by Beau North
Jack chuckled, taking Elizabeth’s hand in his and giving it a fatherly pat. “Very good, young lady.”
“Jack, our Lizzie has grown into quite the songbird.”
Jack gave Elizabeth a considering look. “Is that a fact?”
“That depends,” Elizabeth said, “do you consider geese to be songbirds? That should give you an idea of my vocal talents.”
“Well, we’ll see about that after supper, little lady.” Jack laughed, putting one arm around Maddie and the other around Elizabeth, their happy chatter filling the empty silences of the house.
***
“Son of a—” Richard sat up, shaking his injured hand. He narrowed his eyes at the motorcycle. He fought a wild urge to take the biggest, heaviest wrench handy and start beating on the bike until it was nothing but a pile of pipes and rubber.
He took a deep breath and stood, grabbing a clean rag from the neat stack Stevens kept handy at all times. He wiped his face and hands roughly, angry with himself and the world at large. A month had gone by since his return to Pemberley; his disappointment turned to regret, and regret was quickly becoming anger. He’d hoped that time would help, but the memory of Elizabeth never dulled. It sharpened enough to make him bleed.
He wondered what would have happened if he’d not come to Meryton. Would Darcy have ever gotten around to giving himself over to Elizabeth? Not that it matters now, he thought grimly. He couldn’t imagine how it felt for her, caught in between two men who loved her, neither of whom deserved her. No wonder the poor girl had run away.
“Do you need help with something?” Darcy asked as he came in, shutting the door behind him.
“You can take this piece of shit down to the gulch and throw it in,” Richard said irritably, jerking his head towards the motorcycle. Darcy’s eyebrows shot up.
Richard walked over to the cabinet on the wall where all the keys were kept, snatched out the set he wanted, and tossed them to Darcy, who caught them in one hand.
“Take it. It’s yours.”
“Richard—”
“If you don’t take it, D, I’m afraid I’ll get on it and drive the damned thing right into the fucking river.”
“I’ve already tried that, remember? This hero worship of yours has got to stop.”
“Shut up, D.”
“Richie…” Darcy approached hesitantly. “I think I can guess what this is all about.”
Richard laughed mirthlessly. “I’m sure you can.”
“Why don’t you go to Charleston?” Darcy asked. Richard wondered whether Darcy even noticed the way his hands balled into fists at the suggestion.
“Because it’s not just about me, D. I mean…is that really what you want?”
“No. Hell no.” Darcy tugged his hair out of his eyes before looking back at his cousin. “What will you do?”
“Here’s a novel idea. Maybe I’ll get a job. I’ve done it before.”
“A job?” Darcy looked skeptical. Richard rolled his eyes.
“Maybe I’ll go home. The house has been sitting empty for a while now. I can’t just stay here. It’s making me stir-crazy and mean.”
“Well, you always were mean.”
“So I’ve been reminded,” he said, cocking an eyebrow up at Darcy, who didn’t smile.
Richard shook his head. “Good God, don’t get maudlin. Besides, all’s not lost. I think you can salvage this. You’ve always been too stubborn to let go of anything you wanted. If that happens, then the last thing you’ll want is me around—rattling chains in the attic like Jacob Marley while you two honeymoon. No, thank you.”
“Georgie and I are going to miss you around here,” Darcy said solemnly.
Richard grinned and threw the dirty rag at Darcy. “Damn right you will.”
***
“I can see you’re no stranger to pain.”
Jack didn’t look up at her as he said this, concentrating on loosening the tuning pin on her autoharp. They’d been playing duets after dinner when one of her strings broke. He talked as his deft hands unwound the broken string from the pin, threading the new one through. He’d been plenty impressed by her voice, but more so in the emotion behind it.
“That’s good,” he said. “Your pain is your own until you put it to music. Then it belongs to everyone. You’ll find it lightens the load.” He squinted as he threaded the new string through, twisting the key to tighten it.
Elizabeth laughed, watching him carefully. “I can see where Aunt Maddie gets that morbid streak.”
Jack nodded. “We’ve seen a lot, Maddie and I. We were lucky enough to live in Lambton, where at least folks had some work. That family saw to that. Other places up in those hills…it’d put you to shame to see the way some of those folks live. People going hungry, getting sick. Everyone our age goes on about living through the depression like it’s over. For some of those people, it’ll never be over. It’s misery that just gets handed down generation to generation.”
“What family, Uncle Jack?”
“Oh. Those Darcys.” Elizabeth had a feeling this was the case, so she said nothing. Her thoughts were a muddle.
“Old John Darcy, he was a nice enough man,” Jack said. “Most of the town worked at Pemberley’s Orchard or at their farm in Bell Cove. Him and that wife of his used to come in to all the churches in town at Christmas, bring presents for the kids and food for the families.”
“And the family doesn’t keep that up?” It disturbed her how fascinating she found the topic of Will Darcy’s parents.
“They do, they just don’t come themselves. Well, the daughter…she’s just a kid, and the boy, he keeps pretty busy. It was him that started letting folks buy chunks of the farm they were working. It’s been good for the town. And then he started that furniture company.” Elizabeth smiled, loving that he pronounced the word “cump’ny.” “Right there in the middle of Lambton he put it, even though it would have saved him a bundle to open it over in Raleigh or Atlanta.”
“I see.” She couldn’t say more as she didn’t trust herself at the moment.
Part of her felt pride in him, that he was so respected, that so many people depended on him. Pride that he had never let them down. She remembered the way he’d taken her hand that night she’d snuck out, how good it felt to let him into her heart, and knowing him to be worthy of winning it.
Of course, that was before his interlude with Caroline and the ensuing hurt and confusion—before making a fool of herself with Richard. As always, she shoved all of these thoughts into the darkest corner of her mind where they could fester properly.
Jack plinked the strings until he had the new one tuned just right, then handed the instrument back to Elizabeth.
“Now,” he said with a smile, “let’s put all that misery to good use.”
Elizabeth plucked the strings and began to sing, showing him her pain. And he was entirely correct. It did lighten the load.
***
Charlotte and Anne had taken to referring to their liaisons as “chess lessons” and had even dubbed themselves The Rosings Chess Club. Charlotte still couldn’t fully comprehend just how lucky she felt that she’d found Anne and that they’d found their escape in each other. Her one regret was the necessity for deception. She wanted to shout her feelings from the rooftop not hide away as if she should be ashamed of her heart.
Unfortunately, her heart had led her into dangerous territory. She had only the vaguest inclination of the risks involved with loving as she chose. Her only information came from what she could glean from gossip magazines in the grocery store, which she was never allowed to buy. Those stories were typically about Hollywood icons like Greta Garbo or Marlene Dietrich, who were unlikely to suffer the same consequences at Mrs. Charlotte Collins from Camden, South Carolina.
It wasn’t lost on her that she had essentially broken her marriage vows, but in her eyes, her husband had broken them first, particularly the vow to “love and honor.” What Leland Collins did felt like neither love nor hon
or. He kept Charlotte under lock and key, even accompanying her to the supermarket. If she dared smile at the butcher or the young man stocking shelves, he would hover possessively, taking over any idle chat Charlotte made. After the incident with the invitation to Jane Bennet’s wedding, he made sure he was home to receive the mail daily. Letters from her family were thrown into the trash or hidden away. She was completely isolated, dependent on him alone. Her only reprieve was her visits to Anne.
She said as much as they lay tangled together in the stuffy darkness of Anne’s room.
“Are you afraid of him?” Anne asked, mindful of the clock on the mantelpiece. She was all too aware of their limited time.
“Sometimes,” she said. “I try so hard not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid. He gets this look in his eyes, and I can tell that he…I can tell that he likes it when I’m afraid.”
Anne kissed the top of Charlotte’s head, offering neither pity nor judgment, only support. “Was he very different when he courted you?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Looking back, I think it wasn’t so much that he charmed me as I wanted so badly to get away from Mother.”
“Now that’s a sentiment I can well understand,” Anne said.
“Your mother may be domineering and misguided—”
“Not to mention living in another century.”
“But she loves you at least.”
“Poor Ducks,” Anne said as she caressed Charlotte’s arm. She smiled suddenly. “Would it surprise you to know that I love you?”
Charlotte buried her face in Anne’s neck, hiding in the spill of her dark, silky hair.
“I’d only hoped,” she whispered. “That hope has been my strength.”
Anne put a finger under her chin, guiding her face up. “If your hope has given you strength, let my love give you even more. How do you feel about me?”
“If you can’t tell I love you by now, you’re as thick as that cousin of yours.”
“God forbid,” said Anne, chuckling. Charlotte raised herself up on one elbow, kissing her so sweetly that they were both surprised by the chime of the clock, telling them their time alone for the day had come to an end.
***
Jack found Maddie weeding the flower beds that bordered her azalea bushes. It was late in the afternoon, and someone had already lit a small blaze in the fire pit. The smoke was the only thing that kept the ever-present mosquitoes at bay. Jack bent down to help his sister, putting the erstwhile intruders in a neat pile between them.
“That girl,” he said without preamble, “is truly special.”
“I know that.” Maddie had always seen Elizabeth as different from her sisters in some small, tenuous way.
“And she’s going through something,” he said, careful not to pull his sister’s zinnias along with the dandelions.
“Yes, she’s a little lost, isn’t she?” Maddie stopped her chore to look at her brother.
“That’s as good a word as any, I’d say. She ought to be out there, Maddie. I don’t know why, but I think she needs to be out there.”
“By out there, you mean with you and your band?” She seemed to consider it for a few minutes. “I’d have to talk to her. And she’ll want to talk to her daddy even though she’s old enough to strike out on her own. I’ll come along of course. How far are we talking?”
“Up the Carolinas, into Virginia, over to Tennessee at the very least. We’ll be doing that showcase at the Ryman on the Fourth of July.” Jack beamed. It had been his lifelong dream to play at the Grand Ole Opry, and having Elizabeth Bennet’s voice with theirs would be quite the feather in their cap.
“Aren’t you doing the Folk Fest this year?” Maddie knew her brother and his band had been playing the Mountain Dance & Folk Festival in Lambton for the past twelve years straight.
“Well, of course, but that won’t be until mid-August.”
“Then I’m definitely coming along if Lizzie agrees to go. I’d love to show her Lambton. Maybe we’ll see if we can tour Pemberley. She’s got to be curious about the man who bought Longbourn.”
Jack smiled at his sister. “Be it ever so humble…”
“Humble, indeed.”
***
As long as he lived, Charles would never forget the first time he saw Jane in the dance hall. He’d known within a matter of moments that this was it. This was the woman he wanted to spend his life with.
He had called Louisa to ask if she would invite Caroline up for the weekend. He and Jane had business, and he couldn’t afford Caroline’s interference. He looked down at the expansion plans for Ft. Jackson he’d been trying to examine the past hour, but they made no more sense to him now than they had when he started. He put them aside and began to methodically tidy up, an old habit when he was nervous.
He understood that, in marrying Jane, he was marrying her illness as well, and he still stood by his decision. As he told Darcy, he’d rather have a few months of life with Jane then a lifetime without her. Once he knew his heart, there was no going back. He was ready to deal with whatever came as long as he had her in his life.
Now that Elizabeth had removed herself to Charleston, Jane relied on Mary to help her with her shots. Since Mary wouldn’t be living at Netherfield, it would be up to him to help Jane if needed. He walked to the mirror, checking his reflection and making sure there wasn’t any food stuck in his teeth. He couldn’t account for the slightly shaky feeling in his knees or his dry throat. Why was he so nervous?
A soft knock at the door interrupted his preoccupation. He cleared his throat one more time before opening the door with a shaking hand. Jane stood there; her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes were happy. Bingley felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of her. He knew he’d never stop being grateful that she had chosen him.
“Hello, Charles.” Her voice was warm and steady, immediately calming him.
“Come in.”
He stood aside and let her in, the smell of her apple blossom perfume following in her wake. He closed the door behind her. After a moment of inner debate, he dismissed the urge to throw the lock.
“I would prefer the door locked,” Jane said from behind him as if she’d read his mind. She sat on the edge of his desk, her golden hair loose around her shoulders. He gulped, certain it had been up a moment ago. He reached behind him without turning and clicked the lock in place.
Jane nodded, turning to the desk where she had everything laid out for him. Her training as a nurse seemed to take over at that point. She explained every personal detail in the same calm, professional tone. He paid close attention, asking questions here and there, determined to learn everything he needed to know. It was a great responsibility, and he was determined to prove himself capable. After a few trials injecting water into an orange, she nodded and smiled at him.
“Very good, Charles. I think you’re ready.” She reached up and began unbuttoning her blouse.
“Jane!”
“It’s all right. You can give it to me in my arm today.” She slipped her blouse off of one shoulder. He was suddenly painfully aware that the only thing covering her skin was a filmy white slip.
“Right here.” She touched her left arm with her right hand, just below the shoulder. He could see her fingers tremble ever so slightly. It brought him forward until he stood so close he could count the freckles that dusted her cheeks.
“Do you remember how much I told you?” He nodded and willed himself to be calm as he plunged the needle into the vial; the glass was cool and slippery in his hand. He drew off the right dosage, looking at her for confirmation.
“That’s right.” She sat aside the cotton she’d used to swab her arm with alcohol and pointed at the spot again.
Bingley double-checked the syringe for air bubbles, then gripped her arm as firmly as he dared, his fingers slightly digging into her soft flesh. He didn’t want to admit that he was suddenly afraid and needed the grip to steady himself.
He could feel the swell o
f her breast against the back of his hand. He didn’t notice the goose bumps that raced across her skin at the contact or the way her chest rose and fell with her increasingly rapid breaths. He glanced up and saw that her eyes were not on the needle at her arm but rather locked on his face, and what he saw in them nearly took his breath away. He saw trust, love, a little fear, and some other emotion that was harder to define, like tasting some long-forgotten delight. He swallowed, hard, his grip on her arm tightening.
“Charles…” she whispered, and at that moment, he sank the needle into the soft flesh of her arm, pushing the plunger down just the way she’d shown him. She gave a quick gasp, her eyes never leaving his. When he withdrew the needle, a bead of blood welled up, fattening into a small red pearl before it began to drip slowly down her arm. She was holding a square of gauze out to him with shaky fingers. He took it silently, dabbing the blood away. After a moment, he looked back up at her.
“Did I hurt you?”
She didn’t speak a word in response, only reached out and gently, tentatively touched her fingers to his lips.
Chapter Fifteen
July 4, 1949
Ryman Auditorium
Nashville, Tennessee
The sound of music and cheers floated backstage where Elizabeth paced, taking gulping breaths. It was no good trying to control the wobbly feeling in her knees; she would just have to be spaghetti-legged for the night.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said again. She’d been saying it a lot.
“If you keep carrying on like that, I’m going to make you ride the next leg with Tom and Marty,” Jack said as he adjusted his guitar strap once again, letting his own nerves show a little.
“I’ll be good,” she said hastily. Everyone knew that Tom and Marty, who served as bass and fiddle for the Black Mountain Family Singers, kept a jar of pickled eggs in the car. It was their idea of road food.
She sneaked as close to the stage as she dared, watching the act they had to follow.