“Certainly.”
“I shall be anxious to thank Mrs. Reynolds, sir, and should have known you would have thought of everything.”
This expression of gratitude was sincere, but it sounded cold, almost resentful, and I darted a glance upward, looked once into his face, and offered him a shy smile before excusing myself on pretense of caring for Mrs. Jennings.
Auntie was content at Pemberley—much more so than I, in fact—and she sat entranced at the window of that elegant little parlor for hours upon hours, watching with interest as the grooms exercised the horses in the meadow, as the kennel master walked out in a sea of capering hounds, and as the overwintering flocks of birds flew up from the shelter of the walled garden when startled by a gardener pruning the frozen canes of a mass of climbing roses.
“Oh, look, Mrs. Darcy!” she exclaimed one afternoon when a man in a dog cart rode up to the back door. “Is that the vicar?”
The name of Darcy was so often in her ears these days, I feared she would begin to regularly entertain that mortifying notion of me, so I said, “Silly, I am Elizabeth. Mrs. Darcy has gone away for a spell, and that is only Sam who works at Pemberley. It appears he has brought our trunks. I do hope Doreen packed sensibly, though I have my doubts.”
We ate delectable food, laughed at the kittens that scampered over us without the least consideration, sprinkling my few day dresses with tiny hairs, and we received the careful attentions of so many maids that I could hardly remember their names. My hairy dresses were dutifully brushed every night while we enjoyed the company of Miss Darcy and her companion for Lottery Tickets, a game that Mrs. Jennings thought she remembered but in fact did not. We indulged her cheats and let her win every game since she clapped her hands in glee and collected her prizes—hairpins, painted acorns, pheasant feathers and the like—as though she had won the artifacts from King Arthur’s tomb.
In the light of candles, lamps, and the mellow glow of a hearth that never burned low, she examined her treasures with such satisfaction, Miss Darcy was prompted to fashion a little box for her out of paper, glue, and bits of silver ribbon. I assisted her, and together we made a lavish contraption fit for the rubbish heap but that elicited a gasp of wonder from the poor dear.
We read stories from the nursery, for they were easy for Mrs. Jennings to understand and pleasurable for the young lady and me to remember since it had not beensolong ago that knights, trolls, fairies, and witches had been our bread and butter. Throughout, we often smiled at one another in recollection of those universally shared experiences of girlhood. Otherwise, we enjoyed Mrs. Annesley’s singing or watched in awe as Miss Darcy sketched our likenesses. These were the simplest of simple pursuits, but the rhythm of Pemberley in winter was so homely and comfortable as to be charming.
I was reminded of the rare times at Longbourn when Lydia and Kitty were in charity with one another and sitting, heads bent, over a picture book. Papa would have one foot elevated on a stool, lost in some Roman world or other, Mama would doze over a sampler, snorting awake upon occasion and causing us to stifle our giggles, while Mary studiously composed little anecdotes of stuffy advice none of us would ever heed. Meanwhile Jane—dear Jane—would be lost in a romantic dream by the look of beatific sweetness on her face, but when gently teased, she denied it and claimed she was only remembering little Edward’s lisp when last she saw him.
This recollection of winter evenings at home inspired more than a little melancholy in me, not because it was unpleasant but because the scene was so rarely that sweet. In truth, there was almost always an argument going between us—some plaintive complaint being lodged by my mother and a disgusted grunt from my father while Jane and I sat pinned to our chairs, enduring a disordered existence we were powerless to remedy. It was this that caused me to dread returning home, coupled with a packet of letters brought by Sam who had been to the post office in Lambton on our behalf.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My letters always arrived in a bundle since my father only sent Mr. Hill to the post office when it suited him—in other words, rarely. Thus, under the sweet supervision of Miss Darcy, who, not knowing my family, looked terribly pleased for me to get what must certainly be happy news of loved ones, I read that things at home were much as they always were.
We put great stock in correspondence, but having relied entirely upon it for news of my family for more than two months, I had come to the realization that it was a highly overvalued form of communication. Only by piecing together what bits one or the other of my relations felt inspired to share, could I get any sort of a picture of reality—and that merely an uncertain sketch.
Papa had been out in the fields, ostensibly out of interest in the state of the soil, but most likely wishing only to escape the noise and to look deeply into his own mind without being harassed. Whatever the case, he had turned an ankle on one of the furrows. He wasa grump, according to Kitty,a beast, according to Lydia, anda poor, dear man who did not once complain,according to Jane. To Mary, he was much to be pitied because he could not go to church, and to my mother, who deigned to write to me, he was likely to sink into a decline on account of weak bones.
Jane, who had gone home for Charlotte’s wedding, had not been allowed to return to London, and I pitied her extremely. But it was on account of Mr. Collins’s wedding that my mother forgot to have disowned me, writing…
…and such a popinjay was Mr. Collins that he did not so much as compliment poor Charlotte on her dress, only asking me whether I thought his waistcoat was splendid and going on at length about how his patroness had made a gift of it. I am certain it was handed down from the woman’s dead husband, for it was in the style my grandfather would have worn. In any case, dear Charlotte looked far older than her years, Lizzy, but even I did not think she deserved to be positively overlooked by her bridegroom…
Jane had said of Charlotte that she looked as beautiful as she had ever been, had bade a most affecting farewell to her friends and family, and had stepped bravely into the hired post chaise with Mr. Collins, who expressed an urgency to be away that struck my gentle sister as perhaps unhandsome. To me, it spoke of lust or a desperation to return to the bosom of Lady Catherine de Bourgh—perhaps both—causing a shiver to run up my spine and a prayer to fly straight up to God in sincere gratitude that I was not his unfortunate bride.
My father made no mention of his ankle, but of the wedding he wrote:
You would have been diverted, Lizzy, to have seen our neighbor’s sly looks at what will be Mr. Collins’s house when we had them to dinner. I am certain Lady Lucas itched to peek at the bottom of her plate to ascertain which house had the distinction of making what will be his china service, for having secured him away from one of my daughters, it has just now occurred to her that his inheritance will necessarily belong to her eldest born.
In comparison to the dignified serenity in which I was now nestled, these tasteless bits were discouraging enough, but it was Lydia’s letter that caused me to flush red with fury and to wish I could board the next packet to America and take my chances with savages.
From what I could gather from my other letters, the militia still featured large in Meryton society, and the officers met with everyone’s hospitality equally. I was somewhat disturbed to ascertain, however, from hints dropped by Jane and outright boasts from Mama, that they were most often at Longbourn. My mother doted upon anyone in a red coat and had one or more officers at her table any day of the week. This was certainly unhelpful in quelling my youngest sister’s propensity to flirt. She wrote,
La! You will never guess what Mr. Wickham has said of you, Lizzy.
I read on with a dreadful suspicion I was about to be strongly annoyed after such a preamble.
He says you are lingering in Lambton to catch sight of Mr. Darcy, you sly thing! And he cannot blame you for throwing your handkerchief in his way, though you do not like him, for who would not try for such a fortune as would fall to “Mrs. Darcy!” Ha-ha.
Mary, being an odious busybody and thinking she must always act as chaperone, overheard what was meant to be a private conversation, and she protested that you are not a lady to be on the catch for anyone, and then Mama, having her ears on the prick for any talk of “catching” beaus then said she might yet forgive you if you could achieve a brilliant match.
How dare he! Then and there, Mr. Wickham fell into my black books, and it was only with the strongest degree of resolution that I refrained from showing my feelings of outrage, stifling a strong urge to jump out of my chair and pace to and fro uttering curses and lamentations for having ever liked the man.On top of everything else, he had assumed I had known Lambton was close enough to Pemberley to stumble upon Mr. Darcy!In fact, I had never given one thought to where Mrs. Jennings lived in relation to the man.
Lydia, too, came under the glare of my disapproval, for it was clear she only wrote to me to share this on-dit and to gleefully triumph that I was no longer Mr. Wickham’s favorite, for why else would he say such a thing about me outside of my hearing other than spite? Even my youngest sister, who was as astute as a rusted hatchet is sharp, could glean this much.
“Is all well?” Mr. Darcy asked smoothly.
Lord! When had he come in? Why would he trouble to sit with us anyway? Had he been watching me read my letters?
