Page 42 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

‘I agree to Borrowdale,’ said Kitty, ‘provided we stop at the Bowder Stone. I have always wished to see it.’

“Elizabeth, you are muttering again!”

Oh dear, I had not realised that Kitty had echoed my thoughts. “Certainly Borrowdale…” I looked away in embarrassment—had he called me Elizabeth? Again.

Darcy looked on with amusement. “Very well. And St. Herbert’s Island? Perhaps we shall find an asylum there.”

I swatted his arm. “For your penance, as we glide across the waters, I shall read aloud. Should I recite Southey or Wordsworth—whoever torments you the most?”

“I prefer Coleridge, if we are to endure the Lake Poets.” Darcy chuckled. “Now, two days remain. Do you wish to walk again?”

“I had hoped for a visit to the Castlerigg Stone Circle. It isn’t a difficult walk, and the history would please me.”

“And for me, perhaps a ride north, toward Bassenthwaite,” said Darcy. “The stables at the inn are well-stocked, and I would like to see what mettle their horses possess.”

Thus we were done, leaving the fifth day for a longer expedition along the shores of the lake. And the sixth, to be kept free for whatever we felt disposed to do.

“I suspect by then we shall be grateful for a day of rest,” said Darcy, taking my hand. “But I leave it open, in case you discover some new peak you are determined to conquer.”

I hadn’t noticed the familiarity. It felt so natural—I squeezed his hand in return. “You are generous, sir.”

“Did I not say he was the best of brothers, Elizabeth?” Georgiana looked up from her embroidery, her eyes widening as she noticed my fingers linked with Darcy’s. I looked down, realised the impropriety, and quickly pulled my hand free.

“He certainly is a good man, sweetling. But I shall never say so where he could hear, for his straw hat is already tight, and with a swelled head, it would perch atop like a bird’s nest in a tall tree.”

We were quiet for a few moments: Mama showing Georgiana how to sew a particularly difficult stitch; Mr. Darcy reading a London newspaper that was at least a week old; Darcy tracing the route to Kendal on the map; and I just sat, enjoying a contentment I rarely, if ever, had experienced before.

“Shall we take a walk?” suggested Mr. Darcy. “The night air is warm with a full moon.”

We gathered our shawls, and stepped out to find the moon shining across the quiet Grasmere waters. Beside me, I felt Papa take out his worn copy of Wordsworth. In a soft voice, he began the first few lines of the poem, A Night Thought:

Lo! where the Moon along the sky

Sails with her happy destiny;

Oft is she hid from mortal eye

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder fly

How bright her mien!

I took Mama’s hand. “Papa is with us,” I whispered.

“I know, I feel him walking with me. Oh, Lizzy! Do you think he will forgive me?”

“Forgive you? I do not understand.”

“When I met Mr. Bennet, he was the love of my life. But I am beginning to feel I could move on, and perhaps love another. Though not as your dear Papa, but love, nevertheless.”

I looked along the shore. George Darcy walked with his children. Georgiana holding his hand, her fair hair glowing silver in the moonlight. Fitzwilliam, broad-shouldered, even taller than his father.

Was I to be a sister to Georgiana? A true sister? Also a sister to Darcy? Something fluttered in my heart; truly, he would be the best of brothers.

* * *

How shall I ever be content with dreary Meryton! Certainly, there can be no favourable comparison with Cumbria: the lakes, the fells, the beautiful woods, evenings spent in company with Mama, Georgiana, Mr. Darcy, and Fitzwilliam. I fought to restrain myself, lest I began thinking I was indeed Georgiana’s sister; thus Darcy’s as well—so easy was his company.