So Momentous a Change: A Mother’s Love Vignette

Can you believe it is almost the end of May? I have had so much fun this first month after joining Austen Variations! I’ll admit, however, that I was more than a little daunted by the prospect of writing a vignette for this month’s theme, “A Mother’s Love.” Then I tried to imagine what, if anything, might be daunting to our dear, brave Elizabeth…and so my vignette was born.

Hope you enjoy!

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So Momentous a Change: A Pride and Prejudice Vignette

When she refused his proffered arm, he knew she was afraid. It mattered not how often she had laughed on the journey from town, nor how steady her voice had been when they had discussed their strategy for this most dreaded of occasions.

“Most dreaded?” she had asked, smiling, when he had used those very words in the carriage. “Surely there are more fearsome creatures in the world than Lady Catherine!”

Yet now, as they stood looking up at the cold facade of Rosings, Darcy suspected Elizabeth felt that same choking sensation he experienced whenever he visited his aunt.

Why had he brought her here? Never mind that she had, upon reading his aunt’s invitation, insisted upon accepting. Never mind that his Matlock relations had urged him, no fewer than a dozen times since his marriage, to make amends. Never mind his sense of duty, his family pride, or even his own conscience. When he gazed down at Elizabeth and saw how she worried her bottom lip, he wished only for her happiness. Six months of marriage, and he wondered how he had ever lived without her.

She must have felt his gaze, for she cast him a sideways glance. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I am not the one who claimed to be unafraid.”

“I am not afraid!” Her voice cracked on the last word.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I wish I had never taught you to do that. Arching brows is my trick.”

“Ah, but think of all the enjoyment we have found in learning from each other.”

He loved watching her grin and blush at the same time.

Now, when he offered his arm, she took it—but neither of them moved toward the house. She clutched at the fabric of his coat a little too tightly and breathed a little too quickly for him to think she had fully conquered her nerves.

He leaned into her, his lips nearly touching her hair. “We could leave.”

“And give her the satisfaction of our retreat?” Her laugh was more breath than sound.

“Not our retreat. Mine. After all, your courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate you.”

Her laugh was fuller, truer this time. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Recall nearly every word I once said to you. It is a very vexing habit you have, using my own words against me.”

“Perhaps I have been filling book upon book with your quips, which I study daily to ensure I may someday become your conversational equal.”

She smiled. “I will pretend I do not hear your sardonic tone and instead thank you for the great compliment you have paid me.”

“Would you prefer I declare, in an affecting simper, that your words are always in my heart?” This, of course, would have been the truth.

“No. Such flattery would be too shocking! Tom and George will think you have become soft-headed and tell all the other servants so when we return to Pemberley.”

Darcy resisted the urge to glance back at their footmen, who stood shuffling their feet against the fine gravel of Rosings’s drive. No doubt they already thought him soft-headed. There was some small part of him—the very same part itching to hurry Elizabeth into the house, for he was not the sort of man to loiter on other people’s doorsteps—that bristled at his need to please her. Surely her power over him ought to have lessened, rather than strengthened, now that she was his wife?

“She has made you forget your duty!” Catherine had written last autumn, on learning of his engagement. He could still picture the words crumpling in on themselves after he had thrown her letter into the fire.

“Tom and George know better than to speak of me in such a way,” he said presently. The coldness that had seeped into his voice—had she heard it?

“I beg your pardon.” Her brusque tone told him that yes, she had heard it. “Shall we go?” She took one determined step forward before realizing that her arm, still tucked into his, was not making the journey with all the rest of her.

She glanced back at him, and their eyes met.

“Do not be afraid, love,” he murmured.

“I am not!” Though she lifted her chin, her shoulders slumped. All at once, she appeared very tired. “Not precisely. It is not that I fear what she will say of me—”

“If she speaks even a word against you, Elizabeth, we will leave. Immediately.”

“No! No, you must not think of leaving now that we are here. My fear, if it may be called such, is that I will only deepen the estrangement between you and your aunt. If our visit is not enough to placate her, if she should continue to resent you for your choice—”

“Then so be it. I do not require her approval. Besides”—he glared up at the drawing room window, certain his aunt was standing behind the curtains, watching them—“you were not the cause of the estrangement. What she wrote upon learning of our engagement—”

“Oh, do not let us dredge up such words, though you are fond of quoting the past.”

“Very well.” He took a deep breath, knowing it would soothe him not half so well as her touch. Perhaps she also knew this, for she slid her fingers down his arm to touch the sliver of bare skin between the cuff of his coat sleeve and the hem of his glove. Though she, too, wore gloves, he felt the warmth of her skin—and it was enough. Almost.

“I do not understand,” he said with a curt shake of his head, “why you are so eager to earn her forgiveness!”

“By no means am I seeking her forgiveness, for I have not erred. Perhaps we might think of this meeting as a chance to offer forgiveness instead.”

“Lady Catherine, ask for forgiveness?” Darcy snorted. “She is more likely to ask me to dance.”

“Now that would be a sight to make this journey worthwhile!”

He smiled in spite of himself. He would be only too glad to loiter on other people’s doorsteps and give his footmen all sorts of humiliating gossip to spread, if only he might watch those fine eyes brighten with laughter for the rest of his days.

“Promise me,” she said, tucking her arm into his once more, “that you will not become angry with her, no matter what she says to us today.”

“I do not know if I can keep such a promise, Elizabeth.” He pulled her closer, wishing he might kiss her instead. “Your capacity to feel compassion cannot surprise me, and yet I am astonished at your consideration for a woman who has shown you so little consideration herself.”

“Oh, you must not give me so much credit,” she replied, smiling. “I have, in fact, been thinking only of myself. Or rather”—she bit her lip and glanced down at herself—“I have been thinking of what I shall become. Of what we will both become.”

His gaze went to her waist—and then, rapidly, to some point in the distance. Clearing his throat, he thought to speak, but what could he say? He remained as ecstatic, and as terrified, about the event soon to alter the course of their lives as he had been when she had shared the news last month. Though he had tried to use this development as an argument against traveling to Rosings, she had only said, “This is but one more reason we must make the journey, Fitzwilliam.”

He had not understood then, and he did not understand now, how their child—their child—had anything at all to do with Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

“I find myself thinking, of late,” Elizabeth said, “about why our marriage has so distressed Lady Catherine.”

He frowned down at her. “I would have thought that rather obvious. It is because of Anne.”

“Yes, indeed.”

He shrugged, and she laughed.

“I cannot tell you how gratified I am to discover that even you—the man who frequently quotes Plato and Shakespeare at me and almost never allows me to win at chess—may be a little obtuse at times.”

His frown deepened.

“Do you not suppose,” she said, “that a mother might do anything for the sake of her daughter?”

He made a sound of disbelief. “That is your defense of her behavior?”

“Well, why should it not be? Who can explain the depths of a mother’s love?”

“And I suppose next you will defend your mother’s ridiculous behavior using a similar argument?”

Face reddening, she turned her head sharply away.

“Elizabeth.” He sighed heavily. “Forgive me, I ought not to have—”

“No, indeed, you ought not—and yes, of course I forgive you.” She laughed softly. “I have certainly said worse of her! It is only…well, I cannot help but wonder how motherhood may have changed Lady Catherine and my mother—how it will change me.”

“Your comparison has no—” He stopped. His instinct was to dismiss her fears, but if she had lately been teaching him to laugh at himself, she had also been instructing him, since a certain offensive proposal issued only half a mile from where they now stood, how to pause and consider what she might be feeling before asserting his own opinion.

Still, he was not so very different from the man he once was, which was why he asked, “Do you truly suppose even so momentous a change in situation has the power to alter a person’s character?”

“You are my very best proof of point.” She offered him a smile so full of warmth that he was quite prepared to let her win this argument. “Did you not just stop yourself from making a declaration, and instead offer a question?”

“It was more of a rhetorical question than a true inquiry, but yes, I will grant that love, whether it be maternal or marital, might have some small effect on even the most stubborn of souls.”

“Then surely you can forgive your aunt. She acted out of disappointment, and I, now knowing the many joys of being Mrs. Darcy, cannot fault Lady Catherine for wishing to reserve such happiness for her daughter.”

“I may safely assure you that no other woman, certainly not my cousin Anne, would find half so much joy in arguing with her husband as you do. As for my aunt, I do not doubt her disappointment—but it was a disappointment born of vanity, not maternal affection.” He paused, glancing up at the drawing room window once more. Catherine was no longer bothering to hide behind the curtains, and he knew, if there was to be any hope of making amends today, he and Elizabeth had best not tarry.

Still, he forced himself to wait for Elizabeth, who was also looking up at the window.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “motherhood does not change a person, so much as amplify traits she has long possessed.”

“Do not be afraid, Elizabeth.” Now he knew what truly frightened her. It frightened him, too—not the idea of her changing, but the idea that he would not change nearly enough to be the father their child deserved.

He wished he could say that, what he did next, he did without giving a single thought to his aunt at the window above or his footmen standing a few feet behind. But he did think of them—of Catherine’s sneering censure; of Tom and George’s knowing chuckles. And still he bent his head and offered Elizabeth a kiss—gentle, brief, and true.

“Our child,” he said—and then stopped. “Our child,” he started again, voice hoarse, “will have the wittiest, warmest mother he could ever wish for.”

Eyes bright, she clasped his arm, and they climbed the front steps of Rosings.

“Our child,” she said, as the large paneled doors swung open, “will have the cleverest, most compassionate father she could ever wish for.”

They stopped at the threshold and looked at each other, opposite brows arched. Then, as one, they took a deep breath and entered the house.

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Thanks for reading!