by Jan Hahn
“Miss Bennet,” he said with the briefest of bows. “I trust you are well.”
“Perfectly,” I said with a sigh, curtsied, and immediately turned away to ask Jane a question about the selection of flowers she had chosen for the table.
The evening progressed in much the same manner throughout dinner. With the absence of the men afterwards, Miss Bingley regaled us with how she had flattered and charmed Lady Catherine during her visit to Rosings. She seemed to take particular pleasure in stressing how she also took great pains to cultivate a friendship with Miss de Bourgh, although she feared that the poor woman would not live a long life because of her ill health.
“I would not be at all surprised if, when she weds, it will be a marriage of short duration, for I doubt—God forbid—that she would survive childbirth.”
“Is Miss de Bourgh engaged to be married?” Jane asked.
“Not officially, but Lady Catherine says it will not be long before an announcement shall be made.” She fixed a stare in my direction, smugness conspicuous upon her face. “Throughout the Easter holiday, she has worked behind the scenes to secure the alliance. And I have assured Lady Catherine that I have done all in my power to assist her and shall continue my efforts since I am intimately acquainted with the gentleman in question and his family. I promised her that I would keep my eyes and ears open. Thus, I have every hope of becoming as essential to the de Bourgh family as a daughter. I cannot fail to see how advantageous our connection might prove in the future.”
I considered Miss Bingley’s words decidedly distasteful, and I was relieved when, shortly thereafter, we were reunited with the gentlemen in the music room. Mrs. Hurst entertained us on the pianoforte longer than necessary, and once she rose from the bench, Miss Bingley took her place. She persuaded Mr. Darcy to turn the pages of the music for her and took every opportunity to flatter his command of the art.
For pity’s sake, I thought, any simpleton can turn pages.
When the Bingley sisters’ performance concluded at last, Mr. Hurst insisted they join the whist table. I had picked up my book and tried to lose myself therein when Caroline Bingley announced they simply must hear me sing and play. I protested strongly, but she would not have it. Signalling her sister to join the chorus, they both pushed and prodded until I could do nothing more than rise and walk reluctantly toward the instrument. I knew full well the cause of their persistence. They both possessed superior talent to mine and took great delight in exhibiting my ineptitude, all the while declaring their fervent desire to hear my efforts.
I sighed as I reached the pianoforte and rifled through a stack of music. What could I possibly find to play without making a fool of myself?
“Sing the song you performed the first time you visited Pemberley,” Mr. Darcy said in a low voice.
I startled, unaware that he stood close behind me. I had last seen him near the card table and assumed he would join the players.
“I shall never forget the clarity of your soprano. It rivalled any I had ever heard before.”
“Surely, you jest, sir.”
“I do not. I pray you will sing it again, Elizabeth…for me.” He spoke the last words so quietly that I had to strain to hear him.
I looked up to meet his eyes and saw no sign of mockery. He made the request in all earnestness. I fumbled through the music, mumbling that I did not know the song by heart. He took the stack from my hands, pulled out the required piece, and bade me be seated. My hands trembled as I spread open the pages.
“Oh!” Miss Bingley exclaimed. “I have drawn the most impossible hand. Will you not come and advise me, Mr. Darcy?”
He waited a moment or two before answering and then looked up with a serious expression. “Forgive me. I must remain constant at my appointed task. After all, I am the accomplished page turner in the room, am I not?”
I could not hide the smile that lit up my face, especially when I saw an expression of dismay pull Miss Bingley’s mouth down at the corners. With sudden confidence, I played the first notes and began to sing. Oh, I misfingered many of the chords, but I sang out with all that was in me, and at the conclusion, I was rewarded with extraordinary applause from at least three people in the room and beaming approval on Mr. Darcy’s face.
We took a turn about the room thereafter, and I was grateful that he kept the conversation light and pleasant. Mr. Darcy told me that, instead of returning to Kent to retrieve his sister, he had sent a trusted manservant in his place. His sister had endured Lady Catherine’s company longer than necessary. Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley were en route from Kent to the Earl of Matlock’s residence on the edge of London, where he planned to join them the following week. He told me of the earl’s fondness for his niece and how she would be spoilt from the moment she arrived. We agreed that Georgiana possessed such an agreeable, loving nature that no amount of attention would ever ruin her. Our young sister was one subject on which we remained in perfect agreement.
Later that evening, however, Mr. Darcy took me aside privately once again to attempt to persuade me to accompany Georgiana, her companion, and him to Bath to visit Mr. Henry Darcy’s widow. Although he uttered many favourable arguments, I remained implacable in my refusal. Consequently, we parted much less positively than we spent the earlier portion of the evening.
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A few days later, Charles and Jane left the house to call upon friends, and I found myself alone at last. I selected my favourite novel, had the maid fetch me a cup of tea, and proceeded to curl up in a comfortable chair beside the window in the library. It afforded me excellent light by which to read, and I looked forward to a long, quiet afternoon in my own company.
Unfortunately, I had read less than a chapter when the servant announced I had a visitor. A visitor? Who could it be—Aunt Gardiner? Surely not Mr. Darcy. I knew I had displeased him when last we spoke and hoped he had gone to join Georgiana at Eden Park by then.
“Miss Eleanor Willoughby,” the servant said.
Willoughby!
I rose, smoothed my skirt, and composed myself. A few moments later, a woman entered, and I curtsied. Tall and thin with a pinched look about her mouth, I judged her to be younger than she looked. Her dress was perfectly sufficient but lacked the finery associated with the aristocracy. Her hair was already streaked with grey, and it was evident her complexion had lost its bloom some time ago.
“Elizabeth, is it?” she asked, her tone soft and undemanding.
“Yes, Miss Willoughby, Elizabeth Bennet.”
She advanced into the room and examined me with great interest, her eyes poring over my face as though she searched for something or someone lost.
“You look so much like my sister,” she said at last.
I bade her be seated in a chair close to mine and rang for more tea.
“You are her child—Elizabeth’s child—no matter what my brother says. The evidence is shockingly apparent.”
I coloured, and neither of us spoke for several moments. At last, I said, “Will you tell me about her? I long to know anything you are willing to share.”
The servant entered with the tea service, and Miss Willoughby waited to speak while I poured a cup for her. As I picked it up to give to her, she reached out and held onto my hand.
“Your fingers are like hers, your hair, your countenance, especially your mouth. The only difference is in your eyes. They came from your father.”
I bowed my head, suddenly ashamed of the circumstances of my birth all over again. Would she now denounce me as her brother had done? When she said nothing more, I ventured to meet her gaze and found a tenderness about her mouth, causing it to appear less severe, almost pleasant.
“I regret…very much that my birth caused the decline of your family’s fortunes.”
Miss Willoughby sighed and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Is that what Linton told you? Pay it no mind, my dear. He simply seeks someone other than himself on whom to pin the blame. It is true; Elizabeth was all set to make an oppo
rtune marriage, or rather, my mother and Linton had arranged that she would, when they learned that my sister had chosen another path. But let me assure you, our family’s fortunes were already in great disarray due to my brother’s obsession with gaming and his fondness for spirits.”
“He said my birth kept you from making a successful alliance as well.”
“Me? I was but eleven years old when you were born—hardly of an age to be sold to the highest bidder. No, by the time I reached the brink of courtship, Linton had long spent our fortune and blackened our name so that any man of consequence would never think of asking for my hand. You had nothing to do with it.”
I felt as though a heavy sack of bricks had been lifted from my shoulders, and I breathed a great sigh. “You do not know with what relief I hear your words, Miss Willoughby.”
“Will you not call me ‘Eleanor’? I am your aunt, after all.”
“I…I could not be that familiar.”
“May I hope that someday you will feel differently?” When my only answer was to lower my eyes, she continued. “Tell me what you wish to know about your mother.”
“Everything!”
She laughed lightly, rose, and walked to the window, fingering the drapery shielding us from the sunshine.
“You must remember that I was but a child when she died, so my memories are vague. Sometimes, I am not certain whether things happened as I recall or whether I dreamed them.”
“If you were eleven when I was born, you must be old enough to have known her quite well.”
“Oh yes, I knew her. I loved her. She was the dearest person on earth to me, and I would have done anything for her. It broke my heart when my mother and brother forced me to remain in London with the governess while they returned Elizabeth to Derbyshire and left her at Bridesgate with our grandmother. I remember how I cried and begged my governess to tell me where my sister had gone. Once she did, I demanded that she take me to Bridesgate as well, but she would not give over, for she had her orders.”
Her voice had grown soft and tremulous, and I feared she might weep. I determined to guide the conversation onto a more cheerful subject.
“Tell me what she loved to do. Was my mother musical or artistic? Did she like to read or sew?”
Miss Willoughby laughed. “Read? Yes, at night, when it was dark and she was forced to remain indoors. Her sewing was hopeless, even worse than mine, and remember, I was but a child. I do not recall her spending much time at the pianoforte or at the easel, thus I suppose she was not particularly proficient at either art. What Elizabeth loved was nature—the wood and forest, trees and streams, anywhere outdoors where she could breathe. She often complained that she could not catch her breath inside. And she was beautiful, of course. In truth, she possessed all the beauty in the family. If Linton was ever handsome, I do not remember it, and you can see for yourself, the gods did not bother to bless me in that regard.”
I offered to refill her cup, and she returned to her place across from me.
“Was she—Sir Linton said my mother was…wild. Is that true?”
She raised her eyebrows as she lifted the cup to her mouth. “I did not consider her wild; I thought her wonderful. She and I ran through the woods, climbed trees together, waded in the pond, and she discovered the most exciting places to hide. I considered it all a great lark, and even though she was six years my senior, I felt blessed to have her attention. That is why I kept her secret.”
I looked up from my cup. “Her secret?”
“When he began coming around and they spent more and more time together, she made me swear I would not tell. I was flattered that she confided in me and, naturally, would not have told on her if my life depended upon it.”
“I assume you refer to my father. So you knew him.”
“Not truly. When they began to meet, it was always deep in the wood between our house and Pemberley. At the beginning, they simply laughed and talked, and they allowed me to tag along. Later, I served as lookout to warn them if anyone approached. I, of course, was innocent and knew nothing of the deep bond between them or that it would possibly end in my sister’s death. All I knew was that she loved him, and in my childish eyes, he loved her. Elizabeth, I truly believe your parents cared deeply for each other.”
Now it was my turn to rise. I had to turn my back to keep her from seeing the depth of emotion her words stirred within me. I thought my heart might burst from the need to weep. Several moments passed before I could speak, during which I walked to the fireplace and ran my fingers across the edge of the mantle. At last, I took a deep breath and faced her.
“Did you ever hear his name spoken, Miss Willoughby?”
The words that tumbled from my mouth shocked me! Did I—did Mr. Darcy, for that matter—still entertain the foolish hope that someone would announce that I was not the daughter of George Darcy?
She shook her head. “She simply called him ‘Darcy.’”
“But surely you knew who he was. The Darcys were acquainted with your family. Did you not see him when they called upon your grandmother or mother?”
“I must have, but because I was a child, they were unimportant to me. I cannot say I ever recall seeing him but for his meetings with Elizabeth in the wood.”
She rose then and indicated she must take her leave.
I expressed my pleasure for her call and asked that she call again. “I dare not visit you…Sir Linton—”
Miss Willoughby nodded and took my hand. “He was not always that way, my dear. Although he is many years my senior, I recall the affectionate brother he was before his vices and greed took over his life. I understand your reluctance to call, however, and if I am able, I will visit you again with pleasure. Next time, you must do the talking and tell me all about yourself.”
We parted with a smile, and I returned to my former place by the window. The novel that had attracted me earlier could not begin to claim my attention though, for I had a treasure load of things to think about and feelings to sort.
Suddenly, I had a great desire to see Mr. Darcy and tell him all that I had learned.
Chapter Ten
Two weeks later, I received yet another letter from my father. He took me to task for my failure to acknowledge his last two messages. I could not help but smirk—this from a man who prided himself upon indolent replies to correspondence. I cannot say why I had not answered other than I could not think of anything to say. It was a sad fact that, in my mind, the bond between us had weakened until only the most delicate thread held it together. I could not help but remain angry with him for not revealing the circumstances of my birth earlier in my life. All reason argued in favour of his charity, yet I clung stubbornly to the pain and detriment I suffered upon learning the truth.
But I knew I must write him. Reading the whole of the letter, however, saved me from the task. He would travel to London on business within two days and call upon Jane and me as soon as he reached Town. He hoped to persuade me to return to Longbourn upon conclusion of his business.
I have not heard two words of sense spoken in this house since you went away, Lizzy, he declared.
My first thought was to refuse, but I had tired of London society, and now that summer was upon us, I longed for the fresh air and green fields of Hertfordshire. When Mr. Bingley announced that he and Jane would repair to Netherfield within a fortnight, I decided to comply with my father’s request.
My only hesitation stemmed from the fact that I would no longer entertain any chance of seeing Mr. Darcy. I had not been within his presence since he joined his sister at the Earl of Matlock’s residence. Surely, he had travelled on to Bath—or had he? If he remained in Town, I could not help but harbour the hope of an accidental meeting at one of the various social affairs that I attended with Jane and Mr. Bingley.
It is just as well that I leave, I told myself. Wisdom counselled me to remove myself from seeing Mr. Darcy again, for our encounter could serve neither of us well. I felt certain my face was simply a
reminder of his family’s guilt, and each time I gazed upon him, my heart continued to ache with sadness and longing for what could never be.
I had changed my mind about sharing Miss Willoughby’s information with Mr. Darcy, for I sensed the pain it would cause him to learn that, evidently, his father loved someone other than his mother.
The return carriage ride to Longbourn proved an uneasy experience. My father attempted to entertain me with passages from books he had recently read, but when I failed to add anything to the conversation and answered his questions with brief, indifferent replies, he soon gave up and turned his attention to the landscape outside the window. Before long, his head began to nod, and I could hear the gentle swishing sound of his snore.
I examined his face in repose and saw age descending upon him. The lines on his forehead and around his mouth had deepened, and for a moment, I felt somewhat guilty about my coldness toward him, but only for a moment. No matter how I loved him, I refused to forgive his unwise decision. I could not relinquish the grief that afflicted my spirit. If only I had known from childhood that I was sister to Mr. Darcy…if only I had never met him…if only.
I found all at Longbourn much as it had ever been, except that Kitty had grown an inch taller and Mary’s complexion appeared even more sallow than before. She had applied herself to the pianoforte, however, and had actually improved her skills. Her attempts to sing remained much the same.
Mamá’s curiosity about London society dwindled once I assured her I had neither managed to secure a betrothal during my stay nor even entertained the idea. Her conversation turned to news of Lydia, who was with child. Upon learning of Jane’s condition, she immediately ordered the carriage so that she might share the news with Mrs. Philips and Lady Lucas. Kitty followed me above stairs to my bedchamber, wishing to hear more of the balls I had attended while away. After a half hour, I shooed her from the room and sank down upon the window seat.