“Will you travel to Brighton?” Emma asked him, concerned.
“My preparations are complete. I must.”
“Be careful,” she said, and if I were to accuse someone of longing looks it would be the two of them, separated by eight feet of fine rug and a tangle of sensibilities and pride I could not begin to unravel. Nor, apparently, could they. Emma added, “You could look in at Hartfield. The mail seems very poor. I have written to my maid twice and not had a reply. It is not like Surrey has fallen to the slavers. I know Hartfield would shelter you well. Just smile and say you are my friend. I would like that.”
“I will travel through Surrey, so we shall see.”
That made me consider. I must visit London, but also Surrey, and maybe go farther. Mr. Knightley’s clandestine network in the occupied south might be useful.
It became time for Mr. Knightley to go. Mr. Darcy had sat straight in his chair, hardly speaking. That reminded me of his long-ago visits to Longbourn where he stared, speechless, at oblivious Lizzy. But this cause was not so happy.
We rose, and Emma said, “May we all hold hands? Who knows when we shall be together again.” We gathered in serious but smiling silence, our fingers a messy tumble at the center. It was charming and sincere, and I knew Emma’s ungloved finger would touch Mr. Darcy’s.
The next morning,Georgiana and I stood arm-in-arm on the shore of Pemberley lake. The rain had turned to snow in the night, and the hill’s oaks and ash were black-limbed skeletons dusted with white. But that was a morbid illusion. Their dark meditation held dormant life and the promise of flowering growth.
Two weeks after the funeral, nine sculptors had queued at Pemberley’s door. Mr. Darcy handed them a pose study of Lizzy sketched by Georgiana last summer. Then the Darcy gallery became a studio ringing with hammer on chisel while Mr. Darcy prowled, scowling and critiquing every stroke.
A month later, I went down one morning and found the sculptors gone. A likeness had been chosen, and the artists dismissed. I discovered the rejected statues hidden in an overgrown corner of the garden, a verdant gallery filled with obscured aspects of Lizzy. Doubtless Mr. Darcy could not bring himself to dispose of them.
The chosen statue was moved by Mr. Darcy and two footmen to this place at the lakeshore. The stone was silvery and copper-infused: granite of the local cliffs. Lizzy’s head and shoulders were fully formed, though unpolished—granite was a hard stone. Her torso and legs were a mere suggestion of rushing motion. On a buried plinth, she faced the shore, the lake lapping at a trailing heel as if she were stepping from the waves.
Facing this memorial, I wiped a wet eye, then bent to straighten a bouquet of crocuses, purple and white. “The Britons brought these. Spring has come early to the hills.”
Georgiana caressed Lizzy’s stone hair. “Pemberley cares for her wyves.” She sniffed, then scanned the sky. “I thought Lord Wellington would stay for this.”
“He would have, but I told him that Fènnù does not come here.”
Her sapphire eyes widened. “You lied to him!”
“A wound heals best undisturbed. His war does not belong with us.”
Georgiana slipped her arm back through mine. “Emma sent Mr. Knightley away.” I made an uncaring noise, and Georgiana arched an eyebrow. “Mary! Is it the clothes? Has she surpassed your wardrobe of black?”
“Hersare bought by your brother,” I muttered.
“You do understand thatherselfish brother keeps all her money?”
I had not known that.
Georgiana hugged my arm tight. “Emma has helped Fitz. And you must see that she and Mr. Knightley care for each other.”
I would not surrender that easily. “I see that he falls at her feet.”
Georgiana answered in the cadence of a song. “He loves her, and she loves him. Now they are parting, which makes me sad, though I know they will meet again. But you will not lose Mr. Knightley. He admires you. The worldseesyou, Mary. And I see you and am yours forever.”
A lifetime of sisterly teasing left me suspicious of effervescence. “Is this a campaign so I fall at her feet as well?”
“Of course not. Only… wearethe great wyves. We should be united.” She lifted my wrist to her lips for a fleeting kiss.
Impulsively, I leaned and kissed her lips. I intended a chaste touch in thisplace of remembrance, but she pressed back, and my breath caught. Her lip balm, beeswax and peppermint, tingled.
Lizzy would not mind. She would just smile and study the sky.
“Do you trust Pemberley at last?” Georgiana whispered.
“I should not.”
“Will you be civil to Emma, at least?” I gave a grudging nod, and she smiled. “Good, because here she is.”
