“I believe this is the end of the hay and clover,” said Mr. Bennet quietly. “I had held out hope for their improvement, but this will drown them entirely.”
“Oh, papa,” Elizabeth murmured, giving her father a sympathetic look.
Mr. Bennet did not look well. His health had improved greatly after an illness that had threatened his life in the past winter, but this spring and summer could not have been easy for him. Added to the burdens of the estate was the nervous fit his wife had succumbed to immediately upon learning of the death of Mr. Collins; Catherine said Mrs. Bennet had collapsed in the parlour, shrieking over who was to be the new heir, who was now to turn her out when Mr. Bennet died. And now what little hope Mr. Bennet might have held for his tenants’ hay and clover was gone.
“I am glad at least you are all married,” Mr. Bennet said. “And so well, for the most part. Regardless of what happens to the estate this year, and to the entail, you are secure. I believe Mrs. Bennet’s nerves would be far worse if you were not – assuming it is possible for her nerves to be worse.”
“What will happen to the entail?” Elizabeth asked, quietly. “Is there another cousin of ours it shall pass to?”
“There are no cousins known to me, but that does not mean one is not in being, or to come into being,” Mr. Bennet said. “I have engaged a town solicitor, to look into the matter. I beg you will not speak of it to your mother until we know more.”
“Of course, papa.”
“Thank you, Lizzy. Someone shall inherit this waterlogged mess of mine, and at present I wonder if they will find it more trouble than it is worth.”
Chapter 34
The day following the storm, Elizabeth received an express from her husband, saying he was certain to delay his departure from Rosings for another day. She could not but be disappointed by this, that the reunion she had ached for was to be further delayed, although she could not fault his reason for it, which was that he wished to be of assistance in attending her friend back to Meryton. Mrs. Collins, he wrote, had determined to vacate the parsonage before Lady Catherine became well enough to hint this should be done; she was to travel to Lucas Lodge, where she would live in her widowhood. A day’s preparation was all she required to plan her return; most of her belongings would be sent on by carrier.
The day of Darcy’s intended arrival, Elizabeth spent the early morning with her sons, then went down to the parlour at the front of the house. She seated herself by the window there and passed the time in nervous, fidgeting anticipation, entirely mangling a boy’s shirt from the poor basket in her attempts to occupy her hands while she waited. It was while she was picking out the stitches that the carriage could be heard in the drive, and the shirt was flung aside in her rush to the front door.
Only Darcy could be seen in the carriage, and although Elizabeth wished to see and console her friend, she was glad of it, for this reunion should be had without anyone else present. No-one could ever be so important to her as the man in the carriage.
There was a light drizzle falling, and whether because of this, or because they sensed her need for some semblance of privacy, no-one else from the house came out to receive Mr. Darcy. The carriage halted, but well before the footman could see to the door and the steps, Darcy had pushed the former open and sprung from the carriage.
The tightest of embraces for his wife was quick to follow, and Elizabeth sighed to be held so, to have such strong and solid arms surrounding her after the worry of the last few weeks.
“Oh Elizabeth, my darling Elizabeth,” he said, brushing her cheek with his hand and finding there a mixture of rain and tears.
“Thank God you are well. Thank God we are all well, in our little family. I worried so for you.”
“And I you, and poor little George and James,” he said, tightening his hold on her even further, only releasing her after some minutes had passed. “Come, we should go inside. I should hate for one of us to catch a cold from standing in the rain, after everything else.”
This was the prudent thing to do, and yet disappointing, for the rest of the household (save Mrs. Bennet) had gathered in the parlour since Elizabeth had left it, and must greet Mr. Darcy upon his coming into the house. She waited through the initial pleasantries, determining to suggest that Mr. Darcy should be allowed to change out of his travelling clothes and then to slip upstairs with him, but found she did not need to, for before too much time had passed, Catherine said:
“Mr. Darcy, I am sure you wish to refresh yourself after travelling in such damp weather. You are in your usual room. Mrs. Darcy, I believe you might wish to see to your hair, as well – it has suffered from the rain.”
Elizabeth had been impressed by all Catherine had taken on at Longbourn, but never had she been happier over her sister’s acting as a hostess than she was now. Smiling in relieved gratitude to Catherine, she took up her husband’s damp arm to exit the room.
Up the creaking old staircase of her youth, her hand still on his arm, the rest of her body trembling, and then down the hall and into their bedchamber, Darcy closing the door with a gentle click behind him. This was Elizabeth’s first chance to look him fully in the eyes for as long as she wished, and she saw such a mixture of exhaustion and emotion there that she was not sure what he would wish to do, now that they were alone. For her part, she was glad just to be alone with him, to have his presence to herself after longing for him, and if he merely wished to hold her again, to reassure her of that presence, she would have been beyond content.
But he did not. He kissed her fervently, pushing her dampened curls back away from her face, and causing her to gasp at the intensity. He broke the kiss to look her in the eyes again, to ensure she was well. When he saw that she was, he kissed her again, first on the mouth, then the throat. They had only the patience to divest themselves of their most damp layers – his coat and her dress – before she would lay back on the bed and pull him to her, urging him to complete their reunion as man and wife.
Elizabeth’s desire to be held was met most thoroughly after this, when they laid quietly together on the rumpled bed-clothes, and she was reminded of all the things she had missed about him, of touch, of scent, of his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek.
“You were never ill,” she murmured. “Every day I prayed for your health, and when I opened your letters and saw you had not succumbed to the sore-throat as I feared, I cannot describe the relief I felt.”
“Then you know how I felt to receive your letters,” said he. “I worried over all three of you, particularly when you wrote of George’s teeth. That must have been so frightening for you.”
“It was all the more frightening for not having you with me. We were meant to go through these things together, to share our worries. And yet my worries were not so bad as yours, to have to deal with the death of Mr. Collins.”
“And nor were mine so bad as Charlotte’s. She did all she could in nursing him, but it was not enough.”
“How is she? Is her health better now, at least?”
“It is. I had not expected to be of service to her, in conveying her to Lucas Lodge, but her sore-throat ceased, and she was eager to be away from Hunsford before Lady Catherine could trouble her. It is the benefit of being young, I suppose, to make her recovery so much quicker than my aunt.”
“Yet Lady Catherine must be well enough, or I expect you would not have left Rosings.”
“Her health improves, and she is ably nursed by her maids. I will say, though, that she does not look so well as her daughter does now. Whatever has happened to Anne?”
Elizabeth exhaled, reminded of the frustrations of Margate, then determined to put such things behind her, for her sons were well and her husband was returned to her. Anne de Bourgh’s mild rebellion should be but an unimportant memory.
“She used the sea-water baths, at our hotel in Margate.”
“If that is all that is required to bring about an improvement in her health, I wish she had done so years ago.”
“I rather suspect the distance from her mother had something to do with it as well.”
“Ah, yes. Edward had one regret over his potential engagement to Anne becoming an impossibility – and his marrying Marguerite instead – and that was that Anne should have no chance of getting away from her mother and doing those things she wished to do in pursuit of improving her health.”
“I attempted to leave her in Margate, so she could,” Elizabeth said. “I must admit that I forgot she was an unmarried lady and could not stay by herself. She is older than I, and it seems she should have the same freedoms I do.”
“She has fortune enough to have those freedoms if she desires them. If she wishes to return to Margate for treatment, there is nothing to prevent her hiring on a companion other than Mrs. Jenkinson, and I will aid her in it if she wishes to do so.”
“That is good of you, my dear.”
“It is nothing beyond what poor Anne is due,” he said. “And what of our sons? How are they?”
“Oh, they are perfectly well, Darcy. They are bothered only by the emergence of their teeth, and now that we know how each of them prefers to teethe, it has been entirely manageable.”
“I should like to see them, after we have had our time here.” He tugged at his cravat, now, loosening the cloth about his neck, indicating their time was to be of longer duration.
“I expect they will be pleased to see their papa returned,” Elizabeth said. “But I wish – I wish we had not brought them on this trip. I selfishly wished to go with you and to bring them so that I could, and I very nearly risked everything.”
“You must not think that, Elizabeth. It is not selfish to wish to keep your family together. I believe it is the most base maternal feeling. And what is to say they would not have been exposed to some other illness at Pemberley? They will suffer illness in their lives – it is inevitable.”
“I know they will, and I know I will worry when they do,” Elizabeth said. “I wish everyone would not refer to our having an heir and a spare. Neither of our sons is a spare to me; I wish to see them both to adulthood.”
“I pray we shall, my love. I pray if our little family is to change, it is only to grow.”
+++
James and George were visited, once Elizabeth and her husband had changed, and the Darcy parents had the delight of hearing the twins once again joined together in laughter. Elizabeth’s visit to see Charlotte Collins, however, did not take place until the following day. Darcy, Mr. Bennet, and Captain Ramsey had sequestered themselves in Longbourn’s library to discuss the state of its crops, but Catherine – eager for a respite from her mother – went with her sister to pay her condolences and visit with Maria Lucas.
Once these condolences were given, Catherine and Maria seated themselves for a tête-à-tête, leaving Elizabeth and Charlotte to the other side of the drawing-room. Elizabeth had already embraced her friend tearfully, given her own condolences, and attempted to ignore how sloppily – and presumably hastily – Charlotte’s present dress had been dyed black, when Elizabeth was dressed in that hue under Sarah’s impeccable management. Now, Elizabeth struggled to determine what to say, for her last few meetings with Charlotte had been marked by the awkwardness of their having seen so little of each other in the past two years, and to that awkwardness the tragic death of Charlotte’s husband had now been added.
“Oh, Charlotte, how are you?” she asked finally, unable to think of anything better.
“I hardly know, Lizzy. This has all come about so quickly; I awoke this morning and forgot why I was not in Hunsford. You would think I could not forget, after what I have seen – I did not think scarlet fever could do such things to a man. I have never seen an affliction so grotesque as what Mr. Collins suffered under. I know you did not like him – ”
Here, Elizabeth attempted as best she could to protest what was, in truth, an accurate observation by Charlotte.
“Lizzy, do not worry over it,” Charlotte said. “He was who he was, and it was my choice to marry him, and I was pleased with my married life. I had a settled home that I had my own management over, and now that is gone.”
“You did not wish to stay in Kent?”
“Lady Catherine will need a new rector for the living, and she cannot wait until I complete my mourning. If it is to be done, I would rather have it done more quickly.”
Elizabeth felt now a deep pang of sympathy for her friend, made all the more substantial because her own husband had promised a substantial income for her jointure, and had added to this the purchase of a dower house. She did not know precisely what manner of arrangement had been made for Charlotte, but Charlotte’s return to Lucas Lodge made it clear she had not been left enough to set up her own establishment, and Elizabeth could only hope her friend had at least enough income that she would not be a burden to her family beyond living with them, for this surely would have worn on Charlotte. Elizabeth began thinking of possible options, by which her friend could alleviate her renewed dependence on Sir William Lucas, and was wondering if perhaps Charlotte might be a suitable companion for Anne de Bourgh when Charlotte interrupted her thoughts, saying:
“Lizzy, have you been acquainted with Sir Robert Avery? He is a neighbour of Lady Catherine’s, but I do not know if you will have met him.”
“I have not,” Elizabeth said. “I recall Darcy writing of him, but we have not been acquainted.”
“He is master of Avery Hall, which borders Hunsford on the opposite side of Rosings. He and Lady Catherine have never got on well, which would explain why you have not been introduced, although he is a very amiable man.”
Here Elizabeth caught something in her friend’s tone, and quietly asked Charlotte just how amiable Sir Robert Avery had been. To her surprise, Charlotte coloured, glanced at her lap, and said:
“Lizzy, I hope I can tell you this – I have no doubt of your confidence – he is the most amiable man I have ever known. It had become clear he had affections towards me, which I must say I returned, and now – and now I am a widow, and he has openly paid me his addresses. I hope it does not sound unseemly, for he has conducted himself in as gentlemanlike a manner as he could have, given the circumstances. He promised me that when my year is complete, he will call upon me and offer his hand in marriage.”
“Oh, Charlotte, that is – ” here, Elizabeth paused, for she was still reeling over her friend’s revelation, and had very nearly said it was wonderful “ – most fortunate, that you should have the promise of a settled home, when your mourning is complete.”
“But Lizzy, it is not just a settled home. I – I love him,” Charlotte said. “I feel tremendously guilty that my husband’s death has brought about the possibility of our being together.”
“Charlotte, you must not think that. I know I was not there, but based on what Mr. Darcy wrote to me, I think you did everything you could to nurse Mr. Collins. You were a good wife to him, right up until the end, and if fate now has a better possibility for you, no-one should begrudge you that. Did I tell you at all of the wedding I had attended in Norfolk, before we came to Kent?”
Charlotte replied that Elizabeth had mentioned the wedding, but had not told of any of the details, and Elizabeth told her friend of Edward and Marguerite, and how they had found such happiness together despite Marguerite’s being a widow. When this seemed to have some benefit to Charlotte, Elizabeth told her friend of how her sister Mary had married a widower, and how very pleased both husband and wife seemed with the match.
“Charlotte,” she concluded, “you should not feel guilty over securing your future and following your heart at the same time. You came here, and you shall mourn your husband properly, and if you wed after that, no one should begrudge you for it.”
“Oh, Lizzy, thank you for that – thank you for reminding me that there are others who have derived such benefit from their second marriage. I must tell you, I was never wholly comfortable with the idea of supplanting your mother as mistress of Longbourn.”
“Yet to be mistress of Avery Hall might be quite wonderful,” Elizabeth said, teasing her friend ever-so-gently. She was surprised to find that of all they had conversed on, this was what brought her friend to weeping, and Charlotte finally said: “I do not know how to do this, Lizzy. I am not romantic!”
“Charlotte, my dear, the very nature of being romantic means you do not respond as your intellect or your education would have you respond. You must act as your heart tells you to, and as your heart tells you to love a man you think worthy, a man who can provide for you, I believe you should follow it without a second thought. You will be distant from Sir Robert now, but do not let yourself be too distant. Correspond with him and be open in your affections. I know you are practical, but if the home he offers meets your criteria in that regard, then set aside your practicality, and enjoy being wooed.”
Elizabeth gave this advice knowing full well that she herself had never enjoyed being wooed, unless Mr. Wickham’s flirtations could be counted, and she did not count them, now. She had teazed her husband of not being capable of a flirtation, and yet even such meagre attentions as he had paid her in their early acquaintance had been influenced by her prejudice against him. When she had come to understand him better and he had returned to her presence, she had been unsure as to the state of his affections. Now she had them, and she knew without a doubt that she had them, and there was a reassuring security to such thoughts, which she carried with her as she and Catherine took their leave.
She hoped for Charlotte, now, in a way she had not before, hoped her friend would be able to set aside her guilt, in time, and find a life with Sir Robert Avery that was more satisfying than the one she had originally left Lucas Lodge for, a life of love, and one blessed with children. Elizabeth inhaled sharply, then, for she had not fully thought through what her father had meant, about an heir that would come into being – if Charlotte was presently with child and that child was a son, he would inherit Longbourn, as his father would have done.
A Season Lost Page 22
