Page 56 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“Jane and Mary each got two, and I only got one.”

“Not so! Color and detail. See? Two things.”

“But they are both used together in a painting.” Kitty turned to Lizzy. “What else am I good at?”

Mama answered for her. “You have a special talent for helping things grow. Our garden would not be so beautiful without your care.”

Lydia’s knees bobbed up and down impatiently. “And what about me?”

Elizabeth laughed. “You are vivacious and eager to try new things. Anything you set your mind to, you do well.”

Sitting against the settee with a contented smile, Lydia said, “That is better than yours, Kitty. You decorate our garden and rooms, but I can master anything I wish.”

“Anything to which you apply your mind and work toward,” Mary corrected. “It takes discipline and devotion to master any skill. I, for one, would like to see you apply yourself to something worthwhile.”

Mrs. Hexam was right about Mary. And Mama. It gave her hope. “So long as we work together, we can economize until the debt is officially resolved.”

“Ah, that is as good as done thanks to dear Mr. Wickham,” proclaimed Lydia.

“Perhaps, but until we have⁠—”

Jane woke from her reverie to interject, “We must consider how we appear to our neighbors. They will talk and word will spread. It is in our best interest to live as though the debt is resolved. It is as good as done. Mr. Wickham assured us of it.”

Mary’s brows knit together. “We still have no money. No governess.”

Noting the clench in Jane’s set jaw, Elizabeth added, “The neighbors will notice that our servants are leaving to seek employment elsewhere. The shops have already cut off our credit.”

“They will restore it once they learn that the debt is gone.” Elizabeth did not share Jane’s hopeful view of others’ goodwill. Not when they, too, had families to feed and workers to pay. Jane huffed. “Do you wish us to live as paupers? How would we marry well then? The best thing now would be to prepare for the London Season. We shall let a townhouse in London and have new gowns made…” Whatever she said after that point was muffled by Lydia and Kitty’s excited exclamations.

To her credit, Mama did not immediately support Jane’s faulty reasoning, but it troubled Elizabeth to plainly see the war between want and necessity play across her mother’s features. Nothing she or Mary said would persuade Jane, who was convinced that their only hope was for her to marry into a fortune. What ensued was nothing less than a game of persuasive tug-of-war: Mary and Elizabeth on one side, and Jane on the other with the support of their two youngest sisters. Poor Mama was the rope. It did not take long for Elizabeth’s pleas for reason and economy to yield to the intense pull of delusion. One meant self-sacrifice and hard work; the other afforded diversion and ease… more of the life they had always known.

It was the life Elizabeth had worked to give them, first by the arranged marriage that would have vaulted her into the first circles but, more directly, by her management of the estate. Perhaps she had done more harm than good. Should she have included them? Shown them the work involved in planning, arranging, and overseeing all the tasks from the smallest to the most complex? Had she done so, perhaps they would be more willing to help now.

Elizabeth endured her burgeoning disappointment until Mrs. Hexam had departed and the conversation had deteriorated to talk of titles. She sought solace in the kitchen then, and Cook slid a plate of cake and a cold glass of milk in front of her. The cake did not take away her problems, but it nourished her soul and restored her humor.

It was there—just after she popped the last bite into her mouth with an appreciative moan—that Robbie walked through the back door and into the kitchen. The storm in his expression melted away, and a smile like sunshine appeared in its place that warmed Elizabeth from her toes to the top of her head. A smile just for her. Well, she was happy to see him, too. She could not help but dream that maybe, just maybe…

“Mr. Robinson, might I have a word with you in my study?” At the sound of her father’s voice, Elizabeth spun around from her seat on the bench. Papa’s shoulders stooped. Even when he noticed her, it was as though he was too sad to stand straight. Sympathy stirred in her breast… until she remembered that he had caused this predicament. Anger stirred anew, and she turned away from him. Let him feel the bitter consequences of his inaction. Maybe that would get him to do something.

Robbie crossed the room and followed Papa, leaving Cook to return to the pot boiling on the stove and Elizabeth to wonder what her father was about. Did he have a plan? She dared not hope. Had he found the evidence they had worked so diligently to find? Likely not. Downing the last of her milk, Elizabeth hastened to join them, grateful her father did not dismiss her when she slipped inside the room and took a seat at her writing desk.

“Mr. Robinson, it appears your services are no longer required, nor am I in a position to pay your salary should this dreadful news of Mr. Darcy’s demise prove to be true. I must conserve the few resources I have remaining and hope for the best. At least the estate is entailed, else we would have no house to reside in.” Papa sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I never thought I would be thankful for that.” Elizabeth wished to protest, to insist that they needed all the help available to them until they received a signed declaration freeing them of all charges.

Robbie held his hands confidently at his side. “You have met the conditions of our arrangement as Mr. Philips stipulated, but I have yet to meet mine, sir. My services were contracted for a full month, and I have not yet reached that allotted time.”

Papa waved his hand dismissively. “What is a day or two?”

“There is a full week remaining in our contract. I cannot in good conscience leave before the term is completed and your case resolved to satisfaction. Therefore, I shall work an additional week without pay.”

“It is as good as done.”

“Until you have a letter with Sir Bradley’s signature acquitting you of all charges, my work here is not done,” Robbie insisted.

“You have until the end of your term, then, and I cannot arrange for another.”

“Until Saturday, the sixteenth.”

“Not a day more,” Papa agreed, dismissing Robbie. He turned his attention to Elizabeth and tugged a letter from under his chair’s cushion, then held it up for her to see.