Strawberries & Suppositions #3
The simplicity of it struck more deeply than persuasion would have done. Elizabeth felt, for a fleeting instant, what it might be to leave expectation behind, if only for a few weeks.
They had scarcely exchanged another word when Mr Ashton appeared at Elizabeth’s side, as though he had been observing the moment her attention was unclaimed. He bowed to Georgiana with easy courtesy.
“Miss Darcy,” he said, “you are the most obliging of hostesses. I fear we have taken unfair advantage of your generosity already.”
Then, turning to Elizabeth, his voice altered into something meant to sound particular. “I was beginning to think you had been quite carried off. I cannot allow that.”
They were all very happy, very tired, and full of food and company. The day had been exactly what it was meant to be, and even Lydia’s talk of Cobweb’s foal sounded more like amusement than complaint.
It was Mary who first raised the subject of Ramsgate. The cottage hedge was already in view when she spoke, having apparently waited until there was no longer any escape into noise and laughter.
“We cannot all go,” she said quietly. “We cannot leave Mama behind.”
Lydia turned at once. “I am not going,” she declared. “Cobweb’s foal will be born the very moment I am out of the county.”
Kitty made a distressed sound. “Lydia, do not be so absurd. But Mary is right. Mama cannot be left alone.”
Mary’s voice did not alter. “Not alone with nothing but Susan and her nerves.”
Jane’s hands tightened upon her reticule. “We must be sensible,” she said softly.
Elizabeth said nothing, but her heart had already answered.
Kitty’s voice came in after a moment, smaller than Lydia’s but steadier than usual. “I should like to go,” she said, and then hurried on, fearful perhaps of being contradicted. “I could draw there. Georgiana says the sea is always changing, and I should like to try.”
When at last the house was quiet, and Lydia’s voice had faded into sleep, Elizabeth and Jane went upstairs together with the subdued comfort of shared fatigue.
Their candle made the room smaller, the shadows softer.
Jane unpinned her cap and set it aside. Elizabeth loosened her ribbons with fingers that still felt warm from sun and company.
For a little while they did only what was necessary, unwilling perhaps to disturb the peace they had earned.
Then Jane sat upon the edge of the bed and looked at her sister with that steady gentleness which always made room for honesty.
“Mary wishes to go,” she said softly. “I think she has wished it since the first moment Miss Darcy spoke.”
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled on her ribbon. “Then she should,” she answered, and felt at once how quickly the thought had come, her own heart having apparently hurried to clear the way.
Jane nodded. “And Kitty will go. Lydia will not. That leaves only you and me.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “We cannot both go and leave Mama.”
“No,” Jane agreed. She drew a quiet breath, and her voice did not waver. “So I will stay.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply. “Jane, are you sure?”
Jane’s eyes held hers without flinching. “Yes,” she said. “Mama will be better for having one of us with her, and Lydia will only increase her spirits in the wrong direction.”
A pause, and then, more quietly, “Besides, Mr Bingley is to go to town with his sisters, and then return. If he returns, Lizzy, it will not be for Pemberley. It will be for this neighbourhood.” Her colour rose a little, and she smiled at herself, faintly ashamed of it.
“I should like to be here to see what comes of it.”
Elizabeth’s face softened at once, and her weariness could not keep back her smile.
“Oh, Jane,” she said, and reached for her sister’s hand. “I am glad of it. I am glad he gives you something to hope for that is entirely your own.”
She pressed Jane’s fingers once, sealing the truth of it.
“I envy you a little, I confess it. Not for Mr Bingley only, but for the clearness of it. You know where your heart inclines, and you do not pretend otherwise.”
Jane’s smile lingered, but her eyes grew thoughtful, for Elizabeth’s words had opened a door she could not politely shut again.
“And you, Lizzy?” she asked softly.
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled upon Jane’s hand. “What of me?”
Jane did not press at once. She only held Elizabeth’s gaze with that quiet steadiness which made evasion feel unkind. “How do you feel,” she said, “about Mr Ashton?”
Elizabeth drew a breath and found it did not come easily. “I like him,” she began, because that at least was true. “I am always comfortable in his company. He is attentive, he is good-humoured, he is everything Mama says a man ought to be.”
“And is that enough?” Jane asked, very gently.
Elizabeth gave a little, helpless laugh. “It ought to be.”
“Ought,” Jane repeated, not in reproof, but in warning.
Elizabeth’s eyes dropped. “Do you not see it?” she whispered.
“Everyone speaks as though it is already settled. Mama speaks so, Mrs Harding speaks so, and when Mr Ashton offers a carriage or an arm it feels as though the whole world is nodding its approval. I am expected to be grateful, and I am. I am expected to be pleased, and I try. But my head is so full of what ought to happen that I cannot hear what I feel.”
Jane’s hand tightened around hers. “And you feel pressed by it.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and the truth of it was a relief in itself. “Pressed, and ashamed for being pressed. As though there were something wrong in me for not being content with what everyone calls happiness.”
Jane’s expression softened. “There is nothing wrong in you,” she said. “Only too many voices.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “That is why Ramsgate.” She stopped, because it sounded selfish even in the candlelight.
Jane understood at once. “That is why Ramsgate,” she agreed. “Not to run away from anyone, but to have room enough to think.”
Elizabeth nodded, and her eyes stung without warning. “I want to be certain,” she said. “I want to be fair.”
“You will be,” Jane promised, and then added, quieter still, “but you must be fair to yourself as well.”
A soft knock came, and Mary entered with her candle held low, her wrapper drawn close. She paused when she saw them together, then said, without ceremony, “I wished to speak before an answer is sent to Miss Darcy.”
Jane made space for her.
“I mean to go,” Mary said plainly. “But I cannot do so unless one of you remains. Mama and Lydia together, without any counterbalance, will not improve one another.” She met Elizabeth’s eyes. “The house requires one steady head. I do not feel at liberty to leave unless that is secured.”
“I am staying,” Jane said quietly. “You may go, Mary.”
Mary’s shoulders eased, though her expression did not soften into anything like triumph. “Thank you,” she replied, gratitude apparently being, in her mind, a matter best kept plain. Then her eyes shifted to Elizabeth, and she added with careful steadiness, “And you will go as well?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She managed, after a moment, “Yes.”
Mary nodded once, the matter now placed in order. She set her candle down and opened her little book upon her knee.
“There is one more point,” she said. “If we are to divide ourselves, we must be exact about what may be spent, and what must be reserved. We have been assisted,” she added, the word chosen with care.
“Not only by the Hardings. There have been items we did not purchase, and yet have had.” She glanced up at Elizabeth.
“You noticed the jam. I have noticed more.”
Jane’s brow softened. “From Pemberley?”
Mary did not deny it. “It has eased our expenses enough that, on paper, Mama would argue we can afford a cook. But we cannot assume it will continue. Kindness is not income.”
Mary’s pencil paused. “And it is not only Pemberley,” she added, having evidently been weighing whether to say it.
“Willowbank has helped as well. Mr Ashton’s people have sent things, now and then, and bills have been lighter when they ought not to be.
But it is irregular, and it is never enough to be relied upon. ”
She looked up, her expression composed. “Pemberley’s assistance has been steadier, and more considerable.”
Jane exchanged a look with Elizabeth, the kind that carried agreement without needing speech. “You are right,” Jane said quietly. “We must not let Mama suspect there is any additional money.”
Elizabeth nodded. “If she thinks we can afford a cook, she will never let it rest.”
Mary’s mouth tightened. “Then I shall keep the account separate,” she said. “Quietly. It will be better so.” She closed her little book with careful finality, lifted her candle again, and paused at the door.
“I am glad you told me,” Jane said softly.
Mary inclined her head, and went out, leaving the room to the low hiss of the candle and the weight of what had been decided.