by Head, Gail
My Dear Fitzwilliam,
I trust this letter finds you well and that you have finished your business in Brighton. I am hopeful that you have accomplished your purpose as I must implore that you return to Netherfield Park at once. A report of a most alarming nature, which I dare not commit to paper, has reached my ears. Mr. Bingley is doing all he can to aid Miss Bennet and her family, yet I cannot help but think you must investigate and so I urge you to return with all haste.
Affectionately Yours, etc.
Georgiana
Darcy stared hard at the letter. An alarming report? Involving the Bennets? His worst fears began to grip him, tying his stomach in knots. Did that idiot Collins say something before he left? Whatever it was, there was no time to lose.
“Denham, please make preparations for our return to Hertfordshire at once,” he commanded.
“Sir?” Denham was puzzled. “What of Mr. Wickham? He will be back in two days.”
“Wickham will have to wait. Miss Georgiana has need of me and there are other matters that need my immediate attention. Please have us ready to leave within the hour.”
“I'll see to it right away, sir.”
With Denham's prompt withdrawal, Darcy began his own preparations. Gathering up the stack of letters he had been reviewing the past four days, he placed Georgiana's note on top and tucked them all into his writing desk. He then took out some fresh sheets of paper and quickly penned a note to Colonel Forster requesting an interview as soon as the commander was returned from the field. Sealing the note, he set it aside for Denham to have delivered. After a moment's hesitation, he took another sheet and wrote a much shorter message. When he was done, he took a half-crown from the table and folded the coin into the letter before setting his seal to it. Turning it over, he wrote “Millie, in care of the Scarlet Feather” across the front and then placed it to be delivered as well.
Chapter 14
Surreptitiously lowering the pages of The Times, Robert Grissholm quietly observed the activity at the other end of the breakfast table. Newcomb was standing next to Elizabeth, holding out a silver tray which contained a single letter. Grissholm noted the spark of anticipation in Elizabeth's eyes as she eagerly took it up, looking at the directions with elated anticipation. A fleeting look of disappointment and the barely visible droop of her shoulders told him that she had realized it was not what she had been waiting for. Quickly setting the letter aside without opening it, she turned back to her breakfast, poking at the food on her plate, without ever actually raising any of it to her lips.
Grissholm continued to watch her for some minutes. The letter now sitting on the table in front of her was from Wickham. It had come the day before, addressed to Elizabeth in Wickham's careless scrawl, and Grissholm had given Newcomb instructions to deliver it to her this morning. Her disappointment was not unexpected. Grissholm was fully aware of the arrangement that kept Elizabeth at Everton Manor. Without having to read it, he knew, just as she did, exactly what the letter contained – another of her sister's passionate letters.
While Elizabeth Bennet could be irritatingly obstinate at times, he knew the necessary tempering of her spirited nature to conform to the rigid requirements of her position was not an easy task for her, in spite of Wickham's ever-present threat. Even more commendable was that she would attempt to do so for the sake of a sister. It showed an extraordinary sense of duty and loyalty which told him there was more to her than the already pleasing aspects of her person. Retreating back behind his paper, Grissholm's lips quirked in silent approval.
“Miss Bennet, are you ill?” Rebecca ventured quietly. “Is anything wrong?”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth forced a reassuring smile. “It is nothing of any consequence, really.”
“You do look a little pale. Perhaps a walk would do you some good. Shall we venture to the pond after breakfast? The rain has stopped and it would be lovely to be outdoors, even for a little while. If we go right after breakfast, we shall still have time for some painting before lunch.”
“An excellent suggestion, Rebecca. As a matter of fact, I believe I will join you,” Grissholm announced, startling the two women with a snap of his paper.
“I thank you, Miss Ballard, but I must ask you to excuse me this morning. I feel a little tired and would like to rest in my room; but I shall join you for some painting a little later.”
“Nonsense,” Grissholm insisted. “A brisk morning walk would do you more good than sulking in your rooms. You must join us.”
“Your lordship, I think it would be better if you and Miss Ballard went without me. At the moment, I am very poor company.”
“I insist, Miss Bennet. Please be so good as to fetch your bonnets, ladies.”
Dismayed and a little nervous at the viscount's unexpected interest in their outing, Rebecca hurried out of the room. Elizabeth, bristling at his commanding tone, snatched up her letter and followed the girl out, but not before throwing him a look that conveyed exactly what her feelings were on the matter. She did not know if he saw it, nor did she care.
Within a few minutes, the two ladies were making their way down the cobbled path, Rebecca casting an occasional furtive glance to Lord Grissholm who was following a few paces behind them. Elizabeth kept her eyes resolutely ahead. All three were silent, leaving only the sound of their steps on the stones to break the stillness.
Nearing their destination, the path gave way to a rather steep incline which in dry weather did not pose a problem; but now the stones, wet from the recent rain, looked to be quite treacherous. Rebecca paused, uncertain if she wanted to descend. Stepping forward, Lord Grissholm offered his arm, which she timidly took, and escorted her safely to the bottom. Turning to render the same service for Elizabeth, he found she had already started down and was nearly half way to the bottom when he reached her.
“Miss Bennet, allow me to assist you.”
“No, thank you, my lord. I can manage on my own,” she replied coolly just as her foot slipped out from under her, throwing her off balance. Instinctively, she reached out to grab his extended arm.
“Pride goeth before the fall, Miss Bennet,” he chided gently. “I happen to know this particular stretch can be very hazardous after a heavy rain. It would defeat the purpose of the exercise if you were to take a fall, would it not?”
Elizabeth caught her breath but said nothing as his hand came down over hers and secured it tightly to his arm for the duration of their descent. As they reached the bottom of the hill, Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to reclaim her hand.
“I believe I can manage now,” she said lightly. “I should catch up to Miss Ballard.”
Grissholm smiled pleasantly, but did not release her. “Please allow me to take you as far as the bench. It is still rather wet here and I would not want my efforts to be in vain.”
“I wonder that you do not take as much care of your ward, Lord Grissholm.”
“I would have most happily had she remained where I left her, but as you see, she has scampered ahead, heedless of the danger.”
Grissholm steered her forward in spite of her obvious reluctance. Their encounter in the east wing had been sudden and awkward for them both, but now that the initial contact had been made, it was time to move forward with his plans. She would have to become accustomed to a certain degree of intimacy if he was to have any success, and Rebecca's suggestion for a walk had been an excellent opportunity.
During the past few weeks, he had found many opportunities to close the distance she tried to keep between them. A brush in the library as he reached around her to retrieve a book from the shelf; the nearness caused by his leaning in to examine a particular passage as she sat at the piano forte; all were calculated to unbalance her. They had not affected him in the least; but actually touching her again was another matter. Just move slowly and stick to the plan, he reminded himself as he felt the warmth of her hand beneath his own. Resolutely, he held on to her until they reached the small, stone bench that sat in a spo
t offering the best prospect of the pond.
“Here we are then!” Elizabeth declared a little too lively as she finally pulled her hand free and stepped away. For a moment, it was clear the close proximity had flustered her. In the next breath, however, she rallied herself and called after Rebecca. “It is lovely this morning, I must admit. And it presents a very pretty picture, does it not, Miss Ballard?”
“One of my very favorite places, Miss Bennet. I spent many happy hours here with Mrs. Holiby.”
“It looks very old. Has it been here a long time?”
“That I cannot say. I only know it has been here as long as I can remember.”
“It was here when I was a boy,” Grissholm informed them. “It has been a part of Everton for four generations now. My grandfather's father had it made as a gift to his first wife.”
“Oh, look!” Rebecca cried, pointing to the far side of the pond “there are violets. Imagine that! Did you know they represent faithfulness and affection? I read it just last week in La Belle.”
“You put too much stock in your London magazines, my dear,” Elizabeth smiled.
“All the same, I should like to get a better look. Will you come?”
“Thank you, no; but do be careful. The banks are still wet and I would not want you to fall in,” Elizabeth cautioned.
“Very well, but you will be sorry you missed it,” declared Rebecca with a knowing grin.
“I shall have to live with my misery, then,” Elizabeth retorted as the girl scurried away. She followed Rebecca's progress around the small pond to a striking display of deep purple violets tinged with brilliant yellow and set against the soft green grass. “Is it not unusual, my lord, to find violets so late in the summer?” she asked with a slight frown.
“Not at all, Miss Bennet. Our climate here in the north allows for a much longer season. My great-grandmother was very fond of violets and they were planted for her benefit. The original design died out long ago, but there is an occasional showing of wild violets, particularly if the summer is very rainy.”
“A bit of paradox, is it not? Wild violets and faithfulness – that is, if La Belle Assemblée can be believed.”
“Flowers and someone's notion of their meaning are of little interest to me,” replied Grissholm flatly.
“Miss Bennet,” Rebecca cried excitedly, “here is the stony shelf, just like in the painting!”.
“So it is!” Elizabeth called back before turning to Lord Grissholm in surprise. “The picture in the east wing was painted here?”
“Yes, I believe it was.”
“I never would have guessed. Was it your great-grandmother who painted the picture?”
“No, it was not.”
His unexpectedly dismissive manner brought a blush to Elizabeth's cheeks, provoking her to respond in kind.
“I beg your pardon if I have said anything amiss.”
For a few minutes, the two watched in awkward silence as Rebecca explored the far side of the pond. Taking a deep breath, Grissholm came to a decision.
“It is I who must beg your pardon for my rudeness, Miss Bennet. You could not know what discomfort the subject brings.”
“Whatever the disappointment, it must have been very great if it is the cause of so much pain even after three generations. I wonder that you would keep the painting on your wall.”
“And I wonder that you would express your opinion so frankly.”
“You are right. I should not have said that.”
Digging at the gravel with his walking stick, he waiting a long time before speaking. “Again, I apologize. I do not speak of it easily. It was not my great-grandmother that painted the picture. It was someone else – a woman, I knew a long time ago.”
“I see,” was all Elizabeth could say in response to the obvious ache in his voice.
“Well,” Grissholm said, banishing all signs of emotion. “The clouds are gathering once again. We should get back.”
The trio reached the steps of Everton just as the rain began in earnest. Lord Grissholm went directly to his study without saying another word. Elizabeth and Rebecca made their way to the library for another painting lesson. Rebecca was excited to recreate a landscape from the pond. Elizabeth sat with brush in hand, staring at a blank paper as she wondered about the woman Lord Grissholm had spoken of and the anguish her memory had elicited from the normally dispassionate viscount.
* * * *
Looking in the mirror with a critical eye, Elizabeth made one final adjustment to the rose-colored lace trimming the sleeves of her gown and tucked an errant curl back into the weave of the matching ribbon. Deciding she had done all she could to look presentable, she made her way downstairs. The dinner bell would ring shortly, but there was time enough for the brief detour she had in mind. Since Lord Grissholm's revelation at the pond several days ago, she could not stop thinking about the watercolors and the woman who painted them.
Her pale pink slippers made no sound on the carpet as she crossed the sitting room and stared at the brilliant washes of color hanging in precise formation. There were six paintings in all, each capturing a still-life of Everton's beauty as seen through the eyes of a hauntingly enigmatic woman. Lord Grissholm's reluctant explanation of the paintings' origin had only served to increase Elizabeth's curiosity. A closer examination of her favorite piece, the wild violets, revealed the initials “CM” woven into the curl of leaves and stems.
Elizabeth stood for some minutes lost in speculation as to what kind of woman “CM” had been when footsteps in the hallway alerted her to the approach of someone. The steady, measured steps told her it was Lord Grissholm. Quickly Elizabeth crossed the room and was nearly to the door when it opened abruptly. Once again, she caught a fleeting glimpse of his deep sadness before the mask of indifference descended.
“Lord Grissholm, I was just leaving,” she murmured.
“Miss Bennet! Please stay. I should like to speak to you.”
Taken aback by the surprisingly gentle tone of his request – for it was definitely a request rather than an order – she followed him back into the room. When he motioned for her to sit in the chair she had already surmised to be his favorite, her wonder grew. He paced in front of the paintings seemingly unaware of the effect his behavior was having on her. Every minute that passed in silence heightened her curiosity until she thought she would burst. It was obvious he was deciding what he wanted to say and took several turns before he finally came to a stop in front of her.
“The woman who painted these pictures was Catherine Monroe. Rebecca is her sister.”
Elizabeth was stunned. “I do not understand. Rebecca's name is Ballard.”
“When she became my ward, she was given her mother's maiden name.”
“May I ask how she came to be your ward?”
“There was a fire when Rebecca was seven. Three houses were destroyed, including that of her family. She was the only survivor.”
“But why change her name?”
“That I will not go into,” he replied grimly. “Suffice it to say that it was necessary. I had a particular interest in Rebecca's elder sister who was ten years her senior. Miss Monroe visited Everton one summer and that is when the paintings were made.”
“I see. And the fire?”
“It occurred later that same year. Miss Monroe was away from home at the time. Her parents died in the inferno but the neighbors managed to save Rebecca. There were no relations to take her in; so I offered, thinking that I would reunite her with her sister, only to find several months later that Miss Monroe had fallen ill and died as well. By that time, it was too late to do anything with Rebecca but keep her.”
“Miss Ballard is very fortunate to have you.”
“It was a foolish thing to do. A single man has no business raising a female. It has been difficult, I assure you; especially since she has grown to look so much like her sister. She is a painful reminder of what I have lost.”
“She does not deserve to be shunned fo
r bearing her sister's likeness. She cannot help what she is.”
“You have been very adept at pointing that out, Miss Bennet. I am endeavoring to correct my past mistakes. I hope that you will continue to be a friend to her as I come to terms with the circumstance and move to make amends.”
“I shall do my best, your lordship.”
“Good. Shall we go to dinner now?”
Elizabeth took the offered arm and accompanied him to the dining room where Rebecca was already waiting. The surprised look on the girl's face did nothing to alleviate the swirl of emotions Elizabeth felt. Taking her seat, she struggled to understand Lord Grissholm's candid revelation and surprising amiability. It did not seem possible that this was the same arrogant, pretentious man she had encountered when first coming to Everton Manor two months ago.
Chapter 15
Placing the ribbon to mark her place in Hegel's Aesthetics: Lectures on the Fine Arts, Elizabeth stretched her shoulders and neck, trying to ease the stiffness from an hour's worth of attentive reading. A casual glance through the open door to Everton's main hallway gave way to a more interested gaze as she watched Newcomb, Lord Grissholm's butler, examine the stack of letters waiting to be posted. Seeming to find one of particular interest, he removed it and returned the remaining letters to the silver tray. With amazement, she realized the one he had retained was the very letter she had deposited in the tray earlier that morning.
Elizabeth's astonishment grew as she watched the butler turn and walk away, taking the letter with him. She was incredulous. What was he doing? Jumping to her feet, she muttered a hasty excuse in Rebecca's direction and hurried out the door, intent on discovering what Newcomb was about.
Is THIS why I have had no letters from home? And to think I blamed Father's lamentable procrastination for the scarcity when all the while it has been MY letters that have not been received! He must be worried sick by now. Her astonishment warmed to indignation. Why has Mr. Newcomb been helping himself to my letters? What could he possibly want with them?