Page 45 of Near Pemberley

A governess.

The prospect possessed little attraction; yet there appeared something almost relieving in the thought of removal. Somewhere distant. Somewhere unconnected with Meryton, gossip, humiliation, and disappointment.

She imagined herself living quietly among strangers, useful perhaps, unnoticed certainly.

The vision was melancholy. Yet not entirely unwelcome.

A burst of laughter carried across the lane. Elizabeth looked up.

Two village children had escaped some maternal supervision and were racing one another through the grass with all the importance of persons engaged upon a matter of great consequence.

For a moment, she watched them. Then she resumed her walk. The picture lingered unexpectedly in her mind.

A quiet home. A husband. Children. Affections freely given and received.

Such prospects had once appeared so ordinary that she had scarcely thought of them. Now they seemed suddenly distant.

And amidst all these reflections, one thought returned continually with peculiar pain.

Mr. Darcy.

She attempted resisting the recollection altogether. But resistance proved useless. Everything connected with Derbyshire now seemed haunted by what might have been.

Repeatedly, she remembered his altered manner at Lambton. His attentiveness. His humility. The restrained warmth with which he had looked at her when all reserve between them had begun, at last, to soften.

And then she remembered the note left at the inn.

The disappointment he must have felt – and the conclusions he must now inevitably draw.

Her aunt’s note had necessarily concealed the truth, and Elizabeth could not help fearing that Mr. Darcy might attribute their sudden departure to herself.

She was surprised by how deeply the thought pained her.

There were moments – desperate moments – when she wished passionately that she had accepted the impulse to seek his assistance. No one knew Wickham better. No one possessed greater means of discovering him.

Had she spoken then, perhaps…

But pride had silenced her.

And now it was too late. Far too late. For what must Mr. Darcy think now?

He had once warned her against Wickham and been rejected for it. He had once offered her his affection despite every inferiority of connection and been refused with indignation.

She remembered standing before him at Hunsford, every accusation ready upon her tongue.

She had believed herself perfectly justified.

Now she could scarcely endure recalling the certainty with which she had spoken.

Her youngest sister had since eloped publicly with that very man. Elizabeth could not bear the humiliation of imagining his knowledge of it. Worse still was the fear that pity might now wholly replace whatever feeling he had once retained for her.

And sometimes, in her most miserable moments, she found herself thinking – not without bitterness – that had she trusted Darcy sooner, had she judged him fairly when first she ought to have done so, everything might now have been different.

But such reflections brought no remedy.

Only regret.

Chapter XIII