A Season Lost

by Sophie Turner

  “You are right,” he said. “I am being ridiculous. But I do not know how to stop reacting like this. Ever since I read that letter – since I saw how weak her hand was – it, it feels as though I am being eaten from the inside by worry, and I cannot make it stop. I should not have spoken to you in the manner I did, though, and for that I am very sorry.”

  Elizabeth knelt in front of the chair and took up his free hand. “It is I, who should be sorry. You are not being ridiculous – you are concerned, deeply concerned. And you are right, that I have not experienced the same loss you have.”

  “Even when you do, though, I think you will bear it better. You have a natural lightness of spirit, a lightness I am often envious of. I do not mean to say you do not have things that worry you, for I know you do, yet you recover from them more easily than I do. It is one of the things I love most about you, and one of the things I gain the greatest benefit from, in having you in my life. Good God, Elizabeth, to go through this without you – I could not bear it.”

  He pulled her up to his lap and drew her into a tight embrace. “Whatever happens, we shall get through it together,” whispered Elizabeth, wondering for the first time if his reaction to the letter was in part formed by her own pregnancy, by the thought that he might endure learning of his sister’s death, and then watch her own, months after. She would not speak of this, however, and merely sat there with him, letting her presence be what comfort it could.

  Eventually, he released her, and she kissed his cheek and rose. “I should tell them the carriage is not needed – Miller will think I am mad.”

  “You do not intend to go to Portsmouth, then?”

  “I would like to go, but only if it is with you.”

  “Yet I believe I am the least-needed person, in viewing the house. Lord Anglesey knows of Matthew’s requirements, and you will of course be the better judge of female comforts.”

  “Now you are being ridiculous. As though the master of Pemberley knows nothing of creating a home of both elegance and comfort. As though you do not know Georgiana better than any of us.”

  “I do not know her so well as I thought I did,” he said. “This second miscarriage Matthew wrote about, were you aware of it?”

  “No, but I can see where she would not wish to write about it. Such an event must have been painful for her, and surely she knows you well enough to know how it would worry you.”

  He smiled, faintly, momentarily, but a smile nonetheless. Elizabeth took this as her chance to open the door and inform Miller that she had changed her mind about the carriage, which the butler took with impressive grace.

  She returned to find Darcy had seated himself at the desk, and was just beginning a letter. Drawing closer, she saw he was recommencing on the task of writing to arrange the horses, and seated herself to take up pen and paper again.

  “You need not help,” Darcy said, “when it was I who destroyed all of our progress. I ought to pay my penance for that, at least.”

  “I want to help,” Elizabeth replied, and began to write.

  +++

  In the days that remained before they were to go down to Portsmouth, Elizabeth made every effort to lighten her husband’s mood, and had a goodly amount of success. On Sunday, she made arrangements with her maid as to what ought to be packed, while Sarah dressed her for church.

  “Are you sure you don’t wish me to travel with you, ma’am?” Sarah asked. “I don’t mind sitting up on the box.”

  “Perhaps you do not, but I do mind you sitting out in the cold for such a long time,” replied Elizabeth. “I shall be gone but three days, two of those on the road, and I hope I am still capable of dressing myself, although surely not so well as you do it. Enjoy your time off.”

  Seeing Sarah was still not mollified, Elizabeth said, “If you really wish to do something, order me another ball gown, for now I have a reputation as a fashionable lady to uphold.”

  “Oh ma’am, may I?”

  “Yes, you may,” replied Elizabeth, amused. “I presume you still have my measurements, and they have not begun to change – yet.”

  Sarah looked at her carefully. “So they shall, then?”

  “Yes, I believe they shall. At least this time I noticed before you did.”

  Sarah smiled. “Oh, I’m that happy for you, ma’am. And you ought to wear the new pelisse today, while you can, for it’s cut rather close. I had Mason take your measurements to Mr. Darcy’s tailor.”

  “Now I am intrigued,” said Elizabeth, vaguely recalling that she had given Sarah permission to produce a new pelisse, and wondering if this was what her fashionable life in London was to be now, as the expression of Sarah’s vision. Yet as she had told her maid, there were worse things to be known for, than being fashionable.

  The pelisse came out, stark, deep green wool with only the lightest trim. And – “Capes?” asked Elizabeth, dubiously.

  “Just little ones!” protested Sarah.

  Yet the effect when Elizabeth put it on was remarkable. Sarah was right, that it was cut rather close, with tiny little capes about Elizabeth’s shoulders that did look as though they could be the very height of fashion, now that Elizabeth saw how they draped. Yet they were also eminently practical, for they added an extra warmth to the garment; Elizabeth would be glad of it, in the cold space of the church that morning, and she thought she might well take it with her to Portsmouth, if early spring continued to be as wet and chilly as it had been.

  Darcy’s reaction was as pronounced as hers had been, and more teasing, for as soon as Elizabeth had descended the stairs to the entrance-hall, he asked, “Are you going for a drive with the Four-In-Hand Club, or to church with me?”

  Elizabeth chuckled. She was glad he could tease, today – it meant she was succeeding in lightening his spirits. They went out to the waiting carriage, he handed her in, and as the carriage began to move, he said, “I hope you are ready to have every eye on you this morning, for every woman is going to want to know where you had that coat made, and every man is going to want to do this – ” he kissed her deeply, relenting only after she had been made entirely breathless.

  When finally she had recovered, Elizabeth archly retorted, “This coat was made by your tailor, Mr. Darcy. I am surprised you do not recognise his handiwork,” which put him in a state of appreciative shock.

  Darcy had been right, however – at least about every eye being upon her. Elizabeth could feel the gazes of all around her, those from the women alternating between envy and admiration. She was glad when Lady Tonbridge approached her, although that lady wished to speak on what seemed to have become the topic of the day.

  “I see you have taken my advice and shall do me one better, my dear,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Being both elusive and fashionable – having your clothes do so much of the talking.”

  “I wish I could claim credit for that, but in truth it is my maid who is ambitious on my behalf. The first time I saw this pelisse was when I put it on this morning.”

  “Indeed! Well then,” chuckled Lady Tonbridge, “you had better give her a raise.”

  “I already have,” replied Elizabeth.

  Chapter 39

  Elizabeth moaned softly and raised her head from against the side of the post-chaise, where she had been attempting to rest it. At least, she thought, she had confirmation of her pregnancy, although she would rather have received that confirmation in some other way than a mild feeling of illness that morning that had been made far worse by the motion of the carriage.

  “Is it worse?” asked Darcy, his countenance one of concern. “We could stop for the morning and continue on later. If we do not raise Portsmouth by nightfall, we can stay over at one of the inns instead.”

  Elizabeth swallowed, assessing herself. “It is bearable for now, although I believe I would rather go a little slower.”

  “Of course.” Darcy let down the window and called out to the postilion to slow their pace, which Elizabe
th thought should cause some improvement. It certainly could not be said that the post-chaise was anything but the essence of comfort, although now she had nothing but the Hampshire downs to distract her; she had intended to be reading a book, but taking her eyes from the horses and the road before her made things far worse. Elizabeth considered asking her husband to tell her a story, something from his childhood – perhaps a time when he and Edward had got up to a tremendous amount of trouble, which would be the height of amusement for her. Yet there was too much risk in asking him to recall memories of another time, a time when his parents had been alive, when Edward was not maimed, when George Wickham had yet to commit his worst deeds, and Georgiana was a little girl, safe at Pemberley.

  And so it was to be the Hampshire downs for her, at least until the next change of horses. Elizabeth had begun stepping out for a little walk around the yard at each change, for the fresh air seemed to do her illness good. Darcy stepped out with her this time, and went rummaging around in his trunk until he located a book: a new one by the look of it, for it was still in boards. He opened it once the carriage had got underway again, glanced at her, and began to read aloud.

  “I like this,” said Elizabeth, when he had finished the first poem. “Who is it?”

  “A new fellow, by the name of Keats. One of my booksellers thought I should like him, and I agree thus far.”

  “So do I – and I would be very appreciative, if you would continue.”

  “Are you certain? I know how you feel about poetry and love.”

  “Yes, but if ours is not a fine, stout love by now, I do not know what is.”

  He chuckled and read on, giving Elizabeth the dual distractions of both the countryside and his voice, which she found particularly attractive when he read aloud. Her illness usually dissipated later in the day, but on this day, it continued to be exacerbated by the movement of the carriage, and it was a small mercy when she was briefly lulled to sleep.

  She awoke to hear him finishing one poem, and beginning another:

  Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

  And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

  Round many western islands have I been

  Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

  Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

  That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;

  Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

  Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

  Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

  When a new planet swims into his ken;

  Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

  He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men

  Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—

  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

  He noticed she had awakened, and smiled, softly. “That will be Georgiana, now, I suppose – much have I travell’d in the realms of gold.”

  “Yes.” She took up his hand. “There will be much she has seen of the world. I cannot wait to hear her tell her stories.”

  “Nor can I,” he said, but worry seemed to encroach on his countenance. He returned to reading, his tone softer than before, until they reached the next inn.

  “Oh, are we at the Anchor already?” asked Elizabeth. It seemed they had made good time even given the slowing of the carriage, for it was to be their last inn before Portsmouth.

  “Yes – do you wish to dine here, or press on?”

  “Press on, I think, if you do not mind. I do not believe I could eat very much at present.”

  “I do not mind at all. An hotel in Portsmouth should be able to provide a better dinner than this place. I believe I shall have a drink, though – I am rather thirsty. Do you wish for anything?”

  “No, I shall wait.”

  “I’ll just take a quick cup in the coffee-room, then, and hope it does not make me as ill as you,” he said, handing her down.

  Elizabeth found her impression of the place matched his. She had walked the yards of a wide variety of inns during this journey, but the Anchor’s was surrounded by a tumbledown old timber-frame building, marked here and there with little vignettes of dirt and squalor. A true connoisseur of fashion might have returned to the carriage out of concern for her new pelisse, but Elizabeth continued walking about until the sounding of a horn indicated an approaching coach, and she stepped nearer the wall as the Diligence swept in. It was a fast stage coach, completely full.

  The Diligence took priority from the ostler, and those who had been changing the horses on the gentleman’s post-chaise abandoned it to take the team off the stage and bring on two new pairs. Such matters held little interest for Elizabeth, and when a stable cat approached her and seemed inclined towards friendliness, she knelt down and petted it while the Diligence was completed, and attention returned to the Darcy post-chaise.

  The horn blew again, indicating the Diligence’s departure, and a young man came running out of the tap-room, startling the poor cat and nimbly climbing up to his seat atop the coach just as it began to move. It did not move far. Even Elizabeth, with her limited equestrian experience, could see why – one of the leaders did not appear fresh at all.

  The ostler, cursing, came up and whipped it, and the creature attempted a few steps forward, then fell to its knees. The ostler whipped it still more vigorously, and Elizabeth watched in horror that any creature should be abused so. The horse rose and took a few wobbling steps forward before it went down again, and Elizabeth, in tears, was about to call out that he must stop, was wondering why no-one else should protest, when she heard her husband do so from behind her. The ostler did not hear him, nor did he see Darcy, striding furiously across the yard toward the stagecoach.

  “Stop! Enough!” he cried, laying a hand on the ostler’s whip arm. “That is enough!”

  The ostler ceased what he was about and turned to look at Darcy with a savage expression, which became less savage when he saw he was facing a man of greater quality than had been expected.

  “We got our stage to account for,” he said, shrugging, as though this accounted for his savagery.

  “This horse will never make his stage. I would be surprised if he could make the road,” Darcy said. “He is long since broken down.”

  At this point, the innkeeper came out and was informed of all that had passed in a somewhat contradictory account given by a sullen ostler and an angry gentleman. While this was happening, the horse struggled to his feet of his own accord and stood unsteadily, fear in his eyes.

  “We got no other horses, and we got to make up our stage,” the innkeeper said, at least having the good sense to look guiltily at Darcy and the rest of the audience that had formed in the yard, all of them, including the young men atop the coach itself, seemingly on Darcy’s side.

  “You will see this horse dead before he completes another stage,” said Darcy.

  “Nothin’ else what I can do,” said the innkeeper. “Drive on.”

  “Do not drive on!” cried Darcy, although he need not have, for the coachman seemed to have sided with Darcy. “What do you ask, for the horse?” Darcy asked the innkeeper.

  “Beg par’m, sir?”

  “How much to purchase the horse from you?”

  “Can’t be for sale – we must make up our stage.”

  “You will make up your stage by taking one of the pairs from my carriage,” said Darcy. “I can continue on well enough with two horses.”

  “Well, sir, that’s verra generous of ya, but then I don’t see why you need to purchase that one.”

  “I wish to purchase him so you do not return to abusing him once I have left this miserable establishment. I will give you ten pounds for him, which is more than he is worth.”

  This statement proved exceedingly popular with the top of the stagecoach. All of the young men applauded, and the one who had come running out of the tap-room said, in a somewhat inebriated voice, “Aye, now that’s a gentleman, there!”

  “Twenty pou
nds,” said the innkeeper. “I canna’ buy a replacement for him with ten.”

  “Fifteen,” said Darcy, in a tone of finality.

  The innkeeper, recognising that the passengers atop the stagecoach might well begin a mutiny if he did not take up an offer that would, in truth, put him quite ahead, acquiesced to the deal. Darcy removed his purse and handed over a banknote and a large quantity of coin.

  The innkeeper counted the latter and then held out his hand, saying, “that ain’t fifteen pounds, sir.”

  “I am well aware of that,” replied Darcy, pointing to the lead pair from his post-chaise, which were already being led over to the Diligence, “but I am no longer paying for them.”

  To his credit, the innkeeper did look embarrassed, although it could not be told whether his forgetting of what the gentleman had already paid for the post horses was intentional or accidental. He bowed awkwardly and walked back toward the entrance, and the ostler, wearing a stormy countenance, led the lame horse over to Darcy and all but threw the lead line at him.

  Then things recommenced as though there had been no incident in the Anchor’s yard: the Diligence blew its horn and rumbled out, the lame horse’s partner was returned to the stable, and the rest of the audience returned to whatever they had been doing before. Yet there was still Darcy, holding the lead line of his latest purchase, surely to be the worst horse in his stables. Elizabeth approached them, and Darcy handed her the lead rope, saying, “Will you hold him? He seems gentle, and he is certainly not inclined to move. I want to have a look at his legs.”

  Darcy knelt and felt the horse’s legs below its bloody knees, while Elizabeth tentatively reached out to stroke its nose. “You poor thing,” she said. “But you are safe – you will have a very good home, with us. You cannot know it, but I am sure this is the best day of your life.” The horse, which could not have known such kindness in a long time, if ever, leaned his head into her touch, even as Darcy proceeded with what must have been a painful examination.

  “There is no specific cause of lameness,” he said. “I believe he is just overworked.” Their footman, Henry, had been standing beside the post-chaise with a bewildered expression on his face, and Darcy motioned that he should come over to them.