Page 67 of A Different Impression

“Is something troubling you, dearest?” he asked as she prepared for her bath.

“Let me get into the water, and then you may sit with me whilst we talk. I realised something yesterday, and I should like to know what you think of it,” she said in an attempt to ease his concern.

He nodded and changed into his robe whilst Elizabeth’s maid washed her hair and added more hot water to the bath. Once the maid had withdrawn, William removed his robe and joined Elizabeth in the tub. She helped him wash before settling against his chest.

“Something occurred to me yesterday, and it has left me unsettled,” she began. “All winter, I wrote to my father approximately every fortnight, yet the only replies I received were messages included in letters he had addressed to you. When we arrived at Longbourn, he apologised to you before apologising to me for my mother’s words, although her insults had been directed at me.”

William’s arms tightened slightly around her, but he did not interrupt.

“For most of my life, I believed my father enjoyed my company because he loved me. He always declared all his daughters silly, but he praised me for my quickness of mind. Now I wonder whether he valued me only because no more suitable companion was available. He has you with whom to discuss his estate, and he has begun teaching Mary many of the things he once taught me. Perhaps he no longer has any purpose for me.”

Her voice faltered, but she forced herself to continue.

“Many of the suggestions you made to him in the autumn were things I had advised for years. Yet he did nothing until the same counsel came from you. I fear I possessed value in my father’s eyes only whilst I was useful to him.”

Saying the words aloud made them more painful rather than less. A shudder passed through her, and the tears she had struggled to restrain began to fall.

William immediately climbed from the bath and pulled on his robe. Before Elizabeth could protest, he lifted her from the water, dried her as well as he could and helped her into her own robe. After wrapping a towel around her wet hair, he carried her into the bedchamber.

He placed her gently upon the bed and lay beside her, gathering her into his arms. Elizabeth wept against his chest, overwhelmed by a grief she had not known she was carrying.

William did not attempt to defend her father or persuade her that she had misunderstood. He merely held her, murmuring that he loved her and reminding her repeatedly of how much she meant to him. The certainty in his voice gradually quieted something within her.

Exhaustion overtook her before she realised she was falling asleep.

When Elizabeth awakened, she found William seated beside her with a lap desk balanced across his knees. Several letters lay open around him, but he immediately set them aside and offered her a glass of water.

“I do not know what overcame me,” she said after drinking. “I do not believe I have ever sobbed like that, and I cannot understand why I am still so tired.”

“I wanted to call for a physician,” William admitted. “Your nausea and unusual sleepiness have begun to alarm me, but Mrs Stewart suggested that you speak with her first.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Does she believe something is wrong with me?”

“I could not tell. In truth, she appeared almost pleased by what I described.”

“Then we had better ask what she is thinking.”

Elizabeth removed the heavy towel from her hair and ran her fingers through the damp strands before crossing to the bell pull. She had barely returned to the bed when Mrs Stewart entered.

The housekeeper asked several pointed questions about Elizabeth’s appetite, nausea and fatigue. Elizabeth answered each one, increasingly puzzled, until Mrs Stewart asked when she had last had her courses.

“Not since Christmas,” Elizabeth replied.

The significance of her answer struck her an instant later.

“Do you think…?”

Mrs Stewart’s restrained smile supplied the answer before she spoke. Joy rose so swiftly within Elizabeth that she could scarcely contain it.

“Oh, William!”

She turned towards him, intending to throw herself into his arms, but the uncapped ink bottle resting upon his lap desk stopped her.

“Put that down,” she demanded.

William frowned. “What is it, Elizabeth?”

“Your ink pot,” she said indicating the opened bottle of black ink. “Put it down before I tell you what Mrs Stewart said. I do not want ink upon the bedcovers, nor do I wish to bathe again today.”