A Season Lost

by Sophie Turner

  “Oh – my sketchbook!” Georgiana said, and made to rise to get it.

  “Stay here.” He put his hand firmly on her shoulder. “I’ll send Kelly down for it.”

  Moll was, at this moment, rather obviously pretending to watch the shore while truly watching Taylor as he made an inspection of the ship’s masts. She started upon being addressed by Matthew, and all but ran down the companion-ladder in her haste to retrieve the sketchbook.

  “Did I miss it? Don’t say I’ve done a’missed it!” she called out, as she rushed toward Georgiana with sketchbook and pencils in hand. It was only now that she recalled herself, glanced up at Matthew – who could look rather tall and intimidating, when he stood as he was presently in his uniform – and demurely handed over the sketchbook.

  Moll had not at all missed it, for it began to appear slowly, a line across the hazy mountains in the distance, growing more and more distinct as the Caroline sailed closer.

  “It goes on forever!” gasped Georgiana, glancing about to see that most of the ship was gazing at the wall, and appeared similarly astounded. The men on duty were recalled to that duty by Turnbull, but Mrs. Travis and Rebecca McClare joined them alongside the rail. Georgiana looked up at Matthew, and as their eyes met, she felt the beauty of sharing something like this with him, of seeing this incredible thing together. Matthew could not linger, however, and he smiled to her and then crossed the ship to speak with Lieutenant Grant about something. In his absence, Georgiana recalled her sketchbook and began furiously attempting to capture what she saw.

  She did many sketches, eventually managing a few she was rather happy about, never stopping until her hand was so sore she could not draw any longer. Georgiana sat there with her aching hand still loosely grasping her pencil, resting upon the sketchbook. She put her other hand on her belly, and thought, “such a thing we have seen, little one – such an amazing thing we have seen together. You must live for me, my little one, so I can show you this sketchbook and tell you of this day.”

  Chapter 2

  Following the storm, the weather at Pemberley improved – not so much that they had any hopes of its being permanent, but enough of a reprieve to lighten Darcy’s countenance. Enough perhaps, Elizabeth thought, to restore a little of his hope, to pull him out of his resignation.

  During this time, they rode every morning, often accompanied by Anne, who still seemed most invigorated when they met with Mr. Smith, and was so on this day. Elizabeth was just beginning to wonder if what she had deemed a harmless flirtation must be considered something more, when Mr. Smith made the very invitation she had been hoping he would not, asking if they were free for dinner at any time in the course of the next fortnight. If she had not felt the guilt of his undoubtedly feeling compelled to reciprocate her own invitation to dinner, Elizabeth might have been charmed that he thought the social lives of those at Pemberley were so full as to render them busy for every evening during an entire fortnight. In town, perhaps, they might have found their evenings so full, but in Derbyshire society moved at a more preferable pace, and she was easily able to propose several evenings, one of which was readily agreed to by them all.

  As they rode off, Elizabeth waited until Smith was well out of earshot, then said, “I am sorry, Darcy. You were right that he would feel compelled to reciprocate. I tried to make it so he would not feel it was necessary, but clearly I was not successful.”

  “There is nothing to be done about it now,” Darcy said. “We must go and be the politest of guests, and I only hope it does not put him out too much.”

  “Has it occurred to either of you that perhaps he wants to host you?” asked Anne, entirely surprising Elizabeth. “That he wants to return your generosity and be known as having had you to dinner? That a man of one and forty years of age knows very well what he can afford as a host?”

  It was on Elizabeth’s tongue to ask Anne whether he had spoken to her on the subject, for it seemed he had, but instead she merely said, “I had not thought of it in that way, Anne. Thank you for prompting me to do so.”

  They came into the house following their ride, changed, and assembled themselves in the saloon. Anne’s cheeks still maintained the bloom of her improving health as they were all seated, and Parker came into the room to hand Elizabeth a letter from Marguerite Fitzwilliam.

  Marguerite’s written English was a little better than when she spoke, and Elizabeth had no difficulty comprehending her correspondent as she read about the Fitzwilliams’s plans to present her at court. Marguerite was to be presented in October, and she proposed that she and Edward visit Pemberley following this.

  Upon Elizabeth’s putting the proposal to him, Darcy happily agreed, and then appeared thoughtful. “We might visit London in October, Anne, at the same time as the Fitzwilliams,” he said. “You might even attend the Drawing-Room with them, if you wish to. I have no doubt Lady Ellen would be willing to present you.”

  “Oh, I do not think I should,” said Anne. “I am no young deb – I am a good ten years older than any lady being presented for the first time has any right to be.”

  “I expect your ill health was known in town, and if so people will understand it to be the cause of the delay,” said Elizabeth. She did not know why Darcy would wish to encourage Anne to do this, but although Elizabeth had not enjoyed her last visit to court, she thought Anne might benefit from finally accomplishing what should have been a rite of passage for a lady of her lineage.

  “We shall have to go and visit with the solicitors at some point regardless. To do so after you have been presented by the Fitzwilliams, however, would send a message to your mother – and to the rest of town – that we all stand with you,” Darcy said.

  “I shall consider it,” said Anne, in a wavering voice.

  +++

  Anne did consider whether she should seek to be presented at court, and she reached no conclusion. She felt well – she felt far healthier than she could ever remember having felt, and moreover, she looked well. The looking-glass now showed her a lady who could not be described as in the first blush of youth, but could at least be called healthy. She understood what Fitzwilliam had said to her, about the message of support her presentation would send, but she did not like the thought of being presented as Miss de Bourgh beside a woman who was younger than her and yet had been married twice already. A woman Anne had not met but had heard described as strikingly beautiful.

  Anne determined she should think no more on it that evening, for they were to dine with Mr. Smith, a dinner she had found herself entirely nervous over. She wanted badly for Mr. Smith to acquit himself well, to prove himself a good host, and for herself, she was anticipating – likely more than she should – an evening spent with him as part of a smaller party.

  Previous generations of Smiths had lived in a little cottage which was now the domain of his bailiff; Smith’s father had begun a trim brick house, and his son had seen it completed, the culmination of many years of increasing prosperity for the family. Anne had seen the house many times, but had never been inside, and came into the entrance-hall with a great deal of curiosity. No house could show to true advantage when viewed by someone who had been residing at Pemberley, but Anne could find no fault with the entrance-hall or the drawing-room. Each room was perfectly fitted up with every piece of furniture that could be expected, and even pieces which were unexpected – Mr. Smith had never mentioned playing the pianoforte, and yet there was a fine-looking square pianoforte within the room. There was a plainness to the room, however – it felt the want of wallpaper, of more colour in the upholstery. It was the room, Anne thought, of a bachelor who knew what he ought to have, but not quite the style in which it should be displayed. Still, she found it more comfortable, more home-like, than any of the rooms at Rosings, and enjoyed the conversation they had there before dinner. The Bingleys had sent their regrets, Mrs. Bingley feeling herself too far along to dine out, and so it was only Anne, the Darcys, and the Watsons, who seemed as though they had dined
there many times before, but were also well-known to the Darcys, being good friends of their aunt and uncle Gardiner.

  With a somewhat apprehensive countenance, Mr. Smith took up Elizabeth’s arm to go in, and Fitzwilliam, having no mistress of the house to escort, offered his arm to Anne, the Watsons following behind them. The dining-room, like its predecessor, was properly furnished – its table covered with a nice little array of silver – but lacking in colour. Mr. Smith had hired on men-servants from the inn at Lambton, and the two of them stood on either side of the room, waiting. They were not liveried, instead wearing their usual clothes as they brought forward the soup and the rest of the dishes. Mr. Smith waited until they had finished, coughed, and then mumbled, “You see your dinner.”

  Anne understood that he should be nervous, but she did not understand why he should be nervous about there only being one course, when Pemberley had set that precedent most thoroughly within the neighbourhood. There would be no dinners of multiple courses at any house until such time as there was no shortage of food. And it was a meal of undeniable quality. If he had not realised precisely who at Pemberley was consuming so much of his water-cress, Mr. Smith must have been well-aware that someone was doing so, and among those dishes on the table with the watercress soup and sallad was a pair of roasted pheasants – likely a gift from Fitzwilliam – and a haunch of beef, roasted to a turn. The remainder of the table contained various dishes that had also apparently come from the same animal that had given its life for the haunch of beef, as well as a few sweeter dishes of simple appearance.

  It was the beef, however, that Fitzwilliam commented on. “The beef is excellent, Smith, but please tell me you have not butchered a cow.”

  “I have, sir. With such a winter as I fear we will face, I would rather cull the herd by one now and get some pleasure out of it. And I should rather butcher an animal than feed her seed corn.”

  Anne knew precisely what they meant by this. She and Mr. Smith had discussed it at length – what should happen to the farmers’ cattle over the winter, if there was not enough feed available for the animals. Some farmers would be tempted to feed their animals whatever seed they had in reserve, and Mr. Smith was determined to avoid this, for his farm. Cattle could be bred or purchased anew, he said, but not if a farmer had no profits and nothing to plant, for using up his seed corn as feed.

  Fitzwilliam, it seemed, understood his meaning, for he nodded, and said, “Then I believe we must all enjoy it thoroughly, for there is nothing like prime, fresh English beef, particularly when roasted so well as this.”

  Anne was glad to hear Fitzwilliam praise the food in such a way, for when he had first begun speaking, she had feared his comments would sound like censure to Mr. Smith, who was a grown man – indeed, one older than Fitzwilliam – and perfectly capable of determining whether he should slaughter one of his own cows. And it was an excellent meal. Mr. Smith must have hired on additional help in his kitchen, as well, for one maid-of-all-work could never handle the complexity of these dishes, much less the quantity of them that had been laid out. Even Elizabeth, who could never have been said to be a voracious eater, applied herself with something beyond duty to everything she had been served.

  When they had all finished, and reached the point where the lady of the house – if there had been one – would have invited the ladies to go with her to the drawing-room, Elizabeth glanced at Anne and Mrs. Watson. They both nodded to her, and the ladies rose, Elizabeth saying they would retire to the drawing-room.

  The gentlemen did not leave them alone there for long, and when Mr. Smith followed Fitzwilliam and Mr. Watson into the room, Anne realised she felt the strangest sensation in her belly. It was a feeling of anticipation, of happiness at his presence. She did not want him there to speak with her about farming; she wanted to see him and speak with him about anything, regardless of the topic.

  What would her mother think, to see her reacting in such a way to a farmer? Her mother would hate it – no, on second thought, Anne did not think her mother would even be able to comprehend the idea that she should be attracted to a farmer. A gentleman farmer, she corrected herself. Then she knew without a doubt that she must go to London and be presented at court.

  It was tempting, so very tempting, to allow herself the delicious thought of an attraction to a man her mother could not approve, a man society could not approve. It was a thought not likely to end well for either herself or Mr. Smith, however, and when Anne understood this, she knew anything that should remind her of her position in society, anything that should establish her firmly as an independent lady of fortune, would be beneficial to her. When they returned home, she gathered her writing things and stayed up late, composing a letter to her aunt Ellen that asked if her aunt would be willing to sponsor her introduction at St. James’s Palace.

  +++

  Elizabeth and Darcy had no such writing to accomplish, but they did stay up late, discussing how the evening had gone. They were of one mind in praising the steps Smith had taken as a host – the servants he had hired on and the meal he had provided would have been acceptable for a man with twice his income.

  “I worried for him, to host us, and I needn’t have,” Darcy said. “Everything was very well done. I was happy for Smith – I was proud of him.”

  “As well you should have been,” Elizabeth said, climbing up into his bed. “The only thing I felt lacking in the evening was a mistress of the house. Why has Smith never married? It seems as though he should have been most eligible for someone in this neighbourhood.”

  “Ah, therein is Smith’s problem. His position is such that he is out of reach for the daughters of the other farmers, but no gentleman would consider Smith an eligible match for any of his daughters. Smith is too low for some and too high for the rest.”

  “That is a shame,” said Elizabeth. “It seems as though he would make someone an excellent husband.”

  “Yes,” said Darcy. “Yes, I think he would.”

  Chapter 3

  Mr. Bennet was, at present, the only person who could be counted upon to speak in a rational manner at Longbourn, and his time was, unfortunately, much taken up by his tenants. Thus as Catherine’s father had a steady stream of men into his library to discuss when they should begin their harvest, Catherine herself was relegated to attempting to get her mother to hold to the economies that had begun to bear some little fruit, and waiting desperately for her husband to return to the house.

  Andrew did so, finally, riding a hired hack in from London, which he had reached via the mail. He was greeted with particular enthusiasm by his wife, who had never suspected they should ever be separated by his needing to see his brother firmly installed in what had become a contested living. The details of this he told her, after he had come in and greeted her parents, and they had gone upstairs, ostensibly for him to change before dinner (although they had allotted themselves enough time for this that even Beau Brummel himself might have changed twice over). Catherine wished to ask him of how Lady Catherine had been, how poor Herbert had handled her, and whether Edward Fitzwilliam’s help had been enlisted.

  Andrew provided the first hints that should satisfy her curiosity on these matters by flopping down on the bed and saying, “Oh, Cat, I understand the politics of the navy fairly well, but I had thought those of the church to be more straightforward, and I have been shown that I was quite wrong.”

  “How is Herbert?” Catherine asked.

  “Well enough, I think. Lady Catherine responds better to flattery than your average admiral, and I think so long as he continues in his present course of doing so to her, she will be willing to forget he was not her candidate. Thankfully, anyone who meets Herbert must see there is nothing shrewdly ambitious about him.”

  “So he gets on well with her?”

  “Well enough, for now. I suspect Lady Catherine has other things that serve as greater worries, if her daughter is making such appointments without her approval and refusing to come home.”

/>   “You did not need to call in Colonel Fitzwilliam, then?”

  Andrew gave a strange little laugh. “No, of course not. I should not take lightly to asking the son of an earl to help my family.”

  Catherine understood the distinction of rank he meant to impose, but could not feel it so strongly as he had, having danced on several occasions with Colonel Fitzwilliam and feeling a more familial connexion with the man, given her sister was his cousin by marriage. She mentioned none of this, however, and merely said, “You would not feel it, I think, with Matthew, and he seems to have an earl in his corner as much as any son would.”

  “True, but I have known Matthew for far longer, and we have fought together, which always makes matters different,” Andrew said. “How have things been here?”

  “As well as can be expected. Mama has now realised that the weather makes her nervous complaint worse,” said Catherine. “Papa thinks we shall be able to begin some of the harvest soon – what of it there will be. He will be glad of your returning, I think.”

  “I doubt that. I can be of assistance when there are ditches to be dug, but the reaping of wheat – or is it sowing? – I know absolutely nothing about.”

  For a moment, Catherine thought he was in earnest, but the merriment in his eyes gave him away, and she giggled. “I think my father is glad of your company. Although I think he would not be if you truly did not know that you reap what you sow.”

  He chuckled. “And what of you, pretty Cat? Are you glad of my return?”

  “I am very glad of your return,” Catherine said, throwing herself upon him and kissing him, a kiss that very rapidly became an agreement for a little round of marital relations. This had not been her intent, in coming up to the bedroom with him, but Catherine still favoured it. They had ample time, and they still had a baby to create.