The Heiress

by Molly Greeley

  “Ah.” We both ate some cake, so sweet it filmed my tongue and teeth. Then Miss Amherst said, “My mother hopes your friendship will prove advantageous to my prospects.” Her smile was wry. “She says she rather wishes I were in the company of a young man as often as I am in your company; but that a wealthy young woman who is niece to an earl must be the next best thing.”

  There was a strange fullness in my throat, which I had to swallow down before I could speak. “I fear I do not know many young men, eligible or no,” I said. “But if my company widens your prospects, then I am . . . happy to offer it, even more often.”

  “I shall hold you to that,” she said, and speared her last bite of cake.

  She called the next day, with the excuse that she thought we could improve my dancing.

  “If you choose to attend more balls this season, you should be comfortable dancing more than a single set,” she said.

  I was reading when she arrived, and Miss Amherst grinned when she saw the volume of poetry in my hands, then asked whether I had been practicing my steps.

  I followed Miss Amherst’s nimble feet. Occasionally she paused to correct my posture or to remind me to smile. (“For no man,” she intoned, mimicking her own dancing master’s deep voice, “wants a partner who shows her true feelings if they are anything less than happiness.”) We pretended there were other couples forming the set, laughing as we held out our hands to invisible dancers to either side of us. Miss Amherst led me down the center of the imaginary lines, holding my hand aloft in a courtly gesture.

  At last, however, we stopped, breathless, and rang for tea, settling into chairs near the window.

  “I quite like your new gown,” she said. “The lace on those sleeves! It’s perfection. But next time, you must make some choices yourself. What happens if you need a new gown and I am not there to direct you?”

  “I would not know where to begin,” I said.

  “Oh?” Miss Amherst smiled. “Who on earth chose your gowns before you came to London?”

  “My mother,” I said; and even to my own ears, my voice was stone-hard. “I had no say in the matter.”

  Her cheeks puffed. “Whyever not?”

  I turned to the window. Without my noticing, it had begun raining at some point as we danced, and the street ran now with water. A carriage made great splashes as it passed. “I was ill,” I said. “I was not . . . expected to make decisions for myself.”

  “But you are better now,” she said.

  “Yes.” I thought of the sucking feeling, but it seemed far away. “I am better now.”

  She watched me as attentively as Mr. Watters sometimes did; but her gaze felt less like a pressing weight than a hand stroking just lightly over my brow. I returned my own eyes to the window. And I did not mean to speak, but somehow, suddenly, I was anyway, my words faltering and unsure but unstoppable as the falling rain. I described for her the haze in which I existed for all of my life until just recently; how the clear mornings gave way to the tender fog of afternoon and early evening. The terrible clutching in my lungs when I did something too strenuous, my breath disappearing.

  “Only one person ever intimated that my troubles might be the result of Dr. Grant’s cure rather than some natural weakness.” I kept my eyes focused outside the window, my neck stiff as stays, unwilling to turn and know what Miss Amherst’s expression might be.

  “My father tried to help me, but he . . . I know he cared, he took me to Brighton to bathe in the sea . . . but he was overcome by Mamma’s . . . by Mamma’s . . .” But I could not think of the right word, something inside of me turned hot and seething—boiling. I clenched my fingers into fists tight enough that my bones ached all the way down to my wrists, and my nails cut half-moons into the flesh of my palms.

  “I do not know why my mother preferred me”—I searched for the word, and remembered Miss Hall’s voice, the bite to it, the anger—“stupefied.”

  Miss Amherst was very quiet. Her eyes dropped to my hands; her own hands reached, darting like hummingbirds before she aborted the movement and pulled them back. I wondered whether she meant to take my hands in hers, uncurl my fingers, knot her fingers with mine in a gesture of sympathy. The thought made me swallow.

  “I cannot speak to your mother’s feelings with any . . . true understanding,” she said slowly. “But what you said about how unsettled you were as an infant—I can imagine that would be frightening to a new mother, to think her child was in distress and to be unable to help her. And if a doctor offered relief—well, it would seem a prayer answered, would it not? And you have spoken of her as someone who feels best when she is in control of all the particulars of her life. If she believed she could not control your illness except by means of laudanum—”

  I shook my head, violently enough that she startled back. My hands came up to cover my face.

  After a pause, Miss Amherst said, “I apologize. I have never met your mother. I’ve no idea what she might have been thinking.”

  I did not answer, and we sat silently for a moment. I breathed openmouthed into my palms; I could feel my breath, warm and moist, and smell it, faintly sour with fear. The only sound in the room was the rain on the windows, an infernal, endless drumming that put me in mind of Mamma’s fingers on the arm of her chair when she was irritated.

  My eyes opened, lashes fluttering like moth wings against my hands. Through the narrow gaps between my fingers, I could see Miss Amherst sitting still, her elbow propped on the back of her chair and her chin settled on her fist. I waited, but to my surprise she did not say anything about leaving.

  “I used to see things,” I said into my palms; and found that it was surprisingly easy to say with my face mostly hidden.

  Miss Amherst turned her head away from the window to look at me. There was no wariness in her voice when she said, “What sorts of things?”

  “People, mostly. They came to me at night, sometimes. Once or twice my father, after he died; he wore a lady’s turban.” She smiled a little at this, her teeth showing white. “There was a woman who sometimes stroked my hair.”

  She shifted closer to me, close enough that I could make out the faintly floral scent she wore on her skin. “Do you miss them?” she asked, very softly.

  My response sounded like nothing so much as an exhaled breath. “Sometimes.”

  Very slowly, Miss Amherst raised her hand. Her fingers touched my hair, the top smooth and pinned close to my scalp. They trailed toward the back of my head, just firmly enough that I closed my eyes unintentionally in pleasure, my own hands hanging forgotten before my face. Then her fingers lifted, just for a moment, before coming to rest on the curls at my temple. She touched them with the greatest of care.

  We both startled at the sound of the front door banging open. Miss Amherst jumped in her chair, her hand falling away from my hair, and my own hands dropped as I twisted in my seat to look over my shoulder at the doorway. Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s voice, high and agitated, echoed eerily off the entranceway’s ceiling, her every movement overly loud as a servant hurried to take her outer garments and exclaimed over the state of her umbrella.

  She entered the drawing room, calling over her shoulder for tea. The hem of her gown was shockingly wet, and her hair, always so carefully arranged, straggled against the nape of her neck, as if the rain were blowing sideways under her umbrella’s wide awning. Her face was very pale, and she came into the room without seeing Miss Amherst or myself, patting at her hair, her neck, her sides in a distracted manner. It was Miss Amherst who stood, and I who belatedly followed; Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s entire body jerked as we moved, and she let out a yelp.

  “Good gracious,” she said. “Whatever are you doing here in the dark? Why are the candles not lit?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I had been sitting in the courtyard garden for nearly an hour, missing Rosings with a deep-down longing that felt almost animal in its intensity: the particular creaking of the tree branches in the wind, and the calling birds, a
nd the lazy sound of the working bees. I ached to see the broad sweep of the sky overhead. Here it was all penned in by tall houses on every side; in the country it could stretch itself out to its full length, and one imagined it sighing with relief. Not even the parks here were anything like Rosings’s grounds, however carefully cultivated the garden beds. There was little chance to sit and enjoy even the likeness of the outdoors; it was all forward momentum and smiling and bowing. I could not hear the plants whisper there; though, without my drops’ magical assistance, perhaps I would never hear such a thing again. It was a melancholy thought.

  John’s garden was nothing—nothing—like the gardens at home; there was little enough space for anything beyond a rectangular pavement with bench and table. The high stone walls bore espaliered fruit trees, and the middle of the courtyard was given over to prettyish topiaries. The sky was still hampered by the neighboring roofs, and the natural clouds were still almost indistinguishable from the smoke belching from the chimneys, but I was alone except for myriad small scuttling creatures, and if I strained I could almost—almost—imagine that there were voices among the hedges. A spider, hard at work on a most marvelous web in a tucked-away corner, was probably humming to itself as it wove.

  The door to the house opened; I stared for a second longer at the spider, long-legged and graceful, the threads coming together in pleasing acute angles. Then I turned my head to see who was there, and a smile broke out across my face.

  Miss Amherst came forward, smiling, and for a moment of exhilarating confusion I thought she was going to embrace me. But no; she sat down beside me, hands tucked into her lap, and said, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “You look—tired.”

  “I am tired.” I smiled a little. “But only because I was awake most of the night worrying.” At her raised brows, I added, “We went to the Darcys’ today to meet their new son. I was . . . well. I had not seen my cousin or his wife since leaving Kent.”

  “Ah.” She tipped her head to one side. “How is the child? In health?”

  My voice caught in my throat; I was back, quite abruptly, in my nursery, hearing the creak of my nurse’s chair and the low drone of her voice. “Robust,” I managed, and blinked against ridiculous tears.

  Mr. and Mrs. Darcy welcomed us all—myself included—warmly. Indeed, Fitzwilliam was the most gregarious I had ever seen him, holding his new son out for our inspection almost before we crossed the threshold. Mrs. Darcy, still confined, resting, to her sitting room until she was churched, could not prevent the startlement that crossed her face when I entered, bowed, and greeted her. It was a very small triumph, but I had been savoring it ever since.

  Aunt and Uncle Fitzwilliam arrived in Town earlier in the week, and joined us in welcoming the new child. My mother, however, remained in Kent, having refused her brother’s invitation. There was a hollowness inside when I thought of her alone in that house—or had she kept Mrs. Jenkinson as her own?—embittered and proud.

  But then the babe was passed around, and we each took our turn holding him in our arms. Though I feared I might drop him, I found that my arms closed easily around his frame. I could not quite find the beauty in his rumpled face and hairless head, but when one hand worked its way free of its wrappings I was appalled by the fragility of those little fingers, something bursting inside my chest as I touched them tentatively with one of my own. I watched his small face contort through myriad expressions, cycling in his sleep from distress to worry to toothless joy, as if he were practicing the art of being human, and I wondered whether Mamma looked at me as I was looking at him: a little awed, a little terrified, more than a little amused by my infant funniness. It was hard to imagine.

  “You look quite natural with a child in your arms, Anne,” my aunt said, and I was at once piercingly grateful, despite my hollowness, that Mamma had not come, for who knew what leaps her mind might take to see me holding an infant? And, too, I could almost hear her voice as I looked down at him, dissecting his features into Darcy and Fitzwilliam, making no room whatsoever for Bennet; fussing over his nurse’s figure and diet; demanding to know how Mrs. Darcy expects his limbs to grow straight without a swaddling band.

  “My mother did not come after all,” I said.

  “I am sorry,” Miss Amherst said after a moment.

  I shrugged one shoulder, glanced away. “I can only imagine that she does not want to see me. Nothing else could keep her from greeting her new grandnephew.”

  “You are quite magnificent these days, you know. She is missing a great deal.”

  Miss Amherst spoke lightly; but my face heated.

  “Well. Ah. In any case, I have been wallowing here in the sun to chase away the shadows,” I said, trying to smile. Miss Amherst smiled as well, her laughter thrumming warmly, kindly through the air between us at my poor jest, for the sun was weak, the garden dim and cool.

  “Do you think she has any secret sorrows?” I said, pointing. The spider darted from spoke to spoke within her web, weaving it together with deft mysterious movements.

  Miss Amherst was resting her cheek on her fist, but she raised her head now, glancing from the spider to me. I spoke unthinkingly, and now felt again that blooming panic, that my words were too strange, that she would grow stiff and silent.

  But her grin burst across her face like sparks from a fire, and she said, “I doubt it; but then, I have never thought about it before. Do you spend a great deal of time considering the inner lives of spiders?”

  Relief loosened all my joints so that I slumped back like a rag doll. “I do,” I said.

  Her brow puckered. “And beetles?” she said, with mock seriousness.

  “I am convinced that their inner lives are as varied and colorful as their shells.”

  A little smile, quickly hidden, though her eyes were laughing. “But surely lowlier beings—earthworms, for instance, or . . . or oysters—haven’t many worries.”

  I raised my brows; for in truth, I wondered. “I am no naturalist,” I said.

  “No,” she said; and now her smile was slow and wicked, and my heart kicked like a pony against my breastbone. “You are a poet.”

  I laughed, incredulous. “I have scarcely ever read poetry; I cannot begin to imagine how one goes about writing it.”

  She looked down, and I realized that our hands held one another still, resting on her lap. With one thumb she described a circle in the center of my palm, the motion deliberate enough that I could not possibly think, as I did at Lady Clive’s ball, that it was accidental. “You needn’t write a word to be a poet,” she said. “It is in the way your mind works. You see things differently.”

  “Strangely.” The word came out on a puff of air. Every nerve in my body seemed suddenly centered within the mound of my palm.

  Now she shrugged. “A little,” she said, and soothed the sting of the words with a gentle smile. “But think how very tedious life would be if no one ever had a strange thought.”

  And still her thumb moved, languorous and distracting. I swallowed, looked at the spider, who wove on, oblivious. Or perhaps not. She might be listening to our conversation, amused to think I imagined I understand what is in her heart. A laugh frothed up from my belly, and I pressed my lips together in a vain attempt to smother it. Miss Hall once told me I had a mathematical mind, but why should I not be a poet, too? I expected my strangeness to vanish with my drops, but it seemed that—perhaps from having taken them so long—it had made its way into my blood. Or perhaps it was always there, all along, innately part of me since I lay curled inside my mother’s womb.

  But Miss Amherst did not mind my fancies, however unnatural they might seem to others; she did not recoil. She smoothed her thumb across my hand and called me a poet.

  She looked at me, and now she was the one who seemed strange, her expression unfamiliar in its sudden potency. Her breathing, I could hear in the near-quiet, hitched and stumbled a little. I thought of my cousin a
nd his wife in his book room, and my own breath came a little too quickly.

  I wanted to lean in, to touch; the little space between our two arms was suddenly thick as custard, and vibrating softly. Did other creatures experience such a complicated brew of feelings? Did foxes both fear and long to nuzzle one another? I looked up at the flying birds and wondered if things could possibly be so simple for them as they appeared.

  Then I looked back at Miss Amherst, and impulsively, I bent once more and touched my lips to the back of her gloved hand.

  And there I might have remained, eternally motionless but for the thud of my pulse at my throat; but Miss Amherst drew her hands away from mine. I stayed curled over, swathed in humiliation. And then her fingers brushed my jaw, lifting my face; and then my cheeks were cupped by the supple leather of her gloves. Her face was very near, her eyes holding a question. I suppose I must have answered it to her satisfaction, though I did not form actual words, for she drew impossibly closer, and her lips brushed mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I congratulated Miss Julia on her engagement, and listened as she talked at length of the wedding plans. All the while, I felt Miss Amherst—Eliza—watching me, and when at last there was a pause in the flow of her sister’s words, she said quickly, “Miss de Bourgh—I was hoping to show you my new gown.” Her hand was hot around my wrist as she pulled me up the stairs and down a short corridor. We walked as quickly as decorum allowed, and she sent an arch look over her shoulder at me before opening her chamber door.

  Inside, I had only a moment to take in the green bed curtains and soft gold carpet before she kissed me, the hard wood of the door at my back, the softness of her body pressed all along my front. The room was silent but for our working mouths. I was heavy and full as storm air; and then Eliza’s thigh pushed between both of mine, dragging my shift against my skin, startling me into an entirely new knowledge of myself.