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The wind, cold and gritty with ash, blew through the empty shell of Longbourn. Elizabeth turned to her companion.
'It is quite certain, then? My parents, my sisters, my young cousins, all are lost?'
Mr Darcy, come from the graveyard that was the dining room, said only:
'There can be no doubt of it.'
They had come at speed from Pemberley, whither Mr Gardiner's messenger had brought the news he had delivered with his last breath, that in but an evening the whole world but Pemberley and the little village of Lambton had been overrun with fire and pestilence, and that they were surely the sole survivors of the holocaust. Elizabeth, thinking only of her parents, had said instantly that they must start for Meryton, and would by no means be swayed from her intention by the protests of her companions.
'You must certainly not undertake such a journey,' declared her uncle. 'God knows what we might meet on the roads, if there are roads at all. I must go, and Mr Darcy has offered to come with me, and his man, but it is impossible that you should do so. Only consider, Elizabeth! We cannot take a carriage, and riding you must surely delay us when speed is off the essence.'
Elizabeth could not deny the force of his argument, nor her aunt's need for her care, for the Gardiners' children, too, must be lost and her aunt had been rendered prostrate. Nevertheless, she could by no means settle herself to wait at Pemberley, whither Miss Darcy had insisted the party remove when the dreadful news reached them, in ignorance of how her family fared. Had it been intended that Mr Darcy alone should set forth, she would not have delayed him, but her uncle would go too, and she was by no means a more indifferent rider than himself. She would go.
The journey was more horrible than Elizabeth had conceived. They took spare horses, and rode every hour of daylight, but the roads were too bad, the obstacles too vile, to risk travelling at night, and of course it was impossible that they should stay at the inns. They lay in fields, chilled and miserable even when Mr Gardiner acceded to Mr Darcy's arguments that they must light a fire, and set out again at daybreak. Nonetheless, Elizabeth could not regret her insistence that she should travel with the men, and uttered no word of complaint, nor gave answer to Mr Darcy's care that should make them fear for her.
Only when they came to the outskirts of Meryton, and rode between the ruin of the cottages, with the blasted hulk of Netherfield Hall on the horizon, did Mr Gardiner say to her, in tones that could not be brooked,
'We shall shortly arrive at Longbourn. You will not enter the house. Mr Darcy and I shall explore, and Thwaite will remain with you in the drive until we know how things stand. I ask you, Elizabeth to accept my direction in this matter.'
Elizabeth did so. She could not conceal from herself that she was greatly disturbed at the prospect of what awaited them, and was relieved to be spared the unknown confrontation. Mr Gardiner having first inspected the orchard, she waited there with Thwaite and the horses in the green oasis from the ruined world outside.
It was Thwaite's exclamation that made her look up to see Mr Darcy coming to them from the house, his face white and feet stumbling. She hurried towards him, and waited for some moments as struggled to compose himself. He needed no words; his expression told her everything.
It was some months later, when they were all working at the harvest – for in this new world, whilst some folk might have grander rooms, there was no space for those who would not work to keep them – that Mr Darcy approached her. Since that dreadful day, and then even more dreadful one at Meryton, he had become her firm friend. If her mind had then been too shattered to be more than grateful of his solicitous care of herself and her uncle on their return to the Peak District, she had since come to appreciate that this aspect of his character was no stratagem of love, but long apparent in his care for his sister. Nor was he, in this limited circle left to them, too proud to consult with the villagers as to how things must be managed, and even ventured to instruct the young scholars in higher mathematics. In the long gallery at Pemberley the quiet evenings passed in reading and cards, and Elizabeth, under Georgiana's instruction, became a better mistress of the pianoforte than she had ever expected. Only the question of the future perturbed her mind. Though the men rode out regularly, still no news had come of any other survivors, and it seemed that there little corner of the world was the last outpost of mankind. This being the case, the commandment to increase and multiply, dwelt on by the parson in his sermon at the marriage of two of the village children, surely could not be denied, and there were so few of them. Indeed, there were no single men at all who might be eligible, the parson having reached the age that requires a nurse rather than a wife and even the illiterate village labourers having their girls; no men at all, save Mr Darcy.
Though the matter could not have escaped his intelligence, it was difficult for Elizabeth to discern Mr Darcy's feelings. His regard for her was evident, but whether it was that of a lover or a brother she could not quite determine. She would often have thought the former, could any man desire a woman who had spurned him, but he said nothing. Indeed on his part, Mr Darcy appeared to have some anxiety as to how he presented himself to her. He was careful to avoid anything that might suggest obligation on her part for their presence in his house, and his attentions to her never passed the bounds of propriety. For herself, though she had thought at first that she should surely never feel again any emotion but grief, his kindness, his generosity, and his conversation had brought her to an honest pleasure in his company, and a growing appreciation of his importance to her. Without him, indeed, she felt that life might have been insupportable. Yet as time drew on and the facts of their new life became inescapable, far from taking this opportunity to press his suit, he became more distant, even reverting to some of the old formality that she recognised now had often come from embarrassment. Several times he had approached her in a manner that suggested he wished to speak about a difficult matter, yet he had failed to do it. As once again he approached her privately only to talk about the most inconsequential matters, she found herself laughing.
'Mr Darcy! I cannot believe that you sought me to tell me about Maggie Grey's sewing, or the kittens at Holme Farm. Nor that when you did so last week you were so deeply occupied with the inconsistency that Georgiana had found in one of Fordyce's sermons as you appeared.'
She stood and moved to join him.
'I must speak frankly. I told you once, Mr Darcy, that you were the last man on earth whom I might ever be prevailed upon to marry. Now it seems that you do indeed hold that unenviable position. What your feelings maybe upon the subject I cannot tell. On occasion I have felt that you do not wholly hold me in the revulsion that may be expected of any man who has been declined by a woman, though I do not flatter myself to any pretension of more than your friendship. In short, Mr Darcy, you must know that it is generally expected that we marry and do our duty by the populace, and if you do not shrink from the prospect, then I shall not.'
Mr Darcy, who throughout this speech had looked increasingly astonished, regarded her with emotion.
'Miss Bennet,' he said, his voice betraying his discomfort. 'I assure you that this is not at all what I came to say to you. Indeed it is quite the reverse! You are right that the expectation that is placed upon us could not have escaped my notice, and it has several times been my intention – that is to say, in view of your – of matters that have in other times passed between us, that I understood that any such proposal must be abhorrent to you, and that it was my most earnest desire to reassure you that that I should not press any such suit, whatever the urging of our friends, and of my own heart.'
Elizabeth knew not what to say. If his position had been intolerable before, what must it be now! If she had not spoken first, she might have met his words with the assurance that abhorrence was far from her thoughts, but could he now believe her, or think her to be doing more than what she perceived as her duty in accepting him? Perceiving her discomfort, Mr Darcy looked with great sympathy and said gently,
'I understand, Miss Bennet - Elizabeth, your sense of duty to our small community, indeed I admire it. In other circumstances – with other people – perhaps it might answer. But consider what misery would be wrought by an unhappy marriage, the greater in our enclosed world! With such inequality of affection we could hardly hope to tolerate one another, and I am convinced the people will be better served by our separate lives in their support. For myself, I will only say that it would be far worse a fate to feel that you were my wife without affection and I the cause of your unhappiness, than to remain the friend I hope I may be honoured to name myself.'
'I hope so indeed!' Elizabeth flushed. 'Mr Darcy,' she began again, 'when I spoke just now, I am afraid I spoke false.'
'I knew it!' said Darcy, with great agitation. 'You are too good to pretend to something you do not feel. How could I ask it of you?'
'How indeed? Mr Darcy, when I said that I spoke false, it was not in confronting the plain facts that lie before us, but in allowing you to think that I regarded the prospect of marriage to you as no more than my duty. I sought to protect myself; I ought to have thought of you. I am grateful for your concern, and indeed,' she said warmly, 'I think that nothing could make me more desirous of marrying you than the knowledge that you did not wish it! But I shall say now what I ought to have said then, that if your sentiments are unchanged from that day in Kent, then mine – though it goes ill with me to admit a failing so often imputed to my sex – have changed so greatly as to be quite opposed to what they were, and that were you to ask me now, I assure you that I should answer quite differently.'
She finished her speech and regarded him. He said nothing, the tumult in his breast as he heard this declaration – the overturn of so many fears, the admission of unhoped for affection – had overpowered him. After a minute or so, he took her hand, kissed, and held it.
'My dearest Elizabeth! May I then give you Pemberley?'
'It is not Pemberley,' Elizabeth answered. 'It is the world.'