Page 1 of A Sisterly Bond

Chapter 1

On the morning of the eighth of March, Elizabeth found herself seated in a post-chaise bound for London, with the further intention of proceeding, in due course, to Hunsford in Kent. Her companions were Sir William Lucas and his younger daughter Maria, both of whom appeared equally determined to extract every possible pleasure from the expedition and neither of whom seemed inclined to allow a single mile to pass in silence.

Sir William, whose satisfaction in the connection of his eldest daughter to Mr Collins remained undiminished by time or distance, spoke almost without interruption of that gentleman’s excellent situation in life.

“A living of some consequence, my dear Miss Eliza. Quite a respectable income — and the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself! One cannot sufficiently admire the prudence of such an establishment. Charlotte is a fortunate woman, and I have no doubt we shall find her very comfortably settled. Mr Collins writes that the garden is already in excellent order, and that the chickens—”

Here Maria, who had been leaning forwards with bright eyes, interrupted to enquire whether there would be any balls in the neighbourhood of Rosings and whether Lady Catherine’s guests were known to dance. Sir William, undaunted, merely shifted his discourse to the probable elegance of the drawing-room at the parsonage and the honour of being invited to Rosings Park itself.

“My dear Maria, let us not even mention such silliness to Mr Collins and especially not to her ladyship,” Sir William scolded his daughter. “If you paid more careful attention, you would remember Mr Collins spoke of Lady Catherine’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, who has fragile health and needs peace and quiet. Surely they cannot think of balls, dances, or parties. I hope we shall not discuss this matter again.”

“We shall not, Papa. I am sorry.”

“Good. I need to be certain you will behave flawlessly, as I shall only stay in Kent a few days but you will remain there under your sister’s care. We must be extremely careful not to offend Lady Catherine, so it would best if you speak as little as possible!”

“Yes, Papa,” Maria replied promptly.

Elizabeth listened with the composure of one long accustomed to Sir William’s conversational style and with a private amusement she took care not to display.

She was, in truth, in excellent spirits. The prospect of seeing Jane after a three-month separation filled her with the warmest anticipation; the Gardiners’ house in Gracechurch Street had always been a place of cheerful refuge; and the thought of Charlotte—dear, sensible Charlotte—settled at last in her own home, however odd the circumstances of that settlement might once have seemed, brought her genuine pleasure.

Yet as the carriage rolled on and the conversation of her companions continued its steady course, Elizabeth’s thoughts, as was their frequent habit, wandered into less comfortable territory.

Mr Wickham. The name still carried a certain bitterness. He was now, by all accounts, paying marked attention to Miss Mary King, who had recently inherited the sum of ten thousand pounds and whose sudden good fortune had rendered her, in the eyes of Meryton, considerably more interesting than she had formerly been. Elizabeth could not pretend that the knowledge left her entirely indifferent, but it affected her too little to assume she carried any deep feelings for that gentleman.

She still found him exceedingly handsome and amiable; she had listened with sympathy to his history of misfortunes caused by the arrogant and resentful Mr Darcy.

Mr Darcy. That gentleman’s character remained, in her private estimation, a study in contradictions. He had, she was still convinced, treated Mr Wickham with unjust severity; he had, with equal certainty, separated Mr Bingley from Jane with a coldness that bordered on cruel. Jane’s quiet endurance of disappointment had only deepened Elizabeth’s resentment. That Mr Darcy should have judged her sister’s worthiness or her family’s situation as beneath notice was an offence she could neither forget nor easily forgive.

She was still turning these reflections over when a sudden change in the atmosphere of the carriage claimed her attention.

Sir William, who had been in the midst of describing the probable dimensions of Mr Collins’s dining parlour, paused and began to cough, then pressed a hand to his forehead and declared that he felt most uncommonly unwell. Maria, after a moment’s hesitation, confessed that she, too, was experiencing a decided shivering and that her throat was beginning to feel remarkably dry.

“It must have been the rain two days ago,” Sir William pronounced with gravity. “One cannot be too careful of spring’s whimsical weather. A fever, I fear, is not impossible at this time.”

“I feel warm, too, Papa. And a little dizzy,” Maria agreed in a small voice.

“Oh dear, if we are falling ill, we cannot possibly present ourselves to Mr Collins, and even less so to Lady Catherine,” Sir William uttered in a whining tone.

Both father and daughter regarded Elizabeth with the hopeful air of invalids who expected sympathy and, if possible, a more comfortable arrangement of the rugs.

Elizabeth, though privately suspecting that the anticipation of the journey and a certain excess of conversation had contributed as much as the rain, expressed all the proper concern.

“I am sure my aunt has some medicine that will help you recover. If needed, she will fetch her doctor. Until then, allow me to arrange the blankets around you to keep you warm. And we should stop at the next inn to purchase you some tea.”

“And a brandy, if you do not mind, Miss Eliza.”

“And a brandy, Sir William,” Elizabeth replied.

The remainder of the journey was conducted at a more subdued pace, Sir William’s remarks growing shorter and Maria’s replies more languid, until they fell asleep. Finally, with a little delay, the carriage turned into Gracechurch Street and drew up before the familiar door of the Gardiners’ house.

They were received with the warmest welcome. Mrs Gardiner came forward at once with open arms; Mr Gardiner’s cheerful voice was heard from the parlour; and Jane — dear Jane, looking rather pale yet with the same gentle sweetness that had always distinguished her — embraced her sister with a quiet joy.

The travellers were drawn inside, divested of their cloaks, and established before a comfortable fire.

“My dear Mrs Gardiner, I fear we shall bother you for longer than we intended,” Sir William declared. “My daughter and I find ourselves overcome by something that might be a cold, so I shall keep a distance from you and your lovely children.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir! Allow me to show you to your rooms, and I shall bring you up some herbal tea. Do you think I should fetch the doctor?”