Elizabeth had never seen so much gold gilt in the whole of her life.
As they neared the end of the hall, Lady Catherine’s maid stepped out of a doorway and curtsied. “Ah, you are returned at last, Albertine,” Lady Catherine scolded. “We have no need of you.”
The maid curtsied again. “Excuse me, madame. I would speak to you, s’il vous plaît.”
This last was pronounced “sill vows plate,” and Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
Lady Catherine followed her maid to just inside her chamber doors. Elizabeth proceeded to view the prospect from the windows at the end of the hall. Lady Catherine stepped out to her again in a matter of moments.
“I apologise, Miss Bennet. I had every intention of attending you, but a matter has arisen that requires my immediate attention. That door behind you leads to Anne’s bedchamber where you will find the jewels laid out for your perusal and a pot of tea steeping. I do hope you will enjoy it. It is my own special blend. And there is almond cake to enhance the flavour of the tea. Please do not hesitate to partake even though I cannot be with you. Take all the time you need, and drink as much tea as you like. I insist.”
Elizabeth curtsied. “You are very kind, ma’am. Shall I ask my cousin to return with me to Hunsford when I am finished? Or will you have time to confer with him later?”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed a moment before returning to their benign expression. “You are good to think of Mr. Collins. Yes, my dear, take him with you when you depart.” Lady Catherine left Elizabeth with a nod and what appeared to be a tender smile and proceeded into her rooms.
It was only then that Elizabeth turned to Anne’s door and halted with a stumble on seeing the full-length portrait hanging next to it of a handsome, smiling Fitzwilliam Darcy.
For a moment, her heart stopped beating.
Christmas Morning 1811
Damn it all! I am so entirely vexed. I spent the night very ill, tossing with disturbing memories. It began with the remembrance of the hideous smell of almond cakes. I do not recall when I developed a horror of the flavour, but I do believe that is what set off my mind’s disquiet. I should have arisen and called for a draught.
Such sights I saw! Men writhing in agony in the stables, and the horses crying and rearing in alarm…why would I imagine such a thing? And then Papa’s last illness, coming after that ghastly argument with my mother. I remember her screaming at him.
I am certain the coming of my courses brought on the distressing night. Not with child yet! I thought that Wickham, whom I now think of as Mr. Charming for the way he seeks to captivate me, had visited enough to get the thing done. Now I must send a message to bring him hither again, and he will complain for he is pursuing his little heiress.
What if I am barren and have endured the attentions of Mr. C for nothing? This brings me no joy. I want most dearly to be done with this. I have no patience left. What if the fault is with him? I have heard of marriages bringing forth no issue, then the husband dies, and the widow becomes fertile after making a second marriage. The deficiency could be with him…
And it is Christmas. Another cheerless, stifling, witless day, worse than others by the necessity of attending church and sitting through a longer than usual homily by our ridiculous vicar, just returned with his new wife. What sort of woman can she possibly be? She must be sensible enough to know what a vacuous hot air balloon she has married, or is she wholly lacking? I must not allow speculation on their private relations, but I cannot think she has any more or less joy than I do with Mr. C. If anything, I pity her more than I can pity myself, for I may end my arrangement at any time. This unknown creature must endure and spend her days with him for the rest of her life. It is all unpleasant duty. Poor creatures, women! —A de B
Chapter 9
Thunderbolts from Venus
Evening, Christmas 1811
This day became worse than I could have possibly expected. Mama would not be put off by my complaint of a headache, which was not in the least a malade imaginaire. She insisted I wait upon her in the drawing room then made a great spectacle of presenting the de Bourgh jewels to me as if they were hers to give and not already mine since April 19 last. But just as I thought she was exhibiting an altogether base and ungenerous frugality, she revealed that she had indeed made an expenditure by way of a “splendid gift” for me. She has given me two paintings.
One is of Pemberley. Speaking objectively, it is a lovely rendering of the approach to the house as one first sees it through the woods from the carriage road. If only it were not meant to hang over the mantle in my sitting room. Am I to have no escape even in my private apartment? No, says Mama. I am to be prompted to act, but I doubt my inclination to defenestration is the action for which Mama wishes.
The second painting nearly inspires suicide. It is Darcy at his full height. I am told there is a match to it in the gallery at Pemberley, and Uncle Darcy had this second made for Mama. I do not know where it has been these past six years since it was painted, but now it is ostentatiously framed, and it hangs outside the door to my bedchamber. I shall be using the servants’ passage to come and go for the foreseeable future.
What am I to do? —A de B
Thursday, 16 April 1812
Rosings
The service of Lady Catherine’s ire demanded and aroused all of her capacities. Her annoyance at Elizabeth Bennet’s inheritance of the de Bourgh jewels was nothing to the scorn she would heap upon the man—when she found him—who had defiled her daughter. When Albertine showed her the final volume of Anne’s journal rescued from the vicarage, Lady Catherine was certain she would learn the truth.
“Very good, Albertine,” she whispered. “But just the one volume?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Albertine’s eyes grew large, and she glanced around her mistress, fearing Miss Bennet had heard her from the hallway. “Ah! Oui, Madame!” she said more loudly.
“One moment…” Lady Catherine returned to Elizabeth Bennet, but was back at Albertine’s side behind a closed bedroom door in what seemed a heartbeat.
The black-bound volume was taken into Lady Catherine’s sitting room, and her ladyship was made comfortable in front of a good blaze. Although it was early in the day, the requested wine was brought, and Lady Catherine was left to read in quiet and solitude.
Outside Anne de Bourgh’s bedchamber
Elizabeth unconsciously matched Darcy’s painted smile with one of equal affection, for who could observe the expression on that handsome countenance and not return it? This man had loved her as he loved the person who was the focus of his attention as he posed—Georgiana, she supposed. Here was a man whose life’s betrayals and losses had closed him into himself, and he unfolded only when entirely certain of his surroundings and company. How had he instinctively chosen a woman of intelligence, and with what sure knack for self-preservation had he sought her lively manners to lighten his burdens when society would have him choose otherwise? The sting in her eyes presaged her tears. That he had not expressed himself well should have come as no surprise. He had already admitted he had not that talent of easy conversation. Indeed, at Netherfield, they did not converse at all, only debate. Why did she not realise? How had she been so unforgivably blind?
Would he have smiled at me had I accepted him? Harridan that I was, how did he come to love me? It is unlikely I shall ever have the chance to ask. The moment for requesting that mystery be divulged is long past. A single tear slid down the side of her nose and sat poised on her lip. She licked it away. I deserve to taste nothing but the salt of my tears.
She took a deep breath and silently admitted: What a silly chit of a girl I am. I love him.
Nodding to the painting as though it were the man himself, Elizabeth entered the bedchamber. Were there not a compelling, indeed captivating, portrait of her beloved hanging just beyond the door, the sight of so many gl
ittering parures, plus aigrettes, broaches, earrings, tiaras, chokers, hat pins, bracelets, pendants, rings of every colour and size, and loose gemstones would have been confounding.
She touched a delicate bracelet, but she could not stay. She wandered into the hall again and gazed at the painting. Elizabeth admired Darcy unabashedly. Her fingers nearly touched his lips before she pulled away, embarrassed in the face of emotions too wild and vast to contain. She could not touch this face, for it would not be warm and responsive; it would only be rough canvas and oil paint. Her fingers touched her own lips. She closed her eyes and kissed her fingertips, allowing a moment of giving herself before him as if he would see her yearning to be forgiven.
Elizabeth would not sob aloud for her loss as she had done in the woods of Rosings Park over her letter from him…no, she must confine this.
She re-entered the bedroom. Anne de Bourgh had died here, yet in this moment, the only ideas in her mind were floating away and encircling the portrait. All of the jewels were worth nothing. She glanced over them without seeing until a modest, pink diamond ring caught her eye. It was such a ring as might have suited her as a betrothal token, if ladies were given a choice in such matters. She slipped it into her pocket, took another glance about the room, sighed over the waste of Lady Catherine’s tea and cake, and decided the task at hand ought only be attempted once Jane was with her.
Elizabeth quietly closed the door and addressed the painting. Still acting as if Darcy might see, she held out her hands and placed the little ring on her finger. A last tear spilled on her cheek.
“Were you ever to ask me again, sir, I would know how to deal much better.” She spoke with a wavering voice before again returning Darcy’s smile. She turned away, but looked back a moment later. “Only you.” She held up the ring upon her finger. “Only ever you.”
Elizabeth was tolerably composed when she stepped into the small sitting room to inform her cousin that Lady Catherine was detained. As they walked to Hunsford, Mr. Collins rattled away in his usual manner, asking only once about the de Bourgh jewels. He did not notice the one simple ring perched upon her finger.
Receiving merely a slight sort of answer, Mr. Collins proved himself fully capable of providing imagined details of the glories his fair cousin had seen. He was proud of her for earning the admiration of Miss de Bourgh. “From a jewel, many jewels to another jewel.” He looked into the distance, admiring his turn of phrase. He tripped over an exposed tree root, stumbling to keep his balance.
Elizabeth looked away, vowing to write of Mr. Collins’s thick sentiment to her father.
Once in her chamber, Elizabeth slid the ring onto the ribbon she used to bind the pages of her letter from Darcy together. Someday, when I am a rickety old spinster, this ring will be my comfort, my memory. I was once loved, and by such a good man.
But Jane is coming! Dear Jane!
In the afternoon
outside the Hunsford vicarage
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam slowed their horses as they made their way through the village after a brisk ride. It was well past the noon hour, and by unspoken agreement, they had followed the bend of the main road towards the vicarage rather than passing the palings into Rosings Park. Darcy meant to further his cousin’s intercourse with Elizabeth Bennet. For the colonel’s part, he hoped for a cup of the superior tea Charlotte Collins served to her guests.
The men did not know the ladies were expecting Jane Bennet’s arrival or that Georgiana was already there. As they dismounted, a fashionably spruce landaulet with a driver and two horses pulled to a stop in front of them. Almost immediately, Elizabeth Bennet burst from the vicarage, followed more slowly by Georgiana, Charlotte, and Charlotte’s sister, Maria.
The hood was down, and Darcy recognised with no little surprise the fair features of Miss Jane Bennet. He could not have said which astonished him more: that Jane Bennet should arrive in Hunsford, or that she would do so in such an obviously private and stylish vehicle. If this equipage was the property of the Bennet’s uncle in town, then he was a tradesman of obvious substance and excellent taste. Indeed, Darcy could imagine Georgiana employing such a little carriage to make her morning calls when she attained the age where such activity would become a necessity.
Elizabeth handed down her sister before the driver could alight, and the women proceeded to embrace with laughing tears. Georgiana stood apart at first, but she was brought into the circle by Elizabeth’s gentle beckoning. Jane was introduced to Miss Darcy with curtsies on both sides.
Darcy heard Elizabeth laughing. “You see, Georgiana? My Jane does not bite though the same might not be said for my youngest sisters!”
Darcy turned to the colonel to explain their relationship. “We are witness to the arrival of Miss Bennet. She and Miss Elizabeth are exceptionally devoted sisters. I had the privilege…” He stopped speaking upon noticing the colonel’s unusual, perhaps unprecedented, expression of besotted delight.
Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze to see the handsomely turned-out Jane Bennet warmly addressing the other women and handing a gift to Elizabeth, which Jane explained was from their aunt. Darcy’s eyes travelled back to his cousin. The colonel’s smile of pleasure was broadening, his eyes bright. Is he…? Fear for Elizabeth’s feelings turned Darcy’s eyes to her.
Elizabeth watched with detached amusement as, in the face of Jane’s more au courant beauty, her own attractions sank to insignificance in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s estimation. Elizabeth did not evidence surprise as she had seen the like on more than one occasion. Since she harboured no expectations of the colonel, she did no more than allow a lifting spasm to one corner of her mouth before stepping forward to her sister and, with an arm around her shoulder, manoeuvred Jane to view the two gentlemen.
Darcy did not notice Elizabeth’s aplomb, instead forming a fury at his cousin’s rudeness, or so he deemed it. He hardly knew how to suppress his displeasure other than to remove his cousin from the place. “Cousin, let us not disturb this joyful reunion. The Miss Bennets have not been together for some months. We ought not intrude.”
Elizabeth introduced her sister to Colonel Fitzwilliam, avoiding so much as a glance at Darcy, and Jane curtsied to both gentlemen with a faint serene smile. The men bowed, but the colonel continued to gaze openly at Jane even as he bent at the waist until she blushed and looked down.
“We shall not detain you, ladies. I am pleased to see you looking so well, Miss Bennet.” Darcy touched his cousin’s arm to steer him to the horses.
The colonel would not be moved, but neither could he speak after making the initial proper remarks. The ladies all looked at him strangely, excepting Elizabeth, who laughed.
“Ah. Another conquest, Jane! And you have only just arrived!”
“Oh, Lizzy.” Jane’s reply was softly amused. She turned for the house, led by Charlotte, who looked back over her shoulder at the colonel with a brief, absent frown.
The colonel did not notice Darcy’s disapproving huff.
Late afternoon
Rosings Park
It was nearly dinnertime when a highly unsettled and slightly inebriated Lady Catherine emerged from her sitting room. She crossed the hallway to her daughter’s apartment and looked into the bedchamber. All was as it had been when she laid out the jewellery and prepared the tea. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not there. Neither cup had been dirtied, nor had a portion been taken from the almond cake.
Lady Catherine pursed her lips. She had more important concerns than Elizabeth Bennet. After pouring the contents of the teapot into a potted citrus, she wrapped the almond cake in its linen cloth. It was still needed. She carried the tea tray to a table in the hall for the servants to take away and then locked Anne’s bedchamber. She could have returned the jewels to their coffer, but at that particular moment, she felt no loyalty to preserve the gems for the current and, in her view, unrightful owner. If th
ieves broke in and stole the lot, it was no longer the chief of her concerns.
Lady Catherine paused, full of conflicting impulses. Should she confront “Mr. C” now? Clearly Collins had a history of seductions, difficult as it was to believe, and did not mean to stop. But the journal had been hidden in Mrs. Collins’s Oakley amongst the out-of-fashion (and too small for her ladyship) mourning gowns sent to the vicarage. What did his wife know of this? Something, surely, since the journal was in her possession… Lady Catherine smiled with flattened lips, proud of her generosity of spirit and the impulse of the previous day to send more gowns and then Albertine’s pleasantly surprising resourcefulness in offering to carry them upstairs for Nell. “Yes,” Lady Catherine hissed aloud, further gratified to know from her observant maid that Mrs. Collins was at least folding her gowns properly, even if a foolish husband deceived her. No wonder Anne had left Mrs. Collins a bequest. Guilt.
If only the volume still missing would come to light, she would know the entirety of the affair. But who else had read Anne’s entries, and who might be in possession of, and was reading, the six months prior? Did “Mr. C” know Anne was writing a journal? And did he know the truth of Sir Lewis’s death? Would some attempt at blackmail be forthcoming?
So Anne had hated her, ungrateful child. However the clandestine couplings had started, Anne had seen being with child as a means of escape. And a dalliance with a married man meant Anne could not be made honourable. Lady Catherine was reminded of the many dull, insipid evenings with the Collinses in attendance while Anne sat quietly, appearing every inch the nescient spinster, doubtlessly wrestling with what to leave in her journal and what to omit like every other diarist who hopes to create something sensational. Such depth and bitterness! There were no easy answers in Anne’s puzzles and curiously little religion given her chosen partner. Anne made her immoral decision not knowing what a foe her mother could be.
A Will of Iron Page 9
