“No, my dear. Your dinner tray will be delivered soon. You must try to eat for yourself and your two children. I shall sit with Kitty all night if necessary. I do not wish to worry over both of you.”
“Very well, Lizzy. Go and see what you can do for Kitty. She and Lydia were exceedingly close.”
Elizabeth returned to Kitty’s chamber in time to receive the posset. She carried it inside and set it upon a table.
Her sister was still weeping, and Elizabeth feared she had worked herself into hysterics. She sat upon the bedside and laid a hand upon Kitty’s shoulder. “Kitty, I have brought you a posset. It shall help you rest. Can you sit up and drink it?”
Kitty continued weeping without restraint.
Elizabeth tried again. “Kitty dear, try to govern yourself. You shall bring on a headache or perhaps a cold if you continue until your nose swells from weeping.”
Kitty wept on as though she had not heard a word.
Elizabeth feared she had left her alone too long; now she verged on the edge of hysteria. She bent near and spoke in a firm voice. “Kitty, you shall sit up now. You shall drink this posset before you make yourself ill.”
The younger girl turned toward her sister. “Are you angry, Lizzy?”
“No, I am not angry, but I do expect you to listen to me. Sit up and govern yourself long enough to drink this posset.” Elizabeth reached for the glass.
“What is it?”
Elizabeth sniffed the contents. “It smells of milk, vanilla, lavender, and brandy. Sit up and drink it. It shall help calm your nerves.”
“Must I? I have no desire to eat or drink anything.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot have you falling ill because I allowed you to descend into hysterics. Sit up, Kitty.”
Kitty rolled onto her back and pushed herself upright. Elizabeth handed her the glass. “Drink it all, dear.”
Kitty tasted it and made a face. “It is dreadful. I cannot drink this.”
“You shall drink it. You shall feel better once you have taken it. Hold your nose so you need not taste it.”
Kitty obeyed and swallowed. The brandy made her cough, but she had taken it all.
“You did very well. You may lie down again if you wish. Do you want to speak of Lydia, or would you rather sleep?”
“I want to hear about Lydia. Tell me of her husband. What did he look like? How old was he?
Elizabeth began to speak. “Mr. Adams is twenty years old. He stands as tall as Uncle Edward. In fact, he is a client of our uncle’s. He is very kind and exceedingly handsome. I can well understand why Lydia felt attracted to him. He was quite taken with her beauty.”
Kitty sighed. “Yes, Lydia already stood taller than all of us except Jane, and she was nearly as beautiful. I always knew that once she lost her baby fat, she would become a great beauty.”
The two sisters spent the next hour speaking of their lost sister. Elizabeth mostly listened while Kitty recounted stories of their exploits, many of which made Elizabeth cringe inwardly. Had that child not eloped with Mr. Wickham, she would likely have met ruin at the hands of another.
She said nothing to Kitty, but inwardly blamed both herself and her parents for failing to keep closer watch over the youngest Bennet sister. They had narrowly escaped ruin. Elizabeth wouldnot now stand as Mr. Darcy’s wife, nor Jane as Sir Gareth Beaumont’s, had Lydia succeeded in destroying them all.
When Kitty finally drifted into sleep, Elizabeth left the chamber with a heavy heart. The loss of the youngest sister might have been entirely prevented had the family exercised proper care over her. She had been a beautiful, impulsive child left too much to herself and her own whims, and she had lost her life through a succession of misfortunes.
When Elizabeth entered her room, she found her husband asleep in their bed. She prepared herself for the night in her dressing room, and when she joined him, she lay beside him and studied his profile, his tousled hair, the even rhythm of his breathing. By what providence had she been spared and allowed to become his wife? And what of her sister? A mere child, gone too soon.
Elizabeth lay awake a long while in the darkness, contemplating life and death, fortune and misfortune, fate and choice, until at last sleep claimed her.
The following morning, Elizabeth woke to Darcy’s gentle kisses.
“Fitzwilliam.” She rolled onto her side to face him and wrapped her arms about his neck. Tears slipped down her cheeks.
He dried them with the edge of the sheet. She stretched up to kiss him and ran her fingers through his thick curls before drawing back to study him. He was beautiful. Even with the heaviness in her heart, she smiled. He pulled her into his arms and held her against his warm strength. His touch, his kisses, and the love he gave her worked to soothe her bruised spirit.
