P&P The Untold Stories: Darcy Undone

A heartbroken Darcy returns to Pemberley.

June, 1812

At the first sight of Pemberley, he was undone.

In town, he had kept to his schedule, maintained his facade. No one who looked at him could have known anything was different. (Everything was different.)

With the haut ton, he knew just how to act: with confidence (arrogance), pride (conceit), and dispassionate rationality (a selfish disdain for the feelings of others). He was the consummate gentleman—at least, the sort of gentleman people in Mayfair admired.

Roaming the streets of London, he could be miserable without a single person noticing, for in London everyone was miserable, or if they were not, they ought to be. It was a rotten place, London. Why did he bother with it, anyway?

“Pemberley will cheer you,” his sister had murmured, as their carriage journeyed north. “It always does.”

No, it always had. Now, it took but a single glance at the old oaks bordering Pemberley woods, and his eyes filled with tears.

Good god, she would have loved those trees. She would have taken him by the hand and said, Stop the carriage! Let us walk the rest of the way. And he would have said, It is above three miles to the house, Elizabeth, and quite a muddy walk, too. Are you concerned, she would have asked, one eyebrow arched, for the state of my petticoats, Fitzwilliam?

“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana touched a tentative hand to his back. “Are you…well?”

Staring resolutely out the window, he said, “I am…”—and then said no more, for what could he say in the face of such beauty? (Allow me to tell you…)

There was the stream, burbling its way to the pond. (Will you teach me how to swim, Fitzwilliam?) There was the meadow, golden grass waving. (So many wildflowers! Ah, just wait until August, Elizabeth). And there, at last, was the house. (Home, she would have said, leaning toward him. Home, he would have said, pressing his lips to hers.)

“Oh, look!” said Georgiana, in the excessively cheerful tone a mother might use with her sulky child. “There is Mrs. Reynolds, come to meet us!”

(Does she always wait out of doors for you? And with several other servants, as well?)

“Yes,” he said.

(But why? Is it not an inconvenience for them?)

“It is how it has always been,” he said.

“Yes,” said Georgiana, patting him on the back. “Exactly as it has always been.”

(Not exactly. Do you see how slowly Mrs. Reynolds approaches? How unsteady her curtsy?)

“Your back,” he said, watching the housekeeper rise precariously to her tiptoes so that she might kiss Georgiana on the cheek. “Are you injured? Should I send for a physician?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” she said, pressing a fist against the base of her spine. “Nothing at all, sir.” Then she gave him a long, hard stare. “You’re the one who looks in need of a physician—or at least a good night’s sleep!”

(Oh, I like her, Fitzwilliam—very much.)

“He has not been entirely well,” Georgiana murmured, as she and the housekeeper followed him up the front steps.

“London does not agree with him,” said Mrs. Reynolds. “It never has.”

“No…that is, yes, you are correct about London, but I believe it may be something else that distresses him.”

(Well, well. Georgiana sees far more you than you realize.)

“I’ll have Banning prepare his favorite dish for dinner tonight. Oh, and Frank,” said Mrs. Reynolds to the footman, “make certain Caldwell removes the counterpane from Mr. Darcy’s bed; he does not sleep well when he is over warm.”

(How they cater to your every need! It is almost as if you are not their master, but instead—)

“Enough!” he roared, rounding on them so quickly they nearly stumbled on the steps. “Do not treat me like—”

(A spoiled child?)

Yes, at the sight of Pemberley—the grounds, the house, the people (especially the people)—he was undone. For only here—only at home—did he truly understand: she had been right to refuse him.

He saw Elizabeth’s disapprobation in the expressions of all those who ought to have admired him: Georgiana, staring down at her feet; Mrs. Reynolds, glaring not at him but at some point behind him; the footmen, stopping whatever they were doing (doing for you, Fitzwilliam) to look up at the sky, or down at their hands, or off to the side—anywhere but into the face of the man who was their (self-styled) superior.

He stood there, paralyzed, knowing he must say something—but what? (In cases such as these, it is, I believe, the established mode to express some obligation…)

“Forgive me,” he managed, at last. “I have been…”

(Unjust? Ungenerous?)

Yes, she had known him from the first.

He said the words—her words—in a strangled voice, then spun on his heel and escaped.

But where could he go that she would not follow?

The library? She may not have been a great reader, but she would have found her way into any book he opened.

The music room? No, he could not take the trouble to practice, not today.

His chambers? Good god, no. How could he sleep in that bed, knowing he had been so presumptuous to imagine her there, in his arms? Toward him, she felt so immovable a dislike that she would have shuddered to find herself waking beside him.

He tried to take refuge in his study, but could only stare at the stack of correspondence on his desk. He had been mistaken, utterly mistaken, about her feelings. Was he also wrong about the opinion others held of him? Flipping through the letters, he searched for some proof of his own character: his solicitor (you were rather curt with the man when you saw him in London); the vicar (you have often been curt with him, too); Richard (curtest of all); Bingley (worse than curt: cruel.)

No, surely not. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.

(On the contrary, Fitzwilliam, you have ruined, perhaps forever, his chance at happiness.)

Pushing away from his desk, he stalked to the only room in this large old house where he had any hope of finding peace: the portrait gallery. There, he could be alone (the last man in the world); there he could gaze up at the two people he was certain had loved and understood him.

But they were not there. Where once his parents had stood, dressed in rich oil paint, there was nothing but bare wall.

“Where…?” he began, turning in a full circle, as if one of the other portraits might tell him what had happened to the painting he loved best.

(It is being reframed, Fitzwilliam. Do you not recall the letter from Mrs. Reynolds?)

Yes, he recalled. She, of course, could have known nothing of that letter, nothing of the painting, nothing of Pemberley. Logically, he knew she could not be the voice in his head. Those were his words, his thoughts, his feelings—his and only his. Once again, he had allowed himself to think for her, rather than of her.

He sank down onto a bench in a corner of the room, resting his head in his hands. What would his parents have thought of her? Surely they would have disapproved of her coarse connections and country manners.

But that wit, those eyes—ah, they would have loved her in spite of themselves.

“Oh!”

At Georgiana’s quiet exclamation, he glanced up. His sister stood in the doorway, blinking—not at him, but at that rectangle of claret-colored plaster where their parents ought to have been.

“Where did they go?” she whispered.

“So you visit them too.” How many times had she come to sit where he now sat, seeking assurance from the parents she had hardly known?

“Oh, Fitzwilliam! I did not see you there, I…that is I did not mean to intrude, I only meant to—” She stopped, tilting her head. “Did you just ask me if I visit them too?”

He smiled faintly. “I did.”

“You also come to…to visit them?” Her voice cracked on that word, “visit.” Did she recognize the strangeness, the magic, of this ritual they had both created without the other’s knowledge?

“I come here,” he said, “whenever I am uncertain or lost.”

“You, uncertain or lost?” She offered him a diffident smile. “Then you must not come often; that is why I have never seen you sitting here.”

“When I am in residence, Georgi, I come here above twice a week.”

Their eyes met, and he felt as if he were seeing her —and she him—for the first time.

She left the shelter of the doorway and strode into the gallery, looking less like his younger sister and more like—well, more like their mother, at least as he remembered her. It had been so long since Lady Anne had stood before him, fixing him with that resolute gaze.

“Tell me what is wrong, Fitzwilliam.”

It was an odd feeling, looking up at Georgiana. When standing, he was taller than she was by almost a foot—or, perhaps only half a foot now. She had grown so much this year. Even so, he had always looked down on her, for rarely had he remained sitting while she stood.

He ought to stand now, but instead patted the empty seat beside him. She sat without hesitation, sidling up to him like the child she had once been, looping her arm through the crook of his arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

They did not move, did not speak, for so long he found himself wondering if they had become sculptures in this room full of paintings. Only when her stomach grumbled did they look at each other.

“I heard a rumor,” he said,  “that Banning is preparing my favorite dish tonight. I suppose we should dress for dinner.”

“But…” She pulled on his arm, keeping him in his seat. “You have not told me what is wrong.”

He looked away and shook his head.

“Please, Fitzwilliam? Think of all the hours you spent, last September, listening to me.” She leaned against him. “Could I not perform the same service for you?”

He turned to stare at her.

“Oh, I do not mean to suggest,” she rushed on, “that my troubles are anything compared to yours. I know you would not be so silly as to—”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “How brave you are, Georgiana.”

“Brave? No! I—”

“Yes, brave. I have not told you often enough.” He glanced up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “All these months, you have been in pain, yet you have behaved with grace and kindness.”

She shook her head. “I have been awkward and afraid and—”

“Of course you have been afraid; he treated you abominably!”

At this outburst, she reared back, but before he could apologize, she grasped his hand and squeezed, hard. “I abhor her, you know. I absolutely abhor her!”

He blinked. “Her?”

“The woman who disappointed you, who broke your heart! I abhor—”

“No!” If he had not already felt the sting of Elizabeth’s criticism, he would have now. To see his sister—his dear, compassionate sister—wield hate for his sake, and so mistakenly too, made him sick at heart. “No, you have misunderstood.”

“Oh! But I thought…” She uttered a soft laugh. “I am glad to have been wrong. I should not have assumed you had suffered disappointment in love merely because I have—”

“I have suffered a disappointment. I…” You have said quite enough!

(You have not said nearly enough.)

He met his sister’s wide-eyed gaze. “I am heartbroken, Georgi.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam! I—”

“But you must not blame Elizabeth, you must not think it is the same as it was with Wi—“

“Elizabeth? Elizabeth Bennet?”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Are you acquainted with her?”

“Well, no, of course not, but…your letters, Fitzwilliam. You wrote of her several times—how she walked all that way to care for her sister, how she played and sang with unaffected sweetness, how she took pleasure in reading, how she made you laugh, how…” Georgiana shook her head. “I do not understand. She seemed so kind, so lovely.”

“She is.” He closed his eyes. “She is.”

“No, she is not! How could she be, if she caused you such pain?”

“Georgiana—”

“How could he…how could she turn out to be so very different from what you…from what I…” Suddenly, she balled her hands into fists and pressed them hard against her forehead.

“Georgiana!”

“It is not right!” she cried, her voice echoing through the gallery. “People ought to be what they seem!”

“Yes,” he murmured, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and pulling her close. “Yes, they ought.”  Then he squeezed his eyes shut and waited out her sobs, silently counting backward from one hundred by sevens.

At least, he had meant to count silently. When he reached fifty-one, he must have spoken aloud, for Georgiana asked, between hiccuping breaths, “What is fifty-one?”

“It is nothing, it is…” He glanced involuntarily at the blank spot on the wall. “It is a stratagem Mamma taught me when I was a child—a way to compose myself.”

She pulled back to look at him. “She taught you to say…fifty-one?”

His laugh was soft, sad. “No, she said that, when I felt too much, I ought to engage the most rational part of my mind, and what is more rational than mathematics?”

“Why count backward by sevens, though?” she asked, when he had explained the particulars. “Why not fives or eights or…”

“I never thought to ask. Perhaps I was seven at the time?” He shrugged. “She told me it was a trick she used when she was feeling distressed.”

“Do you think she was distressed often, then?” Georgiana’s gaze flitted to the wall. “Do you think they were unhappy or disappointed or—”

“No, no,” he said quickly, though in truth, he did not know for certain. He had been only twelve, nearly thirteen, when his mother had died—old enough to remember her well, but too young to know much about his parents’ marriage.

“Did she or Papa ever tell you stories about their courtship?” Georgiana asked.

He shook his head. Why had he never thought to ask?

“Papa once promised he would tell me all about it, but only when”— she sighed—“only when I was of an age to marry.”

He again looked at the wall, as if their outlined absence might provide an answer, or at least a sign. But nothing came to him except the words he always offered in such moments: “They would have been very proud of you, Georgi.”

She began to cry again.

“How can you call me brave, how can you believe they would be proud, when I am this?” she demanded, waving a hand toward her red eyes and puffy cheeks. “Forgive me, I…” She drew in a long, trembling breath.  “One hundred, ninety-three, eighty…er, eighty six?”

He nodded, and then, in unison: “Seventy-nine, seventy-two, sixty-five…”

“I suppose it works,” she said, when they had reached two and could go no further without turning negative.

“Yes—at least for a while.”

“Do not think I have forgotten that I am supposed to be comforting you,” she murmured, returning her head to his shoulder.

He said nothing, for what could he say? She was not comforting him, but then no one could.

And yet, he adored his sister; he always had. Though she had taken her first breath when their mother had breathed her last—or perhaps because of this—he had always thought of Georgiana as a blessing. Too young to be his friend, too kind to be an antagonist, too earnest to be a vexation, she allowed him to see the world through a different set of eyes, at least when he took the time to converse with her. How often, these past few years, had he given her his undivided attention? Only now, after Wickham—after Elizabeth.

He shook his head, hating to think of the man he despised in the same breath as the woman he loved.

The woman who would never love him.

“I suppose it is more difficult,” Georgiana said, when he could not hold in his shuddering sigh, “to be a heartbroken man than a heartbroken woman.”

He grimaced. “I wish I had not used that word, and no, I do not think my situation is more difficult than yours.”

It was only then, when he spoke the words aloud, that he realized the truth of them. Whatever Georgiana felt for Wickham (and he hoped, desperately, that she felt nothing more than a passing infatuation), she had so few means of distracting herself. He, however, had all those letters on his desk to answer; he had Pemberley to oversee; he had this dear girl sitting beside him (a most beloved sister) to guide and raise.

He had to overcome these feelings (my feelings will not be repressed); he had to concentrate on reality, no matter how harsh (how ardently I admire and love you).

“I do not think…” Georgiana bit her lip. “I do not think you are correct, Fitzwilliam.”

He looked at her, and she looked back, unblinking. Where was her meekness, her timidity, which she had worn like armor in the months since Ramsgate?

(Gone, God willing, gone.)

“You called me brave,” she continued, “and I thought it was not the right word, but perhaps I am brave, just a little. Not by choice, but by circumstance, for I have so little to do all day except consider my feelings. I must confront what I have lost.”

“You have not lost anything,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Wickham is not worth having.”

“No, he is not,” she agreed quietly. “And that is what I must admit to myself, day after day: I was utterly wrong about him.”

“That is not your—”

She held up a hand. “You have told me, often enough, that it is not my fault, that he deceived me, that I am innocent. I do not care anymore, Fitzwilliam, about blame or guilt. I want only to believe that I might, someday, trust my own judgement again.”

God, how he loathed Wickham!

(Who that knows his misdeeds can help feel loathing for him?)

But no: composure and rationality, these must be his guides. One hundred, ninety-three, eight-six…

“You,” continued Georgiana, slipping her hand into his, “cannot admit you are in pain, for fear of being thought weak. That is why I think it must, in the end, be more difficult for you to be heartbroken; you will never give yourself a chance to heal.”

“This is precisely why they”—he looked to the blank spot on the wall—“would be proud of you, Georgi. You have all of their compassion and good sense; you are their daughter, through and through.”

“And you, Fitzwilliam—I may not have known Mamma, and I did not have enough time with Papa, but I am sure they could have wished for no better heir to Pemberley than you.”

He almost smiled, and then he remembered: your arrogance, your conceit, your selfish disdain…

“No,” he said, sighing. “I have not been acting in accordance with their principles.”

“How can you say such a thing? Your Elizabeth Bennet, for all her supposed kindness and wit, has done to you what Wickham did to me: she has stolen your self-worth, your confidence, your pride!”

“Georgi, listen to me: in this respect, our situations are wholly different. Wickham deceived you; he made you believe he was someone he was not. But Elizabeth”—he drew in an unsteady breath at the sound of her name—“Elizabeth proved to be precisely the person I believed her to be.”

“I do not understand how that can be true, unless…” She stared up at him. “Did you not tell her how you felt? That must be it! She never knew you loved her, and so—”

Had his heart been less heavy, he might have laughed at his sister’s determination to transform his error into a mere misunderstanding.

“I asked her to marry me, Georgi; she refused.”

“You…proposed? And she…” His sister gaped at him. “Then she is blind!”

“Georgi—”

“No, you might believe her to be intelligent, but she is a fool if she cannot see you for the man you are!”

“Perhaps you do not know me, Georgi, not as I am with others. When I was in Hertfordshire, I behaved with incivility toward her friends and family—toward her sister especially.”

 “Her…her sister?”

“I did not think she—“ He  shook his head. “It matters not, Georgi.”

(It matters a great deal!)

Georgiana sighed. “I begin to understand.”

“You do?”

“Well, yes. You did not show her your true self. You can be taciturn and reserved, especially when you are among strangers.”

His breath caught. We neither of us perform to strangers.

His words to Elizabeth had been true, but incomplete. Elizabeth did not perform to strangers because she did not perform; she did not put on a show, attempting to win others’ approval.

He, however, did perform—simply not to strangers. At Pemberley, he had a role he could play with pride: he had purpose and community. But in society, among those he did not know well, he had been assigned a part he hated: the charming (wealthy) bachelor. So he stood against walls, refused to dance, and insulted young ladies—anything to avoid performing for them, those gawking strangers. He would not be their source of entertainment.

“That is no excuse,” he told Georgi quietly. “Even among strangers, especially among strangers, I ought to have behaved in a more”—he swallowed hard—“in a more gentlemanlike manner.”

They lapsed into a silence broken only by the sound of Mrs. Reynolds, clearing her throat from the doorway of the gallery.

“Shall I have the footmen bring dinner here?” she asked, in a tone that suggested the idea was both ridiculous and possible.

“No, ma’am,” he said, rising and holding out a hand to his sister.  “We will be down soon.”

“I did not comfort you, did I?” she asked, as he pulled her to her feet.

“No,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But you helped me, Georgi, and that is better than comfort. Go on, now; I will follow shortly.”

He looked again to the blank spot on the wall, then started for the doorway on the other side of the gallery.

“Perhaps you have forgotten your way,” Mrs. Reynolds called after him, “not having been in residence for many, many months. Your chambers are in the other direction, sir.”

“I have not forgotten,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. “I am going to my study; I have a message to send.”

She crossed her arms, then winced. “Now?”

“Yes, ma’am. I am sending for the physician.”

“Now, sir, I told you—” She wagged a finger at him—then winced again.

He raised his eyebrows, and she sighed.

“Very well, sir, very well. But send for the apothecary, not the physician—and not until after dinner, if you please. Banning will have a right fit, sir, if the salmon baked in pastry goes cold before you eat it.”

“I will send for the apothecary—now.”

“Sir!”

“Tell Banning there is no cook in London who can make pastry, hot or cold, taste quite so good as hers.”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, she turned to leave. Only when she was out of sight, but still within earshot, did she call out, “It is good to have you home, sir!”

Yes, Elizabeth would have loved Mrs. Reynolds; she would have loved everyone here, everyone except—

He stopped before the portrait nearest the other doorway. It was like looking into a warped mirror, and not just because he had been younger then. That smile on his face—it was not broad or cheerful, but it was his. 

Perhaps Georgiana had been right. (Of course she had been right.) He had never truly told Elizabeth how he felt. Yes, he had spoken of love and admiration, but he had never told her who he was when he was home.

He was arrogant, and he was proud. He was conceited, and he was confident. He was selfish and logical, disdainful and determined.

As he stared up at that other version of himself, he accepted the awful truth: she would never see Pemberley; she would never see the whole of him. But he had seen her, and she had given him a great and painful gift: the reminder to be better—not better than others, only better than himself.

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