in particular, the young girls.

Caroline had made some useful acquaintance in town despite Miss Grimston's vicious territorialism, for not all the ton found inspiration in the Grimston girl. Caroline, I thought, had been irrevocably altered by her season in town. She knew well that Miss Grimston had schemed against her with mutterings about her fortune from trade and a rumour that she had stolen away the beau of a dear friend of hers. It had been quite enough to see Caroline treated with unwelcoming distrust.

She had returned to Derbyshire with a bitter air of defiance about her; she refused to kowtow to Miss Grimston humbly and apologetically any longer. She had not Diana's innate capability to please where she may profit, and it was quickly noted by all that Caroline Bingley had a spiteful turn which she was not skilled enough to disguise. She refused to be denied acknowledgement of her own worth, and took to meanly reminding the young Morris girls of their want of fortune and connection. The fact was it made her still more unpopular, and even the Nevilles stopped issuing invites to their daughter's friend. "Pettiness shall not serve as her ally," Sophie had said one morning at Elm Manor.

My husband had succeeded in coercing his son and me to visit Miss Grimston one morning about a week before Mr Bingley was due to return. The day's activities were not promising to begin with, and when it became clear that the weather was against us, it put Darcy in the deadliest of humours. "I doubt such a trifle as the rain should keep you away if you are set on a visit," his father had remarked with oblivious glee over the breakfast table. "There is room enough in the carriage; I doubt Elizabeth should be adverse to your company." Darcy's face twisted as though he considered the prospect an intrusion.

"I should rather ride," he remarked with strain.

"Ride? You shall not be fit to be seen!" I imitated my mother, and against his will I noticed the corner of his mouth twitch.

"It may clear still," he mumbled, turning sour almost instantly.

An hour later, the rain showed little sign of abating. Sarah was attiring me in a coat and bonnet in the foyer, and Darcy was obliged to agree he must travel to Chicaneby Hall by coach. He handed me in without a glance, and folded himself into the corner, sulking and looking as though he meant to take up as little room as possible. It really was almost comical. "I am sure I ought to be offended, sir, that you are filled with dread at the prospect of passing an hour in a carriage with me." I smiled, but he did not look away from the window. He was determined not to throw off his sullen caste.

"Or perhaps the truth of it is, Miss Grimston would be mightily offended were she ever to hear you were willing to waylay a meeting all because of a little rain."

"I doubt she would be properly wounded," he snipped, still looking out of the window. "Madam, I cannot but be resigned to the course."

"How flattering," I returned nonplussed.

"I had no idea you were so eager for me to further my relationship with Miss Grimston." He surprised me by smiling slightly. "In fact, I was rather of the impression you disliked her heartily. Whatever the case though, Mrs Darcy, you should not be offended by my manners."

Should I be pleased that he would not speak with me? I thought he understood that I sought nothing further than peaceful, polite co-existence, at least he had seemed to understand it, I thought. What of his letter? I had thought that an indication of friendship or truce. "Why did you write to me?" I asked him suddenly.

"It is no matter, madam." His head was turned away again, looking at the window.

"But it is. You sought to correct me. Yet now you wish for nothing further to do with me. Why must you always be such a puzzle?" I had thought he and I were past all this, and he would cease to be an awkward now. Clearly I had misunderstood his letter completely.

For a second or two it seemed that he would not reply, then grudgingly, he said, "So that you might understand that you were not connected to the worst of all men, as you have assumed all this time."

"Why do that for me?" I pressed.

"I did it for my father too. He does not deserve to be undervalued."

His argument was reasonable enough; however, his father had not thought to set me to rights, the son had. "We have all misunderstood one another, Mrs Darcy. We have presumed and scorned and have been stubborn and unyielding. Our pride has served none of us well, and had our misunderstanding persisted, then so should all of our unhappiness." He paused. "And I believe that you and my father might know something of a pleasant companionship if... It was only a letter, madam."

"You were quite right, I believe you have behaved better than any of the rest of us in this matter at least, and I thank you for it."

He must have heard what I said, but he would not acknowledge my thanks. We rumbled on in silence, and Darcy continued to gaze at the passing scenery. I stared uncomfortably down at the folds in my gown, plucking and rearranging them uneasily. What did I not understand? It felt as though he considered our conversation to have crossed a line of propriety. Why should he write, but I could not verbally recognize his words? He might have hoped the knowledge would ease the situation between his father and me (which it had), but at what cost? For now, Darcy and I were more uncomfortable than we had ever been. It was in that conversation that it struck me for the first time that in the weeks since his return, it had been me specifically he had wished to avoid. I was relieved when I saw the Grimston's house come into view.

"There is one matter I still wish to see resolved, madam," he suddenly spoke in a strained, stiff tone. "You say my aunt is close by. I should like to see her and judge her situation for myself. Would you be so kind as to introduce me to her? The prospect of introducing myself makes me uneasy."

"If that is your wish," I agreed in a neutral tone.

He bowed his head and resigned himself to a visit with Miss Grimston.