She handed the letter to her father and said weakly, “He included a letter.”
While her father read the letter, Elizabeth returned her attention to the books. She could not find even a modicum of aversion at his presumptuous skirting of propriety to find a way to give her his gift. She felt only gratitude. She opened the first book and saw her father’s name across the bookplate in the same elegant handwriting. She turned to the next book, seeing it labeled for her mother. She flipped through each book, labeled for every one of her sisters. Eagerly she searched for her own and found it to be the last. She gingerly opened the binding to the bookplate. Seeing her name in his elegant handwriting caused her heart to flip. She ran her finger across it: “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time, she felt more than she could understand.
“That was kind of him,” her father said as he removed his glasses from his face to pinch the bridge of his nose and lowered the letter to his lap.
Elizabeth drew in a shallow breath as she said, “May I read it, Papa?”
She reached for the letter as her father nodded his approval. She handed him the open parcel, minus her own book. The letter, she knew, was written more for her than for her father.
Mr. Bennet,
Please accept this gift from me to your family as a fervent wish for their future comfort. And please forgive me the liberty I have taken in getting it into your hands. If it were not for the comfort I derived from a similar item when my own dear father passed five years ago and a sincere wish to see your family healed from this tragedy, I would not have presumed upon you. I will only add,
God bless and keep you,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Chapter 9
Elizabeth knocked on the door to her mother’s bedchambers and waited for an answer. She had personally delivered Mr. Darcy’s gift to each of her family members at the request of her father. Her mother’s was last, and Elizabeth worried about her reaction. Her mother had been much subdued since Lydia’s death, and every day since, the Bennet household anticipated her return to her previous disposition with some trepidation.
“Come in,” she heard her mother say.
Elizabeth gingerly opened the door, holding her mother’s new mourning book close to her chest. Her mother was sitting at her dressing table preparing herself for bed. Elizabeth was beset with emotion as she took in her mother’s countenance, solemn and downcast, and yet quite a beautiful woman for her age. She was combing her long, dark hair and looking at her daughter through the mirror.
“What is it you need, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth stepped forward and placed the book in front of her mother. Stalling her mother’s hand, she took up her brush for her. Brushing her mother’s hair, she noticed for the first time the beautiful streaks of grey coming through. She swallowed as she observed through the mirror her mother slowly reach for the book.
“It is a mourning book, Mama. Mr. Darcy sent one for all of us, to remember Lydia.”
Mrs. Bennet reverently turned the book over in her hands a few times, a single tear running down her cheek. Elizabeth put the brush down, wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her teary cheek.
“My poor, poor Lydie.”
Elizabeth choked down her own emotion at hearing her mother whisper the endearment that only she had ever used. She was surprised then, when her mother sat up straighter, pulled Elizabeth’s arms from about her shoulders and gave the book back to her.
“Take it away, Elizabeth; I do not deserve to have such a fine thing.” Her voice was somber but resolved.
Elizabeth backed away from her mother when she stood and walked towards her bed. “Mama, of course you must have one. It is a lovely way to write down your memories and thoughts about my sister.”
“No, Lizzy, take it away.” Elizabeth stood gaping at her mother until her ears caught her mother’s anguished voice mumble to herself, “It is my fault she is gone anyway.”
Elizabeth rushed to her mother, and ignoring her mother’s protests, she threw her arms once again around her shoulders. “Mother, do not say such things! It is not your fault that Lydia died. It was an accident, Mama!” Her eyes were streaming as Elizabeth tried to convince her mother to listen to her.
Instead, her mother struggled to disentangle herself from her second daughter’s embrace. She could not have guessed that her mother’s dreadful state was compounded by guilt. The thought caused her to tighten her embrace.
“No, Lizzy, let me at once feel how much I have been to blame.”
“But, Mama, you are not to blame!”
“Say nothing of that, my dear. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”
Elizabeth sat herself on the bed next to her mother, whose face by now was also wet with tears. She grabbed her mother’s hand and squeezed it. She knew her mother could not possibly be at fault and somehow needed to convince her of it. She harkened back to her time with the Darcys in London and to her letters with Georgiana. Sharing her grief had helped Elizabeth manage the pain of her loss. She knew the same would be a balm to her mother.
“Mama,” she began with sincere feeling, “I cannot but disagree with you. How can it be your fault? You were not even with Lydia at the time.”
Mrs. Bennet looked towards her least favorite daughter, and for the first time, she was struck with feelings of tenderness for Elizabeth. Her estrangement with Mr. Bennet had begun with Elizabeth’s birth. He had doted on Elizabeth, loved her, and spent countless hours devoted to her care and education. Mrs. Bennet, a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper felt ignored, and she resented her second daughter. She could love Jane, for who could not love such beauty. But Elizabeth was much like her father; she had his odd mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humor, reserve and caprice. Having failed to produce an heir for a second time, Fanny Bennet had begun to worry that she was a disappointment to her husband. Discontented, her nervous complaints began; with each subsequent pregnancy and birth of another daughter, she drew further into her insecurities. Furthermore, she believed he had not forgiven her for not producing an heir.
It was not as if Lydia were the first child she had lost. Both were my fault, she thought sadly. Shortly after Lydia’s birth, she became with child again but delivered early in her confinement. The infant, small and weak, was the coveted heir but only lived a few hours. They had never mentioned his birth to any of the girls. Mrs. Bennet deemed that, if she had only taken greater care, she could have brought their son to birth safely. With his death on her hands, she withdrew completely from her husband’s company. She spent the subsequent years doting on her youngest living child, her baby Lydia, and plotting and preparing to find suitable husbands for her daughters.
Looking towards Elizabeth again, Mrs. Bennet patted her daughter’s hand. “It is my fault again, Lizzy. I have always tried to look out for you girls — to find you good husbands. I encouraged Lydia to go out walking that day with the officers. I should not have sent her.”
Again? Lizzy wondered as she sank into the space next to her mother and rested her head on her shoulder. “Mama, you could not have known she would fall. You cannot blame yourself that it happened.”
As her tears fell, Mrs. Bennet slowly lifted her arm and rested it around her second daughter’s shoulders. It was the first time she could remember holding Elizabeth and she was sorry for it. Elizabeth was not unaware of the unprecedented gesture of affection and was equally moved.
“No, Lizzy. I have pushed you girls too much. I shall not orchestrate your futures anymore. I do not know what shall happen to us if your father should die, but I would rather starve with you girls by my side than to have my matchmaking ambitions push you towards unhappiness or worse . . . ” Her voice faltered at the end, and they remained silent for a few minutes.
Elizabeth looked into her mother’s eyes. “Mama, you must stop blaming yourself. Lydia’s death was not your fault, and I will n
ot hear it.”
“Hush, child, I shall be all right. I have more children who need me, and Lydia will have Sammy, after all.”
Sammy? Elizabeth returned to her mother’s embrace. Who is Sammy? When her mother began to hum and comb her fingers through Elizabeth’s hair, she forestalled asking aloud. For the first time, she held her mother’s affection, and she could not bear to share it with anyone else.
Elizabeth fell asleep in her mother’s bed next to her. When Mrs. Bennet ascertained her daughter was sleeping, she carefully tucked her in around the counterpane. She looked at the book on her dressing table that her daughter had delivered. Briefly, she wondered why Mr. Darcy would bestow such a gift on her family. As she looked down at Elizabeth’s sleeping form, she smiled. Though Mrs. Bennet had sworn off matchmaking, she was not so daft as to sit idly if an honorable suitor came for one of her daughters. If Mr. Darcy were interested in one of them, she would not be the one to stand in his way. Returning her thoughts to the book, she even considered using the gift. Perhaps it would be comforting to have something by which to remember Lydie. She would place it in her keepsake chest next to the willow wood box with the lock of hair from Sammy.
Mrs. Bennet blew out the candle and slid into bed next to her daughter. She could not discharge her culpability in Lydia’s death, but talking about it with Elizabeth had strengthened her resolve to be a better mother to her remaining daughters. Lydia’s death had brought her closer to her husband at least. They talked more, and Mrs. Bennet determined to continue that as well. Sighing, Fanny felt another tear roll down her cheek and soak into the pillow.
* * *
Sitting at her writing desk, Georgiana considered her reply to Elizabeth. She had written concerning a gift that, apparently, her brother had sent to the Bennets. Georgiana was not aware that William had sent anything and was intrigued. Her brother was most peculiar regarding Elizabeth. He would feign indifference when a letter would arrive from Elizabeth but then hover about while she read it. He would even inquire after the letter, although he had never taken such an interest in her correspondence before.
At first, she wondered whether it was merely a courtesy because Elizabeth had lost her sister. But Georgiana discarded that theory as soon as she came across a letter her brother had written her from Hertfordshire last autumn. She had not heeded it much at the time, but he had written at length about Miss Bennet. Georgiana had been too distracted by her own troubled feelings still reverberating in her mind after Ramsgate to discern that it was the only time he had ever written to her about a lady — other than to relate Miss Bingley’s raptures, of course. She knew his feelings about Mr. Bingley’s sister, and she had learned to skim over any part of his letters with her name in it. But he had written of Miss Bennet even back in October when he was at Netherfield!
This discovery had made Georgiana rush to her drawer and review all of his letters over the past few months. She noted that he wrote of Elizabeth again while at Kent, and Georgiana was stunned when she finally comprehended his strange behavior — My brother is in love with Elizabeth!
Georgiana secreted a smile as she drew forth a fresh sheet of paper to write to Elizabeth. Since their correspondence had not yet ventured beyond the Bennet’s current situation, Georgiana was not sure of Elizabeth’s feelings towards her brother. She believed that no one could help but fall in love with him, for he was the best of brothers and the best of men. She was certain that, if Elizabeth was not already in love with her brother, all she needed was time. For who could not love him? She spent a few minutes contemplating how she might contrive for her brother and Miss Bennet to be in each other’s company again.
With a smile and a plan, Georgiana bent her head to write to her favorite friend.
* * *
Elizabeth was just returning from her walk with her mourning book in hand, as had become her custom, when the post arrived with a letter from Miss Darcy. She smiled as she tucked it into her book before ascending the stairs to her room to read. She knew that this letter would be the one in response to her own letter about Mr. Darcy’s present. She looked down at her cherished book and smiled. She knew what had been in the box now, and thought about how superfluous Miss Darcy’s letter was likely to be.
His gift of the mourning book had come to mean a great deal more to Elizabeth than a way to help formulate her thoughts and feelings regarding the loss of Lydia; in truth, it was because the book was from him.
It had now been several weeks since she received the news at the parsonage of Lydia’s death. Her feelings and thoughts about Mr. Darcy were so different now. Mr. Darcy had left for town several weeks before, and Mr. Bingley had remained. While walking in the garden with Elizabeth and Jane, he had indicated his intention to stay in the area at least through the summer. His words had served as a way to soothe Jane’s worries regarding his arrival in the area. Elizabeth turned her head to hide a smile when she realized her secret meeting with Mr. Darcy on the day of the funeral had been for naught as Mr. Bingley had revealed his intentions himself only a few days later.
Elizabeth chuckled as she retrieved Georgiana’s letter from the cover of her mourning book, running her finger along her name written in his handwriting on the nameplate before closing the book again. Regardless of Mr. Bingley’s pronouncement, Elizabeth could not repent her time alone with Mr. Darcy that day in the garden.
Sitting on her bed, she drew her feet up underneath her as she turned the letter over to break the now familiar Darcy seal.
Dear Elizabeth,
It was lovely to receive your most recent letter and to see that your spirits seem to be recovering. I often think of my dear friend and hope that you are improving. I hope my brother’s gift was acceptable to you and your family. I wish I could say more about it, but unfortunately, I do not know what it was that he sent. I do know that your family has been in his thoughts since he left you a few weeks ago. He is always concerned and pays particular attention when I receive a letter from you, often staying nearby until I share with him how you fare.
Enough about that — tell me, dear Elizabeth, what are your plans for the summer? Do I dare hope that you might come to London soon, whereby I may see you?
Sincerely yours,
Georgiana Darcy
Elizabeth smiled to herself as she refolded the letter. If she had not convinced her father to open the package, she would have found her friend’s letter quite vexing. Instead the letter made her heart leap at the reference to Mr. Darcy, and she reread several times the portion containing his name before allowing herself to move on to the rest. She wondered at what it meant that he was so attentive when Georgiana received a letter from her.
Smiling, she moved to her desk to reply to the letter. Having finally discovered what was in the box, she felt determined to thank Mr. Darcy for his thoughtfulness. She first wrote to Miss Darcy regarding her forthcoming trip with her aunt and uncle. She explained that, due to Lydia’s death, her uncle had taken too much time away from his business; therefore, they had to cut short their original plans. They were obliged to give up the Lakes and substitute a more contracted tour. According to the present plan, they were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire; they would be leaving in three weeks’ time. It was with mixed emotions that Elizabeth thought about how quickly time was passing since Lydia had died. By the time she left for her tour of Derbyshire with her aunt and uncle, it would have been nearly two months.
She finished her letter with a request to Georgiana to please pass the last page on to her brother, its containing her thanks for his kind gift. She then pulled an additional sheet of paper out and addressed a note to Mr. Darcy. When she completed the missive, she folded both together in one envelope. She hoped that, since her note to him was open and part of her letter to Georgiana, he might take less umbrage on her presumption to write him, seeing it was not really private correspondence.
* * *
Darcy sat at his desk drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. It had b
een nearly a month since his plans for the future had taken a detour after Elizabeth received the news of her sister’s death. He felt every minute of the subsequent weeks. He was irritated that he had still found no news of Wickham’s location. His informant, Perkins, was on Wickham’s trail and had followed him from establishment to establishment. At least they believed he was still in London. Damn, if we are not always two steps behind!
Their latest lead had been the closest yet, having missed catching Wickham by mere hours. The only satisfaction gained thus far from the sordid business was that Wickham had likely left because of his debts as well as a wish to escape the militia. Darcy had just received a missive from Colonel Forster, now established in Brighton, reporting that Wickham had not returned from leave. Darcy knew he had not gone to Brighton; Perkins was on his trail, and it only led him in circles around the seamiest parts of London. No, Darcy knew that Wickham had not gone to the seaside.
His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of his study door to admit his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam. He still wore his greatcoat, beaver and gloves, though the latter he was in the process of removing when he spoke.
“Darcy! I have something I wish to speak to you about.”
Darcy inclined his head and stood waiting while his cousin removed his outerwear and handed it to the waiting butler.
“This matter of business of yours could not have waited until you removed your coat in the vestibule instead of dragging your road dust into my study?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed as he handed his coat to Mr. Carroll, whose face indicated he agreed with his master. With a short bow to the gentlemen, the butler left, closing the study door behind him.
“Well, Richard?” His mood was still a bit foul from his earlier ruminations about Wickham, and they colored his patience.
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