Chapter Seven Lord Ancaster and Lady Catherine had declared a truce by the time Elizabeth and her – relations returned to the house. Nobody mentioned any future plans for the rest of the evening. Surprisingly, it was not an unpleasant one. Colonel and Mr Fitzwilliam did much to ease the inevitable discomfort, more through consideration of the young ladies’ feelings, and general eagerness to please, than personal charm – particularly the latter, who lacked his cousin’s air of amiable unconcern. Darcy, despite his cooler manners, was almost as agreeable, and Lord Milton restrained himself to something like civility. Over dinner, while everybody made determined conversation, Elizabeth glanced from Mr Fitzwilliam, to Lord Milton, to Darcy, to Lord Ancaster, and back again. Nobody would mistake any of them for each other, of course, but still, the resemblance was unmistakable. With the same tall figures and pale, angular faces, the same black hair and dark blue eyes, they all – They all looked like her! – much more than Jane did, though a year ago she had been the only person Elizabeth bore the slightest resemblance to. Jane herself had said that Darcy, of all people, reminded her so much of Elizabeth that she could hardly bear to dance with him. That was mainly colouring – shared, it seemed, with almost every Fitzwilliam in existence – and perhaps some confusion of her sororal feelings for both, but still, it was there. She could see that now. Her eyes returned to Mr Fitzwilliam, who had her nose along with the eyes and hair. My brother, she thought, and felt nothing. He glanced up, meeting her embarrassed gaze across the table, and offered a gentle, hesitant smile. His entire bearing spoke of good will towards humanity in general and Elizabeth in particular. The nothing mingled uncomfortably with pity and admiration. Thankfully, he returned almost immediately to his conversation with their uncle. She decided that she would at least try to use his Christian name henceforth. The young ladies retired well before the others – “it is the least we can do,” said Elizabeth wryly. Her sister-cousin slept well; she did not, tossing and turning for most of the night and rising early. Nevertheless, everybody except Jane and, predictably, Lord Milton, were already awake. It was a small comfort to see that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Darcy, with heavy lids and dark shadows under their eyes, looked as tired as she felt. “Good morning, Elizabeth,” said Mr Fitzw – James, springing up to offer her a chair. “I hope you fell well?” “Tolerably, thank you.” “I have written to Eleanor,” Lord Ancaster informed his plate. “She and Cecily will be expecting us.” This evidently made sense to the others, who gave absent nods and murmurs of acknowledgement. “Elizabeth,” Darcy said abruptly, “we have been speaking of your – er – future domicile. Lady Catherine has agreed that it may be beneficial for you to acquaint yourself with Houghton before returning to Rosings. I – we – hope that is agreeable to you.” Elizabeth was left with the decided impression that he hoped so for her sake, since she would go where she was sent whether she found it agreeable or not. “Thank you,” she said. “Forgive me, but is Pemberley very far from Houghton? I – I should like to see Jane occasionally, if it is possible.” “No.” Hastily, Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected, “He means that Pemberley and Houghton are quite near together, not that you and Jane cannot meet.” “Naturally,” said Darcy, his expression faintly incredulous, as if any other interpretation of his words – word – were quite impossible. “I imagine that you shall meet quite frequently, since I intend to take Jane home as soon as possible.” Lady Catherine sniffed. “As well you should. My poor sister would have wanted – well! It is only right that Jenny should return to her proper home.” She cast a gimlet eye in her brother’s direction. “You are very gracious, aunt,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Of course I am,” she said crossly. Elizabeth had no idea how the gentlemen had persuaded their aunt to relinquish her claim to her, even for a short time, but was suddenly grateful that they had. Lady Catherine’s foibles and inconsistencies, however diverting at present, would undoubtedly cease to amuse after a few days in her company – let alone years cooped up at Rosings. For a moment, just the idea seemed to stretch intolerably before her. Her father, she thought, must have felt something similar when he realised what sort of creature he had married. She would find a better solution, when it came to that. Elizabeth put the prospect out of her mind and smiled her thanks at Mr Fitzwilliam. Within twenty-four hours, she was standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed for another journey. Lady Catherine had already departed for Rosings some time earlier, sniffing all the while. “Goodbye, Elizabeth,” said Darcy coolly. “Jane, you will undoubtedly wish to bid our cousin farewell – oh, it seems my uncle requires our assistance, James. Come along.” He strode towards the earl (who did appear unsteady on his feet), dragging several cousins in his wake. Elizabeth looked at Jane in some bemusement. They had never been inseparable, exactly; at least not as far as physical proximity was concerned. Sometimes they were near to each other, and sometimes they were not; sometimes they went to Gracechurch Street together, and sometimes Jane stayed at Longbourn. However, they had always known that they would inevitably return to the same house and the same room, where they had lived out their lives together. Most of their lives, she knew now – the bits and pieces of Jenny Darcy, floating about the present Jane’s memory, were real to her, if not Elizabeth, and had nothing to do with their years of sisterhood at Longbourn. “Lizzy,” said Jane, her voice shaking, “you – you must take care. I understand that Yorkshire has very uncivilised winters, and you are so fragile. Do not walk out during rain or snow, and always remember your handkerchief, and – and write to me sometimes. You will write to me?” “Of course I will,” Elizabeth assured her. “I will send letters every day, if you wish, and I am sure Lord Ancaster will frank them. You see? It is settled already.” Jane nodded, then reached out to embrace her tightly. “I shall miss you, Lizzy,” she said, her voice muffled against Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Of course you shall – and I, you,” said Elizabeth, determinedly ignoring the lump in the throat. “You shall keep house for your brother at Pemberley. Remember to tell me all about it, and your neighbours, and – and everything, before we see each other again. It shan’t be long, so you must write to me very faithfully.” “I will.” Jane stepped away, scrubbing at her cheeks, just as Darcy returned to her side. Silently, he offered a handkerchief. “Elizabeth?” called Lord Ancaster. “Elizabeth, are you ready?” “Goodbye, Jane,” Elizabeth said, her voice hoarse, and hurried blindly away. The journey from Ancaster House to Houghton took several days even at the height of summertime; on this occasion, they did not reach Bakewell until late on the fourth of December. By then, Elizabeth almost hated the earl’s fine coach. “One would think,” said Lord Milton wearily, “that we might have planned a slightly more comfortable itinerary after last year.” Lord Ancaster, already half-asleep, restrained himself to an annoyed yawn. “Save your remonstrations for Eleanor,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, laughing. “If she does not orchestrate my father’s every step, she certainly tries, and you know she overlooks such trifling impediments as mountains and winter.” “Who is she?” Elizabeth’s teeth chattered. “I seem to remember – Lord Ancaster said something about writing to – yes, Eleanor and – and Sally?” “Ella and Cecily,” said Mr Fitzwilliam. “Eleanor is Lord Ancaster’s daughter.” Eleanor was clearly made in the same mould as Lady Catherine; nevertheless, Elizabeth asked, “What is she like?” Lord Milton grinned. “Difficult,” he said, almost fondly; which, after a moment’s consideration of the vagaries of his own character, made a certain amount of sense. “And – Cecily? – who is she?” “My uncles’ other daughter,” Colonel Fitzwilliam answered. Elizabeth, who (quite reasonably) had not for one moment considered that another brother or sister might be lurking in the wings, stared. “I have a sister?” she cried. Then – “I do not understand.” “Cecily is not our sister,” said Mr Fitzwilliam. The colonel addressed himself to Elizabeth. “Very nearly; your fathers were twins, you know – identical – and your mothers were first cousins. The resemblance is extraordinary.” “I should think you would all be accustomed to that,” Elizabeth said without thinking. Then she blushed. “That is, I look forward to seeing her.” “As does she, I am sure,” Mr Fitzwilliam replied. “She loves you already.” “Before we have even met?” Elizabeth laughed. “My uncle’s letter must have been very complimentary.” This, inexplicably, seemed to silence all three gentlemen. Finally, the colonel said in a constrained voice, “You cannot remember it, of course, but you have met, and many times; she is several years your senior, so whenever Lady Catherine brought you to Houghton, Cecily was expected to look after you. She – er – took your ‘death’ very hard.” Darcy, she remembered, had said something about that; for all these years, her family had believed her dead – murdered. No wonder they had no idea what to do with her. Lord Milton glanced at his brother and smiled, his eyes alight with sardonic merriment. “Of course, it is perfectly impossible that Elizabeth, at twenty, could be fundamentally different from Lizzy at two – but perhaps Cecily might find some slight, insignificant changes. You do seem a little taller than I remember.” “Cecily,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “will undoubtedly find any changes very slight indeed.” Lord Milton laughed. “Touché.” On the following morning, they finally arrived at Houghton. Elizabeth would have been delighted to see the place had it been a desolate ruin. To her mixed relief and pleasure, the house itself was a handsome, modern place, overlooking a large lake and a wide sprawling lawn dotted with trees. Even had she wished to, she could not have failed to admire it. Elizabeth gave a little sigh as Mr Fitzwilliam helped her out of the carriage, and gratefully accepted his arm as they walked behind Lord Ancaster and his sons. “Are you glad to be home, M – brother?” she whispered. The earl’s letter had clearly arrived ahead of them; even the servants, eyeing her with considerable curiosity, seemed to know who she was. “Yes,” he said simply. “I fear I am a rustic sort, Elizabeth; I would never leave this house, and my parsonage, and the parish, if I could at all avoid it.” Like Papa, she thought, but remained silent. She felt certain that he would not appreciate the comparison. In the saloon, they were greeted by a proud, beautiful woman, whose striking resemblance to Lord Ancaster and cold reserve left Elizabeth with no doubts as to her identity. “My daughter, Lady Eleanor Fitzwilliam,” said the earl. “Eleanor, this is Elizabeth.” Lady Eleanor considered her with about as much warmth as Elizabeth felt, curtseyed, then greeted her brothers with the same icy civility. “My grandmother,” she announced, once they had dispensed with the requisite introductions, “will be eager to see you, cousin. I am afraid she is quite exhausted at present.” “Nerves,” said Lord Milton sagely. Eleanor gave her brother a sharp look, but before she could reply, the door flung open and a young lady stumbled in. She was less handsome than Eleanor, the familiar dark hair and blue eyes accompanied by a still more familiar pointed chin, small, turned-up nose and wide smile, but her expression was open and pleasant. “Lord Ancaster-Edward-Richard-James-Ella,” the lady gasped, then promptly rushed to embrace Elizabeth, all but flinging herself into her arms. “Elizabeth! I can scarcely believe it,” she cried, her eyes shining. “I am so glad you are home, cousin, you cannot imagine. Look at you! You are taller than I am – isn’t she? Oh! I am so silly!” Lord Milton mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like agreement. “You must be so bewildered – we have not even been introduced.” Then she laughed. “Not for eighteen years, at any rate. I am your cousin, Cecilia Fitzwilliam, but you must call me Cecily – everybody in the family does.” “Except Lady Catherine,” observed the colonel. “Oh, hang Lady Catherine,” Cecily cried, turning back to Elizabeth and clasping her hands. “You look just like I imagined you would. – I do hope you will be happy, Elizabeth, and – why, you must be exhausted after such a long journey. How could you let me carry on so, Edward?” “It may surprise you, Cecilia,” said Lord Milton – Edward? – “but Elizabeth is actually capable of speech.” Cecily looked penitent. “I did not mean to overwhelm you, Elizabeth. Will you forgive me?” “Such a kind welcome hardly requires forgiveness,” said Elizabeth, smiling warmly at her. “Thank you for it, Cecily; I am very glad to meet you again.” |