Chapter Nine "Elizabeth? Elizabeth, are you awake?" Elizabeth opened her eyes. Chilly sunlight poured through the windows; she made a few swift calculations and scrambled out of bed, just as another tentative knock came at the door. "Lizzy?" She rushed to open it. "Cecili - Cecily," she said, blinking in sleepy bewilderment at the dresses draped over her cousin's arm. "Good morning!" Cecily said brightly. "Oh! Did I wake you? It is nearly - that is, I did not . . . I thought you might not have - might not have been able to bring proper clothes, when you left That Place. The men won't have thought of it; they never do consider that kind of thing, do they?" "I -" Elizabeth had a sudden vivid image of herself in her most unfashionable Longbourn gown, plain and provincial beside her elegant cousins. Amidst all the grief and bewilderment and apprehension of the moment, she suppressed a wince of pure vanity and glanced from the gowns to Cecily's anxious face. "I hardly know what to say. Thank you - please, come in." Cecily cheerfully dropped the dresses on one chair and flung herself into another. It was evident that she, at least, had little of the dignity so dear to their other relations. "You are a little taller than I am, so I brought all of my longest gowns. The yellow silk flatters our colouring the most, I think, though the blue is also pretty. I do hope you like them." She beamed at her, unable to restrain a warm, friendly smile that did more to put Elizabeth at ease than all of the others' charm and solicitude. "Of course I do." Elizabeth smiled back at her. "They are lovely and - and, to be perfectly truthful, I should not at all like to look like a poor relation from a country village." Cecily laughed delightedly. "You are just like I imagined you would be," she said. "Oh, Elizabeth, I am so glad you are back home!" Elizabeth, determined to unite truth and civility but unable to quite reciprocate the sentiment, replied, "And I - I am glad that you are here, Cecily." After a little more desultory conversation, Cecily left her to get dressed, and then returned to accompany her downstairs. "Good morning, Elizabeth," said Eleanor without enthusiasm. "Lady Ancaster has decided upon today's rôle, so I expect she will wish to see you soon. Good morning, Cecily." Cecily, surprisingly, accepted this without comment; Elizabeth imagined the loss of husband, daughter, sons, granddaughters, and eyed her cousin with considerable distaste. Eleanor, so exactly what Elizabeth had first imagined Darcy to be - arrogant, disagreeable and ill-tempered - had restored her to all the enjoyment of that original dislike. For a moment, she felt herself again, the Elizabeth Bennet who had never felt the slightest discomfort in her own skin, nor the slightest doubt of her own judgment, and could almost have thanked her. She laughed inwardly at the idea of it. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Milton greeted her in their usual manner - pleasant and insolent, respectively - and Lord Ancaster nodded in the general direction of her shoulder. Mr Fitzwilliam - James, she reminded herself - smiled gently, asking after her health with real concern. "I am very well, thank you," she said, and tried not to treat him with particular stiffness. It was difficult; he was her brother, her nearest kin alive in the world. She felt obliged to love him - all the more because he was a kind, sweet-tempered man who ought to be loved by everybody who knew him. Elizabeth did not, and felt cruel and awkward and wished he would demand something of her, show some trace of ordinary selfishness. He did not, of course. Despite Cecily's affectionate camaraderie and her own apprehension, Elizabeth could scarcely contain her relief at the dowager's summons, which she obeyed with alacrity. Anything, she thought, was better than the discomfort of the family gathering - Lord Milton's sly digs and Lady Eleanor's silent disapproval almost as painful as James' unassailable worthiness. Moreover, their grandmother had also demanded Cecily's presence; Elizabeth was only too glad to listen to her cousin's nervous, incoherent prattle as they trailed after the (suitably ancient) servant like the heroines of a novel. "Miss Fitzwilliam and - er - Miss Fitzwilliam," he declaimed, and left the girls to face the dowager. Anne, Countess of Ancaster, had been a very fine woman in her day - a leader of fashion, a patroness of artists and musicians whose fame would one day far outstrip her own, and a hostess who had made and destroyed several great statesmen. Now, she was nearly eighty, her body small and thin and wrinkled, her mind all but unchanged from what it had been at sixty-five. "I - I hope you are well, Grandmama?" said Cecily, uncertainty flickering over her features, and added unnecessarily, "This is Elizabeth - Uncle James' daughter Elizabeth." "I know quite well who she is," Lady Ancaster said finally, staring at them. She was clearly the source of the steely dark eyes so prevalent throughout the family, and just as clearly had bequeathed little else. Elizabeth felt something almost like relief at the sight of a relation with so little resemblance to herself. "Sit down, girls. I have not seen you in some time; it feels quite like years." "Well," Cecily said, "as a matter of fact -" "I hope you have not married yet. I do not understand young ladies these days, marrying straight out of the schoolroom without a thought of the future." "We have not," said Elizabeth, mouth twitching. Ordinary civilities had exhausted her; eccentricity brought back all her old pleasure in whims and folly. "I am four-and-twenty, Grandmama," Cecily added; "that is rather more than straight out of the schoolroom." "Pshaw." Lady Ancaster waved one claw-like hand dismissively. "Four-and-twenty, forsooth! - and Elizabeth younger still! Babes in arms, the both of you. Did Edward steal you?" "No," said Elizabeth. Glancing around the room, she could not help but notice an abundance of grotesque cherubs, and wondered if her ladyship were responsible for those at Ancaster House. "No, that was somebody else." "Catherine thinks it was him, but then, one never knows with Catherine. She is such a difficult child, you know. I am terribly worried about what will become of her. Perhaps it is wrong to say so, but I really do think she would have been much happier as a man. She is always running to me with her gown torn and her knees scraped, crying 'Mama, Edward stole my doll!' " Cecily and Elizabeth looked at one another, the former resigned, the latter taken aback and - not frightened, but shocked and disturbed. This - Elizabeth could not quite say the word, even to herself - was plainly more than an old woman's caprice. the "I must do something. It isn't fair, not when she was the old man's darling for his sake." Elizabeth, despite the much greater concerns of the moment, found herself abruptly preoccupied in trying not to think of Lady Catherine as any man's darling. "It should not be necessary, ma'am," she said after a moment, her voice steady; "my uncle has already agreed to give me back after my birthday." "Well, that is very good of him. Her body is resilient enough, but the head is porcelain." She continued without a pause, "I hope you have been practising, Cecily. We are quite fortunate in this family, to be handsome and so very talented, but you must not neglect your gifts. The Lord will smite the wasteful." Cecily winced. "Then I should have been smitten ten times over," Elizabeth said cheerfully. She could not quite bring herself to look either in the eye. "I am sure I could be very proficient, if only I would take the trouble of practising - but I will not! To think of devoting so much of one's attention to a single thing!" "Yes, exactly - and Grandmama, I do draw, quite often." "Scribbles," scoffed Lady Ancaster. "No, indeed. I could draw Elizabeth and Eleanor for you. Would you not like that?" The countess hesitated. "Anne's miniature is too old." "Yes, quite so." Cecily met Elizabeth's alarmed gaze with a slight shake of her head. She shan't remember, she mouthed. Words froze in Elizabeth's throat. She looked into the countess' fierce blue eyes, and felt a sudden rush of sympathy with her - with her grandmother, who somehow felt nearer than all the others. It was more than a simple tie of blood, or even of affection; Lady Ancaster was her father's mother. She was the woman whose long-ago choices had made Elizabeth's life possible, who now had no choice but to rely upon the memories and assertions of others. "Nobody has ever drawn me before," she said lightly. "I am sure it will be a pleasure to sit for you, Cecily." If I am lucky, she thought. Perhaps Eleanor will be busy scolding the poor into peace and harmony, or whatever it is that she does to amuse herself. Lady Ancaster drifted into even more incoherence, and finally sleep; the servant, who Elizabeth had mentally dubbed Theodore, appeared almost instantly to usher them out. In truth, Cecily and Elizabeth needed no such encouragement. "Is she truly -" Elizabeth hesitated. "I do not know; she has been like - this - for as long as I can remember. Edward and Eleanor say she was always eccentric, but something changed after you and Jane were stolen, and then when Lady Anne died. I know it must not seem like it, but her life has been very hard." "It does seem like it," said Elizabeth. "I have only lost - well, I cannot imagine what it must be to lose so many people, to outlive one's own children." "Yes, exactly - you do understand. I should have known that you would." Cecily shook her head. "Perhaps - perhaps you would like to take a walk, outside? It looks clearer now, but we could bring umbrellas in case it rains again. I could show you all the circuits; they are very pretty, even now." Elizabeth caught Eleanor's distinctive contralto as they approached the parlour. "Oh! I am an inveterate walker, I should like that very much." She glanced at her watch; it had just struck twelve. "And the evening and the morning were the first day," she murmured to herself, almost laughing, and ran upstairs to change. * * * * * The next day, at Pemberley, breakfast was calm and pleasant. Jane and Darcy, surrounded as they were by fragments of the past, could scarcely keep from asking "do you remember - ?" and telling the stories of their childhood all over again, while Georgiana glanced from one to the other in bemused happiness and tried to catch every word. Darcy found himself cheerfully relating the tale of the first animal they had brought home - a starling - to a captive audience. "Did you ever see him again?" Georgiana asked wistfully. "Her, and yes," said Darcy. "You shall not remember when we found her, Jane - you were little more than two years old - but perhaps later? Her nest was in one of the Spanish chestnuts, and sometimes she would come and peck on the window to our nursery." "Oh! yes. We fed her pieces of our nectarines when Nurse wasn't looking." Jane suddenly sobered. "I wonder what happened to Nurse. She was not a young woman then." "She lives on the estate," said Darcy, his brows knitting together. "I must ride in that direction to-day, and the day will be clear; perhaps you and Georgiana would care to join me? She would be delighted to see you, I am certain, and I know you ride." Jane's eyes lit up. "Yes, I do - that would be delightful!" "Oh," Georgiana said instantly, "I cannot, I - I must practise the harp, but Jane can ride Euterpe. She is my palfrey, very sweet-tempered and obedient." To Jane, it seemed a very long time since she had been able to ride - to ride properly, for the joy of it, and not simply to travel from one point to another. It was longer still since she had done so with any kind of companionship, as Elizabeth disliked horses on general principle. She thought back, and realised it had not happened since before, when she and Fitzwilliam used to ride about the park on their ponies ("for our health," said he solemnly, his eyes laughing), almost exactly as they were doing now. Everybody they saw seemed to recognise her immediately, and meet them with pleasure; the tenants they passed called her "Miss Darcy" on sight and bowed as if she were a princess. They brought food to a young crippled girl, who declared that Darcy was a saint and Jane an angel. Their nurse lived nearby, in a small, comfortable cottage. Her name was actually Mrs Sharpe and she was over eighty years old. "I have brought my sister to see you, Mrs Sharpe," Darcy said, speaking rather more softly than was his habit, and enunciating even more carefully. She squinted at Jane's hair. "I may be old, but that don't mean I've lost my wits altogether," she said reproachfully. "I wasn't born yesterday, sir. You can't mean to be trying to convince me that Miss Darcy isn't as dark a creature as her ladyship." Jane stepped forward before Darcy could speak, her eyes wide and eager. " 'Tis Jenny, Nurse," she said, then added in her gentle voice; "Miss Darcy, that is, not Miss Georgiana. You cared for me when I was small; it was a very long time ago, but perhaps you still remember?" "Miss Darcy? Miss Darcy that was?" She fumbled for her spectacles. "Gracious, child, as if I could forget. Sit down, let me look at you." Jane promptly obeyed, and Mrs Sharpe, after peering into her face, dashed a suspicious dampness out of her dim eyes. "Well, that's not a face I ever thought to see again - or anybody but your poor mama, I wager. You're not sickly now?" "I do not believe so," said Jane. "She had a very bad cold not a month ago," Darcy said sternly. Mrs Sharpe cackled. "Fifteen years if it's been a day, isn't it, sir?" "Eighteen," said Darcy, looking at his sister in some bemusement. She had grown into a woman, of course, and developed an air of vaguely maternal concern, but otherwise she seemed very much the same Jane she had always been. Her expressions and mannerisms were so similar to those in his memories, even the sweet, mild intonation of her voice. It had been almost two decades and already they were instinctively slipping back into the habits of childhood, as if nothing had changed. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps - in essentials - nothing had. They sat with Mrs Sharpe for almost an hour while she reminisced. Despite her age, her memory had not faded in the slightest; in fact, she remembered the young Master and Miss Darcy rather better than they did themselves. "You were the best-natured children in the world," she said firmly. Jane and Darcy flushed. "And you, miss, the easiest to care for. I never saw a more obedient child." "Oh, no," said Jane, turning a still brighter scarlet. "I am sure my brother -" Darcy laughed. "I cannot take that honour from you, Jane; I only truly obeyed rules insofar as I agreed with the reasons for them. The rest I bent into some very peculiar shapes. You remember, ma'am." "Sharp enough to cut yourself one day - I'm sure I told you so a dozen times if I told you once. You were a good boy all the same - very well-mannered and a nice even temper most of the time, and generous-hearted. If there's anything I can't abide, it's meanness in a child. Nine times out of ten, they grow into the worst sort of men and women. Why, sir, I don't think I heard you raise your voice more than twice in all those years - and you, Miss Darcy, you were as sweet as any girl could be, no matter how feverish you got." The old nurse finally grew sleepy, and sent them off with something of her old brusque manner. Darcy and Jane tactfully ignored the tears rolling down her weathered cheeks. Darcy suggested that they return to Pemberley, and Jane, realising that the morning had all but passed away, gladly assented. She missed Elizabeth terribly, and in a different way Mr Bennet, and yet, as they rode home, she felt almost happy. |