Some days of this campaign were required since my people are quite deliberative in their notions of the respect due to master and mistress of Pemberley. My ambivalence toward Bingley’s sister Caroline, for instance, was a matter of concurrence with their own collective, unspoken estimation that she was a self-consequent cat who would claw the eyes out of anyone in her way.
To my relief, however, Georgiana’s lavish attentions upon poor Mrs. Jennings and, by default, Elizabeth were soon met with general approval and then explained away as the dear girl, who was sometimes downcast and often lonely, enjoying a new source of occupation and pleasure for once. Indeed, the sound of her laughter in the evenings as they played Lottery Tickets, coupled with Elizabeth’s natural capacity to enliven the dreariest scene, could not but inspire an infectious happiness in their attendants.
These were issues over which I could exert some control. But over the unknown commodity of Elizabeth Bennet herself, I could only run behind and try to smooth things over.
Not that she was demanding or uncharitable—she was the opposite in fact, and I felt the danger of a rivalry arising amongst the maids for her attention. She was generous with encouragement, with smiles, and with expressions of thanks. Though uncommon, that alone would not have had any real consequences. The trouble was she was interested in everyone, asking after their families and easily inducing them to such confidences that would endear her to even the most reserved footman. I myself was startled to overhear her extract from Brown, a most professional and disciplined young man, that he had a family of twelve siblings dependent upon him.
I also learned the little downstairs maid who lit the fires in the morning had a twin sister.
“You must miss her,” Elizabeth said in the most consoling, commiserating tone.
“Oh, miss, you do not know how much!” The girl audibly sniffed.
“Could you not write to her? I mean, a letter could be written…”
I was lingering in the hall like an idiot, and with dread, I listened to the conclusion of this folly.
“…and she is in service to a gentleman’s house in Derby, is she not? Someone would read it to her, certainly. Come—put down that bucket and tell me what you wish to say to her.”
“Oh no, miss, I dare not!”
“Come, come. Dear…what is her name?”
“Susan.”
Three minutes later, the note had been written, and if the lady’s hand had not been kissed, I would have been surprised. But I did wonder how she would have the thing dispatched without applying to me, and I stood by in pathetic willingness until Carsten came out of a room down the hall, and I felt compelled to appear to be on my way…well, anywhere besides standing outside that particular door eavesdropping.
But no, she did not apply to me. An hour later while in my study on the first floor with the door slightly ajar, I was privy to the faint strains of conversation in the foyer.
“Oh, Mr. Brown,” she said sweetly, “I have a bit of a puzzle.”
“How might I help you, miss?”
Poor devil!
She apologetically explained, lightly lambasting herself for having made the mistake of forgetting she could not herself go to the post office and offering up the pennies if there was ever any occasion that anyone went, but by no means should a special effort be made, etc.
Brown refused her money, as he should have, and after reassuring her there was no trouble whatsoever to fulfilling her small request, she then asked after his youngest brother who was to be made a ship’s boy and sail with the fleet in a matter of weeks.
With a weary resolve, I called for Parker and casually suggested that Brown be given a brief leave in order to visit his family.
“Surely, he did not ask, sir,” Parker remarked in cold shock. To have done so would have set him back five years in his career.
“No, of course he did not, but I happened to overhear that his youngest brother is going to sea and will be gone for some time.”
Brown himself came to thank me, coming quite close to embarrassing me. I interrupted this flow of gratitude, handed him a purse, and said gruffly, “What is his name? Adam? He will need something to keep his body and soul together. Buy him a warm coat perhaps.”
No, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not a restful woman. I was on the constant edge of nervous fatigue from the sheer work required to keep things in hand. But far more exhausting was the awareness of her palpable proximity. Her presence was so great it filled all of Pemberley, and her every thought seemed to influence the entire household. If she was delighted, the staff bubbled with willingness. If she was quiet and sad, they fell into whispers out of unconscious sympathy.
And none of us could escape knowing that, while the lady smiled and laughed most willingly, she was troubled. If I were not in love with her, I would have been greatly annoyed by the air of tragedy that wafted around her and elicited such sighs of admiration in my servants for her “unspoken trials so bravely borne.”
In her defense, she had cause for low spirits—and only I knew the reality. I had been to Longbourn, and I knew what constituted her life. She was wasted in that tiresome little village. Her gifts were great, and as such, they must have been heavy to bear, for she had nowhere to expend such vigor, such a wealth of generosity, such stores of affectionate interest, such an imagination—not to mention the uniqueness of a prolific mind. To lavish attention on any particular person would cast everyone else in Meryton as callous by comparison, and to express herself freely would throw all her acquaintance into the dunce box. And who, aside from her satirical father, could follow her flashing, acutely accurate observations anyway? She could only occasionally, and with painful restraint, be herself. It was no wonder she escaped out of doors and walked in solitude hour after hour.
I wondered what her life would be like when she left us, which she inevitably would. Would I let her go?
My father’s voice roared at me that of course I would let her go. Seen from a purely practical standpoint, the match was impossible. Our histories, social circumstances, connections, and even our contrasting natures added up, to a rational man, as a formula for bitter failure.
***
