“All right.” Mary set her book aside and stood, smoothing her skirts. “I will just get my bonnet and my cloak.”
“Yes, do wrap up warm, Mary, for it promises to be quite chilly. I shall go and tell Mama that you are coming, and then go and ask Hill for some extra blankets to put in the coach, and perhaps a hot brick or two.”
They were off within the half-hour, Lydia’s noisy sobs still echoing in their ears as the carriage rolled away along the drive. Mrs Bennet sniffled a little into her handkerchief, muttering “My poor dear girl!” while casting annoyed looks at Mary and Elizabeth, which they wisely ignored, conversing quietly with each other.
Very soon, though, the prospect of the shopping which lay ahead brought Mrs Bennet out of her sulks, and she began to expound upon the purchases she hoped to make in Hatfield. Mary promptly began to chide her for her plans, stating that such extravagances were self-indulgent and un-Christian. Mrs Bennet’s tone grew shrill in response and Elizabeth turned away from both of them, gazing out of the window at the wintry landscape passing them by, letting the argument wash over her without truly hearing it.
In the distance, she spied riders crossing a field; at first sight of their red coats she thought it must be a hunt, but no, she would have heard of a hunt in the area today. It was some officers of the militia; she leaned forward a little, wondering if Mr Wickham was among them.
They were, she realised, on lands belonging to Netherfield. Perhaps Mr Bingley had given them permission to ride, and even to shoot and hunt there, before he departed.
As always when she thought of Mr Bingley and his departure, a feeling of immense rage rose up in Elizabeth’s breast. She would never forgive his callous treatment of Jane, the way he had so casually toyed with her affections and then abandoned her to the derision of their neighbours. Perhaps it was a good thing that Jane had chosen to keep to Longbourn of late; not for the world would Elizabeth have Jane hear the unkind words that had been said about her by others. Of all people in the world, Elizabeth thought, Jane was the one who least deserved such cruelty, she who was never anything but unfailingly kind and good.
Elizabeth clenched her teeth. If she were a man, she thought, she would already have ridden to London, hunted down Mr Bingley and punched him in the face for his ungentlemanlike behaviour. As it was, she could do nothing, only fume in silence and try futilely to comfort Jane in her heartbreak.
“Lizzy!” her mother’s voice called her from her reverie, and she heaved a small sigh and pasted a smile on her face, doing her best to feign happy anticipation. It was not entirely feigned, in truth. She did like to shop, and it had been quite some time since last they visited any shops other than the local ones of Meryton.
Hatfield was some eight miles from Longbourn; on good roads the trip should take no more than an hour or so, but the weather had been wet of late, today’s clear skies a welcome change. The muddy road made heavy going for the horses and it was a full hour and a half after their departure when John drew the horses to a halt in the inn yard.
“We’ll need to leave by two o’clock to be back at Longbourn by nightfall, Mrs Bennet, particularly if it comes on to rain,” John warned as he handed her down.
“That is not nearly enough time!” Mrs Bennet half-wailed, looking up at the clock above the inn yard. “How shall we ever get everything done? I had planned to have luncheon here…”
“No time for that, Mama,” Elizabeth said practically. “Come, it will be best if we split up. Mary and I will go to the bookshop first, to see about Papa’s purchases; you should go to the grocer for your spices, they are the most important thing, after all. Take William with you to carry your packages back to the coach, and we will meet you in the milliner’s after that. I am sure John can bespeak the innkeep for some food we can eat in the carriage on our way back?”
“Aye, Miss Elizabeth,” John agreed with a grateful smile for her common-sense management of her mother. He gestured William, the groom, to accompany Mrs Bennet: she acquiesced to Elizabeth’s plan with plenty of admonitions to her daughters not to speak to strangers. Elizabeth barely managed to wait until her mother’s back was turned before rolling her eyes.
“Does she think us simpletons?” she hissed under her breath to Mary, her frustration making her incautious.
“This is not Meryton, where everyone knows us,” Mary intoned seriously. “It behooves us to listen to Mama’s counsel in this, Elizabeth.”
“Do you really think I am going to strike up conversations with people I do not know, beyond speaking to shopkeepers?” Elizabeth said crossly. “I am not Lydia, willing to flirt with any strange man who might cross her path so long as he wears a red coat!” She strode forward briskly, causing Mary to have to hurry to keep up with her or be left behind.
CHAPTER THREE
The bookstore was only a few steps along the High Street; Elizabeth entered briskly, scraping her shoes on the mat by the door and smiling at the elderly man behind the counter.
“Good day, Mr Donahue.”
“Miss… Bennet, is it not?” The man peered at her over his glasses. “How are you today, ma’am? And your father, he is well, I hope?”
“He is, and he has provided me with a list of books that he hopes you might have in stock or be able to source for him,” Elizabeth took the piece of paper her father had pressed on her before they left Longbourn from her reticule. “It is quite a lengthy list, I am afraid.”
Mr Donahue laughed, accepting the paper. “I should expect nothing less, my dear. Do you have other errands in town you must run?” He looked at Mary, who had entered behind Elizabeth and was scraping the mud off her shoes too. “Another of your sisters?”
“Yes, sir, and while we must meet our mother shortly, I should dearly love to browse your shelves for a little while, if we may?”
“Of course,” he twinkled at her. “I shall make a start on this list. Please, take all the time you wish. If you would like me to reach down any books from the higher shelves, just ask.”
Elizabeth thanked him politely and turned to the neatly shelved books, fingering her purse in her reticule. Books were expensive, but her Christmas shopping was already done, and with Jane’s kind offer to buy the small extra gifts she had thought of for the others, she might be able to afford a Bork for herself, or even two if she was very lucky. She began to examine the shelves, sighing over the fact that far too many novels seemed to be printed in a great many volumes. Her father’s library contained all the reference books and works of great literature she might want, but she and Jane had found in the last few years that they also greatly enjoyed the tales to be found within novels published by the Minerva Press.
“Novels,” Mary sniffed disparagingly, passing by Elizabeth and going directly to the books of sermons on another shelf.
“Sermons,” Elizabeth retorted in precise mimicry of Mary’s tone; she was in no mood for Mary’s judgemental attitude today. Mary fell silent and Elizabeth nodded to herself and plucked a book from the shelf to examine. She had read one or two of Elizabeth Meeke’s works previously and enjoyed them; a glance at the price written on a label tucked into the book made her wince and return it to the shelf, though. Perhaps something by a lesser-known novelist would be cheaper.
Another title caught her eye; though she could not remember ever having read anything by the author previously, she picked it up, wondering why it seemed familiar. It took her a few moments to recall that it was the exact same book that Mr Darcy had been reading that evening at Netherfield when Miss Bingley had so assiduously sought to impress him with her accomplishments.
That evening, Elizabeth had mentally dismissed the book as being something Mr Darcy was reading, which was to say, nothing she would enjoy, considering what a disagreeable gentleman he had proved to be. With the Spanish-sounding name of Santo Sebastiano, she had assumed it to be not even in English! Yet here was that very book, on a shelf of Minerva Press novels! Surely Mr Darcy, of all people, did not have a passion for Goth
ic romances? Curious, she opened the book, noted in passing the very reasonable price on the label, and turned to the beginning of the first chapter.
“Miss Cuthbertson’s newest novel,” Mr Donahue observed, passing behind her on his way to collect a book Mr Bennet had requested from a shelf at the rear of the shop. “Five volumes, and selling very well.”
“It is not her first work?”
“There is one other, Romance Of The Pyrenees, but I do not have it in stock at the moment.” The bookseller smiled at her. “My wife told me that she very much enjoyed both, though I understand Miss Cuthbertson’s heroines are rather given to fainting spells.”
Elizabeth chuckled at that. “It does seem to be a common affliction among the heroines of Minerva Press novels,” she conceded. “Why, if all ladies fainted at similar rates, one should expect us all to be dropping by the wayside every few minutes!”
“Just one reason why those novels are such pointless drivel,” Mary muttered from nearby. Elizabeth shot her a fulminating glare, and turned back to the shelf to collect the remaining volumes of Santo Sebastiano.
“I believe I shall take these, Mr Donahue.”
“An excellent choice, Miss Bennet.” He took the books from her hands, ignoring Mary’s outraged mutters behind them. “I shall wrap them for you.”
“Have you found anything you want, Mary? No?” Elizabeth said pointedly. “I shall just be over here looking at some volumes of poetry, then.”
Mary harrumphed to herself, but moved on from the books of sermons to the folders of sheet music. A short time later, Mr Donahue called to them that he had packaged up all the books he had available for Mr Bennet.
“Thank you, sir. You can send the bill to my father for these, I trust?” Elizabeth asked.
“Of course. And your novel…?”
Opening her reticule, she took out her purse and counted out the correct coins. Mary placed a few music sheets on the counter and paid her shillings for those too.
“May we send our man to collect that shortly?” Elizabeth eyed the large package of books for her father. It looked exceedingly heavy, and she had no wish to struggle with it. Mr Donahue was perfectly amenable to the suggestion, and she decided to leave her parcel there as well for William to carry, though Mary clutched her precious music sheets to her. Bidding their farewells to the elderly bookseller, they proceeded to the milliner’s shop, finding that Mrs Bennet had preceded them and was already accumulating quite a pile of fripperies she absolutely could not do without.
Mary promptly began to remonstrate with Mrs Bennet; shaking her head as the voices of her mother and sister became shrill, Elizabeth turned to William, waiting just beside the door of the shop.
“There are two parcels at the bookseller for us, William; would you collect them and take them back to the carriage, please?”
“Of course, Miss Elizabeth,” he tipped his cap to her and left, no doubt grateful to escape the shop full of feminine frills and trinkets. Elizabeth half-wished she might go with him, but with a sigh, she turned back and moved forward to separate Mary and Mrs Bennet, distracting Mary with a suggestion that she really should consider some new gloves since her best ones were looking a little threadbare and would not be fit to be seen in church.
Horrified at the mere suggestion that she might appear disrespectful to the Lord’s house, Mary hurried away to look at some gloves laid out on a nearby table, leaving Elizabet to soothe Mrs Bennet’s ruffled feathers.
By the time they departed the milliner — sending William back to the carriage with yet more packages — Elizabeth felt quite frazzled, her temper fraying, and grateful that their shopping trip must by necessity soon draw to an end. Mrs Bennet was desirous of looking in every shop, though, dithering over purchases which should have been quickly made until Elizabeth thought she might scream. Only being able to choose small gifts for the rest of her family, and even a new apron for Hill, kept her from quite losing her temper.
“Oh,” Mrs Bennet trilled as they left the silversmith, the last shop on the street, and turned back towards the inn, “it looks as though it may come on to rain, Lizzy, we had best hurry back!”
Elizabeth gritted her teeth and refrained from snapping she had pointed that out herself two shops ago. She was sure it was well after two by now. Setting a quick pace back towards the inn, she left Mrs Bennet and Mary to trail in her wake.
She had to pause before entering the inn yard as a great rumble and thunder of hooves announced the arrival of the post-carriage; it rolled into the inn yard ahead of her and drew to a halt, the driver shouting for fresh horses, just as the clouds opened and the rain began to pour down.
Safely beneath the inn’s wide eaves, Elizabeth watched with interest as the post’s six sweating horses were unharnessed and led away; their own carriage could not possibly leave until the post was on its way again anyway. There were three passengers inside the coach, she could see as the door opened, an older couple, and a young lady who she assumed to be travelling with them until the driver helped the young lady down and closed the door again.
“Excuse me,” the young lady called after the driver, but he had already hurried away to see to his horses. The young lady drew herself up in outrage before seeming to notice that she was getting drenched and scurrying for the safety of the eaves near Elizabeth.
“Oh my,” Mrs Bennet, safely sheltered from the rain by the large umbrella the faithful William was holding over her and Mary’s heads, arrived at Elizabeth’s side. “Only look at her clothes!”
Elizabeth was looking; she honestly thought that she had never seen a lady dressed in clothing so fine, not even Caroline Bingley, for all her airs. And yet the young lady who looked as though she had just stepped from a fashion plate was travelling by post, and apparently unaccompanied? That made not the slightest bit of sense; it was a conundrum. Curious, Elizabeth watched closely as the young lady approached the landlord, just coming to the inn door to greet her.
“Good day, sir,” the lady’s cultured tones were clearly audible. “I require a hackney carriage to take me to the village called Meryton, if you please.”
“A hackney?” the landlord’s disbelief was quite evident. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady, but this b’ain’t Lunnon. Too late to leave for Meryton today, any road; I might be able to find a farmer goin’ thataway in the mornin’.”
“But… I need to get to Meryton today,” the lady said, and she suddenly sounded very young and very desperate. “I must.”
Elizabeth took an instinctive step forward, but Mrs Bennet was already moving.
“Excuse me, miss, but I couldn’t help but overhear that you need to get to Meryton?”
The lady turned, looked Mrs Bennet up and down, taking in her appearance, the fact that she was obviously gentry from the quality of her clothing. A shy smile appeared on a pretty face framed by thick golden girls. “Indeed, I do; I am to meet my fiancé there.”
“I am Mrs Bennet of Longbourn Estate; we are just about to depart for our home. Meryton is on our road. Could I perchance persuade you to accept a ride with my daughters and I?”
Wide blue eyes took in Elizabeth and Mary before the smile widened. “Mrs Bennet, you are an angel sent from heaven, I am quite sure. I should be delighted to accept your offer.”
The post-coach was departing again with a great clatter and neighing of horses; no sooner was it out of the yard then John was bringing their carriage up and chivvying them inside, all frowns because it was nearly half past two now. Mrs Bennet waved him away, far more intent upon their intriguing guest.
“Your cloak is quite soaked through, my dear, do take it off and wrap this blanket around you,” she insisted once they were inside the carriage and moving off at a brisk trot. “Lizzy, take her cloak…”
There wasn’t a lot that Elizabeth could do for the wet garment in the carriage’s close confines; she managed to catch it on the curtain-rail over one of the windows. It might not dry there, but at least the fine fabric did
not have to be on the floor.
“Your pardon,” she said politely, settling back into her seat beside the stranger, “but we did not complete introductions in the rush. I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and my sister opposite you is Miss Mary Bennet.”
“I am Miss Darcy, Georgiana Darcy,” their guest said with a bright smile, wrapping the proffered blanket around her. “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mary had already opened the book of sermons she brought with her and buried her nose in it, but even she looked up in startlement at the announcement of Miss Darcy’s identity. Mrs Bennet and Elizabeth positively gaped, astonished.
Mrs Bennet did not allow her surprise to silence her, however; she immediately leaned forward and said;
“The Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire? Sister to Mister Darcy?”
Georgiana stiffened; Elizabeth observed that she paled a little, her fingers tightening on the edges of the blanket she clutched around her. “Why, yes,” she said after a brief pause. “Are you acquainted with my brother, then?”
“Acquainted; why of course!” Mrs Bennet puffed herself up. “Your brother was a house guest of our neighbour Mr Bingley, this autumn past at Netherfield. We met on any number of occasions, but Elizabeth is better acquainted with him than I. They danced together several times!”
“Once,” Elizabeth said quellingly. Georgiana’s blue eyes had fixed upon her face, wide with an emotion Elizabeth suspected might be fright, though she could not fathom why Georgiana should be afraid to meet someone acquainted with her brother. “In truth, I know far more of you from your friend Miss Bingley; many times she spoke of your accomplishments and her great admiration for them.”
Georgiana’s brow furrowed. Elizabeth had the distinct impression that she was struggling to remember who Miss Bingley might be. “How kind,” she murmured distantly.
A Christmas Miracle At Longbourn (The Darcy And Lizzy Miracles Book 1) Page 2