Mr. Darcy's Diary

October

Colonel Fitzwilliam called to see how Georgiana was getting on. She is much recovered, and I will be able to return to Netherfield in a few days’ time.

‘You have been to Netherfield, I understand?’ he said.

We were eating in the dining-room. Georgiana, still listless from her illness, took dinner in her room.

‘Yes. ’ I told him of Bingley’s engagement.

‘And do you mind?’

‘No. I am very happy for him. I am happy for them both.’

‘Did Miss Elizabeth Bennet speak to you about your letter? Has she accepted that you did not ruin Wickham?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘She has said nothing, but I think she has accepted it.’

‘And has it softened her feelings towards you?’

I did not know how to reply.

‘These affairs are painful whilst they last, but they should not be allowed to last for ever,’ he said. ‘It is time you looked to the future again, Darcy. You should marry.

It would be good for Georgiana to have a woman in the house. ’ He took a mouthful of turbot, then said: ‘Anne has been expecting your proposal for several years.’

‘Anne?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Come now, Darcy, you know Lady Catherine has regarded your marriage as a settled thing since you were in your cradles. I was surprised you offered your hand to Elizabeth, but as it was none of my business I held my peace. Now that she has rejected you, however, I think you should formalize your engagement to Anne.’

‘I have no intention of marrying Anne,’ I said.

‘But Lady Catherine expects it. She and your mother betrothed you and Anne in your cradles.’

‘She is not serious in that? I have heard her say it many times, but I took it for an idle fancy, such as:

“When you were a baby, my sister and I decided you would go into the army”, or “When you were a child, I decided you would go into politics”.’

‘I do assure you, she means it.’

‘And Anne?’ I asked.

‘Yes, she too expects it. It is why she has never married.’

‘I had thought it was because she was so young…’

‘She is eight and twenty, as you are. Have you forgotten that you were in your cradles together, and that all three of us played together when we were children?’

I had forgotten. She used to trail after my cousin and me. No, not trail after us. She could run almost as fast as I could. My cousin, being five years older, could outstrip us both.

‘Do you remember how she beat us to the top of the oak tree?’ he asked. ‘She was not meant to climb it. She tore her frock, and was confined to the nursery on bread and milk for a week.’

‘I remember. I also remember how you took her a cold beef sandwich and slice of pie, wrapped up in a handkerchief. I thought you would surely fall as you climbed across the roof to her window. Did you ever get caught for stealing from the kitchen?’

‘No. Mrs Heaney blamed it on the dog.’

‘Poor Caesar! I had forgotten about Anne’s exploits.

She was much more lively as a child, when her health was good,’ I remarked.

‘And when she had Sir Lewis to defend her. He found out about Lady Catherine’s orders that she be confined to the nursery, and he went there himself to give her half a sovereign.’

‘Did he indeed?’ I said with a smile.

I could imagine it. Sir Lewis had always been very fond of Anne, and she in turn had been very fond of her father. It had been a sad blow to her when he had died.

‘I have often wondered…’ began my cousin.

‘Yes?’

‘Have you noticed that her cough is always worse when her mother is by?’

‘No.’

‘And not only her cough, but her shyness. She is much more spirited when she is with me.’

‘She is never spirited with me,’ I said in surprise.

‘But then, she is in awe of you.’

‘Of me?’

‘You are quite a figure, Darcy, particularly when you are out of sorts. Let the weather be bad, and your boredom turns you into an ogre.’

I was about to tell him he was talking nonsense when I recalled Bingley saying something similar.

‘I am sorry for it. But Anne need suffer no further. I will visit Rosings and tell her that a marriage between us is out of the question.’

‘There is no need. Lady Catherine is in London, and Anne is with her. I saw them both this evening, before I came here. Lady Catherine means to call on you before she returns to Rosings.’

We finished our meal, and after sitting with me for an hour Colonel Fitzwilliam left. He is remaining in London for the next two weeks, and has promised to call on Georgiana every day to make sure she is well and happy.

Lady Catherine called this morning, bringing Anne with her. I was about to enquire after their health, when my aunt began without preamble.

‘You must put an end to this nonsense at once, Darcy,’ she said, as soon as she had seated herself.

I did not know what she was talking about, but before I could say anything, she went on:

‘I heard from Mr Collins that you were about to propose to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Sit down, Anne.’

Anne promptly sat down.

‘Knowing such a report to be a grotesque falsehood, I visited Longbourn in order to have Miss Elizabeth Bennet deny it. The audacity of the girl! The perverseness! Though what else can one expect with such a mother and an uncle in Cheapside? She refused to give the lie to the report, though I knew it must be false. I have never met such an impudent girl in my life. She trifled with me in the most vulgar way. When I told her that she must contradict the report, she replied only that I had declared it to be impossible, so it needed no contradiction. Of course, it is impossible. You are too proud a man to be drawn in, whatever arts she employed. To ally yourself with such a family! And through them, to ally yourself with George Wickham, the son of your father’s steward. He, to call you brother! It is not to be thought of. To put an end to her schemes, I told her you were engaged to Anne, and do you know what she said to me?’

‘No,’ I said, not knowing what to make of Elizabeth’s speech, but hoping – for the first time having reason to hope – that she was not firmly set against me.

‘That if it was so, you could not possibly make an offer to her! She is lost to every feeling of propriety. Honour, decorum and modesty all forbid such a match! And yet she would not tell me the rumour was false. She thought nothing of the disgrace she would bring to a proud name, or the pollution she would inflict on the shades of Pemberley. Pemberley! When I think of such an ignorant girl at Pemberley! But of course it is impossible. You and Anne are formed for each other. You are descended from the same noble line. Your fortunes are splendid. And yet this upstart, without family, connections or fortune, would not give me an assurance that she would never marry you.’

My hopes soared. She had not decided against me! If she had, she would have told my aunt. Then there was still a chance for me.

‘Well?’ Lady Catherine demanded.

‘Mama – ’ began Anne timidly.

‘Be silent, Anne,’ commanded my aunt. ‘Well, Darcy?’ she demanded.

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘Will you assure me that you will never ask this woman to be your wife?’

‘No, Aunt, I will not.’

She glared at me.

‘Then you are betrothed?’

‘No, Aunt, we are not.’

‘Ah. I thought not. You could not be so lost to what is right and proper, and to all common sense.’

‘But if she will have me, I mean to make her my wife.’

Her silence was awful, and was followed by a torrent of words.

‘You need not think you will be welcome at Rosings, if you marry that upstart. You will not bring such shame and degradation on my own house, even if you are absurd enough to bring it on your own. Your sainted mother would be appalled to discover what woman is to succeed her at Pemberley.’

‘My mother would be glad I had chosen so well.’

‘You have a fever. It is the only explanation,’ she said.

‘If you marry that girl you will be cut off from family and friends. They will not visit you, nor invite you to visit them in turn. You will be ostracized, cast out. I will give you a week to come to your senses. If I do not hear from you in that time, saying that you have been wholly mistaken in this preposterous plan, and if you do not beg my forgiveness for sullying my ears with this objectionable nonsense, then I will be aunt to you no more.’

I made her a cold bow and she swept out of the room.

Anne hung back.

‘I am sorry,’ I said to her. ‘I never knew you took our marriage as a settled thing until my cousin told me of it, or I would have made sure you knew that I did not regard myself as betrothed to you.’

‘There is no need to be sorry. I did not want to marry you,’ she said.

She smiled, and I was taken aback. There was no timidity in her smile, and as she walked up to me she looked confident and assured.

‘Am I then so terrible?’ I asked.

‘No, not that. As a friend and a cousin I like you very well – as long as the weather is fine, and you are not forced to remain indoors – but I do not love you, and the thought of marrying you made me miserable. I am glad you are to marry Elizabeth. She is in love with you. She will tease you out of your stiffness, and we will all be friends.’

‘She is in love with me? I wish I could be so sure.’

‘One woman in love recognizes another,’ she said.

She smiled again and then followed Lady Catherine out of the room.

I am once again at Netherfield. I arrived here with more hope than I have ever felt, but still I dare not take Elizabeth’s love as a settled thing. Bingley and I left Netherfield early and soon arrived at Longbourn. Miss Bennet was full of blushes and had never looked more becoming. Elizabeth was harder to understand. She, too, blushed. I wish I knew the cause!

Bingley suggested a walk.

‘I will fetch my bonnet,’ said Kitty. ‘I have been longing to see Maria. We can walk to the Lucas’s.’

Mrs Bennet frowned at her, but Kitty did not notice.

‘I am not a great walker, I am afraid,’ said Mrs Bennet, turning to Bingley with a smile. ‘You must excuse me.

But Jane loves to walk. Jane, my dear, fetch your spencer.

That man, I suppose, will go, too,’ she said, looking at me as though I was a disagreeable insect.

Elizabeth blushed. I ignored the remark as best I could, and thought that only my love for Elizabeth could induce me to set foot in that house ever again.

Bingley looked helpless.

‘Lizzy, run and fetch your spencer, too. You must keep Mr Darcy company. I am sure he will not be interested in anything Jane has to say.’

‘I am too busy to walk,’ said Mary, lifting her head from a book. ‘I have often observed that those who are the best walkers are those who lack the intellectual capacity to instruct themselves in the serious matters of life.’

‘Oh, Mary!’ said Mrs Bennet impatiently.

Mary returned to her book.

Elizabeth and her sister returned, having put on their outdoor clothes, and we set out. Bingley and his beloved soon fell behind. Kitty, I knew, would soon leave us to go to visit her friend. Would Elizabeth go too? I hoped not.

If she remained with me, then I would be able to talk to her. And talk to her I must.

We reached the turning to the Lucas’s.

‘You can go on by yourself,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I have nothing to say to Maria.’

Kitty ran off down the path, leaving Elizabeth and me alone.

I turned towards her.

Elizabeth, I was about to say, when she stopped me by speaking herself.

‘Mr Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours.’

I felt myself grow cold. All my hopes now seemed like vanity. She was going to wound my feelings. I had been wrong to read so much into her refusal to deny the report of our engagement. It had meant nothing, except that she would not deign to deny an idle report for the benefit of my aunt.

She was obviously finding it difficult to continue.

She is going to tell me never to come to Longbourn again, I thought. She cannot bear the sight of me. I have given her a disgust of me that is too great to be overcome. I have not used my opportunities. I have visited Longbourn with Bingley and said nothing, because I had too much to say. Yet none of it could have been said in front of others. And now it is too late. But I will not let it be too late. I will speak to her, whether she wants me to or not.

But then she went on, even as those thoughts were going through my mind.

‘I can no longer help thanking you...’

Thanking me? Not blaming me, but thanking me? I scarcely knew what to think.

‘...for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.’

Unexampled kindness? Then she does not hate me!

The thought made my spirits rise, though cautiously, for I did not know what she had heard of the business, or what else she was going to say.

‘Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.’

Gratitude. I did not want her gratitude. Liking, yes.

Loving, yes. But not gratitude.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘exceedingly sorry, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted.’

‘You must not blame my aunt,’ she said. ‘It was Lydia who told me of it, and then I asked my aunt for greater detail. Let me thank you again and again,’ went on Elizabeth, ‘in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.’

Generous compassion. She thought well of me, but in what way? I was in an agony of suspense.

‘If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone,’ I said. My voice was low and impassioned. I could not hold my feelings in. ‘Your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.’

I stopped breathing. I had spoken. I had let out my feelings. I had offered them to her, and could only wait to see if she would fling them back in my face. But she said nothing. Why did she not speak? Was she shocked?

Horrified? Pleased? Then hope rose in my breast. Perhaps she was kept silent by pleasure? I had to know.

‘You are too generous to trifle with me,’ I burst out.

‘If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’

It seemed to be an age before she spoke.

‘My feelings are so different…’ she began.

I started to breathe again.

‘…that I am humbled to think you can still love me…’

I began to smile.

‘…now I receive your assurances with gratitude and…and pleasure…’

‘I have loved you for so long,’ I said, as she slipped her hand through my arm and I covered it with my own. To claim her was a joy. ‘I thought it was hopeless. I tried to forget you, but to no avail. When I saw you again at Pemberley I was overcome with surprise, but quickly blessed my good fortune. I had a chance to show you that I was not as mean-spirited as you thought me. I had a chance to show you that I could be a gentleman. When you did not spurn me, when you accepted my invitation, I dared to hope, but your sister’s troubles took you away from me and I saw you no more. I could not let matters rest. I had to help your sister, in the knowledge that by doing so I was helping you. Then, when she was safely married, I had to see you. I was as nervous as Bingley when we arrived at Longbourn. It was clear that your sister was a woman in love, but I could tell nothing from your face or manner. Did you love me? Did you like me? Could you even tolerate me? I thought yes, then I thought no.

You said so little –’

‘Which was not in my nature,’ she said with an arch smile.

‘No,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It was not. I did not know whether it was because you were displeased to see me or merely embarrassed.’

‘I was embarrassed,’ she said. ‘I did not know why you had come. I was afraid of showing too much. I did not want to expose myself to ridicule. I could not believe that a man of your pride would offer his hand when it had already been rejected.’

‘His hand, no, but his heart, yes. You are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry, and by accepting my hand you have put me forever in your debt.’

‘I will remind you of it, when you are cross with me,’ she said teasingly.

‘I could never be cross with you.’

‘You think not, but when I pollute the shades of Pemberley, it is possible that you might!’

I laughed. ‘Ah yes, my aunt expressed herself forcefully to both of us.’

‘She told me I would never live at Pemberley,’ said Elizabeth.

‘I ought to dislike her for it, but I am too much in charity with her. It is her visit that brought me to you.’

‘She came to see you?’

‘She did. In London. She was in high dudgeon. She told me that she had been to see you, and that she had demanded that you contradict the rumour of our impending marriage. Your refusal to fall in with her wishes put her sadly out of countenance but it taught me to hope.’

I spoke of my letter. ‘Did it,’ I said, ‘did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?’

‘It made me think so much better of you, and so immediately, that I felt heartily ashamed of myself. I read it through again, and then again, and as I did so, every one of my prejudices was removed.’

‘I knew that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter.’

‘The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.’

‘When I wrote that letter, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.’

‘The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.’

I could not do it. I could not let the past go without telling her of my parents, good people in themselves who yet encouraged me to think well of myself and meanly of others. I told her how I was an only son, indeed an only child for much of my life, and how I had come to value none beyond my own family circle. ‘By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.’

We talked of Georgiana and of Lydia, and of the day at the inn when Jane’s letter had arrived. Talk of Jane naturally led to her engagement.

‘I must ask whether you were surprised?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.’

‘That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much,’ she teased me.

By this time we had reached the house. It was not until we went indoors that I realized how long we had been away.

‘My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?’ asked her sister, as we sat down at the table.

Elizabeth coloured, but said: ‘We wandered about, not paying attention to where we were going, and became lost.’

‘I am sure I am sorry for it,’ said Mrs Bennet, in a whisper loud enough for me to hear. ‘It must have been very trying for you, having to talk to that disagreeable man.’

Elizabeth was mortified, but I caught her eye and smiled. Her mother may be the most dreadful woman it has been my misfortune to meet, but I would tolerate a dozen such mothers for the sake of Elizabeth.

I could not speak to her as I wished to during the evening. Jane and Bingley sat close together, talking of the future, but until I had asked Mr Bennet for Elizabeth’s hand, she and I could not indulge in such discussions.

It was time for Bingley and me to return to Netherfield. I was able to relieve my feelings a little in the carriage going home.

‘I have already wished you happy,’ I said. ‘Now you must do the same for me.’

Bingley looked surprised.

‘I am to marry Elizabeth.’

‘Elizabeth?’

‘Yes. I proposed during our walk. She has agreed to marry me.’

‘This is capital news! Almost as good as my own. She is just the wife for you. She is the only person I have ever met who can stand up to you. I shall never forget the way she teased you when she stayed with us at Netherfield, when Jane was ill. You were bored and in one of your stately moods. Caroline was admiring everything you said and did. I remember thinking it would be a tragedy if you married her, knowing she would confirm you in your conceit. She would convince you that you were above everyone else in every way. Not that you needed a great deal of convincing!’

I laughed.

‘Was I really so arrogant?’

‘You were,’ said Bingley. ‘You know you were! But Elizabeth will make sure you never become so again.

When do you mean to marry?’

‘As soon as possible. Elizabeth will need time to buy wedding clothes, and if she wishes me to make any alterations to Pemberley before she arrives then I will need time to attend to it. Otherwise, I would like to marry at once.’

‘Changes to Pemberley? It must be love,’ Bingley said.

‘I am sure I hope you will be very happy.’

‘We have been talking about that, Elizabeth and I. We have decided that you and Jane will be happy, but that we will be happier.’

‘Oh no, on that we will never agree.’

The carriage rolled to a halt.

‘Will you tell Caroline, or shall I?’ asked Bingley, as we went in. Then he went on immediately: ‘It might be better to let me tell her, or she might say something she regrets on first hearing the news.’

‘As you wish.’

On entering the house, I retired to the library, to think of Elizabeth, and of the future.

I met Caroline at breakfast, and I was pleased to see how well she comported herself.

‘I understand I am to wish you happy,’ she remarked.

‘Yes. I am to be married.’

‘I am delighted,’ she said. ‘It is time you took a wife.

Who would have thought, when we came to Netherfield last year, that both you and Charles would find true love.’

I ignored her droll tone.

‘Perhaps one day you might be as fortunate.’

‘I do not think I will ever marry,’ she declared. ‘I have no desire to let a man master me. When is the wedding to be?’

‘Soon.’

‘Then I must see my dressmaker. Two weddings in so short a space of time will require careful planning.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Louisa. ‘We must have something new.’

Soon after breakfast, Bingley and I set out again for Longbourn.

‘Caroline was very well-behaved,’ I said to him. ‘I thought she took the news well.’

‘She was not so very well-behaved when I told her,’ said Bingley, ‘but I reminded her that if she was not civil about it she would find herself excluded from Pemberley.’

We arrived. Mrs Bennet was all smiles as she greeted Bingley, and all grimaces as she made me a curtsy. How will she react when she knows I am to be her son-in-law?

Bingley looked at Elizabeth warmly, so that I am sure she guessed I had told him, then he said: ‘Mrs Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again today?’

Mrs Bennet was all too ready to fall in with his suggestion, eager to allow him a little privacy with Jane. She suggested we walk to Oakham Mount. Bingley, in lively humour, said he was sure it would be too much for Kitty, and Kitty agreed she would rather stay at home. It is a change to have Bingley ordering my life for me! But I could not complain, since a few minutes later I found myself out of doors and free to talk to Elizabeth.

‘I must ask your father for his consent to the marriage,’ I said, as we wandered towards the mount.

‘And if he does not give it?’ she asked with an arch smile.

‘Then I will have to carry you off without it,’ I said.

‘Do you think he will withhold it?’ I asked her more seriously.

‘No. I am not afraid of what he might say. At least, not once he comes to know you, though to begin with he might be surprised. When Mr Collins’s letter came…’

She broke off.

I looked at her enquiringly.

‘Mr Collins wrote to him, telling him that I must not marry you, as it would anger Lady Catherine!’

‘And what did your father reply?’

‘He is too busy savouring the joke to write back.’

‘I can see I will have a difficult time with him. Will he think I am joking when I ask for your hand?’

‘I don’t believe he will dare,’ she said.

She spoke lightly, but I could tell she was troubled.

‘I will take pains to know him,’ I said. ‘He and I will come to understand each other better, and I will make sure he does not ever regret giving his consent.’

We walked on.

‘And then there is my mother,’ she said.

‘Will I stop being that man, do you think?’ I asked her with a smile.

‘Don’t,’ she said with a shudder. ‘If you knew how many times I have blushed for her, or wished her to be silent. I think I will tell her when she is alone,’ she went on. ‘Then she will have a chance to overcome the first shock, and perhaps it will make her more rational when she speaks to you.’

‘Exactly Bingley’s feelings, when deciding it would be better if he told Caroline!’

‘I wonder if she will continue to find your handwriting so even once you are married?’

‘I fear not. She will probably think it uncommonly untidy.’

We reached the top of the mount.

‘Well, and what do you think of the view?’ Elizabeth asked me.

I turned to look at her.

‘I like it very much,’ I said.

She looked so beautiful that I gave in to the urge to kiss her. She was surprised at first, but then responded warmly, and I knew our marriage would be a happy one in every way.

We walked on together, talking of the future. I am eager to show Elizabeth Pemberley, not as a visitor, but as its future mistress.

‘You will not mind my aunt and uncle visiting?’ she asked.

‘Of course not. I liked them.’

‘And my sisters?’

‘Jane and Bingley will be with us often. Your younger sisters are welcome to come whenever they, or you, choose. But I will not have Wickham there.’

We rejoined Jane and Bingley and returned to Longbourn.

Throughout the evening, Elizabeth was not at ease. I longed to put her out of her misery, but could not speak to Mr Bennet until after dinner. As soon as I saw him withdraw to the library, I followed him.

‘Mr Darcy,’ he said in surprise, as I closed the library door behind me.

‘I would like to speak to you,’ I said.

‘I am at your disposal. You have heard, I suppose, of the rumour that you are to marry Elizabeth and want it stopped, but I advise you to enjoy it for its absurdity, instead of fretting over what is a harmless piece of nonsense.’

‘I don’t find it in the least bit absurd,’ I said to him. ‘I find it highly desirable. I have followed you in order to ask you for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage.’

His mouth fell open.

‘Ask me for Elizabeth’s hand in marriage?’ he repeated at last.

‘Yes.’

‘But there must be some mistake.’

‘There is no mistake.’

‘But I thought…that is, Mr Collins is such a fool! He is forever regaling me with some new and preposterous story, and I was sure he must have made a mistake. You, who have never looked at Elizabeth in your life! And yet now you tell me you want to marry her.’

‘I do. I love her, and as for not singling her out for attention, I have done little else. You have not been there, however, so I cannot blame you for being surprised. When she was a guest at Netherfield, I had the pleasure of her company for almost a week, and I spent much of my time with her. I saw her again in Kent, when she was visiting Mrs Collins, and we came to know each other well. I met her more recently in Derbyshire, and each time I have met her, I have loved her more. My feelings are not of a short duration. They are longstanding, and will not change.’

‘But she has always hated you!’ he said. ‘For any man to persist against such obvious aversion is madness.’

At this I smiled.

‘I can assure you I am quite sane. Her aversion has been overcome long ago. I have already asked her to marry me, and she has said yes.’

‘Said yes!’ exclaimed Mr Bennet in faint tones.

‘And as the two of us are in agreement, we need only your permission to set a date.’

‘And if I do not give it?’

‘Then I am afraid I will have to marry her without it.’

He looked at me as though deciding if I was serious.

Then, collecting his wits, he said: ‘If it is as you say, and Elizabeth really wishes to marry you, then you may have my consent and my blessing. But I want to hear it from her own lips. Send her to me.’

I left him and went to Elizabeth. She saw from my face that he had given his consent.

‘He wants to speak to you.’

She nodded, and left the room.

Mrs Bennet, who had been talking to Jane and Bingley, looked up at this.

‘Where has Lizzy gone?’ she asked Jane.

‘I do not know,’ Jane replied, though from her face I could tell she had guessed.

‘She has made an excuse to leave the room, being tired of talking to that disagreeable gentleman, I suppose,’ said Mrs Bennet, not taking the trouble to lower her voice. ‘I do not blame her. Now, Jane, you must have a new dress for your wedding. What colour do you think it should be? I was married in blue,’ she said,‘in quite the most beautiful dress, not like the fashions nowadays. It had a wide skirt, and a pointed bodice. We must make sure you have something equally fine. Satin, I think, or Bruges lace.’

Jane cast me an apologetic look at the start of this speech, and then attended to her mother, but I scarcely heard Mrs Bennet’s effusions. I was wondering what was happening in the library. Elizabeth seemed to be gone for a very long time. What was her father saying to her? Was it really taking her so long to convince him of her feelings for me?

‘I have often observed, that the finery of the weddinggown has no bearing on the happiness of the marriage,’ said Mary, looking up from her book. ‘Such things are all vanity, set to entrap the incautious female and lead her down the path of temptation.’

‘Oh, hush Mary, be quiet, no one asked you,’ said Mrs Bennet, annoyed. ‘When you find a husband, you may prose on the nature of wedding gowns as much as you like.’

Mary was silenced.

‘When I marry, I will have a satin underskirt and a gauze overskirt,’ said Kitty,‘and I will not run off with my husband and live with him in London first.’

‘Kitty, be quiet,’ said Mrs Bennet. She turned to Bingley with a smile. ‘What will you wear, Mr Bingley? A blue coat or a black one? Wickham was married in his blue coat. My dear Wickham!’ she said with a sigh. ‘Such a handsome man. But not nearly as handsome as you.’

I caught Bingley’s eye. It was probable that, if Wickham had had five thousand a year, he would have been allowed to be as handsome as Bingley.

‘I will wear whatever Jane wishes,’ he said.

Where was Elizabeth? I felt my impatience growing.

At last she returned to the room and smiled. All was well.

The evening passed quietly. I received a cold nod from Mrs Bennet when I left, and I wondered what her reception of me would be on the morrow. I saw lines of strain around Elizabeth’s mouth, and I knew she was not looking forward to her interview with her mother.

‘By this time tomorrow it will be done,’ I said.

She nodded, then Bingley and I departed.

‘Her father gave his consent?’ asked Bingley, as we returned to Netherfield.

‘He did.’

‘Jane and I have already set a date for our wedding. We were wondering what you and Elizabeth would think of a double wedding?’

I was much struck by the idea.

‘I like it. If Elizabeth is agreeable, then that is what we will do.’

Bingley and I were at Longbourn early this morning.

‘Mr Bingley,’ said Mrs Bennet, fidgeting as she welcomed him. She turned to me, and I felt Elizabeth grow tense. But her mother merely looked at me in awe and said: ‘Mr Darcy.’

There was no coldness in her tone. Indeed she seemed stunned. I made her a bow and went to sit beside Elizabeth.

The morning passed off well. Mrs Bennet took the younger girls upstairs with her on some pretext, and Elizabeth and I were free to talk. When luncheon was served, Mrs Bennet sat on one side of me, and Elizabeth on the other.

‘Some hollandaise sauce, Mr Darcy?’ said Mrs Bennet.

‘I believe you like sauces.’

I cast my eyes over the table, and saw no less than six sauce-boats. I was about to refuse the hollandaise sauce when I caught sight of Elizabeth’s mortified expression and I determined to repay Mrs Bennet’s new civility with a civility of my own.

‘Thank you.’

I took some hollandaise sauce.

‘And béarnaise? I had it made specially.’

I hesitated, but then put a spot of béarnaise sauce next to the hollandaise sauce.

‘And some port-wine sauce?’ she said. ‘I hope you will take a little. Cook made it specially.’

I took some port-wine sauce and looked at my plate in dismay. I caught Elizabeth’s eye and saw her laughing.

I took some béchamel sauce, mustard sauce and a cream sauce as well, and then set about eating my strange meal.

‘You are enjoying your luncheon?’ asked Mrs Bennet solicitously.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘It is not what you are used to, I suppose.’

I could honestly say that it was not.

‘You have two or three French cooks, I suppose?’

‘No, I have only the one cook, and she is English.’

‘She is your cook at Pemberley?’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘Pemberley,’ said Mrs Bennet. ‘How grand it sounds. I am glad Lizzy refused Mr Collins, for a parsonage is nothing to Pemberley. I expect the chimney piece will be even bigger than the one at Rosings. How much did it cost, Mr Darcy?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Very likely a thousand pounds or more.’

‘It must be difficult to maintain,’ said Mr Bennet. ‘Even at Longbourn, it is difficult to keep up with all the repairs.’

We fell into a discussion about our estates, and I found Mr Bennet to be a sensible man. He might be negligent where his family are concerned, but his duties in other areas are carried out responsibly.

I have to forgive him the former negligence as it produced Elizabeth. Her liveliness and vitality would have been crushed under an ordinary upbringing.

I have decided that Georgiana must have a spell without a governess or a companion, so that she might develop her own spirit. I am sure that Elizabeth will agree.

Elizabeth began to ask me how I had fallen in love with her.

‘How could you begin?’ she asked. ‘I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?’

I thought. What was it that had started me falling in love with her? Was it when she had looked at me satirically at the assembly? Or when she had walked through the mud to see Jane? Or when she had neglected to flatter me, not telling me how well I wrote? Or when she had refused to try and attract my attention?

‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago.

I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.’

She teased me, saying I had resisted her beauty, and therefore I must have fallen in love with her impertinence.

‘To be sure, you know no actual good of me – but nobody thinks of that when they fall in love.’

‘Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was ill at Netherfield?’

‘Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible.’

‘You do not easily take offence. It cannot have been easy for you to be at Netherfield – you were not made very welcome – and yet you were amused rather than otherwise by our rudeness.’

‘I like to laugh,’ she admitted.

‘And you are loyal to your friends. You berated me over my treatment of Wickham –’

‘Do not speak of him!’ she begged me. ‘I can hardly bear to think about it.’

‘But I can. He is a loathsome individual, but you did not know that at the time, and you defended him. There are not many women who would defend a poor friend against a rich and eligible bachelor.’

‘However undeserving the “friend” might be,’ she said ruefully.

‘And you were not afraid to change your mind when you learnt the truth. You did not cling to your prejudices, regarding either Wickham or myself. You admitted the justice of what I said.’

‘Yes, I acknowledged that a man who does not give a living to a wastrel is not a brute. That is a sign of great goodness, indeed!’

‘You did everything in your power to help Lydia, even though you knew her to be thoughtless and wild,’ I pointed out.

‘She is my sister. I could hardly abandon her to a rogue,’ she replied.

‘But I am allowed to exaggerate your good points,’ I reminded her. ‘You said so yourself.’

She laughed.

‘Poor Lydia. I thought she had ruined my chance of happiness with you for ever. I could not imagine you would want to be connected to a family in which one of the girls had eloped, especially not as she had eloped with your greatest enemy.’

‘I never thought of that. You had taught me by then that such things do not matter.’

‘I had taught you more than I realized, then. When you came to Longbourn, after Lydia’s marriage –’

‘Yes?’

‘You said so little. I thought you did not care about me.’

‘Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.’

‘I was embarrassed,’ she said.

‘And so was I.’

‘Tell me, why did you come to Netherfield? Was it merely so that you could ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? Or had you intended any more serious consequence?’

‘My real purpose was to see you, and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me.

My avowed one, or what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.’

‘Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine, what is to befall her?’

‘I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done directly.’

Whilst I composed my letter to Lady Catherine, Elizabeth composed a letter to her aunt and uncle in Gracechurch Street. Hers was easier to write than mine, because it would give pleasure, whereas mine would give distress. But it had to be done.

Lady Catherine,

I am sure you will want to wish me happy. I have asked Miss Elizabeth Bennet to marry me, and she has done me the great honour of saying yes.

Your nephew,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

‘And now I will write a far pleasanter letter,’ I said.

I took another sheet of paper and wrote to Georgiana.

My dear sister,

I know you will be delighted to hear that Elizabeth and I are to marry. I will tell you everything when I see you next.

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam

It was short, but I had time for no more. I read it through, sanded it and addressed the envelope.

‘Shall you mind having another sister?’ I asked Elizabeth.

‘Not at all. I am looking forward to it. She will live with us at Pemberley?’

‘If you have no objection?’

‘None at all.’

‘She can learn a great deal from you.’

‘And I from her. She will be able to tell me all about the Pemberley traditions.’

‘You must alter anything you do not like.’

‘No, I will not alter anything. My aunt and I are already agreed, Pemberley is perfect just as it is.’

Elizabeth is delighted with Georgiana’s letter, which arrived this morning. It was well written, and in four pages expressed Georgiana’s delight at the prospect of having a sister.

Less welcome was Lady Catherine’s letter.

Fitzwilliam,

I do not call you nephew, for you are no longer a nephew of mine. I am shocked and astonished that you could stoop to offer your hand to a person of such low breeding. It is a stain on the honour and credit of the name of Darcy. She will bring you nothing but degradation and embarrassment, and she will reduce your house to a place of impertinence and vulgarity. Your children will be wild and undisciplined. Your daughters will run off with stable hands and your sons will become attorneys. You will never be received by any of your acquaintance. You will be disgraced in the eyes of the world, and will become a figure of contempt. You will bitterly regret this day. You will remember that I warned you of the consequences of such a disastrous act, but by then it will be too late. I will not end this letter by wishing you happiness, for no happiness can follow such a blighted union.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh

I dined with Elizabeth this evening, and I was surprised to find a large party there, consisting of Mrs Philips, Sir William Lucas and Mr and Mrs Collins. The unexpected appearance of the Collinses was soon explained. Lady Catherine has been rendered so exceedingly angry by our engagement that they thought it wiser to leave Kent for a time and retreat to Lucas Lodge.

Elizabeth and Charlotte had much to discuss, and whilst the two of them talked before dinner, I was left to the tender mercies of Mr Collins.

‘I was delighted to learn that you had offered your hand to my fair cousin, and that she, in her gracious and womanly wisdom, had accepted you,’ he said, beaming. ‘I now understand why she could not accept the proposal I so injudiciously made to her last autumn, when I knew nothing of the present felicitous happenings. I thought at the time that it was strange that such an amiable young woman would refuse the wholly unexceptionable hand of an estimable young man, particularly one who possessed so fine a living, and who, if I may say so, had the advantages of his calling to offer her as well as the advantages of his person. The refusal seemed inexplicable to me at the time, but I fully comprehend it now. My fair cousin had lost her heart to one who, if I may say so, is, by virtue of his standing, more worthy even than a clergyman, for he has the clergyman’s fate in his hands.’

I saw Elizabeth looking satirically at me, but I bore his conversation with composure. I might even, in time, grow to be amused by it.

‘Admirably expressed,’ said Sir William Lucas, as he joined us. He bowed to me, and then to Mr Collins, and then to me again. ‘Only such worth could resign us to the fact that you will be carrying away the brightest jewel of our county when you carry Elizabeth to Derbyshire,’ he continued with another bow. ‘I hope we will all of us meet very frequently, either at Longbourn or at St James’s.’

Fortunately we then went in to dinner, but though I was relieved from the company of Mr Collins and Sir William, I found myself seated next to Mrs Philips. She seemed too much in awe of me to say very much, but when she did speak, it was all of it very vulgar.

‘So, Mr Darcy, it is true you have ten thousand a year?’ she asked.

I looked at her quellingly.

‘I am sure it must be, for I have heard it talked of everywhere. And is Pemberley bigger than Rosings?’

When I did not reply, she asked the question again.

‘It is,’ I said.

‘And how much was the chimney-piece? Mr Collins was telling me that the chimney-piece at Rosings cost eight hundred pounds. I expect the chimney-piece at Pemberley must have cost over a thousand pounds. My sister and I were talking of it only the other day. “Depend on it,” I said,“it will have been well over a thousand pounds”.

“Very likely it cost more than twelve hundred pounds”, she returned. It is a good thing Lizzy did not marry Mr Collins, after all, though my sister was annoyed enough at the time, but what is Mr Collins to Mr Darcy? Even Lady Lucas agrees that he is nothing whatsoever. Ten thousand a year. The dresses, the carriages she will have.’

I bore her remarks as best I could, and I look forward to the day when I will have Elizabeth with me at Pemberley, free of all her relations.

I did not know that I could feel so nervous, but this morning I felt almost as nervous as the day on which I asked Elizabeth to marry me. Bingley and I went to the church together. I believe he was even more anxious than I was when we went in and took our places at the front.

The guests began to arrive. Mr Collins was the first.

His wife was not with him, for she was to be Elizabeth’s attendant. Mrs Philips followed closely after. The Lucases arrived, then a number of Elizabeth’s acquaintances. Of my own relatives there was only Colonel Fitzwilliam and my sister, Georgiana. Lady Catherine and Anne did not attend. I did not expect it, and I was relieved that aunt had decided to stay away, but I would have liked to have seen Anne, and I suspect she would have liked to see me married safely to Elizabeth.

The church filled. The guests took their seats. Bingley and I exchanged glances. We looked to the door. We looked back again. I glanced at my watch. Bingley glanced at his. He smiled nervously. I smiled reassuringly.

He nodded. I clasped my hands. And then we heard a sigh and, looking round, I beheld Elizabeth. She was walking up the aisle on her father’s arm, with Jane on his other arm. But I had no eyes for Jane. I had eyes only for Elizabeth. She looked radiant. I felt my nervousness leave me as she joined me, taking her place next to me as Jane took her place next to Bingley.

The service was simple but it touched me deeply. As Elizabeth and I exchanged vows I thought there could not have been a happier man in all England.

We left the church, and as I looked down at Elizabeth I knew she was now Mrs Darcy.

‘Mrs Darcy!’ said her mother, echoing my thoughts.

‘How well it sounds. And Mrs Bingley! Oh! If I can but see my other two daughters so well married I will have nothing left to wish for.’

We returned to Longbourn for the wedding breakfast, and then Elizabeth and I set off for a tour of the Lake District. Jane and Bingley went with us. We stopped for the night at a small inn and I am making the most of the opportunity to write my diary, for there will not be time later. I am looking forward to this evening.

After dinner, our true marriage will begin.