Chapter Four Fitzwilliam Darcy strongly believed that anything said aloud could be expressed as well, or better, on paper. This occasion, he decided, proved the inevitable exception. Colonel Fitzwilliam, his cousin, friend, and confidant, gaped at him. “Naturally,” Darcy said, “I felt that you must be informed, so I told Bingley that urgent family business called me to London, but that I would return in time for this - ” he gestured incomprehensibly - “this thing he wishes to subject me to.” “A ball?” hazarded Fitzwilliam. “Unfortunately, yes.” The colonel paused, then said, “You are quite certain?” “Quite,” Darcy replied. “When I explained to Jane that we played together, as children, she immediately recalled falling down the steps of the folly, and when I told her about Edward, she told me about the day that I convinced everyone to throw acorns at his head. Do you remember that?” “How could I forget?” said Fitzwilliam. “You and Jenny sat in that tree, chortling like lunatics, while my brother looked as if he might very well kill us all. I didn’t sleep for a week.” Darcy only laughed, his eyes alight with mischief. “You need not have worried. Miss Adams’ screams could have raised the dead.” “Do try and keep from pulling your sister’s hair,” the colonel said, then sobered. “If you are so certain of their identities, why do you wish to keep it secret? The others would gladly welcome them back - think of my father, of Georgiana - ” His cousin considered the fire. “I am thinking,” said he, “of Jane and Elizabeth. Despite Mr Bennet’s . . . failings, he has been a very affectionate father to them, especially to the latter, and he is dying. His estate is entailed upon a cousin whose idiocy and obsequious egotism defy the power of words to describe.” Darcy, remembering Mr Collins’ raptures, suppressed an uncharitable smile. “To take them away now would be an insupportable cruelty, and I will not stand for it.” “Very well,” said Fitzwilliam grudgingly. “Shall I join you in Hertfordshire once the legal business is done? Mr Bingley - ” “- considers guests little short of manna from heaven. Is James still tending his flock in Yorkshire?” “My father brought him with us - kicking and screaming, I might add. Darcy - of all the people concerned, he - ” “He must be told, yes. I shall perform that task myself.” Darcy rose, and suppressed a yawn. “I will expect you both by the fifth of December. I doubt Mr Bennet can live much longer.” Fitzwilliam’s lip curled. “Forgive me if I do not put on sackcloth and ashes.” ***** Jane Bennet was afraid. She had not been afraid as a child of four - she could not remember feeling so, at any rate - and she had not been afraid as a girl of ten, when her grandmother kindly and patiently explained that, of course, she and Elizabeth were not really Bennets. She had not even been afraid at her first ball, nervous and shy and barely fifteen. Until now, she had always known the best and happiest things to believe, to think, to do. So she was not afraid. Until now. Now, she knew not what to think about herself, her parents, her sister. She had not been rescued, but stolen; the mother who sang her to sleep was not Mrs Bennet; Lizzy did not think they were sisters at all. Even Mr Darcy was not merely a half-familiar acquaintance, but the man who made her remember. Every day, now, seemed filled with sight and smells and sounds that brought fragments of that other time, that other family - that other Jane - back to her. She had only to close her eyes, and memories exploded behind her lids. She did not blame him, of course. He could not help remembering any more than she could. - She did not even regret it, not wholly. How could she? Contented tranquillity pervaded each new recollection, keeping her hands steady and her manner serene. “Jane! Jane, Kitty stole my dancing slippers!” Jane sniffled into her favourite blanket, and said plaintively, “Tell me a story?” “Una volta c’era un rè,” said Fitzwilliam, grinning down at her. Jane giggled. “A real story, with kings and princesses. English kings and princesses.” “Well,” he said, drawing the word out, “I might, maybe, perhaps know a story about a king and a princess - and a very nice farmer too - but they weren’t from England. Shall I tell you that one?” “Are there monsters?” He wrinkled his nose. “Only human ones. You see, once upon a time, a king lived on the moon. Its seas were filled with water then, and everybody always had enough to eat and drink, and all the jewels they wanted. So, the Moon-people loved their king very much.” “What about the princess?” “Everybody loved her, too - except the king’s second wife. She was cruel and vicious and horrible, and hated the whole world, but her daughter-in-law most of all. So she found a sorcerer as wicked and bad-tempered as she was, and they came up with a plan.” Jane shivered. “I think they count as monsters,” she said. “They were just bad people,” said he. “Well, the sorcerer cursed the princess’ dancing slippers. Whatever person wore them would never stop dancing.” His tone made it clear that he could think of no worse fate. “Oh - I hope - she didn’t wear them.” “Perhaps she did, and perhaps she didn’t,” he told her. “I do not kno - that is, I shall tell you the rest tomorrow, when you are not so tired.” “I am not - ” she swallowed a traitorous yawn - “tired. I want to know what happens!” Fitzwilliam only laughed, pulling her pale untidy hair, and said cheerfully,“Goodnight, Jane!” This memory, unlike the others, gave her no peace. She recognised Fitzwilliam as she had not her singing mother and laughing father - oh, she could not picture his face, but she knew him. She knew that he had coddled and protected and fussed over her, that there had been dozens of stories (and dozens of tugs on her plait, too). She knew that once, she had not been responsible for anything more than pets and dolls, let alone an entire family; Fitzwilliam had seen to it that even her cares, small as they were, always fell on other shoulders. “Kitty, why can you not use your own?” Catherine shot a petulant glare at her sister. “I could, if Lydia had not taken my gown. It does not even fit her.” “It does! Besides, green is much more flattering to my complexion.” “It makes you look consumptive,” said Kitty. For the first time in eighteen years, Jane thought, I miss my brother. She had coiled her hair on the back of her head before she realised that Lydia and Catherine were staring at her. “I think you ate too much pudding last night,” Lydia declared. Elizabeth’s light step in the doorway was a decided relief, as was the briskness with which she managed the youngest Miss Bennets. “Kitty, your feet are at least an inch shorter than Lydia’s. Do you really wish to spend the entire night tripping over her slippers? - and Lydia, how many times have I explained that Kitty’s gowns were made to flatter her figure, not yours?” “Too many,” said Lydia sulkily, and flounced out, Kitty stumbling behind. Jane turned towards her sister. “Are you ready, Lizzy?” “I do not suppose that is possible,” said Elizabeth, with something like her usual insouciance; then her expression softened. “How are you, Jane? You look very pale.” Afraid. Jane said, “Rather nervous, I confess.” She caught a glimpse of their shared reflection, the similarities between her even features and Elizabeth’s harder, bolder ones as pronounced as always. Two pairs of dark eyes met in the mirror; two mouths curved into the same smile. The resemblance was not, perhaps, overpowering - but they had always been alike. Impossible, she thought, that they could be anything other than sisters. “There must be some connection, however distant,” Elizabeth said quietly, and held out her hand. Two topaz crosses dangled from her fingers. “Papa told me that we were already wearing them when - when they found us. He had them mended not long ago.” “How kind of him.” Elizabeth’s lips quirked. “Indeed. Will you help me with the clasp?” “Certainly.” She rose - clasped the chain - hesitated. “Lizzy, I know we are sisters.” “Of course we are,” said Elizabeth, fastening the other cross about Jane’s neck. “Now, I think it is time to leave.” Jane did not speak. She only nodded, and followed her sister downstairs. They arrived at Netherfield in due time, the entire party full of barely suppressed excitement. Kitty and Lydia had exchanged their respective articles of clothing - and appeared to much greater advantage for having doing so - Mrs Bennet fluttered about Jane, and Elizabeth reluctantly accompanied Mr Collins in the first dance. Afterwards, she fled to Jane’s side, just in time to see Bingley and Darcy approaching them. “Jane,” she whispered, “if Mr Darcy asks you, remember to accept. I believe him very much attached to you, in his way - I think he will ask.” Jane shuddered. “Lizzy, it would be too dreadful for words.” “My dearest Jane, I meant a dance, not a proposal of marriage. I know you would never give your hand without your heart.” “I did not think you meant that,” said Jane, the ashen pallor of her face visible even in the dim glow of candles and moonlight. “It is only - Lizzy, you must be mistaken. Oh, no, no, no. He could not love me, he does not. It would be too distressing, too disgraceful. He looks so very much like you.” Elizabeth made a strangled sound. “He reminds me of you every time I look at him.” Jane paused, then added with an expression of superhuman fortitude, “I shall dance with him, if I must, but Lizzy, I cannot bear the idea of anything more.” “Of course not,” said Elizabeth weakly. The matter proved academic; Darcy, despite the stately warmth with which he had initially greeted Elizabeth, some twenty minutes before, remained at his most inscrutable until Jane accepted Bingley’s request to join him in the next set. Then he smiled with a trace of disquiet that Elizabeth - anxiously searching for herself in his face - entirely missed. “Miss . . . Bennet,” he said, passing over the name with almost palpable distaste, “would you do me the honour of accepting my hand - for the, er, boulanger?” “Certainly,” said Elizabeth, then stared at his retreating back. By the time the dance began, she could hardly contain herself. Finally, she thought, finally she would know. She was absolutely persuaded that he had been the one to discover the truth, in its entirely, that he had precipitated everything which occurred thereafter. What had he discovered? Elizabeth lifted her chin and said, “Mr Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. A few days ago, my father told Jane and me of how we came to be brought up at Longbourn, but his health has prevented any further revelations.” She felt, rather than saw, the alarm which etched itself across his face. “I realise that Jane must have been on very intimate terms with the Houghton family, that she may not have been orphaned at all.” A separation in the dance gave her a moment to compose herself; then she continued, “I know I was, but we may not be children of the same parents; there is no unequivocal reason to suppose so. Mr Bennet told us that when we first came away, Jane wanted her mother. I asked for a cat. I know nothing more of myself, and precious little of her - but you do. You must; you recognised her after eighteen years.” “Yes,” he said, after a pause fraught with agitation - she could feel that his hands trembled as much as hers. “I did recognise her. Once I discovered that you had not died - ” “Died!” cried Elizabeth, so incredulous as to hardly notice the stares they received from the entire room. Something flashed in his eyes - something, she thought uneasily, very like hatred. “Yes,” he said quietly, “we always believed you had died that day. Most of your gown was found floating in the pond. Once I realised that you had not been murdered after all, I recognised you, as well. I knew you both and I remember you both.” She felt her pulse fluttering in her fingertips, thundering in her chest, and managed a thin, thready sort of gasp. “Who am I?” He bent his head to look directly at her, his face as pale and drawn as her own, and said, “Your name is Elizabeth Fitzwilliam. You are the only daughter of James Fitzwilliam, younger brother to the present Lord Ancaster and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” “Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Collins prattling at Charlotte, and just managed not to burst into wild laughter. “Lady Catherine is my aunt?” “Yes.” My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh - she had heard those words before, not long ago - and another revelation pierced her mind. Great God in heaven. “Your mother,” said Elizabeth, “was Lady Catherine’s and Lord Ancaster’s sister?” “Yes,” he replied. “If you mean to ask whether she was also your father’s sister, the answer is - ” he looked at her with an expression of mingled amusement and affection - “yes, she was. I am your father’s nephew and you are my mother’s niece.” “How . . .” Elizabeth struggled for an appropriate word - “extraordinary.” Darcy smiled. “I certainly found it so myself.” “What of Jane, sir? What is she to you, that . . . who is she?” “She was not merely on intimate terms with our family, she was a member of it,” said he, his eyes grave. “For eighteen years, Elizabeth, she has been your sister, but before that, she was mine.” She stared at him in horrified, astounded, relieved silence. Jane, Darcy’s sister? Impossible! It was in every way unaccountable. Already, though, her mind took account of this new intelligence, rushing hither and yon as it brought the disparate pieces together. Had not she, herself, marvelled at the inescapable fact that they recognised one another after eighteen years? Had she not seen the affection with which Darcy regarded Jane - and had not Jane always liked him, without any reason? Only tonight, Elizabeth’s suspicions of some partiality on his side had been received with such an excess of sensibility - of course! Another thought came immediately upon the heels of the first one: supposing this all to be possible, she and Jane were connected almost as nearly as they had always believed. Cousins! She had not dared hope for so much. “I am sorry,” said Elizabeth, breaking out of her reverie. The musicians laid down their instruments, and Darcy - the set of his mouth grim enough to frighten away thieves, murderers, and small children - led her away, towards Jane. “You are the last person in the world I, or anyone, could blame for this,” he replied. Elizabeth caught an unfamiliar note in his voice, something more than the ill-humour she usually attributed to him - something of real misery. “Oh, I take no responsibility for the failings of others,” she said, her mouth twitching, “but I do regret the pain this affair has caused, to so many.” “You are very sensible,” he said, then slowed his steps considerably. “Your - my - Jane must also be told. Shall I relate to her the necessary information, or you?” “Oh, I will tell her,” she said hastily. Jane listened attentively, asking no questions. Then, clasping Elizabeth’s hands, she turned to Darcy and cried, “Why, are you - can it be . . . Fitzwilliam?” His entire face lit up. “Yes, that is my name. I - I did not know you remembered.” “I have remembered any number of things,” Jane said, tears splashing down her cheeks. Then her lips curved into a tremulous smile. “Someday, you must tell me what happened to the Moon-princess.” “The - ? Oh!” Darcy laughed at the memory. “Someday, I shall.” |