Page 10 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

Kitty, the fourth sister, lifted her gaze from the pillow she embroidered to the window that overlooked the path from Meryton. Mrs. Hexam, their dear, patient governess, smiled softly, suggesting in a kindly tone, “If you watched your stitches with as much vigilance as the arrival of the post, they would be straighter.” Kitty screwed her face as genteelly as one could, then looked down to assess her stitches. With a sigh, she undid her work. Lydia, the youngest Bennet, sneered at her. Holding Jane’s hair in her hands, she practiced a new coiffure for the upcoming Meryton Assembly, no doubt believing herself quite clever for escaping from her embroidery work.

Jane winced, her needle never losing its constant stab-pull rhythm in the delicate stockings she expertly mended. “Not so tight, dear.”

“While I applaud your eagerness to assist your sister, I still expect to see some progress on your embroidery by the end of the day,” commented Mrs. Hexam, her eyes fixed on her own white work.

Lydia scowled, her fists full of golden hair. “If only our magazine would arrive, then I would not have to guess how to do this.”

Mama tapped her foot and hummed, proudly presiding over the room and her accomplished daughters. “When you are done practicing on Jane, you could attempt to tame Lizzy’s hair.” Elizabeth prayed Mr. Hill would return with the post before her scalp was subjected to Lydia’s ministrations.

“The post has arrived!” Kitty leapt from her chair, followed by Lydia and Mrs. Hexam’s voice reminding them to behave with the gentle comportment she persistently taught them.

Elizabeth tried not to look too eager as Mr. Hill entered the house and brought Mama the correspondence to sort through. The magazine was there, larger than the letters Mama carefully perused and one by one replaced on the tray for Mr. Hill to take in to Papa.

Her father had been receiving letters written in foreign languages over the last year or so—mostly Italian and French. Elizabeth had asked her father about them, but he had assured her they were of no import. They all ended up stuffed in random spaces around his desk, lost in the piles of papers, books, and manuscripts spilling out of his bookshelves and trailing onto the floor.

Mama held up a crisp, cream envelope. “Wrayburn & Associates.”

Elizabeth’s heart dropped to her stomach. The letter would concern her and that horrible arrangement she had never agreed to.

Lydia huffed. “At least I can dance with whomever I please at the assembly.”

“So long as he is a respectable gentleman from a good family,” Mrs. Hexam amended.

“Sir William assured me Mr. Bingley is a respectable gentleman,” offered Kitty.

Dropping Jane’s hair, Lydia clasped her hands at her chin and swayed in place. “I hope he is handsome.”

“And wearing regimental red!” added Kitty.

Mama tapped the letter against her palm. “Lizzy’s prospect secures you a better place in society. We dare not form any alliance with a family beneath the Darcys’ circles.”

Elizabeth tensed. Avoiding the direct gaze of any of her sisters because she hated the flickers of resentment she sometimes saw reflected at her, Elizabeth stood and held out her hand. “I will take the letters to Papa.” Not eager to hear what Mr. Darcy’s solicitor would have to say, she slipped his missive to the bottom of the pile, leaving a foreign letter on top.

After tapping on her father’s study door, she pushed it open to see him comfortably settled in the cushioned chair behind his desk, spectacles perched on his nose, a book between his hands. He held up the book as she entered. “This is better than I remembered!”

“What is it?” she asked, placing the letters beside his empty teacup and pulling a rag out of her apron to wipe the spilled liquid beside the saucer.

“Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. It is about an impulsive young man who learns self-reliance and resilience when he is stranded on a deserted island. It is quite an adventure! There is much more to it than I remember; the last time I read it was when I was a boy.”

Elizabeth wished too much for an adventure of her own to enjoy reading about someone else’s. Especially that of a reckless young man who was free to have all the adventures he could arrange. “Harvest season is fast coming upon us, and I have yet to finish Annals of Agriculture.”

Papa set his book down and arched a brow at her. “Why divert oneself when there are winter feeding schedules to arrange?”

“That is already done and approved by you, no less.”

“You are ahead of your plan, I see.”

Was such a feat possible? There was always something needing to be done for the estate. Elizabeth liked the business of it. It kept her mind off other, more unpleasant things. “Today, I plan to make space in the cellar for storing the root crop, and by the end of the week, I aim to review and settle our tenants’ annual accounts, which will give me more time to see the wheat and rye sown before the cold and rain set on us. Not to mention the sheep need to be brought in from the pastures to be sorted, separated, bred, and the surplus driven to market.” All this, she counted on her fingers, convinced she had forgot something important.

Lifting his book and opening it, Papa settled back in his chair. “Then I will not interfere or slow your progress, dear girl.”

She wished she could ignore pending business as her father did, but she had to make certain he tended to the mail. She plucked the foreign letter off the tray and held it out to him. “Papa, why are you getting more of these?”

He glanced at the letter and shrugged.

She pushed it closer to him. At least he could look at it before tossing it on a shelf or stuffing it in a drawer. “What does it say?” she pressed.

With a resigned sigh, he broke the wax and flipped the two pages over. Elizabeth strained her eyes to read, but he shuffled the paper too fast for her to see more than stamps and signatures. That they looked legal concerned her.