“I command it,” Elizabeth said with playful seriousness. “Now, run along. I can plait my hair myself tonight.”
“Are you sure, Miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Hattie. You have worked hard enough today, I think. Go and enjoy yourself,” Elizabeth dismissed the girl, then went to sit down at the vanity and plaited her hair down her back. She sighed and looked at her reflection.
It was well enough. Her mother and all the neighbours had always considered her pretty, if not so pretty as Jane. While not wishing to be vain, Elizabeth did not dislike her own appearance. Certainly there was nothing in it that would make her private dreams of love and marriage impossible.
No, that she had accomplished by her own actions. Even a man who overlooked her lack of fortune could not view her work as the notorious Mrs Laurence with indifference. It might have been different if she had written works of fine literature or moral tomes, but these would not have brought in the money her family needed. Her books, works of Gothic thrills that they were, had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, saving her family — and dooming herself to a life of being Mrs Laurence in private and Miss Bennet in public. No worthy man would give his name to a woman of such notoriety.
Elizabeth stood from the vanity and padded in her bare feet over to her little writing desk. Her manuscript and notes had lain untouched for days. She knew she should take advantage of the quiet and try to get some more writing done, but her mind was too unsettled to focus on work. Ever since she had become such good friends with Miss Darcy, it had become more difficult to keep her secret. She felt overwhelming guilt at the continued lies she and Mrs Gardiner had had to tell. Oddly, Mr Darcy seemed interested in learning more about what she knew of the publishing world, even as she tried to pass off her knowledge as merely second-hand. What she had “learned” from Mr Tilney had actually been her personal experiences, but she could neversay so. She would always be forced to lie to her new friends. Perhaps some time away would give her some wisdom about how to proceed.
Elizabeth traced her fingers over the words that she had scribbled more than a week earlier. Worse still, she could not deny that she felt more for Mr Darcy than she should. If they were thrown together much more, she felt that her heart would be completely lost.
She need not blame herself. It was only a girlish fancy, and nothing more. She knew that, and must not forget it, for certainly her interest would not be returned.
Only it was difficult to remember that it was nothing, and must remain nothing, when he was so very excellent a man. Mr Darcy was undoubtedly handsome. But he was also kind, considerate, and listened to what she had to say with an unfeigned interest that could not be otherwise than flattering. Mere politeness would have been well enough, but Mr Darcy spoke to her with genuine enjoyment, as though even the simplest topic might be rendered interesting by the speaker. It reminded Elizabeth of no one so much as her father. He too had always been glad to listen to her.
And now her father was gone, and would never listen to her with a wry little smile and a reassuring nod again. Never again would he comfort her with a calm, dry “now, now, Lizzy,” or give her rare, precious words of praise.
Elizabeth stood and took up the magnifying glass from the mantel. “Oh, Papa. I wish you were here right now. I could sorely use your advice,” she murmured. She replaced the glass, then turned and retrieved the candle from the vanity. She then padded over to the bed, set the candle on the side table, and climbed between the sheets and coverlet. Elizabeth blew out thecandle, then turned and snuggled into the sheets. The rains had stopped that afternoon, revealing a clear sky brightly lit with a near-full moon. She watched the shadows sail across the walls as the moon went behind fluffy clouds, then peeked out again as the wind blew the clouds across the sky.
She let out a deep sigh as she allowed her eyes to close. “Be practical tonight, Lizzy,” she whispered to herself. “Try to sleep well, and do not dream too much. There is a lot of work ahead of you on the morrow.”
Elizabeth was asleep almost as soon as she had said the words.
But the dream-Elizabeth did not follow her own sound advice. She was running through a darkened hallway, back at Longbourn. She was a little girl again, searching for Papa in the deserted house. As she came into his study, she found him standing near the hearth. A fire had escaped it to lick its burning tongue over the piles of books and papers, rapidly turning into an inferno. Her father did not seem to notice. He merely stood there, watching, as the flames consumed everything.
“Papa, get away from there!” Elizabeth gasped. She tried to reach her father, but he was quickly engulfed in the flames and smoke.
Just before he was consumed, he turned to her and spoke. “Wake up! Fire! Wake up, all!”
Elizabeth awoke with a start, her senses muddled from deep sleep. The room at her aunt and uncle’s London house was just as it had been when she had crawled into bed that night. But there was a faint odour of smoke. She turned to the bedside table and looked at the candlestick. She had not knocked over the candle, and she had blown it out.
“Wake up! Fire!”
Elizabeth’s senses were jolted into wakefulness. She sprang from the bed and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She went to open the door of her bedroom, but when she grabbed for the handle, it seared her palm. Elizabeth jumped back, yelping in pain at the burn. The house was burning down, and she would be trapped in this room if she could not find a way to get past the door.
“Someone help!” she heard a faint cry.
Elizabeth wrapped her hand in the end of her shawl and tried the door once more. Though the heat began to come through her shawl, she opened it and stepped through. She gasped in horror. Small flames were licking at the carpets and the window hangings.
“Someone, please!” the voice came again.
Elizabeth took one glance backward, searching the darkened room awash with an eerie orange glow. There, on the desk, were her writing instruments and the half-finished manuscript. And on the mantel were her father’s silhouette and the magnifying glass. There was not much time, for she could not delay long and still hope to escape the flames. She could rush back in and gather all of those things in her arms, or she could search for the plaintive voice calling for help. She could not do both.
With a cry that held no words, only pain, Elizabeth turned from the room. Covering her mouth and nose with the end of her shawl, she rushed toward the voice she had heard a moment before. “Help me!” came the sound again.
“Where are you?!” Elizabeth called above the crackle of flames swirling up the main stairs. “Hello?”
“I’m in here!” came the voice. Elizabeth turned to her right and saw little Hattie crouched in the corner near the window. The pole holding up the window covering had fallen down, effectively trapping her in the corner in a little alcove that overlooked the street.
Elizabeth took off her shawl and ran toward the maid. Poor girl. She could not have been more than five and ten, and she looked terrified, frozen in place by the threat of flames. Elizabeth took one of the vases from one of the side tables. She took out the flowers, wilted by the heat, but was relieved to see that there was still water in the basin. She took off her shawl, wet it with the water from the vase, and began beating back the flames from around Hattie’s feet. “Jump over the pole!” Elizabeth instructed her. Her lungs burned from the smoke, as if they were cooking from the inside out. She tried not to take deep breaths, but her lungs screamed for air.
Hattie shook her head, too afraid to jump. Elizabeth rushed into the flames, grabbed Hattie’s hand, and pulled her out. Then they were running down the hall, back the way she had come, to head down the back stairs toward the servants’ entrance. The smoke and flames were not as intense on this side of the house, but it was only a matter of time. Somewhere in the house, a bottle of spirits exploded, sending Hattie into fits of sobbing. Sparks rained down on them as they hurried down the back stairwell and came to the side servant’s door.
Elizabeth wrapped her arm around Hattie as they came into the kitchen and headed down the hall toward the exit. The corridor was quickly filling with smoke, now that the deserted kitchens were no longer cut off from the fire in the main part of the house. Elizabeth tried the handle first, and when she felt itwas not hot, turned the knob and pushed on the door with all her might.
It did not move. There must have been something blocking the exit. Elizabeth looked around frantically, searching the below-stairs kitchen for any sign of an escape route. She found it in the dimly lit hall — a small window just large enough for them to squeeze through.
