“You have reminded me that I married an excellent man,” Elizabeth said, “and you needn’t be so strategic in the future. If you had merely said, come here, my love, and give me a kiss, I would have done the same.”
He chuckled. “Come here, my love, and give me a kiss.”
“I am already here,” she said, although she kissed him anyway. It was nice, she thought, to spend their time in doing this, to revert for a little while to the teasing of another time, a less troubled time. They kissed again and again; long, slow, leisurely kisses that might be fulfilled by more later in the night, but for now were merely for their own inherent enjoyment. It was with some reluctance that Elizabeth finally told him she must leave, but the import of her promise to Jane and the hopes she held in its fulfilment soon ceased any lingering desire of Elizabeth’s to remain in the room and enjoy more of her husband’s kisses.
She returned to Jane’s room to find her sister wearing her dressing gown and seated in a chair near the door, her countenance tense. Yet upon Elizabeth’s asking if she still wished to go to the nursery, Jane nodded, so that Elizabeth could see this tension was resolve. They walked silently to the nursery, and when they reached the door Jane stopped, her resolve seeming to dissipate. Elizabeth put her arm around her sister’s shoulders and hugged her close for a moment, then opened the door.
“Mama!” squealed Bess, who of late had not seen nearly so much of her mother as she usually did, and demonstrated her enthusiasm by running unsteadily to where Jane stood in the doorway, toppling over just before she reached her mother. This prompted immediate tears, and Jane knelt down to embrace the little girl, to wipe away her tears and kiss her forehead. It was, Elizabeth realised, the best possible thing that might have happened, given Bess did not seem to have come to any true harm. This child, whose entry into the world had been comparably simple and easy; this child, whom Jane’s tender nature could still allow her to love fully despite how exasperating she often was; this child and her present needs would be what roused every maternal feeling out of Jane.
Elizabeth’s own maternal feelings were then roused, for James, having quietly crawled over to her in the chaos, tugged at her skirts. Elizabeth picked him up and carried him over to where George was making his slow progress across the floor, kneeling down there with them both. She looked up to see that she had been right about Jane, for when Bess was finally led away by Mrs. Padgett – who must have understood the import of Jane’s entering the nursery – Jane seemed almost serene as she approached Amelia’s cradle. The baby was awake, but once again lying there quietly, and she stared up at her mother with what promised to be beautiful blue eyes.
“She is so – she’s so innocent,” Jane whispered, and gently reached down to pick the child up. She seated herself in the chair beside the cradle and sat for a long time, merely holding Amelia and gazing at her.
Then Charles entered the room, halting after a few strides with a shocked expression. He was acknowledged by his wife’s saying his name, but without the old warmth with which she had always used to address him, and Elizabeth realised that things were still not fully well between the Bingleys. Perhaps she should have realised this earlier, for why else would Jane wish to reimagine the birth and visit the nursery with her sister, rather than her husband?
Elizabeth had felt herself forgiven – although she realised also the possibility that this forgiveness was not complete – but it seemed Charles was not. She could not know the cause of this, whether it was because he had not made as good an apology as her, or because it had been Charles who had given the permission in that awful moment. Or it might, Elizabeth realised, be as simple as Jane’s having known and trusted her sister for far longer than she had her husband; it might have been easier to return to trust, when it came to Elizabeth, to consider that one event an aberration. At least Charles seemed pleased to find Jane here, although it was clear he had registered Jane’s tone, for his pleasure did not encompass his countenance in the same way it usually did.
Amelia halted Elizabeth’s considerations by making the mild fussing that seemed all the vehemence she could manage, when she was discomfited. Her linen was checked by Jane and found to be dry, and upon seeing this, Mrs. Padgett made to take the child, saying, “She’ll be hungry, then. I’ll take her.”
“No, I would like to do it. I – I don’t think it’s too late,” said Jane.
This surprised Elizabeth, who had been thinking Jane should retire to her bedchamber and take heart in the progress she had made that day. Before the birth, Jane had said she wished to nurse this child, but Elizabeth had thought that particular wish would now be given up. However, she expressed none of this, and merely smiled encouragingly toward her sister as Jane carried the baby behind the dressing screen.
Charles sat on the floor with his eldest daughter for a little while, but left well before Jane and Amelia were finished. Those two emerged with serene countenances, and Amelia, made sleepy by her meal, was laid down in the cradle by her mother. Jane spoke a little to Bess, then made to leave, and Elizabeth followed her out.
“I wish I had come here earlier,” said Jane. “I had made her into this monster in my mind, and she was not. She is not to blame for what happened.”
“I am glad you came today,” said Elizabeth, embracing her sister. At least, she thought, she no longer needed to worry over the relationship of mother and daughter, but this was now supplanted by concern for wife and husband.
Chapter 6
In the fortnight before Darcy and Anne made their departure for London, Jane continued to see and nurse Amelia every day, and generally seemed in better spirits. This could not be a complete relief to Elizabeth, however, for there was still a detectable coldness on Jane’s part towards her husband. Elizabeth had not yet spoken to Jane of it – she had come to understand that she was indeed still earning back Jane’s trust – and could only hope that time might see the Bingleys returned to something nearer what they had been.
Elizabeth saw the travellers off in the drive and then decided to go to the nursery for a little while, for she felt her own spirits in need of some cheering, to face Darcy’s absence at such a time. Despite his misgivings, she had encouraged him to go, for she did not want Anne to miss her presentation at court, but she felt the loss of his presence even more keenly than she would have otherwise. Both of her sons were awake, and James, upon seeing her, smiled one of his delightful little smiles and then crawled over to her at a rapid clip.
“There you are, my sweet boy,” she said, holding out her arms to him and picking him up to hold him. He pressed his little form up against her, a sensation that would have resulted in the purest maternal bliss, had she not espied George on the other side of the nursery, slowly wabbling toward them on his bottom. He had still not learned to crawl – had yet to even show any interest in it. Elizabeth looked about her to see who else was in the nursery, found only Mrs. Nichols and George Nichols, and said, quietly, “Do you think something is the matter with him?”
It was plain to Mrs. Nichols which him Elizabeth was talking about, and she looked contemplative before she said, “I can’t say, ma’am.”
“Your George was younger when he began to crawl, was he not?”
“He was, but that’s not to say a child can’t start later and be normal. ‘Tis nothing wrong with the child’s mind – I’m sure of that.”
“Why do you say that?” Elizabeth asked. She was of the same opinion, but wanted to know what Mrs. Nichols’s reasoning was.
“He watches things. He seems – curious, I suppose I’d say. I don’t mean to say James isn’t, but George seems particular so.”
This reasoning did align with Elizabeth’s, but she said nothing, for James wriggled in her arms, suddenly done with being held. She released him and went over to George, lessening the distance he should need to reach her at such a pace. He, too, was quite happy to be picked up and held.
Perhaps Mrs. Nichols was right, that a child could be normal and b
egin crawling later than the other children of Elizabeth’s acquaintance had. Her worries over it would not have been nearly so great if he did not have a twin to be compared against. They were not identical, she reminded herself, and ought not to be compared so directly.
Still, when she had spent a good hour playing with the boys on the floor, and was making her way to Jane’s apartment, she found she could not cease wondering about George. What would become of him, if his mind was sound but there was something physically wrong with him? She and Darcy had never discussed such a thing, but it was possible they might need to send him away, a thought that filled her with dread. She should have spoken with her husband of it before he had left, she realised, but now she would have to wait. She would speak with him of it – she had learned several times over that no good came from hiding her fears from him, and a great deal of benefit usually came from sharing them. Yet this was not the sort of thing she wished to do over correspondence, and so she would have to wait until his return. Perhaps, she hoped, George would be crawling by then, rendering the conversation needless. She found her spirits low, however, as she opened the door to Jane’s apartment; the visit to the nursery had not cheered her as she had thought it would.
Chapter 7
“Oh, Anne, you look quite lovely,” said Lady Ellen, surveying her niece. “Still, I wish we would have had time to have a dress made for you.”
Anne glanced over the glittering mass of fabric that was presently weighing down her person. When she had written to her aunt of her wish to be presented, Lady Ellen had responded that she would be happy to present her niece but was concerned a court dress could not be made in time, with Anne and Darcy arriving just days before the Drawing-Room. Lady Ellen had offered instead that one of her own should be altered, which Anne had readily agreed to, for she and her aunt were of a similar height. Her aunt had looked shocked, when Anne had first come to call at Half Moon Street, and expressed concern that the dress she had in mind would not fit, Anne had filled out so. Anne knew Rachel had been altering her gowns, but had not really understood how substantially until that moment. Thankfully, Lady Ellen was one of those rare women who had grown thinner rather than fatter as she had aged, and a replacement dress had been found in the attic. The style was older – even for court dress – but the fabric was magnificent, and Anne had assured her aunt that she loved it.
Her aunt’s maid finished threading the last of the ostrich feathers through Anne’s hair, then Lady Ellen and the maid left her, so that Anne could examine herself in the looking-glass in privacy. She looked, she thought, like a woman from another time – not like her mother, but instead like the portrait of Anne’s namesake that hung at Pemberley. She looked, as well, like a woman who could carry such a dress, rather than appearing to be drowning in it, as she suspected she would have even a few months ago.
Instead, she felt quite confident until she came down to the drawing-room and saw Marguerite Fitzwilliam. That woman, too, was wearing an altered older gown of her mother’s – one of the few things she had left, of her mother’s possessions – and she looked almost regal in it. Anne, as soon as she had first seen Edward’s wife, had wondered if her family was comparing the two of them, the woman Edward might have married, had circumstances been different, and the woman he had married. There was no comparison, truly, for Marguerite was younger than Anne and unquestionably beautiful. This had renewed Anne’s doubts regarding the wisdom of being presented beside such an ornament, but she had recognised it was too late by then to change her mind.
It had helped that Marguerite was kind to her – sincerely kind, not sympathetically kind, which Anne did not think she could have borne. In truth, Marguerite had been kinder towards Anne than Edward, who seemed to be treating her with a sort of guilty awkwardness. Anne could not fault him for it; she felt her own measure of awkwardness towards him. He had written to Anne, of his intent to marry Marguerite Durand, and she had written a response to his letter in a manner she hoped absolved him of his guilt, but this was the first time she had seen him since, and she felt the lack of that cousinly companionship they had always known before.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was not to go with them – he had claimed to have too much business to attend to, although Lady Ellen said his absence was due to a dislike of court more than any business. Andrew Fitzwilliam, as well, remained at Stradbroke, still in full mourning and not, Anne understood, likely to come out of it any time soon. She was glad her mother was no longer on speaking terms with the Fitzwilliams, else Anne thought Lady Catherine might have attempted to broker a marriage between Anne and Andrew. Her mother would be livid, Anne thought, when she learned her daughter had been presented by Lord and Lady Brandon, and this thought filled Anne with perhaps more satisfaction than it should have.
They could not all fit in one carriage, not with such dresses as the three ladies wore, and Anne rode with her aunt and uncle to the palace. When they arrived, Anne alighted the carriage to find her mother waiting outside, standing there with her hands upon her panniers.
“Mama!” exclaimed Anne, overcome with a compulsion to flee back to the safety of the carriage.
“Did you think you could apply for presentation and I would not know of it?” Lady Catherine asked, furiously.
“I am going to be presented, mama,” Anne said. “You shall not talk me out of it.”
“I have no intention of doing so, but what should it look like for me if you are presented without my being there?”
“Is that all you care about? What it should look like for society?” Anne cried. Tears were forming in her eyes, and as she did not want her mother to see her in such a state, she turned towards the Fitzwilliams, who were watching this unexpected family drama with concern, saying, “I am ready to go in.”
They all looked at her dubiously, but Anne did not wish to have the sort of conversation she now needed to have with her mother at the entrance to St. James’s. They went in, and Lady Catherine followed them. She stepped up beside Anne as they reached the drawing-room doors, and Anne hissed at her that she should step back, but then the doors were opening and there was nothing more Anne could do. They entered, they made their bows and curtseys, they moved forward, and repeated them. Lady Ellen had feared the queen would not be well enough to be there, and she was right, for it was only the Prince Regent there to see them, looking very bored until he got a better glimpse of Marguerite.
“Your Royal Highness, may I present my wife, Marguerite Rochechouart-Châtilloux Fitzwilliam,” Edward said.
The Prince nodded, Marguerite swept a very graceful curtsey, and then Lady Ellen stepped forward as they had planned, saying, “And – ”
“And may I present my daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh,” said Lady Catherine, entirely interrupting her sister-in-law.
Anne felt her cheeks burn in anger and mortification, but at least the Prince Regent did not seem to have noticed, for he was too busy ogling Marguerite Fitzwilliam. His eyes still on Marguerite, the Prince made a few gruff pleasantries, which were responded to mostly by Anne’s mother, who seemed to think herself in competition with Lord and Lady Brandon, until Lord Brandon bowed and began backing away from the throne. As all the rest of the family, save her, followed immediately, Anne’s mother could not very well linger as long as it seemed she wanted to linger, and she was forced to curtsey and make her exit with the rest of them.
She did not speak until they were outside the palace, when she grabbed Anne’s arm and said, “Come, Anne, it is time for us to return home. This nonsense has gone on long enough.”
Anne wrenched her arm away with more strength than she had known she possessed. “No.”
“What did you just say, Anne?”
“I said no. I shall not go with you. I am engaged to dine with my aunt and uncle.”
Anne’s mother gaped at her, and something in her countenance seemed to change. “Anne, whatever the matter is, we shall go home and discuss it.” Lady Catherine motioned to her carriage. Anne glanced
at the carriage door and felt that if she got inside, it would be the end of this new life she was forming for herself, the end of her independence. She trembled and stepped toward her aunt and uncle. “Lord and Lady Brandon, may my mother and I have the use of one of your carriages to return to Half Moon Street? It seems she and I have a few things we must discuss. It will, of course, need to return her to my house once we are done, as she was not invited to dinner.”
Lord Brandon nodded and gestured toward the first carriage, and Anne climbed in ahead of her mother, leaving the poor Fitzwilliams and two very large dresses to attempt to fit themselves into the second carriage.
“Anne, what is this nonsense?” asked her mother, once they had set out. “How dare you speak to your mother as you have today?”
Anne had not wanted to have this conversation so soon – if ever – and if she would have had the choice, she would have had it within the protected environs of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s study in his house on Curzon Street, with him there to intervene if needed. She must have it now, however, and she summoned her strength and said, “I am one and thirty years of age, and I shall treat my mother with the same respect she has shown me. I am well, now, despite your best efforts, and I am going to claim my rightful place, the place you sought to keep me from.”
“What have I sought to keep you from?” cried Lady Catherine. “What more could I have provided you? If you had not been so sick, you might have taken up your place as mistress of Rosings, but you were always so ill, my poor child.”
“Do I look ill to you now?”
“No, Anne, you look very well, and I am very glad of it. I was so proud to present you today – it is what I have wanted for so long, to have you take your rightful place in society.”
“Have you? You must forgive me if I do not believe you have, for you will recall the many times I asked you if I could go to the seaside and try sea-bathing, and how every time you said Dr. Gibson said it would not be beneficial. Well, you see me now, madam – do you think it has not been beneficial?”
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