Beginning, Section III
Chapter Seventeen:
Posted on Monday, 16 June 2008
The two friends ultimately decided that they had better wait around after the lecture and face Lady Catherine's light meal nobly, rather than running away -- as tempting as the latter option was. They therefore remained stationary in their seats after the question and answer period was done and most of the guests had filed (gratefully?) out of the hall. Only a few individuals remained, Lizzy noticed with some surprise. Was Lady Catherine de Bourgh really singling her -- and Charlotte -- out so very particularly?
It seemed so, as Collins herded the two women forward to be introduced to the aristocratic scholar; by the time the threesome had reached Lady Catherine, there were only three other occupants to the room: Professor Freeman, Fitzwilliam Darcy and a complete stranger, who looked about Lizzy's age, if not a little younger. Lizzy's curiosity about the stranger was cut short, however, as the two girls were drawn forward to face Lady Catherine, who had finally deigned to come away from her expensive lectern.
"Lady Catherine, these are the young women I told you about," Collins said to his former advisor. "This is Elizabeth Bennet, the Marshall scholar, and Charlotte Lucas, who is researching a Masters on the Young Turks."
Lady Catherine's appraisal of the two was studied, and it was a moment before she spoke.
"I am glad to have had the opportunity to meet you," she said, dividing her words impartially between Charlotte and Lizzy. "You seem genteel, pretty sorts of girls, and -- I understand -- are respected young scholars-in-training. Wilfred has told me very kind things about you; I must admit that I was curious to see if these were warranted -- but we shall still see about that, of course. Wilfred: let us go now. Miss Bennet, come walk with me, I am curious to hear about how you won your fellowship." Lizzy found herself cut away from Charlotte as Lady Catherine waved a supercilious hand about the room, and all seven figures made their way out of the hall and into the hallway.
"Where did you do your undergraduate degree?" Lady Catherine asked, as soon as they'd reached the open air outside of the academic building.
"At Longbourn College," Lizzy explained. "It's a liberal arts school, in western Massachusetts. You may not have heard of it, it is quite small."
"You are right: I have not heard of it. With whom did you study?" she asked, again, trying to establish Lizzy's academic lineage further.
"Dr. Susan Long," Lizzy answered. "She works primarily on medieval England, but was able to give me good guidance on my Scottish subjects, too. However, I find my studies have been greatly enriched by coming here to Scotland to study them."
"Of course," Lady Catherine said, waving a hand dismissively. "There may be several quite decent universities in your country, but none of them can hold a candle on something like Scottish history to our great British institutions. You study now with Dr. Alban, I understand?"
"Yes. I like him very much."
"As does Fitzwilliam. I assume that you know my nephew?" She threw a glance backwards, to where Darcy, the stranger and Professor Freeman were conversing politely together.
"Yes, a little."
"I expect great things of him," Lady Catherine said, with confidence. "His mother was supposed to be a scholar too, like me, but she ended up marrying George Darcy. It was most unfortunate, despite the lovely estate. However, with Fitzwilliam becoming so promising as a scholar, all will be well. I have hopes on luring him to Cambridge when he receives his degree."
"He is fortunate to have you looking out for him," Lizzy said, politely. She, herself, certainly could never hope to end up teaching at Cambridge, so was equally impressed and intrigued -- after all, what of Darcy's connections and business in Scotland? Was he really to give them all up? And were there really ample opportunities for scholars of Scottish history in England?
"Of course he is." Lady Catherine accepted the pleasantry as if it was sworn fact, and moved on abruptly. "And how long are you studying with this fellowship?" she asked.
"For two years," replied Lizzy. "And then I hope to carry on with a doctorate -- again here at St Andrews, for preference."
"I always think that it is best for a young scholar to make as many connections as possible," Lady Catherine commented. "That is why I sent Wilfred up here. A young scholar without any connections of his own must learn to exploit every person he meets in order to move up in the world. The world of academia can be quite insular. What do you intend to do with a Scottish D.Phil?" she asked, abruptly. "It is not as if it will be terribly in demand back in the States. Do you know the languages -- Scots? Gaelic? -- could you perhaps teach literature too, or, perhaps English history, as your old advisor did?"
"No. That is, I can read a little Scots, but have no Gaelic."
"And you intend to study the Highlands, I believe? That is unfortunate for you -- you will never be at the forefront of your field without having access to every resource. And if you cannot be one of the best, especially in a place where your subject is in so little demand as America, you might as well look to a more relevant field!"
"If I must, I will add other dimensions to my doctoral thesis, so as to be able to teach in other fields too," Lizzy said, simply. "But I do not see the point in studying areas that do not interest me, especially when I am able to do good work in areas that do interest me. I will acquire more languages, and I will worry about employment when the time comes. In the meanwhile I have been given the means to study the matters I am passionate about, and I will therefore study them with all of my energy."
"You are very forceful in your opinions, I think," Lady Catherine said, a little affronted by so much frankness. She was used to deference in these late, tenured days. "What does your family do?" she asked, turning the inquisition back onto Lizzy.
"My father is an attorney," she said. "My mother was a schoolteacher, but she is dead."
"And your aunts, your uncles? Don't you have any connections that might help you in your field?"
"On my mother's side they're mostly dentists, and my uncle is a consultant. My father's brother owns a business here in Scotland."
"One with high-placed clients, perhaps?" asked Lady Catherine. No one would ever convince her that academia wasn't unduly influenced by nepotism and the cultivation of connections.
"I think not. My uncle's firm sells souvenirs to tourists."
"Ah." There was a pause. "But you are young, you have some time yet to cultivate proper connections."
"I am twenty-three."
"Yes, full-young yet. ... And, of course, the people at the British consulate think well of you, as your fellowship shows. I suppose there is a chance that you'll turn out well after all." With this extraordinary pronouncement, Lizzy found herself left alone, as Lady Catherine launched forward to tackle Charlotte's academic history and connections. Lizzy walked in solitude -- Collins hanging on Lady Catherine's every word to Charlotte -- until the group reached a small and expensive restaurant, where Lady Catherine had apparently reserved a dining room.
With Charlotte still monopolized, Lizzy found herself without anyone to comment on the surroundings to. A smart hostess took the group's coats, and ushered them to the upper level, where the private dining room was located. Lizzy wished that she could share Lady Catherine's judgements and pronouncements with her friends -- which might perhaps lessen the feeling Lizzy had of having been run over by a blind bull. She didn't much care for the cavalier attitude the scholar had taken over her (Lizzy's) own choices and life -- and, after all, if she (Lizzy) had gotten this far, who was to say that she might not have a brilliant career ahead of her yet?
Lizzy's frustration was interrupted by a gentle touch on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Darcy standing beside her.
"Have you survived your introduction to my Aunt Catherine?" he asked, smiling at her once more.
"Just," Lizzy replied, with a slight smile of her own. As little as she liked Darcy, she was grateful for his remarks -- for surely if the woman's own family recognized her as being over the top she must really be so, and her judgement not to be implicitly trusted. Surely, then, Lizzy still had a chance at becoming a respected scholar, even if this much-decorated Cambridge fellow indicated otherwise?
"I didn't know that you were a Medici enthusiast," Darcy continued softly, holding out a chair for Lizzy to sit in, before crossing around the table and taking up a seat across from her and next to his aunt, who was still firmly engrossed in dissecting Charlotte's time abroad in Istanbul.
"I'm not," Lizzy said, reasonably inclined to continue talking to Darcy to stave off her feelings of not belonging at this restaurant and in this group. Now that her coat was gone she felt that her jeans showed too much so she pulled her chair in close to the table to hide her legs better. She ended up rather close across the table from Darcy her knee brushing his as she settled into place. "But I was done with my exams -- and I'd heard a bit about Lady Catherine -- so I thought I'd come along to the lecture. I didn't expect to be hijacked, however."
"How did she know who you were?" Darcy asked, curious.
"I'm guessing not through you?" retorted Lizzy, her sense of humor kicking in enough for her to tease her arch-nemesis, whom she knew would be the last person to praise her to his family -- grumble about her inadequacies, more likely!
"No, I don't think I have ever spoken of you to her," he said, as if musing aloud. "Collins?"
"Yes." Lizzy had no desire to delve back into the uncomfortable fact that Darcy knew about Collins's overtures -- if not the actual proposal -- and took up her menu, ready to end the conversation. The stranger (who had sat down at the foot of the table, between Lizzy and Darcy) began to speak instead, however, so Lizzy looked up.
"So you're the famous Elizabeth Bennet?" the stranger asked, cheerful curiosity in his voice, as Darcy looked on with a wary expression.
"Yes," Lizzy guardedly answered.
"Richard Fitzwilliam," the stranger said, holding out his hand to her. "I'm another nephew of Lady Cat's, and part-way through my third-year at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. I'm pleased to finally meet you."
"Pleased to meet you, too," Lizzy said sincerely, liking the look of the young man -- his manner was open and friendly. "But why do you say 'famous'?"
"I've heard quite a bit about you," Richard Fitzwilliam said, with some surprise in his voice and a sly look towards his cousin. "So it's a pleasure to see you in person. It seems that none of the praise has been exaggerated."
Lizzy was about to ask him who exactly had been praising her to him -- surely not Lady Catherine! Collins perhaps? Not Darcy... she knew Darcy was no fan of hers... The innocuous Professor Freeman, whom she'd barely met and who was now conversing so easily with his advisee on the other side of the table? -- when Lady Catherine took control of the table. She promptly executed introductions for the entire group, and ordered a variety of dishes for each of her guests. With a sweep of a hand towards the servers, they collected the menus and departed. She next turned to Darcy as if taking control of the entire meal was nothing out of the ordinary and proceeded to drill him thoroughly about some piece of his thesis. Lizzy shrugged, and turned to Charlotte, who had been finally loosed from her own interrogation.
"I feel as if I'd been turned inside out and shaken from head to toe," she said. "And I don't think our illustrious hostess was too impressed, either."
"You're in good company, then," Lizzy replied softly. "Because she told me that while it was by no means certain, that I might turn out all right, since I was still so young and therefore had time to remedy my mistakes!"
Richard Fitzwilliam caught this last comment, and broke into the conversation. "Oh, she does that to everyone," he said, cheerfully. "And the fact that you're both academics speaks volumes in your favor to her. -- She's convinced that I'm a failure because I want to go into military intelligence, instead of pursuing a doctorate. The Fitzwilliams were scholars for generations," he explained to the two girls. "And as Aunt Anne and my own father were failures by not pursuing careers in academia, it makes her all the more concerned about the younger generation. Darcy's the golden boy, of course."
"I can see that," Lizzy said, with a trace of spite.
"Does she have any of her own children?" asked Charlotte, curious. "Or does she interfere in the lives of everyone else to compensate for not having her own children?"
"Oh, she has a daughter, my cousin Anna," Richard said. "And as Anna has turned out to be a respectable -- if a bit dull -- scholar of Romance Languages, Aunt Cat is convinced that she and she alone knows the secret to good parenting."
"Suddenly I'm glad to not have an academic family," Lizzy said, in wonder. "So much less pressure."
"It can be like that in any family with one ruling occupation," Richard said, with good humor. "Politicians tend to run in families -- I'm sure that's hell, always being compared to other family members... and in public too, not just within the family. And actors too. And, I have a friend at school whose family are all musicians -- they also want her to be a musician, though she wants to teach maths."
"What are you talking of?" asked Lady Catherine, suddenly looking up at her younger nephew and the two female students.
"Music," Richard said, evasively, smiling.
"Music!" Lady Catherine said, surprised. "Well, share your thoughts with the rest of the group, in that case. I've always liked music. If I had ever learned to play an instrument, I'm sure I should have been a great musician. I have an ear, you know. The Fitzwilliams all had excellent ears... just take a look at young Georgiana! A very cultured family, we've always cultivated interests in the fine arts as well as the humane ones. How is Georgiana doing with her music studies?" Lady Catherine asked, suddenly.
"She's doing very well, Aunt," Darcy said, politely. "She's gone abroad for the week, to attend some master classes in Paris."
"Though Georgiana does not have the scholar's mind," Lady Catherine said, proudly, "she displays many excellent qualities in a young woman."
"How come Georgiana gets to study music while you get criticized for wanting to also go into a non-academic career?" whispered Lizzy to Richard.
"I've often wondered that myself," Richard whispered back. "But maybe because she's an artist instead of a careers-man? She hates to think that any of us might actually do something useful." Darcy caught sight of them whispering and frowned at them. Richard, contrite, straightened back up, and, catching sight himself of the waiter approaching with the appetizers, announced the arrival of the food.
By the time the dessert trolley had finally arrived -- Lady's Catherine's idea of a light meal turned out to consist of several courses, which was somewhat surprising, given her gaunt frame -- Lizzy was beginning to grow tired of Darcy's watchful eye on her. She'd begun to notice it at the start of the meal, but a good hour and a half later, when it had not lessened, she decided to challenge him when his aunt's attention was occupied with the other Medici scholars.
"Are my manners so very awful?" she asked him, a little archly, when such a moment presented itself.
"Pardon?"
"You're giving me the impression that I'm out of place, or doing something wrong."
"No," he said, with some surprise. "I certainly didn't intend to give off that impression. But I think I've known you long enough to know that you enjoy reeling off accusations that you don't entirely mean."
It was Lizzy's turn to be surprised and she laughed heartily at this portrait of herself. She turned to Richard and said,
"Your cousin is giving you a fine picture of me, I don't think! He will teach you to not believe a word I say. Which is rather unfortunate -- I had hoped to at least make a tolerable impression on those I hadn't yet met before this evening." She turned back to Darcy, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It is ungenerous of you to thwart my efforts to make a decent impression," she said, willing enough to poke fun at Darcy. "If you aren't careful, I'll be sure to tell your cousin whatever I know that might surprise him about you."
"I'm not afraid of you," Darcy said, with good humor. He didn't mind whatever she said about him, as long as she continued to be so endearingly lively in spite of the general dampening effect of being in a room with his aunt.
"What do you have to accuse him of?" asked Richard, intrigued. "I've always been incredibly curious to know what he's like with strangers."
"You shall hear, then. The first time I met him was at a party, thrown by a friend of his -- and, as far as I can remember, he spent the entire evening making it perfectly clear how he wasn't enjoying himself, even though more than a few people were anxious to help him enjoy the evening."
Had Lizzy been disappointed in his behavior that night? Darcy suddenly wondered. He knew that he'd been incredibly rude to her that night -- and he hoped that she hadn't heard him -- but could she have been disappointed not to get to know him better at that time? It was an encouraging thought, and he began to lament that he'd certainly wasted a good bit of time when he could have been getting to know the fascinating young woman.
"You can't deny that your behavior was far from ideal that night, can you?"
"Perhaps -- but it was spurred on by my own discomfort in not knowing the greater bulk of the guests."
"Whereas I knew only two people there at all -- one of whom I'd just met shortly beforehand -- and you had at least three long-standing acquaintances there with you... one of whom was the host. And it is, of course, impossible to meet people at a party."
"I might have sought introductions," Darcy conceded, "that is true. But they were largely so much younger than me, largely so disinterested in the areas I'd been interested in... and I am not very skilled at recommending myself to strangers."
"Shall we ask him why?" asked Lizzy, to Richard Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask your cousin why a man as sensible, well-educated, privileged and looked up to as he is why he cannot recommend himself to strangers?"
Lizzy looks up to me? Darcy wondered. She seemed to be implying that, and the thought intoxicated him.
Richard broke in with his own take on the matter. "You don't need to ask him. It's perfectly simple -- he can't be bothered to learn to overcome his occasional social deficiencies. Normally he is so petted by academic, business and general circles alike to never have needed to learn to put himself forward for his own sake."
Darcy broke into the conversation again, anxious to explain himself. "I have not the talent that some people possess, of talking easily with strangers with whom our relative relationships with one another are unclear. I cannot know how I am supposed to listen, how I am supposed to react."
"I lack the patience that I see some others exercise in social gatherings," Lizzy said, a little heatedly, "but I've never thought that this was some natural handicap -- I've simply thought that I've never taken the time to truly learn to listen. It is my fault for not exerting myself, not because I feel myself inherently lacking in any capacity."
"Oh, but there can be merits in not learning to accommodate others -- you will always be yourself, and anyone who has had the pleasure of meeting you knows that this would be a positive thing in your case. As for my own social deficiencies -- well, I acknowledge that I am at my best in small groups of friends, not among large groups of strangers."
"Are you quite finished yet?" asked Lady Catherine suddenly. The two cousins, Lizzy and Charlotte (who had been listening in on the conversation with shrewd fascination) started and Darcy spoke for them all, seeing that the table's dessert plates were, indeed, all now empty.
"Yes, aunt. Would you like me to fetch your coat for you?"
"Yes." Darcy got up and Richard followed to help him with the group's coats. "Such nice young men," Lady Catherine said with satisfaction to her former pupil, Professor Freeman. "Darcy is turning out very well, and I have hopes yet for young Richard, too." She stood regally as Darcy appeared again and helped her into her coat. A moment later he had appeared around the table again, with Lizzy's coat held out in his hands. She allowed herself to be helped into it, rather surprised, as both Richard and Charlotte watched with calculated interest.
Once home again, Lizzy lay down on her bed, exhausted from the intensity of the whole evening. It had been an odd night -- and a difficult one at times -- but she thought she was happy enough that she'd been forced to go along with Lady Catherine's plans for the evening. After all, the meal had been very tasty one and rather better than Lizzy could ordinarily afford as a graduate student, even if the company at the meal had been far from ideal. ... Lady Catherine had not improved her behavior after her interrogations of Lizzy and Charlotte, and had generally continued to steer the conversation, uttering so many judgmental pronouncements that Lizzy almost began to feel sorry for Darcy, as well as Richard, for having such a woman as their aunt -- she was quite as embarrassing as Frances Bennet, albeit in a different way.
The evening had proved fascinating for Lizzy as a student of human nature, too; she had been fascinated by the dynamics between the two cousins, the one all laughter and friendly banter, the other oddly serious and polite. She'd been happy to meet Richard and was delighted when, as they walked away from the restaurant, he'd mentioned that he would be knocking about St Andrews for a day or two more before returning to Cambridge. She'd immediately exchanged mobile numbers with him, and looked forward to a few further hours in the friendly Englishman's company.
All in all, Lizzy mused, the gifts of an excellent meal and a new friend quite made up for a few hours under Lady Catherine's inquisition and condescension.
Chapter Eighteen:
After their friendly meeting the previous evening, Lizzy was only too delighted to run into Richard Fitzwilliam the next morning as she was leaving a bakery on South Street, a box of assorted treats in her hands.
"Elizabeth Bennet," the young Englishman said jovially. "It is lovely to see you again, and in such superior circumstances." His smile was infectious, and Lizzy returned it warmly.
"Richard Fitzwilliam," she greeted him in return. "And what are you about this fine morning?"
"Roaming the streets of this charming town -- you will note that I say charming, and not old because my own university is, of course, older. I'm bound to eat lunch with my aunt, so I thought I'd get up in time to make the most of my morning. Where are you headed?"
"Home, eventually. I thought I'd bring home something special for breakfast, to celebrate the fact that all of my flat-mates and I are now done our exams as of this morning. But seeing as they're now all done their exams, none of them will be awake for a while yet... I was just contemplating a walk myself."
"Then let us join ways," Richard suggested, "as Darcy has left me all on my lonesome this morning... taking a conference call on business, of all things -- at this hour! Do let me carry your parcel for you."
"Chivalry is not dead," Lizzy replied with a laugh, handing over the box. "Did you have a destination in mind?" she asked, as they fell in line with one another.
"I have a fondness for the coastal walk," her companion said. "From the first time Darcy took me to see the views of the castle and the cathedral and the ocean, I remember being awed -- to think you get all that in this university town. It seems a little unfair."
"Cambridge is beautiful too, I understand," Lizzy replied.
"In places, certainly -- likely more so than here. The sea is so much more dramatic, however, and I'm determined to enjoy it while I'm here. Not bathing!" he added, hurriedly, catching sight of Lizzy's expression. "Admiring it, not touching it. The North Sea in January is a bit much, even for me. Darcy once got me up here for the May Dip, years ago, and that was quite cold enough. Let us walk down to the Cathedral," he suggested.
"Somehow I can't imagine your cousin participating in the May Dip," Lizzy mused, as they continued their way down South Street. "He's always been a little stuffy -- at least to the people I know -- and the May Dip seems like such a ... spontaneous activity."
"I have it on good authority that he also took part in Raisin Weekend as a first year, too" Richard replied with a laugh, referring to Lizzy's new university's wonderful tradition of upperclassmen (academic parents) dressing up first years in silly costumes and setting them loose in one of the old quadrangles to throw shaving foam at one another during a weekend in late November.
"Really?" asked Lizzy, completely amused. "I don't suppose you know what he was dressed up as?"
"I do," Richard replied, his eyes twinkling. "His academic parents apparently thought he was a 'little stuffy' too, and dressed him up as a dodo -- it was a Lewis Carroll theme, I believe."
"I'd have liked to see that." Lizzy was enjoying this privileged peek into Darcy's more spontaneous and less pompous moments -- it was good to be able to laugh at him instead of simply being frustrated with him. And she quite liked Darcy's amiable cousin.
"I'll see if I can lay my hands on any pictures," he promised. "And if I do, I'll be sure to send them to you. Or, for that matter, why not ask Darcy?" Lizzy discarded this latter option, feeling that Richard Fitzwilliam had got hold of the wrong end of the stick in thinking that Darcy would be likely to share such a thing with her -- probably the intimate setting of the dinner the evening before had misled the visitor into thinking that she and Darcy were friends. She changed the subject, not really wanting to go into the reasons for her dislike of Darcy with his close relation (for, even if Richard knew about Darcy's treatment of George, it would be awkward to throw that explosive charge between the two cousins, who seemed to be close to one another). She changed the subject.
"So you leave tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yes. It was fun to have the brief trip, but Aunt Catherine's my ride back to school and though it's just the start of term, I'd better get back. And Aunt Catherine's domineering appropriation of me away from my studies only works with my tutors as long as she likes me... so if she says we leave tomorrow, I must leave tomorrow. A shame, I'd have liked to run up to Glen Leigheas if I could have gotten the chance, to see my other cousin."
"Georgiana?" Lizzy asked.
"Yes. Darcy and I are her joint guardians, actually -- or, rather, I'm not a legal one since I'm only a few years older than she is and wasn't of age when the Darcys died, but was supposed to be an informal guardian, an additional person to look up to -- and I like to see her whenever I can."
"And what sort of guardians do you make?" asked Lizzy. "Your cousin seems quite busy between his studies and his business, and you're in England. -- It must be difficult to do your duty, when you've got your own life to look out for. And if Georgiana is anything like her brother, she must be stubborn."
Richard looked up sharply at these comments and frowned a little. Lizzy wondered how close she'd actually come to the truth -- after all, George Wickham had said that Georgiana was proud and disdainful, and Lizzy was already a little inclined to dislike the girl simply because she was now spending time with Charles while Jane was alone.
"I meant no offense," Lizzy said quickly, not wanting to get into an argument over a woman she'd never met. "I've mostly heard glowing reports of her -- she's certainly a great favorite of Caroline Bingley's, I understand -- and she's also now quite grown up enough to make your job of guardianship so much easier, even with the distance and all. Do you know Caroline Bingley?" asked Lizzy, with a playful smile, as she remembered that woman's raptures on anything associated with the unpleasant Darcy.
"Yes, a little. Her brother's a pleasant, genuinely nice fellow -- he's a great friend of my cousin's. Darcy I mean, though I guess he and Georgie get on well enough."
"Yes, I know of Darcy's friendship with Charles Bingley," Lizzy said, her voice indicating just what she thought of it. "Your cousin is uncommonly kind, and takes great care of his friend." She hadn't liked Darcy's dampening effect on the budding romance between Charles and Jane -- she remembered Darcy's appointment to play golf on the day that Jane had come to lunch with Caroline, a date which had stolen Charles away from Jane.
"Yes, I suppose he does take care of him," Richard mused. They had long since reached the cathedral by now, and had been standing, leaning on the stone wall, looking out over the graveyard contained within the ruins. Richard stirred as he talked, and gently led the way towards the sea-walk that linked the castle and cathedral. "From something Darcy mentioned to me last night -- I'm staying with him just now... far better than the same hotel as Aunt Cat! -- I should think that Charles Bingley should be very grateful to him."
"What do you mean?" asked Lizzy, morbidly curious about anything that might have anything to do with Charles's abrupt desertion of Jane.
"It was something Darcy didn't really want published too far abroad, because if it came to the ears of the young lady's family or friends, it might be awkward. But Darcy has such a high opinion of your common sense, it can't hurt to mention it."
Skipping over the indirect praise from Darcy (because what on earth was that about? ...), Lizzy promised that she could keep a secret, and Richard leaned confidentially towards her ear as they were passed by a tight-knit band of hardy tourists in search of another historic site to see.
"He mentioned something to me about how Charles should be thanking him (Darcy) and Caroline, for recently saving him from an embarrassment. He mentioned no names or particulars, but it seemed that Charles was thinking of proposing to some girl who never showed him the least sign of affection. So Darcy and Caroline teamed up to open his eyes, and succeeded."
"How well did Darcy know the girl?" asked Lizzy, suddenly inflamed with anger. A girl who never showed the least sign of affection? Jane was actually pining for heaven's sake! "Surely the decision was not his to make!"
"My cousin apparently had grave enough qualms -- that his lovesick friend was persistently and dangerously blind to -- to make it his business. I dare say you've had a more normal upbringing, but gold-diggers are a very real problem to people of a certain income -- and Charles, while the kindest, is not the most observant of men."
"What did he do to separate them?" Lizzy asked heatedly, anxious to have all of the details she could about the machinations behind Jane's awful predicament.
"He didn't say. He only told me what I have told you." Lizzy was unsatisfied with the Englishman's answers and turned a little, to face the sea instead of her companion. They had reached the edge of the castle by now, though cool winds were whipping around the pair off the sea, they did nothing to cool Lizzy's ire. She forcibly controlled her rage after a moment and turned back to Richard -- it was not his fault, after all... he was simply the messenger.
"I'm sorry, I just can't help but become angry at your cousin's cavalier description of his behavior. I can't think that it was his choice to make, regardless of his qualms. It sounds as if he condemned the poor girl without allowing her a chance to answer for herself, and I cannot condone that. But," she added, remembering that she was not supposed to know the particulars, "we do not know precisely what happened, and it may not be fair to condemn your cousin after all. Maybe the girl really didn't care about Charles, or Charles for the girl." Yeah right -- at least as regarded Jane for Charles.
"That is not an unnatural hope," Richard said, still watching Lizzy closely, "but it would rather lessen my cousin's triumph in helping his friend if his friend hadn't actually needed saving." His comments were said in a joking tone, but Lizzy couldn't help but resent the picture they conjured; this image of the officious, judgmental Darcy fit well with her view of the man already. She could not trust herself to speak another word on the subject without coming out and telling Richard what his much-admired cousin had done to her sister. Agitated and unable to maintain the composure she'd so recently striven for, she held a hand up to her head, willing the turmoil of thoughts to say anything to her except that Jane's unhappiness had a real cause, that Charles had not been at fault but his obnoxious friend!
"Are you all right?" Richard asked her, touching her arm with the hand not holding her bakery-box.
She paused, wondering whether to speak the truth to him or not; she was not all right -- she was furious, angry, and felt helpless. She went with the partial truth: she was not all right, but she blamed a headache. (And, certainly, she was getting a headache).
"Would you mind very much if I went home?" she asked. "I've just gotten an awful headache."
"Of course," Richard said, solicitous. "Absolutely. Would you like an escort back to your flat?"
"No, that's all right. You finish your scenic walk. We haven't even made it down to the Old Course or West Sands yet, for the rest of your seascape-absorption. You keep on going your way here, and I'll skip back home. It was very nice seeing you, and if I don't see you before you go, it was lovely to meet you. I'll definitely give you a call if I'm anywhere near Cambridge any time soon."
Richard accepted Lizzy's demands, and nodded to her, wishing her well, and offering to stop by her flat before he left, to say good-bye. Lizzy nodded, and fled from his company, anxious to find a little solitude. She was nearly back to the flat when she realized that she had left her pastries with her erstwhile companion, but continued on her way; there were pains and frustrations that even the most beautiful of croissants could not appease... all she wanted was solitude, silence, a chance to sort over everything she had heard, and to figure some way out to right the terrible wrong that had been done to her sweet sister.
Lizzy's flatmates were still asleep when she returned, and she sent a silent thank-you to the gods above for granting her the chance to be alone after hearing Richard's bombshell about Charles and Jane. She quickly fled to her room and shut the door firmly, taking solace in the act of cleaning. She folded, stowed away, dusted and reorganized, trying to make sense of her thoughts as she made sense of her room. By the end of an hour the room was as clean as it had ever been, but Lizzy's thoughts were still a seething mess. She looked about madly for something, anything else to tidy, and was deep in the process of reorganizing her books -- fiction was easy to alphabetize, but non-fiction demanded further consideration -- when she heard the faint sounds of a knock on the flat's main door. She didn't want to answer it, so ignored the repetition of the knocking when it echoed again a moment later. And then it stopped; apparently one of the flatmates had finally risen and answered the summons. There was the murmur of voices -- one female (... Katya), one male (... unidentified) -- in discussion, and then the sound of the main door shutting. Lizzy wondered who the caller had been and had just turned back to her small mountain of books when another knock sounded, on her own bedroom door this time. Surprised, and a little annoyed, she went to see who was there.
Her surprise increased tenfold -- and her annoyance a hundredfold -- when the opened door revealed Fitzwilliam Darcy standing there, holding her box from the bakery.
"Your friend let me in," he began, holding out the box to her. "Will you let me in?" Lizzy stared at him a moment, considering slamming the door in his face. Katya was hovering in the kitchen part of the common room however, so Lizzy decided against it and silently held the door open as he passed into her room. He looked primed to speak, or to at least stay a little, so she shut the door behind her as she came to face him, her arms crossed resolutely across her chest.
"You left these with my cousin," Darcy said briefly, setting down the box of pastries on the top of Lizzy's bookcase. Lizzy said nothing and remained in place, her eyes the only part of her to move. Darcy seemed ill at ease with her lack of any sort of response, and turned to finger the stack of books that was lying on her bed. Lizzy continued to watch him wordlessly, but sat down on the small loveseat that graced the wall next to the door. Darcy heard her movements and turned around, his eyes searching her face. Her expression was impassive but he took a deep breath and finally addressed her.
"In vain have I struggled -- but I cannot help it. My feelings will not sit idly by. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire... and love you."
Lizzy's surprise from earlier reached new, insurmountable levels, drowning out even her annoyance and anger for a moment. Darcy loved her? Where on earth was this coming from? He took her silence as encouragement, and continued, dropping down on the seat beside her.
"You can't know what you do to me," he said, turning towards her guarded face, which was watching him with an indefinable expression. "I never intended to fall in love -- at least not now, when I've still got to get my dissertation passed -- but you... you distract me, you intrigue me, you fascinate me. Thesis be damned... all I can do is think about you, and your work, and the prospect of seeing you again." He touched her arm lightly, gently, lovingly, and Lizzy's eyes had shifted to the floor, her cheeks gone a little rosy. He kept speaking.
"I know that we have not known each other so very long, but know that I am perfectly sincere in my regard for you... I have admired your mind, your wit, your person for months now, and never feel so alive as when I am with you. It's a little ridiculous, I know, seeing as our families are so different, our lives so different... and even though your family sells plush haggises and Chinese-manufactured tartans, and mine produces single malts, we're both here, we're both scholars, great scholars... even though your relations may lack manners and sense, you have both in abundance... and wit and charm, and modesty, moreover. I've never met anyone like you, who has triumphed so greatly in fighting to grab the life you want, overcoming any and all disadvantages. You've triumphed in completely overcoming my reservations, too. Your youth, your background... these are nothing to me now. You have an openness of spirit, a freedom from contrivance... you have an elevation of mind... I know that some in my family might be rather shocked to hear of this -- it is completely out of character for me -- but I need to have you more firmly in my life, regardless of your background, regardless of your age, regardless of your nationality... I have come to know you, Elizabeth Bennet, and I love you."
Lizzy continued to stare at the floor for a moment, the whirl of thoughts and feelings overcoming her once more. Mere surprise had fled by now... she was now a little flattered (after all, it is always a heady experience to be told that one is the moon and the stars, even if one would rather not belong to the same galaxy as the person doing the telling), a lot incredulous (who did he think he was? Her family demonstrating a lack of manners? Try his family! His aunt was just as annoying as her aunt, and he was the one who had behaved so shabbily to George and Charles!), and also angry (was he accusing Jane of being the one "full of contrivance"? He had been the only one contriving! -- aside from Caroline, of course...). Anger, really, was the strongest of the emotions in this cocktail, and finally stirred Lizzy from her seat. She rose and faced her unwanted suitor.
"While no doubt you'd like me to say 'thank you, yes, I'm much obliged,' I'm sure you can understand why I cannot." His gaze rose to meet hers and his mouth narrowed, but he was silent, waiting for her to continue, waiting to hear what her response actually would be. "I will say thank you," she began, again. "I am flattered by the intention of your speech, but am insulted by its contents. I have never sought your good opinion," she said, as Darcy rose up from his seat, and plunged ahead before he could rebut her, "and you have bestowed it most unwillingly. I hope that your disappointment will not last long... after all, you can easily return to your objections to me and console yourself in them." Her voice was rising with every word and Darcy broke in, standing to face her and trying to defend himself against her unexpected attack. She could hear the effort he was putting into keeping his voice level.
"And that is your answer? That is all you have to say to me? May I know why you have rejected my advances in such a cavalier fashion?"
"I might well have asked you why, with so evident a design of insulting me, you said that you liked me despite my family and my background... despite your own character! Your speech has continued to prove the impressions I had gathered: you are proud, you are unduly judgmental ... and you are insulting. And while I am flattered that you think so well of me, I can't believe that, with such alleged regard, that you could insult me so to my face. To say that you think my family crass, opportunistic, contriving and stupid? To say that I am young and foreign as if these were problems and not simple realities? You've contradicted your every statement by questioning those whom I love... if you really loved me -- as you claim you do -- you would have suppressed your disdain. You may have meant a declaration of love, but I am afraid that what you gave was a declaration of distrust, pride and snobbery."
"Is that all?" Darcy asked angrily, striding over to the window and turning his back on her. He knew that some of the things he had said had come out wrong, but the whole meeting was going horribly, inexcusably wrong... more than his botched compliments warranted.
"Oh, no. I have other provocations," Lizzy declared, taking a few steps towards him. "You know I have. Had not my own feelings already been decided against you -- had they been indifferent or even had they been favorable -- do you think that any consideration would tempt me towards a man who has been behind the blighted hopes of my dear, close sister?"
Darcy turned to face Elizabeth, his face clouding and his eyes serious. He made no reply, but listened as she spoke, taking in her meaning carefully.
"I have every reason to blame you on that account. You cannot deny that you have boasted about separating Charles from my sister -- and in doing so you have not helped anyone... rather, you have laid your friend open to the slander of being called fickle, and Jane to mockery and sadness for her disappointed love. You don't deny it, do you?" she asked, her glaring eyes gazing straight into his for the first time in the entire meeting.
"No," he said quietly, flinching a little under her furious gaze but returning to meet it. "I have no wish to deny it. I did everything I could to separate Charles from your sister... I was even glad to have done it. Towards him I have been kinder than to myself."
The clear acceptance of guilt and the attribution of his motives to friendship did nothing for Lizzy; she went on, anxious to make Darcy face all the charges she had stored up against him. "And this is not the only trouble I have to lay at your door. Well before you broke Jane's heart, I had heard of your true character from George Wickham. What can you have to say on that name, I wonder? How can you defend yourself there? You didn't act out of friendship then I gather!"
"You take an active interest in Wickham's affairs," Darcy said, breaking off his eye contact from hers, his face whitening with suppressed feeling.
"Anyone who has heard what he's suffered couldn't help but take an interest!" Lizzy cried, hotly.
"What he has suffered? Oh, yes, his sufferings have been great indeed."
"And of your doing," Lizzy maintained stoutly, missing Darcy's ironic tones. "You have hurt his prospects and reduced his chances of finding a comfortable life! You have denied him an education -- which, to judge by all of your high-faluting comments about educated minds I would have thought to be a crime for you! -- and even stolen some of his ideas, which ought to be beyond any scholar, particularly one as well-regarded by your fellows as you. You have done all this, and you can still stand here, making light of his misfortunes to me?"
"This is what you think of me?" Darcy asked, walking briskly past Lizzy and towards the door. "These are the blames, the slights, the crimes that have turned you against me? According to your account, I am a villain -- and a plagiarist, if I get your sense! " He paused with his hand on the door knob, and locked her gaze with his once more. "But maybe these offenses might have been overlooked if your pride had not been insulted... your pride, yes! ... by my honest confession of how my admiration had grown for you beyond any man-made limitations or objections. Perhaps I should have concealed all this, and simply flattered you, and lied to you, as a certain mutual acquaintance of ours undoubtedly has? But I do not want to lie to you. I wanted to be completely honest with you, in the hope that you might be completely honest with me... and I see now exactly what has been in your mind. I am not ashamed of the feelings that I confessed to you -- they were natural, and they were just -- or even of the way I expressed them. Do you think I'd be glad to be closely associated with a family that profits on the exploitation of my country and my culture? That sells cheap music boxes in the shape of the whisky cases that my workers and I have sweated for over ten years over, in a method that has been handed down in my family for over a century? That can't act naturally around the people I normally associate with? That shows such want of manners and sense?"
"You are wrong," Lizzy said, her voice growing cold. "The manner of your declaration did not affect me at all -- except in that it spared me from needing to feel pity for you, in rejecting you. You couldn't have made your offer today in any way that I would have accepted it... you are probably the last person in the entire world to whom I'd like to develop a closer relationship with."
Darcy's face had clouded again; the anger was gone, and it was replaced with a mixture of mortification and hurt.
"You have said quite enough. I understand your feelings. I am only sorry that I failed to do so earlier, and am ashamed of what my own feelings have been. I am sorry for taking up your time." He opened the door and stepped over the threshold before turning around once more. "I hope that you have a pleasant vacation, and a successful second term." He shut the door firmly behind him and strode across the common room, letting himself out. Lizzy peeked around the door when she heard his footsteps fading down the stairs outside. She put her face in her hands, and stared through her finger-tips a moment at the closed door, before ducking back into the sanctuary of her now-vacant room.
"Was that Fitzwilliam Darcy?" Charlotte asked Katya, from the doorway of her room, when Lizzy's door had shut. "What did he want?"
"I'm not sure," Katya replied wryly, "but I'm guessing he didn't get it."
And Lizzy's flatmate was right: Darcy hadn't gotten what he had wanted. And not only was this an unpleasant (and unusual) feeling for him, but it had been an especially cruel rejection. It was as if he had offered out the hand of friendship (love, really, which made it a thousand times worse) and Lizzy had not only spurned it, but sawed also it off and burned it to ashes before throwing the mess back in his face. If she really thought... -- he struggled to comprehend the whole twisted picture she had of him and its dark consequences for his fledgling hopes of love. He turned his footsteps towards the beach and walked along the waterline for hours, seeking a way forward when his dearest hopes had just been dashed to pieces.
Chapter Nineteen:
Posted on Monday, 23 June 2008
Darcy was wet with the salt-spray of the waves by the time he found his way back to his warm, comfortable flat, and he was anxious to be alone. He gave his cousin, who was lounging in his sitting room watching television, a short, vague answer when Richard asked how Lizzy had liked being reunited with her bakery box and then shut himself in his bedroom, muttering something about his thesis to Richard's questioning gaze. Richard knew everything, Darcy was sure; Richard certainly knew how much he (Darcy) admired Elizabeth Bennet, and also how eager he (Darcy) had been to perform the delivery to Lizzy's flat. Richard was intelligent, and could figure out the rest, should he get a good look at the expression Darcy knew was written clearly across his face. He therefore deprived Richard of that opportunity and only breathed easily again when his bedroom door was shut, barricading him from questions and curiosity.
He had come to a conclusion on the beach: he had to explain himself to Lizzy. He couldn't bear to think of her going on in the coming months thinking of him as she did. He had made some mistakes and he was prepared to acknowledge them, but she needed to know that she had been misled, that she was wrong. ... About George Wickham, particularly.
How then to do this? He couldn't go to see her again... that would be pathetic, and they'd end up fighting. He couldn't call for the same reasons. He resolved to write -- it was what scholars were good at, anyway... organizing an argument and sending it to others to be edified and persuaded by. Darcy opened a drawer and pulled out a handful of paper, resolving to write properly if he was going to write at all. Let Elizabeth Bennet see his penitence in his handwriting, rather than giving her the chance to scorn a typed note.
The resolution to write had been easy enough, but the act of writing was proving impossible. What could he say to her? You're wrong about me. George Wickham's the villain, the plagiarist, the... Well, at least Lizzy had never accused him of trying to kidnap and seduce an underage girl. It was, oddly, a cheering thought: she might think him an utter prick and worthless interferer but she didn't think that he was as bad as he knew that George really was. There was hope yet, maybe. Encouraged, he picked up his pen, checked that there was ample ink, and began to write.
Dear Elizabeth,
Don't worry that I'm taking this opportunity to thrust unwelcome attentions on you again: I'm not. I have no intention of bothering you, or demeaning myself, with reminiscences of wishes that -- for the happiness of us both -- cannot be forgotten quickly enough. But I wanted to communicate some things to you, and I hope that you will have the grace to hear me out...
Once started, the rest of the arguments flowed smoothly and sincerely from his pen and onto the sheets. When he had finished, Darcy folded his thick letter and sealed it into an envelope that he placed carefully in the breast pocket of his winter coat, intending to deliver the fat communication after a little while... or perhaps tomorrow morning when Lizzy and her flatmates would still be asleep and unlikely to hear him at their door. As much as parts of him ached to see Lizzy again, he knew that it would be best to stay out of her way for a time, at least until she had had a chance to read and digest the contents of his letter.
Resolved on a clear enough path, Darcy examined his face in the mirror of the bathroom that led off of his bedroom and, seeing that he looked normal enough once more despite the blow his heart and dignity had suffered, left the sanctuary of his own room. Richard would be too suspicious otherwise and it was a great comfort to have his younger, chattering cousin's conversation wash over him. Richard, used to Darcy's occasional oddities, decided to think nothing of the incident and soon dragged Darcy out of the flat in order to get an early supper.
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations that had plagued her the afternoon and night before. Darcy's declaration of love had proved shattering to her composure; she was insulted by him, she was enraged at him, she was utterly confused by him. This was worse than when Collins had proposed: after all, then it had been a clear case of turning him down and feeling guiltless about her decision later, if a little embarrassed that the situation had arisen at all. Darcy's invitation towards a relationship, however, had been a bombshell in every sense: she was surprised that he had had such feelings for her, she was angry at his sense of entitlement and his pride... and she was a little confused by some of his responses to her accusations, now that the mist of rage that had haunted her during his visit had finally dissipated.
On determining that her flatmates were still very much asleep and not in evidence, Lizzy decided to go out on a walk to be alone, to have some space to think in which she would not be interrupted. She'd spent the rest of the day before hidden in her room, after all, refusing company and her friends would want to probe her for the reasons as soon as she showed her face. Better to get that face out of the flat, out of the building then. She dressed quickly and fled into the crisp morning air.
She had only walked a block or two when she came face to face with the greatest object of her thoughts however, and she came to a startled stop.
"I'm sorry," he said, as startled as she. She instinctively turned to go, not wanting to face him again so soon, not quite trusting herself to be civil and yet also beginning to feel a little guilty for have hurt him.
"Wait," he said, again addressing her. She turned back hesitantly, and he unbuttoned the top button of his coat, and retrieved a fat envelope which he held out to her. "I was going to leave this for you. Will you read it? Please."
Lizzy nodded, unsure of what else to do, and took the envelope from his hand. He nodded in return and turned abruptly, disappearing before she had quite registered that he had no further intentions aside from handing her this letter. She figured that she might as well read whatever it was he had to say -- they were both advisees of the same man and they had another whole term together at the University before Darcy earned his degree -- they were bound to have to come into contact with one another again, and it would be best if they could figure out some way to be polite to one another. Lizzy turned deliberately towards the sea and walked down towards the Martyrs Memorial, knowing that the cold winds would drive away most people and allow her some peace while read through the letter.
She found an empty bench easily in Bow Butts and, when seated, opened the letter clumsily, her hands cold within their gloves. The wind flapped the pages she removed from the letter so she gripped them firmly, leaning close to read them.
Dear Elizabeth,
Don't worry that I'm taking this opportunity to thrust unwelcome attentions on you again, I'm not. I have no intention of bothering you, or demeaning myself, with reminiscences of wishes that -- for the happiness of us both -- cannot be forgotten quickly enough. But I wanted to communicate some things to you, and I hope that you will have the grace to hear me out. ... I should have spared you the pain of thinking again on our encounter if I could have, but there are things I must tell you, in the interests of full honesty.You accused me of two great charges and I cannot rest without answering them. Surely you, as a scholar, cannot begrudge me this. The first was that I separated Charles from your sister, irrespective of their feelings for one another. The second was that I had treated George Wickham abominably, rebuffing all the claims of our childhood friendship and ruining his chances in life by -- I believe you said -- depriving him of an education, plagiarizing from his work, and otherwise keeping from him the life that he had been raised to expect.
To have done all that -- to have plagiarized, to have cast off an old friend, to have deprived him of a chance to learn -- is would have been a terrible crime. But it is nothing to the accusation you had that I had willfully hurt my best friend in my own self-serving interests, by somehow forcibly keeping him from your sister. I will now account for my actions in respect to Charles, and if you are hurt by what I have to say I can only say that I am sorry, but I have to say my piece.
Within the first few times that Charles met your sister, I could see that he felt strongly about her. He clearly preferred her to any other girl in St Andrews and -- I thought -- to any of the girls I had previously seen him with in Edinburgh or London (and I hope it will not offend you to have me say that Charles is not unfamiliar with developing attachments to women... he has professed himself in love on rather numerous occasions, only to forget about the girl a few weeks later). It wasn't until Caroline's ceilidh, however, that I realized quite how serious he was (you will remember the moment that he came up to us on the dance-floor and hinted that an engagement might be in the works). From that moment onwards I kept an eye on Charles and your sister, both that evening and in the days afterwards. I became certain that Charles had deep, serious feelings for your sister, beyond anything I had previously witnessed with him, but your sister's feelings were not nearly as clear. Her behavior suggested that she liked my friend well enough -- she was open and charming, and received his attentions willingly -- but none of their intimacies was ever instigated by her. She seemed far more aloof than I should have liked to have seen, and this worried me. But if you say that your sister did care for my friend, I will bow to your greater knowledge of her and I will acknowledge my mistake -- though I hope you will allow that mine was a natural enough conclusion to have drawn.
Though you know that I have some doubts as to your relations (your cousins, your aunt, and even your uncle) and the problematic nature of being a foreigner only in this country for a finite period, these were not the objects that drove me to try to protect my friend: Charles is an open, easy fellow as you know, and they would not have weighed with him -- and furthermore you and your sister have always behaved beautifully (even when provoked by Caroline!). Know, then, that while I did deliberately dissuade my friend from following your sister as she moved back to London -- he did want to at least go to see her there, to see how they might work a long-distance relationship -- I did not do this out of any judgement other than that of wanting to protect my friend from having his heart broken on discovering Jane's unequal level of affection for him. I did not want to separate Charles from Jane, but rather from a woman whom I did not think loved him as he deserves to be loved. I hope you can understand this.
Now that you know why I did what I did, I feel that you deserve to know what it is that I did. A day or two before your sister was due to leave for England, Caroline and I revealed our fears that your sister might be an opportunist to Charles, who was at that time trying to sort out a future that could include your sister wherever she might be. Caroline, I fear, had ulterior motives in her actions (you know her well enough by now to know that she cares passionately about "good society" and didn't think Jane fit her ideal mould for a sister-in-law), but I argued with Charles out of my fears for his own well-being. You know my reputation as a scholar well enough by now to know that I can make a persuasive argument when I am fully convinced that I am in the right... and Charles was persuaded. He was convinced to wait to see if Jane would make the effort to keep his love, and, to my knowledge, she has not contacted him, thus enforcing the perceived validity of my arguments. On this subject I have nothing more to say, and no other apology to offer, other than that while I cannot condemn the motives that drove me in my actions, that I do apologize for the hurt that they have unwittingly caused.
Never contacted him? Lizzy muttered, with an angry snort. He should take a look at Jane's mobile phone log, to see just how often she had called Charles following her lonely train-ride to London! And Jane hadn't just contacted Charles, but also Caroline... although Lizzy rather doubted that Caroline would have bothered to pass on any of the messages. She returned to her letter, feeling as if she understood Darcy's actions, even if she did not agree with them.
With respect to the other accusation -- of having ruined your friend Wickham -- I can only refute it by telling you the entire story of his past relationship with my family. As for the particulars of the accusations he has undoubtedly made against me to you, I cannot answer for them, not knowing what they are... he has made so many different charges over the years, but I can summon more than one witness to prove that I am the wronged party, not he, and I hope that you would believe them even if you will not believe me.George Wickham is the son of the late manager of the Glen Leigheas distillery, as I think you may know. The father was one of the best of men, capable and honest and as fine a fellow as ever I have had the good luck to meet. Despite the fact that my father was the laird of an estate of a considerable size and Hamish Wickham his employee, our two families became quite close, and I remember spending many agreeable hours following Hamish around the distillery or toasting muffins over a fire in his sitting room... and I was fond of Peggy Wickham, too, having lost my mother at an early age. George and I naturally became close playmates as a result of this, and my father showered him with gifts and had him perpetually included in family activities. He was a handsome boy, just as he is now a handsome man, and completely charming... my father was extremely fond of him and resolved that he should be given every opportunity in life.
So, when George was twelve, my father decided to send the boy to the same boarding school that I was attending, two years behind me. George was ecstatic and remarkably comfortable in that elite school for a boy with as humble a background as his own. He was never a particularly great scholar, but his work was solid enough and he was a good sportsman and well liked, though perhaps a little too popular with the girls for his own good. As my father continued to hear good reports of him, he decided to set aside a scholarship for George to attend university... he rather hoped that George would go and get a management degree and come back to expand the distillery. George decided to attend the University of Glasgow, having a yearning for city life, and I went off to St Andrews, in line with family tradition. George decided to study Scottish history as an undergraduate (as indeed I was already doing), but expressed his desire to obtain a management degree afterwards. My father was delighted -- he was only half-Scottish himself but had a deep respect for Scottish history and culture -- and set aside enough money for both degrees in trust for George.
George's parents had died in a boating accident by this time and my father had become a sick man... a life of smoking had caught up with him and he was starting into the last stages of lung cancer. He stayed almost exclusively at Glen Leigheas and stopped coming to St Andrews or Glasgow to check up on "his two lads." George took full advantage of the liberties this offered -- with my father often paying unexpected calls on us, we never got up to anything too risqué for fear that he'd find out. George's womanizing -- which had existed on a low key ever since we were away at school together -- took a turn for the worse and he also started asking me for money, telling me that my father was forgetting to pass on his monthly allowance. I believed him for several months before a friend of mine in Glasgow informed me that George had taken up a drug habit. I tried to talk to George, to tell him that his behavior was hurting both himself and those who cared about him, but he remained unrepentant, telling me that I didn't know how to live. I ended up by clearing up his messes as best I could from the other side of the country to prevent my father finding out -- it would have hurt him so much -- but I became convinced that I did not want George to become to manager of the distillery that I was to inherit.
My father died part way through my last year as an undergraduate, George's second year. George came to the funeral and behaved as perfectly as one might like. He apologized for the trouble he had caused me and I forgave him willingly enough, though I was glad when he told me that he had decided against getting his management degree after all... that he had decided that the university was not the right place for him. He decided that what he really wanted was to open a pub -- and he was an excellent host and a good judge of spirits, so I wished him well in this endeavor and thought that he would either succeed (and have his own independent life) or else fail and return to university. I offered him some money to buy a pub and get set up, feeling that my father would have liked me to help him, and he took it. He failed, as you may have guessed, within a year... he got caught up in a gang and was arrested. He blamed me for his failure, though I had had nothing to do with him since handing over that first cheque, and I told him that I would neither offer him a job at the distillery nor give him any more money, although his educational trust was still in place if he would go back to university... though this would only cover his tuition, not his expenses. He gave me a few choice epithets and departed for what I hoped was for good.
Lizzy was quite cold by this point, but was quite unwilling to stop reading this extraordinary letter. She managed to fold it and put it in her pocket and then set off towards the library, trusting that while a few exams still remained in the exam period that it would be deathly silent and unlikely to be filled with anyone who wasn't deeply engrossed in their own work -- so she wouldn't be bothered. She trotted quickly through the streets, glad not to see anyone she knew, and soon ensconced herself at her carrell, spreading out the pages of the lengthy letter before her. She wasn't quite sure what to make of Darcy's story about George so far and was anxious to read it all before she decided which of the two men was the liar.
It was as if George Wickham had never existed; he was no longer a part of my life, a drain on my inheritance, or a part of my business or family. We had a new manager for the distillery and business was going well. After a year or so of settling my father's affairs, I returned to university and did a Masters, and started in on my D.Phil, though I had to leave it off when my new manager's wife got ill, and the pair of them emigrated to Australia. I found that I liked managing the distillery and spent some time working there and training in a new, younger, manager. During this time my sister Georgiana had begun to grow up (you must know, by now, that she is about ten years younger than me, and is my responsibility). By the time she was fifteen she was showing great musical promise and had decided to pursue a music degree. Just two years ago, the summer she was seventeen, I sent her to do a summer course in Glasgow... and as a result George Wickham popped back into our lives.Georgie has always been a sweet, good girl, though perhaps a little too sheltered by her brother and her cousins. As a result she gloried in her Glaswegian summer of independence. She made friends easily amongst the other students in the program, and soon found herself a part of a rather fast set of young people, who made a habit of frequenting the various night-spots regardless of their curfew. It was during one of these nocturnal jaunts that Georgie met George again... she had, of course, known him from her childhood and he had always been a complete gentleman at Glen Leigheas (no doubt partially to please my father), so she rather latched onto him when they met, as she was beginning to feel a little uneasy with her new friends. Georgie and George started seeing each other, though George asked her keep the relationship secret, knowing that since she was seventeen and he was twenty-six there might be trouble. Georgie, basking in the attentions of a handsome man so much older than herself (whom she also remembered as being a great friend of mine and favorite of my father's), began to fall for George. He convinced her that the feeling was mutual, though we learned later that it was not -- he was using her to get more money out of me... I think he would have convinced her to marry him in an instant if she had been of age (but she wasn't, and I have sole control of her money until she is twenty-one anyway), but as that was out he tried for something more dramatic: he kidnapped her. He persuaded her to come away with him at the end of her program, and they went off to a cottage in the Borders together, where they lived as lovers.
Unfortunately, I was away on business at this time and not at Glen Leigheas. I had deputized a woman from Glen Leigheas village to go and pick Georgie up from Glasgow at the end of the course but this woman, too, remembered George from his shining younger days and was easily convinced to let Georgie go off with him instead, knowing him to have been a close friend of the family. I knew nothing of this for over a week, as I was tied up in barrel negotiations in America, and the woman's message that "she'd seen Georgie off from her program" convinced me that everything was fine. Fortunately Georgie decided to give me a call to ask when I would be coming back to Scotland, and ended up telling me the whole story -- we have no secrets from one another. I was furious and anxious, especially as I was on the other side of the Atlantic, and immediately called on Richard to go rescue Georgie. He found her at the address she had given me and, after a brief and heated exchange with George, took her away with him. As soon as I had returned home, I urged Georgie to press charges against George, for he had taken advantage of her when she was still under the age of consent, but she refused. She still had tender feelings for him, even when George's ransom note turned up amongst my unanswered mail, and she insisted that she was the one at fault, not George. Richard and I, though we didn't agree with her, have honored her decision not to prosecute and we have kept the whole affair quiet for her sake. I only tell you now so that you might know the entire story and the depth of George Wickham's resentment for me and my family, whom he believes to have cheated him out of the privileged existence that he enjoyed in his childhood.
That, Elizabeth, is the truth behind the mess that lay behind your accusations. If you do not cast this off as some desperate and twisted invention of mine, I hope that it will allow you to excuse me from any alleged cruelty towards George Wickham. I do not know what lies he told you (although I can tell you unequivocally that I have never plagiarized any of my arguments, least of all from George Wickham's work... which would have been stupid as well as impractical, seeing as he was still in survey courses when I was in honors modules, even had I been inclined to steal others' work), or how he gained your goodwill and set you against me, but I do not wonder at his success. He is, as I am sure you know, capable of great charm and always mixes a convincing modicum of truth into his stories. As for my own veracity -- for I do not flatter myself that you will take my story as the truth without some sort of evidence to back me up -- at least as regards George Wickham, you should feel free to consult my cousin, whom I gather you have befriended, or apply to me for yet further references.
I hope to deliver this letter to you without your having to see me again, but I hope that it will allow you to think on me a little more kindly. While I have my faults, as you know well, know that I am not a bad man, not a wicked man, not -- God help me! -- a heartless man. In closing, I only add:
My sincerest wishes for your continued academic success and happiness,
- Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Author's note: Re: Lizzy's tour of Glen Leigheas distillery, I'll admit right here and now that I can't for the life of me remember when the active season for mash tuns starts (and my cursory internet searches weren't overly helpful). So, if having a plant up and running in Late January is ridiculous (as I have a fear it might be), then I beg your forgiveness and cast all the blame for this inaccuracy on the author's desire to people a place with smells, etc. regardless of logic.
Chapter Twenty:
Posted on June 30, 2006
Such a letter was not to be recovered from quickly. On turning the last of the many handwritten pages and absorbing its words, Lizzy felt completely drained emotionally. She had no idea what to think: at first she had followed Darcy's words with resentment, doubting his every effort to excuse himself or to rationalize his behavior. Her opinion began to change a little, though, as the letter went on... as his story about George unrolled, Lizzy found herself shockingly willing to believe Darcy and to turn on her former lover. It made sense: for all of George's professed desire for an education, he had made no effort to gain one, or even expressed any real interest in Lizzy's studies, even though they lay in the same academic field as his own. There was also the incident in which he had stood Lizzy up for the Bingley ceilidh -- she had believed that he really had been sick at the time, but hadn't he seemed perfectly well mere days later? And while he had never demonstrated any signs of anti-social or gang behavior or unusual womanizing or drug use, she did have a hazy memory of certain unexplained scars on George's chest and arms...
Two things ultimately swayed Lizzy towards believing Darcy's tale about his erstwhile friend: that he mentioned the affair with his sister and that he had written out the letter by hand. True, both could have been carefully masterminded ploys if he had really been the criminal genius she had accused him of being, but they both spoke to his sincerity... his sister's story could be easily verified with Richard (whose honesty Lizzy trusted), and the handwriting had been a sacrifice Darcy had made for her... it must have taken hours and she could even see the places where his fountain pen's ink cartridge had given out and had had to be replaced.
Thus persuaded to look favorably on Darcy's story, Lizzy read over the entire letter again. The piece on Charles and Jane still made her angry, but she began to understand Darcy's viewpoint: he had been trying to protect his friend -- he was a protective person by nature, she saw, between his sister and his friend, just as she herself was protective of her own sister -- and he had acted to do so on a piece of misinformation. That Charles should not have received any of Jane's attempts to reach him seemed implausible, but Lizzy did remember a comment Charlotte had made months and months ago, suggesting that she didn't think Jane was interested in Charles... Lizzy had scoffed at the idea then but conceded its validity now... Jane could be inscrutable. All in all, Lizzy was willing enough to begrudgingly accept Darcy's explanation of his actions even if she did not agree with the actions themselves.
The piece about Wickham was even more convincing when read over a second time; with all of Lizzy's newly rediscovered doubts about George (and hadn't he grabbed on to a chance to date the daughter of his employer -- who apparently wasn't even that much of a catch in herself -- quickly enough?), she began to see the cleverness of George's story... it had so much of the truth in it (George's relationship to the Darcys and their patronage of him, his educational funding, receiving some money after Darcy senior's death...), but was completely twisted around, omitting some of his chief crimes completely. George Wickham had played her, and played her well... he'd taken advantage of her prejudice against Darcy from that first party and worked his story's magic on her, adding flourishes like the plagiarism accusation, which went straight to Lizzy's intellectual funny-bone instead of her common sense. George's good looks, charm and personable nature had recommended him to her... she really had no other character reference for him before she had begun dating him, aside from Lydia's friend... who, looking back, probably wasn't the world's best judge of character, being all of eighteen years old... how well was a kid like that going to know a man of twenty-eight, who just worked at his same part-time job? And for all of Wickham's talk of not resenting the younger Darcy for the sake of the older Darcy, hadn't he done even more damage to Fitzwilliam Darcy's reputation by spewing his poison than if he had boiled in resentment alone?
And Darcy... Darcy was not a bad man, not a wicked man, not -- as he had said, and as she now was fully aware -- a heartless man. Had he been these things would Charles Bingley have been his friend? Would Dr. Alban think so well of him? Would Richard have joked so charmingly about him? No, Darcy had been all in the right -- aside from his interference with Jane, and his rude comments back in September -- and Wickham all in the wrong. She, Lizzy, was completely ashamed: simply because one man had insulted her she had resolved to hate him and because another had flattered her she had been convinced of his great worth.
"What an idiot I've been!" Lizzy cried softly, earning the angered stares of a few exam-ridden students. She contritely gathered the pages of the letter together again and tucked them carefully in her pocket before making her way towards the stairwell and out onto North Street. "What an idiot," she repeated, under her breath, as she began making her way down the street. "And I always thought that I had such good judgement about people... no wonder Darcy once accused me of making false statements for fun... I've obviously got no discernment at all! At least I was never in love with George... that would have been humiliating... though even thinking about our relationship, our intimacy, is humiliating enough... did Darcy know about it? If he did, he'll never want to look at me again... not that I want him to still be in love with me or anything, but we are bound to come across one another, and now that I know who he really is -- a doting brother, a strong scholar, a caring friend... as well as, I have to admit, a genuinely interesting and handsome man -- I hate to think of him hating me. ... Which he would be justified in... I have misjudged him badly. I did not know him... and I do not know myself."
How Lizzy got through the next few days, she couldn't remember. She was consumed by guilt for her earlier behavior and mistakes and didn't quite know what to do about it. She didn't want to tell Charlotte about the letter and its contents, too ashamed that Charlotte should have been right about George, right about Darcy, right about everything. ... Happily, however, Charlotte had taken off for the rest of the vacation period by the time Lizzy had made it back to the flat. That left only one other confidante and, though Jane's misfortunes were implicated in the situation, Lizzy felt the need to call her sister to report that Jane had been right about Darcy. It would be easier to confide in Jane, especially since Jane also had been wrong about George... and the piece about Charles was easily omitted until Lizzy figured out what to do with it.
It took some time to reach her sister, who was off at her Welsh conference, but Lizzy was only too glad when she finally had the chance to unload her story to another person. And Jane was surprised, to say the least, on hearing Lizzy's story about Darcy's declaration and letter.
"Poor Will Darcy!" Jane cried, on hearing the tale. "Think what he must have been suffering these last months, being in love with you unrequitedly... though I agree that it's not very helpful to his cause to mention that he has reservations about your family and age and all... he should have written it out first, as you say he writes so beautifully. And he must be so hurt now, too... I know that you felt you had to rebuff him -- and I don't want you to be in a relationship unless you really like the man -- but just think what he must be feeling! He was convinced that he had a chance with you, and is now left to wallow in his misery for the entirety of the vacation... poor dear!"
Lizzy was beginning to feel sorry for Darcy too, regretting her rude behavior... had she really said that he was the last person in the world she'd want to be in a relationship with? That was a blatant lie, even before she knew about George's crimes... Collins would have been far worse than Darcy even if the whisky laird had been a plagiarist! "Do you blame me for refusing him?" Lizzy asked, the question weighing on her mind.
"Blame you? No! You should follow your heart, and it wasn't with him."
"Then do you blame me for dating George?"
"No, you couldn't have known," Jane said, reassuringly. "While I'm thoroughly shocked by your report of George's past actions -- they seem impossibly wicked! -- they may well be just that... in the past. He was kind and attentive to you, and was doing well with his job. He may have been trying to turn over a new leaf for himself... and though we cannot know, not having talked to him for some time, he may well have gone to Glasgow to take up his studies again, part-time."
"It is possible, but I am unconvinced," Lizzy said gently. "You did not read Darcy's letter... I am convinced that he tells the truth about George... there is just enough honesty between the two of them for one man, and I'm pretty sure it all belongs to Darcy. ... One man has all the sincerity, the other all the appearance of it..."
"I never used to think Darcy lacking in sincerity and goodness," Jane said tentatively over the line. She didn't want to make it look like she was rubbing in her views -- and she wasn't, the kind young woman wouldn't know how to.
"Oh, I know. I thought I was being clever by fostering this dislike of him! And for no real reason, other than he once made a slighting comment about me... he has made ample complimentary comments about me since, but somehow I was deaf to them after that first party until now. Oh, my vanity! It's certainly grown to gross proportions."
"Is it such a joke to you?" asked Jane. "Surely you didn't take this all so lightly on reading the letter."
"No, it's not a joke... but joking about it makes it bearable. The letter and its consequences made me very uncomfortable... they challenged everything I thought about myself and my judgement... and it was awful. I had no one to speak to about it right then... until I finally got hold of you to make comforting noises to me." She paused, and the asked something that had been bothering her ever since she had read the letter. "Jane? Do you think I should tell people about George's history? I mean, what if he comes back to Edinburgh and hangs out with Kitty or Lydia and their friends... I don't want either of them to be hurt by him, if he really is so unforgivable."
Jane paused, turning the idea over in her head. "No," she said at last. "No, I don't think you should... do you have any reason to worry about our cousins? What is your gut reaction to what you think you should do?"
"I think... not to share the story. Darcy didn't tell me I could spread the it around, after all, and it is quite private, about his sister... and that's the most believable part... the rest is, for all reasonable purposes, unsubstantiated by anyone other than Darcy. And Georgiana Darcy didn't want the story made public. ... and George is in Glasgow now, and has a girlfriend, so Kitty and Lydia won't probably see him again. I think... I should wait before sharing the story... if we see a stronger case for telling appearing, then maybe I'd reconsider my options, given the circumstances."
"I agree," Jane said. "And, George really may be turning over a new leaf... should he have his criminal record cast up before him? No, I think that would hurt his efforts, and he should become desperate. I couldn't bear to feel responsible for that."
Lizzy sighed in relief, glad to have the weight of the decision taken from her sole shoulders. Jane had good arguments to add to her own, so Lizzy set the matter aside, turning instead to her imminent departure for the Highlands with her aunt and uncle. The idea of being somewhere else, of being with uncomplicated, loving people had a strong allure just then.
Despite the cold of late January, Lizzy found herself utterly delighted with the Gardiners' Highland journey. As it was the off-season for tourism they were often alone at the sites they visited, although certain of the castles and historic places that Lizzy had read about were closed off for the season.
Her aunt and uncle were well-pleased with the success of the trip too, especially Mary Gardiner. Lizzy's aunt was completely in her element as they spent a week or so winding their way northward through the historic sites of the shires until reaching the famed River Spey, where many of the country's most notable distilleries were located. Mary Gardiner's reminiscences began to come out a mile a minute as she recognized those trees, that house, this mountain from her days as a girl living in a small cottage nearby while her travel-writing father wandered around in his little touring car.
Despite Lizzy's already deep joy and satisfaction with the places that they had visited, her aunt insisted that the best was yet to come, a claim that her uncle agreed to willingly as there had been rather fewer distilleries in the first half of the trip than he should have liked. In particular, Glen Leigheas village was the jewel in their trip's crown, Mary Gardiner maintained as her husband drove cautiously towards that town's inn one evening. It was, after all, the very village in which she had lived and her eager cries of delighted recognition sounded again and again as they passed through the quiet town.
Lizzy's attention was quite as riveted on her surroundings as that of her aunt, but for completely different reasons: she was consumed by a morbid curiosity to see the place where Darcy lived -- at least as long as he never found out that she had been there. This, then was the village that was primarily dependent upon his estate and his distillery. These, then, were the streets that he had walked as a child, the gorgeous scenery that he had been privileged enough to grow up with...
The travelers found the Glen Leigheas Inn decidedly homey and pleasant. Their landlady was a voluminous woman with good spirits who welcomed the three inside as if they were her children and anxiously shooed them upstairs and into two comfortable rooms so that they could relax a little before supper. Lizzy found that her window had an excellent view of the distillery, which was some distance away down the road that they had come in on, and she couldn't help but to admire its whimsically turreted roof.
She was standing at the window when her aunt knocked once on the open door and let herself in.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" she asked her niece, coming up beside her. "I remember that as a girl I always longed to be able to climb around in those turrets... though I dare say it wouldn't have been safe. I've got us booked on a tour to see the distillery tomorrow," she added cheerfully, taking Lizzy's arm so as to walk her down to the dining room on the ground floor where the landlady was laying out a meal for them. "The off-season has worked its magic again and we're to have a private tour. Ten o'clock. And then I thought we could come back here for our lunch before we head off to Leigheas House. I'm dying to see it again... when I was a girl we went to see it on one of its Open Days and also we were sometimes allowed to play in the grounds while my father met with the late Mr Darcy. I decided right then and there that I wanted to marry a landed Scottish gentleman. Sadly the Darcys didn't have any sons my age... so I married your uncle instead. But you'll love the house... it's too modern for you, of course, seeing as its only from the Victorian era, but I defy you to not be impressed."
What am I doing here? Lizzy suddenly wondered, all in a panic, the weight of the reality that she was supposed to be walking through Darcy's house and place of business the next day finally setting in. If he were to be there... should he see me... I would die of mortification... he'd think me full of contrivances after all... why on earth am I here?
"So the Darcys have their house open to the public?" Lizzy asked cautiously. Maybe there would be groups of other tourists -- even though it was January -- whom she could hide behind, if need be.
"Three days a week," her aunt answered cheerfully. "From ten until five o'clock. And tomorrow is Thursday, one of those days."
"Isn't that... weird?" Lizzy asked, still on edge at the thought of walking through Darcy's home. The other historic houses that they had visited had all been vacant... owned by the National Trust or some other such group.
"Not at all," her aunt said, cheerfully. "It brings in tourists who help the local economy... the distillery, while a major employer, is still what we'd think of as small. It's an act of kindness on the part of the Darcys to open up their home and park to tourists. And it's not like we're traipsing through their bedrooms or anything," her aunt added, ruffling Lizzy's hair. "We see the show rooms, not the family's quarters!"
"The Darcys aren't here just now," the landlady cut in, setting down steaming dishes of neeps and tatties onto the table. "Mr Darcy's off picking up some friends just now," she elaborated, "but he'll be back Friday, I understand. His sister is coming for a long weekend then too. So you'll just miss them if you go tomorrow."
"See, Lizzy?" her aunt said, poking fun at Lizzy. "We won't be a bother at all, seeing as all of our Glen Leigheas touring will be done tomorrow. I thought Friday we'd follow the Spey a little ways to see some of the other distilleries too."
The landlady soon ordered the three of them to eat up and the guests fell on the home-cooked feast with a will. Lizzy's formerly doubtful appetite was restored: she wouldn't see Darcy unless he happened down the public street as she and her aunt and uncle drove to and from the other distilleries on Friday... she wouldn't be caught on his property, but she would have her curiosity about his life satisfied. All in all, a tiny piece of her began to look forward to the next morning.
Lizzy was impressed by the Glen Leigheas distillery and her tour there. She and the Gardiners were led around by kindly older man who was amply knowledgeable about his workplace and also quietly enthusiastic. Lizzy watched in amazement as they walked by the giant mash tuns and washback machines, her nose prickling with the warm smell of the fermenting barley wort. As the guide continued to describe the distilling process, he led them towards the still house where the distillation took place, and Lizzy looked around in amazement at the beautiful copper stills. Though not a large business in any international or corporate sense of the word, she was enthralled: there were not many workers in the plant, but those that she did see looked happy, competent and busy. The buildings were clean and bright and the whole place spoke of comfortable prosperity... it was clearly a well-run place and Lizzy's admiration for Darcy went up a little more, seeing how well he was handling his business -- albeit through a manager -- while he was simultaneously finishing his doctorate; it spoke to a responsible and competent nature that Lizzy could never have allowed him even a few weeks earlier.
The Americans were herded onwards as the tour progressed and they soon found themselves in a warehouse of sorts, where the guide proceeded to tell them about the barrels and the maturation process. Lizzy listened with half her attention, casting her eyes around the rows of barrels... Darcy really was well-off, wasn't he? No wonder he had such a complex about gold-diggers and social-climbers...
"... And we call that evaporated portion 'the angels' share,'" the guide was saying, and Lizzy turned her attention back towards him as her aunt and uncle made appreciative noises about the whimsical notion that angels drank the evaporated liquid from the maturing whisky-barrels.
"It's also why, if you take a look at the turrets from outside," the guide continued, with good humor, "there's that angel weathervane up there. The Darcys -- and the Grants before them... this is only the second generation of Darcys to be born on the estate -- have always paid proper homage to the angels. Give them their due and they leave the perfected beverage. ... The original weathervane is the one here, and there's a modern copy up at the House, which was modeled on the faces of Master Will and young Georgiana when he was a lad and she still a bairn. Have you been up to the House?" the guide asked.
"We're bound there after lunch," Mary Gardiner answered pleasantly.
"Then keep your eyes out for it... it's on a pavilion on the grounds, so it's a right bit easier to see than the one all the way on the roof here."
The tour ended with a stop back at the distillery's small visitor's center, where the group was treated to samples of the finished product and Edward Gardiner was able to wander happily through a shop, choosing bottles to bring home with him. Lizzy smiled ruefully after tasting her dram... the last time she had tasted this drink she had been with George Wickham in Edinburgh... but that didn't bear thinking about. Hopefully by imbibing the drink in the spirit of forgiveness here in Darcy's own distillery she might make amends for the past and look forward with a greater sense of humility.
The lunch at the inn had been excellent, but Mary Gardiner rushed the others through it quickly, anxious to see Leigheas House again. Lizzy's trepidation grew a little as they drew closer to the house but her main emotion was awe as she gazed about her at the unspoiled scenery of the Glen Leigheas park. Her mind was too full to comment on any of the beauties she beheld and she became grateful for her aunt's steady and continued reminiscences and directions.
The car stopped a half-mile from the house and Mary Gardiner urged her husband and niece out into the cool air so as to properly admire the view. Lizzy's breath caught in her chest: the house was a rambling gothically-inspired Victorian structure that nestled into its surroundings with a dignity and grace. The stones of the house were obviously local, too, which added to the harmony between house and park and the idyllic feel of the place.
"You're right: I am impressed," Lizzy finally managed to say to her aunt, who was looking on at her niece with a look of satisfaction.
"Now do you see why I wanted to live somewhere like here? Just imagine being mistress of a house like this...!"
There was suddenly a catch in Lizzy's throat and she turned away until she could control herself once more. She might have been -- in a way -- the mistress of this house... if she had not been so blind, she might have been able to welcome her relations to this property as a hostess of sorts, as Darcy's girlfriend. But she had been blind and instead was here skulking about getting an eyeful of What Might Have Been.
They returned to the car and drove up the the front drive, where they parked the car in a neatly roped-off area. Lizzy was not in luck: there were no other guests in evidence at all, or, if there were any other people about, they had obviously come on foot.
The Americans met up with their guide at a small office to one end of the drive, neatly out of the way of the gorgeous vista they had seen earlier. She was a motherly sort of woman, very professional, yet kind. She greeted her charges with good-will.
"It's just the lot of you, as best we know," she said after hearing their names. "So I thought I'd take you around myself, and let Fergus go tackle the Land Rover's engine again. I'm Flossie Reynolds, the housekeeper and I know just about as much about this property as anyone who ever lived, having grown up here as a girl -- my father was the manager of the distillery about thirty years ago, so I can answer most any questions about that, too. If you'll just come this way?"
They followed and were led in the front door of the house into a magnificent paneled hall with a wide staircase, where Mrs. Reynolds began to speak about the history of the house. It was, as had been self-evident, a Victorian construction which had replaced as the estate's seat an old half-ruined stone tower-house. The housekeeper apologized for the fact that the older building no longer remained; what was left of that disused, crumbling medieval structure had, rather unfortunately, been torn down some sixty-years earlier by the current Mr. Darcy's grandfather, an Englishman who lacked a romantic spirit and was worried about a possible building-collapse. Prior to that English Darcy's marriage into the family at the time of the extinction of the male line, the property had always been owned by the Grants of Glen Leigheas, who went back several centuries.
They were led through some half-dozen tastefully decorated rooms, observing any number of antique objects d'art -- silver quaiches, paintings, end-tables, displays of weaponry and hunting trophies, gorgeous stained-glass -- and hearing some more of the Grant and Darcy families. They were nearly done with their tour when Mary Gardiner touched Lizzy's sleeve, seeking her particular attention. They had arrived in what appeared to be an old, disused study next to what looked to be the library. The room was decorated with four different portraits and a good number of framed photographs besides; Mary Gardiner had caught sight of a particular photograph and wanted Lizzy's opinion.
"Is that your ex-boyfriend?" she asked curiously, having seen a few photographs of George when Lizzy had been dating him. "What was his name, George?"
Lizzy looked, and saw that it was, indeed, a younger George Wickham, at about fifteen years of age. He was standing next to a seventeen or eighteen year old Darcy and both were wearing identical uniforms... from their boarding school, no doubt.
"Yes," she said, shortly. "That's him. And that's Fitzwilliam Darcy beside him."
Mrs. Reynolds heard part of this comment, and came over to examine the photograph with them. "That's the current Mr Darcy with one of the boys from the town... a lad who did not turn out well, I'm sorry to say." Mary Gardiner raised an eyebrow at Lizzy, who ignored it, her eyes glued on the picture of the two young men.
"Darcy is so recognizable from this, even though it's so old," she murmured.
"Do you know Will, then?" Mrs Reynolds asked, having caught the soft comment.
"Yes, a little," Lizzy said, flushing. She knew him too little.
"Lizzy's studying at St Andrews," her aunt said conversationally. "Doesn't Darcy study with you?"
"We have the same advisor," Lizzy said, smiling faintly at the housekeeper. "Though he's almost done his thesis, and I'm only a lowly Masters student."
"He's a clever lad," Mrs. Reynolds said, agreeing. "Lord knows that he doesn't need his D.Phil, but he really cares about his studies and insisted on heading back to finish them now that the new manager at the plant has settled in so well and his sister is off at university herself. Will's a good lad, successful both in business and in academics... and we've all done quite well here in Glen Leigheas these last ten years or so that he's been in charge; he's helped cultivate extra tourism in the area, the distillery has been producing another 100,000 litres a year and we've finally been able to add another teacher to the primary school. His father never managed so much, even living here throughout the whole year."
"I was last here nearly forty years ago," Mary Gardiner suddenly said, cutting in when Lizzy did not reply to their hostess's eulogy of Darcy, "when I was just a girl. So I'd never seen what either of the young Darcys look like, though I met their parents at the time. Do you have any photographs of the daughter?"
"Yes, indeed," Mrs Reynolds replied, beaming in delight. "Here's one," she added, handing a frame to Mrs. Gardiner. "This is Georgiana Darcy when she was sixteen... she's nineteen now. There's a lovely recent portrait she sat for her brother upstairs in his study, but we don't usually let visitors up there... though as it's just the three of you and the Darcys aren't here today, I might bend the rules a little if you'd like to see it."
Mary Gardiner expressed her willingness to see it (and the private rooms on the way) and admired the photograph which she handed to her niece in turn. Lizzy also gazed on with some interest.
So, this was the famous Georgiana Darcy of whom she had heard so much about... The girl was beautiful, Lizzy had to acknowledge, even more beautiful than Jane (though there was a certain similarity in coloring) even given her young age at the time of the photograph. The girl was posed on a piano bench, and had an air of sweet naivety about her, which showed Lizzy just how protective the older brother must feel about this lovely, dreamy-eyed girl. She suddenly felt a surge of anger towards George Wickham, stronger than any of her anger over his other misdeeds, for what he had allegedly done to this girl, in stealing her away from her family and breaking her heart.
By the time that Lizzy moved to put the picture back on the table from which it had come, her aunt and the housekeeper were merrily chatting away, Mrs Reynolds having dredged up memories of meeting Mary Gardiner (née Ormandy) and her parents all those years ago, when the housekeeper was a young clerk in the distillery office. With this common memory between them, Flossie Reynolds urged the Gardiners to come along with her upstairs, to see the portrait of Georgiana Darcy. Edward Gardiner agreed to come along but Lizzy hesitated. She wasn't comfortable with the idea of straying from the public rooms... it would be too much of an invasion of Darcy's privacy to go into his personal study, his private space.
"Could I explore the library instead?" she asked the housekeeper, smiling. "While you show my aunt and uncle the portrait I could get a head start on looking at all those gorgeous books." She gestured towards the open door that showed a preview of the bibliophilic orgy that awaited the group in the next room. "Being an academic, I can spend hours in a library, and I don't want to bore my aunt and uncle."
Mrs Reynolds gave Lizzy a quick look-over and decided that it would be safe enough to leave her in the library on her own -- after all, the girl was a classmate of Will's so it wasn't as if she was a complete stranger. She smiled and agreed to the proposition and led the Gardiners out of the room and up the wide staircase to the second level. When they had gone Lizzy crossed through into the library.
It was just as impressive a room and a collection as Caroline Bingley had hinted at all those months ago; the room had a high ceiling, beautifully worked in plaster to copy some of the great pre-Victorian ones, and was lined to about eight feet with beautiful oak bookshelves, all of them filled with a dazzling array of books, both old and modern. Lizzy trailed around the perimeter of the room, fingering the bindings of some seventeenth-century tomes, reading the gilt titles on the nineteenth-century volumes, eyeing thoughtfully the modern twentieth-century additions.
She paused from her bookish explorations, however, on catching sight of the gorgeous views that spread out from the one windowed-wall. There were formal gardens outside, lovingly cared for, and the pavilion that the distillery guide had mentioned. She was too far away to see the faces of the angels on that weathervane -- even to far to tell anything other than that it was a weathervane -- but she was charmed, nonetheless, and deeply impressed.
It was no mean thing to be Fitzwilliam Darcy, she realized. He had been handed great privileges and heavy responsibilities, but had carried all of these off tolerably well. His business was flourishing and with it all of those who were dependent on him. He had gone out of his way to encourage the tourist industry, as hard as it must have been for him to share his beautiful home with crowds of gawping foreigners. His house, while a mansion on a gorgeous estate and thus unlike anything she had ever seen up close, was equally well-cared for, though it must be at great expense. And to top all of that, he was single-handedly raising a teenage sister and pursuing his doctorate. Lizzy gazed out the window, wrapped up in her thoughts, realizing that the man whom she had misjudged so badly was obviously not just human, but some semi-mythic hero -- and, as such, could be forgiven for having collaterally hurt Jane as he tried to protect Charles.
Her thoughts were broken by a soft, incredulous murmur.
"Elizabeth?"
She turned and, horrified, gazed on the flushed face of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Continued In Next Section