Posted on Sunday, 10 September 2006

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood, as he so often did, with his back to the room, looking out a window across the lawns of Pemberley towards the pond. The grounds, which had decayed seriously in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth, were once again maintained as they should be. Darcy felt that generations of his ancestors might have looked out over the same prospect as he now did. The National Trust was not such a bad idea, after all.

Darcy no longer owned Pemberley; in the modern age, very few of the old family homes were still in the hands of a family. But he still somehow felt that the place was his. He took a proprietorial interest in the house and often welcomed visiting groups of tourists. Of course, most often they ignored him, but Darcy did not mind. He could make his presence felt if he really wanted to, but he had little interest in doing so.

Today, he was anticipating the visit of a tour group from Canada with unusual relish. Registered among the members of a school tour group from some school called Blenheim University* was Elizabeth Bennet. He had high hopes this was “his” Elizabeth Bennet; after all, a great many families with that name spell it with a double “t” and surely it was not too much to expect that Elizabeth might join a tour group as a way of visiting Pemberley inexpensively.

Darcy both flattered himself that she might go to such trouble to see him again and feared that he might merely be flattering himself. His last meeting with her had been more than cordial. He hoped she had forgiven him for his earlier transgressions and, in his most optimistic moments, considered she might even listen favourably to a renewal of his addresses. Darcy acknowledged to himself that he had spent altogether too much time brooding on the matter.

Elizabeth Bennet woke that morning with a peculiar sense of anticipation.

This was the ninth day of an excursion organized by the Blenheim University English Department. The tour of the Stately Homes of England (12 days, 16 homes) ostensibly was a tie-in to the Department’s course on The Regency Novel, but most of the students on the tour, and both professors, viewed it simply as an excuse for a vacation. Indeed, after 12 stately homes, most of those on the tour were beginning to wish that fewer were on the itinerary. All were grateful that, on day nine, there was only one house scheduled.

Today’s home was a place called Pemberley. They were staying the night at an old Inn in a place called Lambton, and were to have the morning free for shopping. They would visit the house in the afternoon. They were to be the final group for the day and were to have the place to themselves.

Everyone anticipated a quick tour and a free evening, for Pemberley was the only ruin on the tour. Destroyed by fire in 1811, the National Trust had restored the grounds (the estate was on the tour as one of the finest examples extant of 18th century English landscape gardening) and a portion of the house, but there were very few artefacts on display, so even the most loquacious tour guide must run out of things to say sooner rather than later.

Elizabeth’s eagerness for this tour stemmed from the fact that, unbeknownst to any of her teachers or class-mates, Pemberley had a connection to her family. Admittedly, it was a remote one, but of the 16 homes they were to see, it was the only one mentioned in Great Aunt Mary’s novel, “First Impressions.”

Great Aunt Mary was not really Elizabeth’s Great Aunt. In fact, she was Grandmother Bennet’s Great Aunt, but the family invariably cut out the extra “Great Greats” when referring to her. Mary Bennet had died a spinster, as had her older sisters Jane and Elizabeth. All three had lived to a considerable age. Their younger sister Catherine had died of typhoid fever while still a young woman and their youngest sister, Lydia, was grandmother to Elizabeth’s grandmother.

Great Aunt Mary had written a novel which, so far as the family could ascertain, was essentially accurate autobiography. She had had it published, anonymously, but it was not a great success and today was forgotten. Elizabeth’s Uncle Jack Bennet had discovered a copy in an old steamer trunk and had it privately reprinted; he had given a copy to everyone at a family reunion 7 years earlier, when Elizabeth was 13. Elizabeth had loved it.

Indeed, “First Impressions” compared very favourably with any of the Regency Romances that Elizabeth had read for the course. Elizabeth loyally maintained that it was the best of its kind. Great Aunt Mary had departed from family history mainly to conform to the conventions of the genre; she had provided a happy ending for her older sisters and legitimacy for Lydia’s child.

Elizabeth smiled at the result. Had history followed the novel, she herself would be Elizabeth Wickham. The Bennet name would have died out in her family, because there were no male Bennets in that last English generation. The Victorian fashion for hyphenating names would not likely have made the family name “Bennet-Wickham”, because Elizabeth’s great-grandfather was born before the practice became common.

As it was, great-great-grandmother Lydia Bennet had given her own family name to her son and had emigrated to Canada so that, by means of a harmless falsehood, he might escape the taint of illegitimacy; Lydia herself had always been known as “the widow Bennet”.

Great Aunt Mary’s novel indicated that Elizabeth’s grandmother’s great-aunt Elizabeth had been courted by a Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Elizabeth thrilled at the thought she would soon see grounds that might have been home to distant cousins; would have been, had Great Aunt Mary’s literary imagination somehow been translated into reality.

Darcy waited impatiently for the Blenheim University tour group to arrive. It was late; the tour would have a scant 90 minutes to explore before the grounds were closed to the public for the day.

As the bus approached Pemberley, Elizabeth strained to get her first glimpse of the house. Though she knew the building was, for the most part, just a stabilized façade, the impression it gave was everything she might have hoped for. Never had she seen a building, or the ruin of a building, so happily situated.

Eventually, the bus arrived and Darcy eagerly watched the tour group descend from it. Elizabeth was one of the last to get off, but there was no mistaking her. Darcy couldn’t help the foolish grin that animated his features at the sight of her, but he restrained himself from approaching while she was still with the group. Knowing her independent spirit, Darcy had every expectation that she would soon be walking the gardens on her own. He intended to request a private interview, but he had no intention of suffering the embarrassment of a rejection in front of third parties.

Elizabeth set out to explore the grounds of Pemberley with a will. Most of the group headed towards the house, but she knew from the brochure that there was nothing original to be found there. Having only a little over an hour, she preferred to see the natural beauties of the place.

Soon, she was quite on her own. She had wandered through the gardens, then down by the pond and was making her way towards a footpath that followed the stream when she encountered a man in period costume; she had not realized this site used re-enactors, although as it was a common-enough practice, she was not too surprised. She guessed the fellow was 6 or 7 years older than herself, but she thought he looked rather dashing in his costume, for an older man.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, with a formal bow.

Elizabeth knew that re-enactors often pattern their costume on a particular individual; she had once met three different Robert E. Lees around the Gettysburg battlefield. So, as this place had been in the Darcy family for centuries, she felt she was safe enough to say “Mr. Darcy.” With a smile at the silliness of it all, she even returned his bow with a curtsey. (She had learned to curtsey as a girl when her mother, of Scottish extraction, had enrolled her in highland dancing school.**)

Neither had Elizabeth been surprised that she had been addressed by name. A check of her wristwatch confirmed that she had been too long and she supposed this fellow had been sent to fetch her. When he suggested that they walk together, she assumed he meant to escort her back to the bus.

Darcy was delighted that Elizabeth had recognized him; it had been some time since their last meeting. He hoped that her regard for him stood as high as he fancied it might have done on that occasion, before her sister’s letter had summoned her back to Longbourn.

Elizabeth wondered at Darcy’s apparent intention to walk with her along the path she had been following into the woods; shouldn’t he be directing her back to the bus? Was this man actually on the staff, or was she at some risk being alone with him in the woods?

“I think,” said Elizabeth, “that I should be getting back to the bus. It’s due to leave any minute and I really must be on it.”

“Of course,” said a disheartened Darcy. He was determined to remain civil at all costs. “I had hoped we might have an opportunity to talk, but naturally you must remain with your party. Do you think you might be able to visit again soon?”

After these comments, Elizabeth was growing alarmed. She stepped up her pace and humoured the fellow by saying, “It is so lovely here, I would like very much to come again; but we have a very full itinerary. I’ll ask the tour guide whether it might be possible.”

Elizabeth crested the berm that separated the parking lot from the restored area of the grounds, to see her tour bus driving off without her. Worse, it was followed by a couple of automobiles that had been the only other vehicles in the lot; she supposed they might belong to members of the staff. It appeared she might now be utterly alone with this strange man.

“I had thought,” she said, “that you were come to bring me back to my tour group, but I see they have left without me.”

“So it would seem,” replied Darcy, “but allow me to say what a happy mischance it is for me, for it has been far too long since we have conversed and, from the moment I became aware that you would be visiting, I have looked forward to seeing you with the keenest anticipation.”

These expressions did nothing to reassure Elizabeth; she was trying very hard to recall everything she had learned in the tae kwon do class her mother had forced her to take at age 10. The man was still being polite; part of her hoped she was in no real danger. So, she asked if she might not use a telephone.

Darcy replied that there was a telephone in the National Trust office, in the restored portion of the house, and he offered to escort her. She saw little else she could do but accept.

Half an hour later, Elizabeth stood outside a locked door. The stranger confessed that he did not have a key. Elizabeth announced she was walking back to Lambton.

“You are not leaving Pemberley?”

“I am sir; I feel I must.”

“Pemberley does not displease you?”

“No, sir; but I must return to my group as soon as possible.”

Darcy smiled. “I know, Miss Bennet, that you are a great walker and that the five miles to Lambton would not daunt you, but please, be my guest here this evening. In the morning, the staff will return and you can call your friends.”

Elizabeth was now thoroughly alarmed. “I don’t know what your game is,” she said, “but I am trained in self-defence (she saw no harm in the slight exaggeration) and you cannot prevent me from leaving. Now keep your distance, and I’ll be going.”

“Miss Bennet …., Elizabeth, please don’t go so soon. Cannot we take a turn around the garden? I have no wish to inconvenience you, but after so very long, could you not spare me an hour?”

Elizabeth hesitated. The man seemed so very distraught and he did not look very much like a man who planned to harm her, although she was well aware that, when it came to such matters, looks could be very deceiving. Well, she had her own family history to reinforce that point. Nevertheless, she temporized.

“You speak, sir, as if you know me. Who are you, really? And who do you think I am?”

Darcy was puzzled. Elizabeth had greeted him by name when he first approached her. But he answered, “Well, of course I am Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and you are Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. We met in Hertfordshire, and again in Kent. The last time we saw each other was at Lambton, when you were called away by your sister Lydia’s indiscretion. I had intended to pursue your sister to London, but that was the night of the Great Fire; I’m afraid I’ve been here ever since.”

Elizabeth looked at him sharply. Somehow, this fellow had read a copy of Great Aunt Mary’s book. There was no mention of a Great Fire in ‘First Impressions’, but otherwise he had identified her with the Elizabeth Bennet of the novel. It was plain this ‘Fitzwilliam Darcy’, as he called himself, was mad. Provided he was not also dangerous, she thought that perhaps she could extricate herself from this situation.

As gently as she could, she said “Perhaps you have me confused with another Elizabeth Bennet. I am not from Longbourn; I am Elizabeth Bennet of Milles Roches, in Ontario Canada.”***

Darcy was genuinely perplexed and looked it. Mad he might be, but Elizabeth was beginning to feel a little bit sorry for him.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, “I … I certainly did not mean to importune you. I was so sure you were Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. You look so very like her, and you have her manner. Admittedly, your accent is atrocious, but I thought perhaps you had not been well.”

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, kindly, “have you by chance read an old novel, ‘First Impressions’? It was published anonymously by ‘a lady’.”

Darcy was bemused by this seeming non sequitur, but then the liveliness of Elizabeth’s conversation had always bemused him. “No, indeed,” he replied with a smile. “My taste runs more to poetry. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, “I thought that perhaps … but, of course, … if you are a Darcy of Pemberley, your family might also have some tradition or record of the courtship of Elizabeth Bennet by Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Tradition? Or Record?; Miss Bennet, I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”

“Mr. Darcy, I am descended from the Bennets of Longbourn. I cannot know if I resemble my grandmother’s Great Aunt Elizabeth, but she lived at Longbourn and, as a young woman, was courted by a Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. If you are one of his descendants, I had supposed perhaps your family also has some memory of them.”

Elizabeth felt some concern, as this statement seemed to stagger Darcy. He lost all expression, as he struggled to come to terms with what she had said.

“Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn was your grandmother’s Great Aunt?”

“That’s right,” said Elizabeth. “Longbourn passed into the hands of a family named Collins; so I doubt very much that there has been another Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. Are you quite well, Mr. Darcy?”

“Quite well, I thank you.” Darcy was afraid that he did not wish to hear the answer to his next question, but he felt he had to ask it anyway. “And your … grandmother’s Great Aunt; is she well?”

It was now Elizabeth’s turn to look puzzled. “Great Aunt Elizabeth lived to a ripe old age; but she has been dead more than 100 years. What can you mean by such a question?”

“Nothing …,” Darcy smiled wanly at Elizabeth. “Only that … of course, she must be dead … it’s been so long … oh … how to put this? … I was the Fitzwilliam Darcy who, so very ineptly, courted her.”

‘Mad,’ thought Elizabeth. But, he was so terribly affected by news of a death more that a century old! Was that a tear she saw? Forgetting the risk entirely, Elizabeth reached out to touch his cheek … and her hand passed through his head.

Horrified, Elizabeth stepped back. She gathered her strength to scream … looked at the anguished Mr. Darcy … and took control of herself. Great Aunt Kitty would have screamed; Great Aunt Elizabeth would not. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, somewhat nervously, “you seem to be … a … ghost.”

Elizabeth wondered if she could ever tell this story without having her own sanity called into question.

Darcy smiled a small, sad smile at Elizabeth. “I suppose I am,” he said. “Pemberley burned to the ground the night after Miss Bennet received the news of her sister Lydia running off with a scoundrel named George Wickham. I meant to do something the next day, but I was roused from bed by shouts and screams of terror. I helped Georgiana from the building, but there were other guests. I saw Caroline Bingley at a third-storey window, and went back in after her. I know not how I reached her room, but as I entered she laughed hysterically and shouted that, if she could not be mistress of Pemberley, neither should anyone else. It was quite horrible. Just then, the floor collapsed beneath my feet.”

Elizabeth could say nothing in response to such a terrible tale.

Darcy continued, “When I recovered my senses, Pemberley was a smoking ruin. I could see the bodies of several who had died, laid out on the lawn, awaiting the undertakers. My own was among them. But I was not free to leave. I had, you see, unfinished business. I needed the forgiveness of your … it seems so odd to say it … your grandmother’s Great Aunt. I needed her forgiveness and I wanted her love. Oh, how I wished I could have had her love. I needed to speak with her, just one more time. And I have been waiting ever since. She never came back; no reason to, really. Georgiana survived the fire, but never rebuilt the place. I’ve been alone here a very long time.”

“I was very wrong to importune you today. I should have realized that you could not be Elizabeth, but you looked so very like her. You really are a very lovely young lady.”

“Please, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, “do not distress yourself. While I must confess to having been uneasy earlier, I am perfectly comfortable with you now.”

Darcy smiled more bravely. “Comfortable, yes. But this ruin is not for you. Come, let us start towards Lambton. I cannot accompany you very far, but I can point the way.”

“What of you, Mr. Darcy?,” asked Elizabeth. “You cannot continue to wait for Great Aunt Elizabeth. She can never come here.”

“No,” sighed Darcy, “I don’t suppose she can. But I believe I must remain. The impossibility of a satisfactory resolution must be the real tragedy of being a ghost. I can never leave this world until I know I have her love and it is utterly impossible that I should ever have that knowledge.”

Although they had been walking slowly towards Pemberley’s boundary, Elizabeth now stopped. A thought was nagging at her. “Mr Darcy,” she said hesitantly, “I believe I can assure you that you had Great Aunt Elizabeth’s love.”

Darcy laughed. “I appreciate your desire to be of assistance, but how could you know? You are certainly not 100 years old, so you could not possibly have known the sentiments of your grandmother’s Great Aunt.”

Elizabeth face was transfigured by the impish grin that Darcy had so loved in her namesake. “Perhaps not directly,” she said, “but I have two pieces of very solid evidence that should convince you.”

“You have my full attention, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy. He did so wish this young woman would visit again. She was so very like Elizabeth.

“Firstly,” continued Elizabeth, “Great Aunt Elizabeth never married. That speaks strongly of a continuing attachment to an earlier lover. You are the only credible candidate.”

“I am flattered that you should think so,” said Darcy, “but there could be many reasons for never marrying. There could have been another love your family history knows nothing of; Elizabeth was very discrete. Or perhaps she never received a suitable offer. The circumstance of her not marrying is consistent with an affection for me, but can scarcely be said to prove it.”

“My second reason is much better,” said Elizabeth. She was very pleased with herself for this thought, and Darcy thought he had never seen her lovelier since the night of the Netherfield ball. Of course, that wasn’t her.

“Your Elizabeth Bennet had a sister Mary. She wrote a novel that proves Elizabeth loved you. The novel is the one I asked you about earlier, ‘First Impressions’.”

“I would be delighted to discuss literature with you for an hour or two, Miss Bennet. However, I cannot see how a novel not written by Elizabeth Bennet can prove anything about the state of her affections.”

“Let me explain,” said Elizabeth. “Our family tradition has it that the novel is faithful biography, apart from an artificial ‘happy ending’ tacked on to meet the conventions of the romantic novel. In the novel, you rescued my great-great-grandmother from her scandal and you married Great Aunt Elizabeth.”

“Forgive me, I still don’t see how that proves that Elizabeth had forgiven me, or proves anything else for that matter.”

“Mr. Darcy, a novelist may invent a happy ending, but there are a thousand possibilities. In a romantic novel, the character called Elizabeth must wed at the end, but would my Great Aunt Mary have offended her sister by having the fictional Elizabeth wed a man she did not love? Great Aunt Mary could easily have introduced a new character, but she didn’t need to do even so much as that. Didn’t you have a cousin who found Elizabeth attractive?”

“Yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam, but ... he was a second son … he had no money.”

“And what problem easier for a novelist to solve? An older brother dies, a long lost uncle remembers him in his will, oh, there are many ways a romance novelist could solve the Colonel’s financial problems. Depend upon it, Mr. Darcy, if Elizabeth had not forgiven you, had she not loved you, her sister would not have had her marry you in the novel.”

Darcy reached out, as though to take Elizabeth’s hand. She felt nothing, but he must have adjusted himself to her physical presence, for he did not pass through her.

“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy. “I believe I may depend upon your analysis.”

In a gesture Elizabeth had felt sure she would never see outside the movies, Darcy bowed and kissed her fingers. She almost imagined she felt the touch of his lips, lighter than gossamer. Then he was gone.

Elizabeth was in good spirits as she strode back towards the Inn at Lambton. She would be there in time for ‘last call’ at the bar and she had done a good deed. It was not the first time she had won an argument with attractive but specious reasoning. Great Aunt Mary might well have saddled Great Aunt Elizabeth with marriage to Darcy; it made for a stronger novel than would result from introducing some new character in the last few chapters, or even from rehabilitating the Colonel.

But perhaps a ghost seeking release does not want to think too hard about such matters.

Elizabeth hugged herself with delight and idly wondered whether, 150 years hence, some shade would seek proof of her affection. She hoped so.

THE END

* Ontario (Canada) has a “Waterloo University” and a town named Blenheim, but there is no Blenheim University in Canada.

** Highland dances conclude with a bow, but a girl doing a national dance may finish with a curtsey.

***Milles Roches was formerly a village in Ontario. The village site today lies submerged under an artificial lake in the St. Lawrence River.