Page 74 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

I broke free of Aunt Hattie’s embrace. “You must promise me that you will never tell her. Surely there is another man whom I can love as much as Fitzwilliam?” I laughed. “Perhaps I shall never marry—I have said before that I will become a spinster aunt, teaching Jane’s or Georgiana’s children to play music and embroider. Though my embroidery is very ill, I have a fair voice and light touch on the piano-forte.”

Once again, tears threatened to overwhelm me. An image of a young child running across the Pemberley lawns sprang into my mind.

‘Little Ben!’ exclaimed Lydia. ‘He looks ever so like Fitzwilliam.’

‘Why Ben?’ queried Kitty.

‘Because his mother is a Bennet, silly.’ Mary knelt down and he ran into her arms. ‘Oh, I do so much like being an aunt.’

* * *

I had one last task to perform before Mama’s wedding. No more dinners, soirées, card parties, visiting the merchants and shopkeepers to cancel our accounts, playing with my little Gardiner cousins, weeping on Aunt Hattie’s shoulder. Pretending all was well: that I was overjoyed at Mama’s marrying—oh, so true; that Georgiana’s elegance made me so proud to call her sister when we visited neighbours or walked to Meryton; that an earl and a countess were to become family; that each night I wept my selfish tears.

“Perhaps, Lizzy, you should climb Oakham Mount one last time,” Mama said the evening before. “While not so high as the fells, it is a memory of Meryton and Longbourn that, I believe, you will always cherish.”

“I wish you could accompany me, Mama.”

She shook her head. “And have me limp up the aisle? No, Lizzy, I saw the injuries that climbing too high did for you. I shall content myself with leaning on Mr. Darcy’s arm.”

My eyes swept the Chiltern Hills, the hint of early autumn colouring the oaks, chestnuts, and ash as the sun began its daily journey rising above the horizon. The dew had yet to clear the sward and low bushes, the first rays of light sparkling off the droplets, the surrounding country bejewelled just as Lady Matlock’s diamonds shone under candlelight.

It was then that I saw the footprints, damp shadows making a path towards the summit of the hill. I knew who had made them before I turned. Darcy stood a little way off—gazing at the pinks and golds of the dawn.

I caught my breath, putting my hand to my mouth. Abruptly, he turned.

“Elizabeth.” He spoke so softly, his voice hardly carrying above the morning breeze.

I cannot remember walking to stand so close to him. Or did he come to me? I steadied myself—in a few short hours, I was to be his true sister. Surely, I should not repine at having the best of brothers?

“You are an early riser.” I gave a little laugh. “The sun cresting the Chilterns is not as impressive as that rising above the Derbyshire Peaks, but I suppose we must make do with what we have.”

“Perhaps, at Pemberley, you will ride with me of a morning. I would like that, very much. Just as I enjoyed our walks by the lake.”

“Why, Fitzwilliam? Why did you walk out with me?”

The intensity of his gaze caught my breath. “That is where you belonged, Elizabeth, on my arm—Kendal, Grasmere, Catbells, Buttermere, St. Bees, Mickledore. After your fall, I wished you would never recover, for then I had every reason to carry you in my arms.”

I reached for him, hesitating, as if afraid he might vanish like the mist. When his fingers found mine, neither of us spoke, the world reduced to the warmth of his hand.

“We are selfish creatures, are we not? To stand here as though the world were to end, when we will have a lifetime together. Surely, you do not repine at Georgiana being your sister?—you love her as fiercely as I do.”

“Did I ever tell you, Elizabeth, that you are the most remarkable woman I have ever known?”

“Oh, I believe you did, though not in the most propitious circumstances. I recall, though I thought it was a dream, your saying it at Lingmell Col below Scawfell Pike—remarkably foolish I would have thought. And the other time, when you came upon me in the folly, standing close by the statue of Diana.” I blushed, yet I could not take my eyes away from his. “Surely you are too much the gentleman to compare my form to that of hers?” Unclothed as she was…

“Dearest Elizabeth, so wont to make a joke. Where none is intended.”

The sun was rising; both of us soon to return, to stand up with Mama and Mr. Darcy. Yet, I lingered.

“Fitzwilliam, the Song of Solomon says that kisses of the mouth are tastier than wine.” I trembled, my fingers intertwined with his.

“So it is said.” His look, so very intense.

“Do you think, as a brother, you could kiss me on the mouth? For I cannot conceive of ever allowing another man such intimacy—I would very much like to know the truth.”

I tilted my head, surely a flush of pink coloured my neck and cheeks. Darcy’s lips found mine; I felt their warmth, their soft moistness, my tongue hesitantly caressing his. Should my heart be beating so?

“Wine, Elizabeth?”