Page 65 of Sweet on Mr Darcy

Mary coloured.

“Mary Bennet, I do believe there is someone at home that you have been pining for!” Lydia cried.

“Mary likes Mr Eaton!” Kitty teased, referring to the local curate.

“You will not tease your sister,” Charlotte admonished. “Mr Eaton has never been able to marry, though I have seen his eye upon you as well, Mary. If you do not meet anyone you like here, perhaps your dowry might entice him to propose, for your income would provide for you both until he finds a living of his own.”

Mary mumbled something incoherent, her face burning, as Elizabeth patted her shoulder sympathetically.

“Papa, may I go out to the garden when we are finished?” Kitty asked. “A new rose has opened, and I would like to sketch it before its bloom fades.”

“You may, but not alone, Kitty,” Her father allowed.

“I will join you, Kitty,” said Lydia. “Perhaps I will find a flower worth trying to sketch, and if not, I will think of new fashions to draw.”

After the Sunday meal, Charlotte retired upstairs with the baby to rest. Mr Bennet settled into the drawing room with a book. Mary was writing–as she often did each Sunday after church–probably her thoughts about the sermon. Jane and Elizabeth were somewhere upstairs.

Thus, Kitty and Lydia found themselves alone in the small garden behind the cottage with their sketch books. The day was warm and bright. A perfect Sunday afternoon for idleness or restful activity.

Kitty immediately headed for the rosebush. The flower had opened only the day before. It was a large cream-coloured bloom, faintly edged in pink, so symmetrical and absurdly pretty that she had been thinking of sketching it since breakfast.

“Oh, finally,” she murmured, settling herself on a little bench. “I hope I can capture its loveliness.”

Lydia peered at it. “It is only a flower.”

“A very superior flower,” Kitty corrected.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “You may immortalise it as much as you chuse. I shall seek something more interesting to draw.”

Kitty was already arranging pencils. “Hmmm.”

For more than an hour, all was peaceful. Kitty sketched in absorbed silence, her brow furrowed in determination. She was making encouraging progress. Every so often, she heard Lydia moving about the gravel paths. A rustle of leaves and skirts here. Footsteps there. The occasional impatient sigh, or humming of an incomplete tune. Then–finally–silence. Taking this to mean that Lydia had found something worth drawing, Kitty smiled slightly and continued shading petals.

Lydia, meanwhile, was bored nearly to death. There were only so many flowers one could inspect before all verdure seemed personally insulting. She wandered farther down the path toward the small gate and thicker shrubbery beyond. Nothing stimulated or motivated her. This hydrangea was too fat. That lavender was too boring. The climbing jasmine smelled pleasant but looked inconsequential.

Lydia kicked lightly at a pebble, then sighed when she saw that she had scuffed the toe of her slipper. Perhaps she might sketch a bonnet instead. She turned back and found herself no longer alone. She was spun about viciously, and a hand clamped suddenly over her mouth. Lydia resisted violently.

A rough, cruel voice whispered into her ear. “Be quiet.”

Her entire body froze. It was Mr Wickham.

She tried to scream, but the sound was smothered entirely. She could hardly breathe, she was held so tightly.

His grip tightened upon her even more. “Not a sound, do you hear me?”

Panic exploded through her. She kicked and struggled wildly, but he held her fast, dragging her into the dense overgrowth beyond the garden wall. Her slippers dragged against the soil beneath them. They vanished as quickly as Mr Wickham had appeared. That area of the garden fell silent again.

Three-quarters of an hour later, Kitty completed the final shading on the rose with significant gratification.

There. The drawing was excellent, if she said so herself. She sat back, pleased with her work. “Lydia, come and see.”

The only answer was silence.

Kitty frowned and looked over her shoulder. “Lydia?”

She stood and peered around the garden. Perhaps Lydia had gone inside, which was irritating, but entirely possible. Kitty gathered her sketchbook and walked toward the gravel path. She made a turn about the garden and looked properly. Still no Lydia. Her stomach did a small flip of uncertainty.

She spun around and looked one last time and saw one of Lydia’s hair ribbons lying near the shrubbery. Kitty stared at it, recalling Lydia putting it on this morning before their mirror.