Longbourn's Songbird

by Beau North

  “Have you had your shot?” Jane nodded wearily. “In that case,” Elizabeth said, pulling the bottle from behind one of her pillows, “I’ve had a bit of a head start, so you’ll have to catch up.”

  ***

  “Lizzie.” Jane hiccupped. “Play it again, please.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Elizabeth reset the old Victrola that had once belonged to Granny Gardiner. Normally it was kept in the family room, but she’d wanted to learn the Piaf song in the privacy of her room.

  “I wish I spoke French.” Jane played with her hair as she lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. “I want to know what she’s saying.”

  “She’s singing about love—love gone right for a change anyway. Now she sees her life in rosy hues.”

  “What must that be like?” Jane mused sadly, then she sat up quickly, grabbing Elizabeth’s arm. “Oh, Lizzie. I think Mr. Darcy must be in love with you.”

  A nervous laugh escaped Elizabeth. “Jane, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I want you to take these chances when they come.” Jane’s voice was thick with emotion. “You can’t let yourself fall into the dark again—not when I really need you.”

  “Shhh, shhh, Janie.” Elizabeth pulled her sister’s head to her shoulder, rocking gently while Jane wept. If this is my penance, I count myself lucky, she thought as she kissed the crown of Jane’s head. “I’m not going anywhere, you goose.”

  Once Jane had fallen asleep, Elizabeth stowed the bottle back into its hiding place and gathered her two pieces of mail, settling into the chair by the window. The envelope she set aside for the moment, looking at the package with some interest. She didn’t recognize the return address and tore into it eagerly.

  “Oh my, lovely,” she whispered once the wrapper was removed. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. It was the book she was looking at the day she met George Wickham. She flipped open the cover to find a card bearing an inscription.

  To Lizzie, remember… “Receive without conceit, release without struggle.” George Wickham

  She frowned at the inscription and closed the book. She tucked the book into the arm of the chair and picked up her other piece of mail. That Mr. Darcy had written her a letter astounded her, and she was surprised to find it at least four pages long, written in a fine hand. She snuggled down into the chair and began to read.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  Allow me to preface an apology by telling you that this letter itself is not an apology. You have laid several charges at my feet. Some are valid, some not. This is simply my attempt to give you the truth.

  That said, please allow me to tell you I deeply regret that my behavior upset you last night. Contrary to what some may have told you, I have many flaws, the worst of which may very well be my rotten temper. I never meant to upset you with the liberties I took, but I am only a man—a man with very few defenses against such an opponent as yourself. I could only use what weapons I had at my disposal.

  Elizabeth noticed that nowhere yet in this missive was an apology for his actions, only apologies over her reaction to his actions.

  “Think you’re clever, don’t you, Mr. Darcy?” she said, mumbling and shaking her head as she continued to read.

  The next item on the laundry list of my crimes is that I have offered to buy your family’s farm without the slightest regard for your family or the families whose income depends on Longbourn. This is simply untrue, but once I gave it some thought, I could see how you would think me capable of this. It was a failing on my part.

  I will expand on this, but first let me assure you that, should your father sell to me, the people who work on your farm will not be replaced by people of my choosing because they are the people of my choosing. I have no wish to interfere with the way things have been run thus far. You should also know that, under my ownership, the employees of Longbourn will have opportunities available to them that your father could not provide. I do not mean this as a slight against your father. I am only saying that my pockets run quite a bit deeper. I can give them better wages, better incentives, and even help their children go to college. I hope this eases your mind about the future of Longbourn Farms. I promise you, it will be taken care of. I have no interest in the house itself and the ten acres around it. Your family will keep that.

  I will not tell you what I offered for the farm (let me just say your father is a sharp man and a hard bargainer—two things I appreciate) but I will say you may find yourself referred to in certain circles as “nouveau riche.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t fault him for wanting to keep the farm running as it was, and though she couldn’t forgive him, she felt immense relief that at least the people who depended on Longbourn would be well taken care of. The money—she couldn’t care less about.

  Now—as for how you could so misunderstand me. I will admit that I have noticed you for quite some time—your keen intellect and your rather unorthodox sense of humor. I feel as if I know you quite well but never considered it to be worth my while to let myself be known to you.

  Believe me—I know how I come across. An arrogant, puffed-up bluenose. This is me, but I promise you it is not all of me, just as I know you are not what you appeared to be at first blush: a girl with more sass than sense. I know now you have plenty of both! If we ever meet again, I hope that we will have put this unpleasantness behind us. For you, I will attempt to have less of a shell while in company. Perhaps the guidance of a friend, someone with a grasp on the social niceties (excluding the occasional jest at my expense) will set me straight.

  In closing, please accept my best wishes for any and all of your future endeavors. I know that, no matter what you decide to do in life, you must be met with success.

  Yours,

  Will Darcy

  P.S. I would be remiss if I did not impart one piece of advice. George Wickham should be avoided at all costs. Regardless of what he has told you about me, don’t trust him. I know from firsthand experience how adept he is at insinuating himself on young ladies, especially those with good hearts and kind dispositions. I beg you, Elizabeth, even if you cannot trust me, trust yourself. Listen to your instincts.—WD

  She could hardly credit what she was reading: Will Darcy admitting to his own failings, reassuring her about the future of Longbourn, and giving her his best wishes.

  Jane rolled over onto her back and resumed her soft snore. Elizabeth looked at the card from Wickham again, holding it next to Darcy’s letter. If Darcy was being sincere about everything else he said, what reason would he have to lie about Wickham? She put the card aside and read the letter until every line was etched in her memory. When she crawled into bed beside Jane and closed her eyes to sleep, she could see the words on the backs of her eyelids.

  Chapter Five

  Winter came to Longbourn. It was Elizabeth’s least favorite time of year. The freezing rain and the damp, cold air kept her indoors more than she liked, making her restless and moody. It usually fell to Jane to help her out of these slumps, but this winter, it seemed that the shoe was on the other foot. Elizabeth was constantly finding chores and projects to occupy her older sister, who of late slept in more days than not.

  Mrs. Bennet’s despair over Bingley’s departure didn’t help matters.

  “What kind of excuse could he have for just leaving without a word?” Fanny Bennet wailed to her sister over Sunday dinner. “How could he have left our poor Jane like that?”

  “Mother…” Elizabeth warned, seeing Jane’s face go carefully blank.

  “It’s all right, Lizzie,” Jane said weakly. “May I be excused?”

  Mr. Bennet frowned. He didn’t like this kind of moping from any of his girls, but it worried him to see it from Jane, who was normally the most levelheaded of all his children. He couldn’t help but think back to the summer when Elizabeth had returned from Charleston pale and hollow-eyed, a shade of her former self.

  He slammed his palm down on the table, startling everyone. “That’s enough, Fanny!”

>   Mrs. Bennet’s mouth fell open in surprise at his outburst. “Thomas!”

  “Don’t ‘Thomas’ me. I am putting my foot down right now! There will be no talk about the Bingleys in this house!”

  “But—”

  “No buts! You will all have to find some other gossip to satisfy your chin-wagging!”

  As the discussion became more heated and Mr. Bennet’s terms more specific, no one but Elizabeth noticed that Jane had slipped away.

  That winter brought another surprise, one that disturbed Elizabeth far more than the Bingleys’ departure from Netherfield and Jane’s despondent behavior.

  Leland Collins had returned to Longbourn on several occasions since his first visit. He seemed to have taken a liking to Charlotte Lucas. Elizabeth was aghast to see her friend allowing, even welcoming, these attentions, albeit it with a great deal of awkwardness. However, knowing what she’d deduced about her best friend, Elizabeth thought it made a certain kind of sense.

  “It’s just revolting,” she said one night as she was setting Jane’s long hair into pins.

  “Lizzie, you make too much of it. And it’s Charlotte’s choice, not yours.”

  But Elizabeth wondered. She thought it would be just like Charlotte to settle because she thought she couldn’t have what she truly wanted. She always suspected the reason her best friend never had a boyfriend, but she didn’t dare give name to it. If she was wrong and voiced her assumption, it would hurt her friend deeply and possibly damage their bond.

  “Let it go, Lizzie.”

  “Since everyone knows you have more sense than I do, I’ll heed you. For now.”

  “Maybe our cousin will win you over,” Jane said with an uncharacteristic giggle. Elizabeth thought of Charlotte and Charlotte’s idea of her own choices. It didn’t make her feel much like laughing.

  And it didn’t help that Elizabeth had had a very unpleasant encounter with Leland while he was visiting at Thanksgiving. She and Mary were picking up pecans that had fallen off the tree, their baskets quickly filling up. It was tiring work that strained their backs, but they chatted happily as they did it, making the time seem to go by faster. Pecans mounded the top of Elizabeth’s bushel basket, and if she moved it, there was a strong chance of losing a few dozen off the top.

  “Call the bank, Mary. It’s a bonanza!” Mary rewarded Elizabeth with a smile and a rare laugh. She bent to pick up her own basket.

  “Ooof! We’re going to have to double up on these one at a time, Lizzie.”

  It was then that Longbourn’s foreman, Mr. Harlon, came out of the barn with his son. Gregory Harlon was a year younger than Mary; they all had fond memories of chasing each other around the yard as kids or splashing in the Netherfield pond on hot days. He’d grown into a fine young man who had recently started his first year at St. Augustine’s University in Raleigh.

  “Greg!” Elizabeth ran over and gave her old friend a quick hug. “Are you home for the holiday?”

  They spent a few minutes catching up. Elizabeth thought it was remarkable what a calm, studious young man the rambunctious boy had grown into. Then she and Mary accepted their offer to carry the baskets to the back porch and wished them a happy Thanksgiving before they left.

  Later, as Elizabeth and Mary were elbow deep in the daunting task of separating the pecans from their shells, their cousin made it known he had seen the whole exchange from the kitchen window. “I saw you hugging that colored boy,” he said furiously. “Your daddy should take a strap to you until you have a little more shame.”

  Elizabeth felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up at the vicious tone in his voice. The anticipatory light in his eyes told her he’d like nothing more than to see her beaten.

  “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not my father,” she said coolly, turning back to her chore. He sneered and kicked over her basket of pecans.

  “Really, now!” Mary exclaimed. Collins was already stalking away. Mary bent to help Elizabeth clean up the mess, seeing how Elizabeth’s hands shook as she righted her basket.

  ***

  One week after ringing in the New Year, Longbourn Farms officially became a holding of Mr. William Darcy. The house and surrounding few acres remained under the ownership of Thomas Bennet. The entire transaction was carried out by a very staid-looking lawyer who drove down from Raleigh; of the farm’s new owner, they saw nothing. Mr. Bennet celebrated by asking his sister-in-law in Charleston to start looking for a good boarding school for his two youngest daughters.

  Elizabeth marked her twenty-third birthday by cutting her hair short.

  ***

  While most people acquainted with the Bennet girls considered Mary to be the cuckoo in the nest, each of the five sisters considered themselves to be the odd one out.

  For Jane, she felt that her condition made her different. For Elizabeth, it was her past. Mary felt that her quiet studiousness set her apart while Lydia believed herself the only Bennet girl who liked to have a good time. However, out of all the girls, no one felt it more keenly than Kitty. She was more serious than Lydia but less so than Mary and divided by too many years to fully relate to her two eldest sisters. At almost eighteen, Kitty hovered just on the cusp of grace and wit without achieving either—except occasionally and purely by accident. Some even thought her to be somewhat slow-witted compared to Elizabeth or Mary.

  Far from being slow-witted, Kitty Bennet had an incredibly vivid imagination that she found rather preferable to the real world. Sometimes this attitude did her no favors, in particular on the day that her cousin Leland Collins caught her with the dirty picture.

  She’d gone out to the barn, hoping for a glimpse of her cat Whiskers who was expecting a litter any day. She hadn’t found the cat but an object much more intriguing. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a vulgar picture; Longbourn was a farm that sometimes employed men they didn’t know, rough men who came and worked for a few days, sometimes departing quickly and leaving the odd bits of ephemera in their wake like so much flotsam. Kitty assumed it was one such worker that had left the picture she now held.

  The photo itself was old and frail, developed in creamy sepia tones. The lady in the picture languished against a damask chaise, her long hair draped carefully so that her small, high breasts were just visible. Her dark stockings were rolled down to just above the knee. One leg stretched in front of her on the chaise, the other was slung far to the side, giving the camera a full view of all of her attributes.

  It wasn’t the woman’s nakedness that interested Kitty but rather the look on her face. Her lips were curved into a flirtatious smile, showing the smallest hint of teeth. Her eyes shone with a curious mix of amusement and expectation as though she were waiting, hoping for something, something she expected she would enjoy quite a lot. It occurred to Kitty that there might be more to the act than she supposed based solely on the anticipatory gleam in the woman’s eye.

  Being nearly eighteen, Kitty knew the basics of relations. She’d heard enough rumors whispered at slumber parties, though it was usually Lydia who was the one doing the whispering. The stash of racy books she’d found hidden in Elizabeth’s room had been somewhat more enlightening, but the connection from the written word to Kitty’s imagination stayed just out of reach, and remained without context, until this moment.

  Kitty bent closer, carefully studying the woman’s face, trying to imitate her expression. She wondered what the woman could have been looking at that inspired such a look. Some dashing lover? She was so absorbed in her study that she did not notice her cousin coming in behind her.

  “What in God’s name!” Kitty’s hand stung as he slapped the picture out of them. “Have you no shame? That is nothing for a young lady, for any lady to look at! Jesus wept!”

  “I found it,” Kitty said feebly, still stunned and smarting. Her cousin took her arm above the elbow, his hand clamped on her like a vise, yanking her out of the barn behind him. Out in the sun, Kitty could see splotches of red high on his face,
but there was a flash in his eyes she recognized. She realized with a sinking heart that it was the same gleam of expectation as worn by the lady in the photo, as if whatever came next he would enjoy a great deal.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in short, panicked breaths. “I found it; I’m sorry.”

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The arrival of Mr. Bennet startled them both. Kitty quailed at the thunderous rage that hovered around him like a heat shimmer. Still reeling from the shock of it, she felt her eyes prickle with tears, convinced that she deserved her father’s wrath. It hardly mattered that her father was furious with her cousin.

  Collins spat. “Your girls are sadly lacking in their spiritual education.”

  “And you think to instruct by manhandling them? Catherine, get in the house right now!”

  Collins tightened his grip on Kitty’s arm. “I overstepped,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I apologize, Uncle. But it is our God-given duty to correct women when they get out of hand.”

  “I see,” Mr. Bennet said coldly. “And who do you suppose will correct us?” Collins opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Bennet cut him off. “You’re family, but I won’t tolerate any correction where my girls are concerned. I think, until you’ve proven you can be trusted, your visits here are at an end.” He held up a hand, as though he knew what his nephew would say next. “And spare your sermons for the other snake-handlers. Catherine, come here.”

  Finally released, Kitty stepped to her father, still shaken and terrified. He put a comforting arm around her, but she didn’t feel comforted.

  Leland Collins left Longbourn that night, but it would not be his last visit.

  ***

  March 1949

  Pemberley Manor, North Carolina

  Darcy slowed Auberon to a canter, dropping the reins long enough to pull off his hat and wipe the sweat from his brow. He woke up restless and unhappy, deciding to take his treasured gray out for a grueling ride. For too long Auberon’s exercise had been left to Pemberley’s careful grooms, and the horse’s mood seemed to match his master’s—restless and unhappy.