Mrs Reynold’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “There seems to have been some confusion about which of the upstairs maids would be assigned to Mrs Jenkinson upon her arrival. As Mrs Annesley was away….”
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is not the very object in securing a companion for a young lady to find onemoremature than her charge?”
“Oh, Mrs Annesley is a good sort, and to be truthful, sir, she was in the right,” Mrs Reynolds defended.
“I see that you tactfully refrain from expressing your opinions on the other lady. Is the matter sorted now?”
“As near as it may be, Colonel. The maids have been reassigned, but the ladies have not spoken to each other. Mrs Jenkinson will not leave Miss de Bourgh’s side, and Mrs Annesley remains with Miss Darcy.”
“Heaven help us when they all sit at table together once more.Thisis why I never married!”
“About that, Colonel….”
“No, stop there,” he held up a hand. “If my aunt has already begun ordering lace and ribbon for my supposed wedding, I hope you have been good enough to intercept the messages and burn them.”
Mrs Reynolds’ eye twinkled craftily. “I left the burning for you to do, sir.” She took the key from around her neck and opened her little desk drawer to withdraw a short stack of hand-written notes. “Here you are, sir—for your approval.”
Richard leafed briskly through them, then thrust them with great satisfaction into the fire grate. “I intend to speak with Miss Darcy, if she will open her door. Will you have tea brought up, Mrs Reynolds? And perhaps you may send someone to unpack her bags. I am sorry to disappoint her, but we must remain here for a short while, at least.”
A proud gratification glowed upon the loyal housekeeper’s face. “Certainly, sir. And may I say, it is a pleasure to have you returned.”
December, 1813
Longbourn
Novemberpassed,andwithit the still, pleasant days of the long autumn. Deep winter dawned one morning with a vengeance, just as the residents of Longbourn fell under the pall of Lydia’s new circumstances. Elizabeth had not, after all, gone to London, for she felt her presence more sorely wanted now than ever by her youngest sister. She was the only remaining Bennet sister who felt thus, for Kitty and Mary had distanced themselves even farther from their wayward younger sibling—Mary, out of perceived righteousness, and Kitty, out of boredom.
Mrs Bennet’s nerves distressed her greatly during this time, for she worried now whether Lydia ought to risk the expected journey to Newcastle and her husband’s regiment. It was not to be attempted by coach, surely, but she felt it irregular in the extreme that Lydia should birth her child in the home of her girlhood before Mr Wickham had sent for her. “How everyone will talk!” she was often heard to lament. “Why, they will carry on as if you had no husband at all! Mrs Longwillgossip so, and those Lucases cannot remain silent either. Lydia, my love, do take care not to leave your ring in your jewelry box when we have callers, and do not let it turn over so that the diamond cannot be seen! Such a fine ring it is. Surely no penniless soldier could have purchased it. Theymustsee that!”
Mr Bennet, when he was present for these expressions of motherly concern, was known simply to roll his eyes and raise his paper yet higher. Within a few more sentences from his wife, he would invariably snort his derision and stalk to the privacy of his library—often not sparing a word even for Elizabeth as he passed.
For her part, Elizabeth was desperate to divert her sister. Lydia’s secret was no longer a private matter, but Elizabeth remained unconvinced that the girl would not still attempt to do herself harm. Lydia spoke the proper words of humility and resignation, but that rebellious streak that had previously caused her such great trouble was still very much a part of her character. It was evident in her eyes—a certain hardness that would not yet surrender. Whether she meant to work it for her own restoration or instead, it would prove her undoing remained uncertain.
As a consequence, Elizabeth seldom left Lydia’s side. She exerted all her considerable charm and wit to draw out the girl from her self-imposed solitude, and many an afternoon found them engaged in needlework or, more commonly, discordant duets at the pianoforte. These did little to improve Lydia’s skill, but much to lighten her moods.
A month’s time saw a minuscule improvement in Lydia’s spirits, but by mid-December, Elizabeth’s reserves of fortitude had paid a harsh toll. Her only escapes were those afternoons when she could consign the guardianship of her sister to Mrs Hill—for, as Mrs Bennet counseled, Lydia must be properly trained to manage her husband’s household when he sent for her, and surely an officer as distinguished as Mr Wickham would require a wife of the utmost sophistication and capability.
It was on these days when Elizabeth began walking regularly to Netherfield, bundled against the wind and rain. It was a restorative balm to her soul, sitting quietly for a time with Jane and even the kind Mr Bingley. Still, no matter the insistence of the application by her host and hostess, she could never be persuaded to take a room for the night. She often, however, availed herself of Jane’s new carriage when the weather had grown unpromising for a return walk.
This crisp afternoon held no rain, so Elizabeth bade her sister an affectionate farewell at the door. She deliberately did not see the worried looks exchanged by husband and wife as she turned down the steps, nor could she have known that, at a nod from Jane, Mr Bingley would summon one of his stable hands to unobtrusively follow her home to ensure her safety. She desired the solitude and the freedom of setting her own meandering pace, not intending to arrive again at Longbourn until nearly dusk.
She set out along an indirect way, one she had admired the previous year during her short residence at the house. It began near the manicured hedges and soon narrowed to a half-groomed path among the trees, leading down to a long grassy bank along the stream. The trail followed the water some way before turning back through an orchard, and finally, to the fields that bordered Longbourn. It was an isolated route, resplendent with the silver of impending frost and shrouded in a bower of blessed silence.
Elizabeth stopped as she neared the stream. This was her favourite scene along the route, where the shallows bubbled and coursed over the rocks and an old willow spread her bare branches over a little log bridge across the waters… and it was where she had once interrupted Mr Darcy’s silent reverie.
He had been leaning against that very tree, his tall frame only slightly off-balance as he stretched a long arm through the hanging branches to the trunk. His head had been bowed, seemingly lost in some private thought, until he heard her approach.
“Miss Bennet!” had cried he. He had then clamped his lips, as though fearful to speak another word.
Elizabeth had braced her shoulders, then responded with a measured, “Mr Darcy,” followed by a short curtsey.
He had dropped his hand from the tree, casting about for some polite subject. “It is a fine day for walking,” he had offered—had there been some little eagerness in his tone?
“It is indeed, sir. This path is a favourite of mine. I beg you would excuse me for disturbing your solitude.” She had shifted her weight, preparing to walk on.
“It is no disturbance, Miss Bennet,” he had replied quickly. “I was about to return to the house.” His eyes had brightened, and she distinctly remembered a nervous swallow.Had he been about to offer to escort her?
“I am gratified to know that I do not trouble you, sir,” she had smiled archly. “I have only begun my constitutional, and so I shall bid you a good afternoon.”
