Rain & Letters
Elizabeth did not at first know what had wakened her. The house seemed unusually still. No carriage wheels sounded upon the road, nor did the familiar stir of preparation for their morning walk reach her chamber.
She lay a moment listening.
At length she heard the rain. It fell steadily against the windows and upon the gravel below, soft but persistent, as though it had begun long before she woke.
So that was the cause.
The parade would be deserted, the harbour grey, and Kitty already lamenting the loss of the morning’s expedition. Elizabeth rose at last and dressed, resigning herself to a quieter day.
When Elizabeth entered the breakfast room, she found it empty. The rain dimmed the morning light, and the windows were blurred with the steady fall of water against the glass.
She took her usual place and poured herself a cup of tea, listening a moment to the soft patter of rain upon the panes.
Kitty arrived first, her step quick and impatient.
“Oh, it is still raining,” she said at once, crossing to the window. “I had hoped it might have cleared.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I fear the clouds have settled themselves very comfortably for the morning.”
Soon after, Georgiana and Mary entered, Mrs Younge accompanying Miss Darcy as usual.
“The rain has quite decided the question for us,” Mary observed, removing her gloves.
Kitty turned from the window with a sigh. “The harbour would have been so pretty today.”
Georgiana smiled gently. “Perhaps tomorrow will be kinder.”
They had scarcely settled themselves when Mrs Allen entered with the morning post.
“Letters have come in.”
She handed one to Elizabeth and another to Mrs Younge.
Elizabeth recognised the hand at once. Jane.
She turned the letter once in her fingers before breaking the seal.
Kitty sighed at the window. “If it rains all morning we shall be prisoners.”
Mary answered calmly, “Then we must improve ourselves.”
Georgiana laughed softly.
Mrs Younge unfolded her own letter with composed attention.
Elizabeth glanced at the first lines of Jane’s and folded the sheet again.
“I believe I shall read this upstairs,” she said.
“No ill news?” Kitty asked.
“I think not. Only a long letter.”
After finishing her breakfast, Elizabeth left them to their tea and mounted the stairs, the rain sounding more loudly in the passage.
Elizabeth closed the door of her chamber and crossed to the window before opening the letter again. The rain blurred the garden beyond, turning the gravel walk to silver.
She unfolded the sheets.
Jane’s hand was steady, though the letter was longer than usual.
Elizabeth read the first lines quickly, her expression softening.
Jane wrote that the cottage was quiet through much of the day when Lydia was abroad and their mother visiting Mrs Ashton, so that she and Susan often kept the house between them.
Mama called there almost every day and returned with regular accounts of Mrs Ashton’s condition.
The apothecary had been attending her for some time, and Mama now said the surgeon had also been called, which had made the household rather uneasy.
Mr Ashton had called more than once, though never long, as he was obliged to return home quickly.
Elizabeth read the passage again with more attention.
Jane added that Mr Ashton had enquired very particularly after Elizabeth’s health and hoped the sea air was proving beneficial. His visits, however, were necessarily brief, for he seldom left his mother’s house long while she remained so unwell.
Elizabeth lowered the letter a little.
She had not thought of him once since coming to Ramsgate.
The reflection surprised her. She stood a moment at the window, the rain running steadily down the glass, before turning back to Jane’s letter and reading on.
Jane continued with a few quieter accounts of the neighbourhood. Lydia, she wrote, was seldom at the cottage in the morning, finding Lambton too dull for confinement indoors. Susan remained steady and obliging, and the household went on very comfortably in Elizabeth’s absence.
At the close of the page Jane mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that she had made some discreet inquiries regarding Mr Wickham.
Several gentlemen in the neighbourhood had known him formerly, though their accounts of him were not entirely consistent.
Elizabeth felt her attention sharpen.
Jane wrote that Mr Harding remembered him slightly, though only from a short acquaintance some years before, and could say little with certainty.
Mr Grant, however, had spoken of him with more reserve than Jane had expected, observing only that Mr Wickham had not always conducted himself with the prudence his situation required.
Jane would not pretend to judge him upon such slender authority, yet she thought it right that Elizabeth should know what had been said.
Elizabeth read the lines again slowly, the rain still falling with steady patience beyond the glass.
Jane continued that what could be learned with certainty was chiefly of Mr Wickham’s earlier life. He had been educated at considerable expense with the late Mr Darcy’s patronage, and was widely understood to have been much favoured by him.
Mr Harding believed the elder Mr Darcy had stood as his godfather and had provided for him in his will, the young man’s own parents having died not long before—his mother some years earlier, and his father about a year before Mr Darcy himself.
Those who remembered the family spoke kindly of them. Mr Wickham’s father, Jane wrote, had been much liked and respected; his mother was remembered with equal warmth by the ladies of the neighbourhood.
Jane added that Mr Wickham had left the neighbourhood not long after Mr Darcy’s death and had not been known to return since.
Little could be said of him with certainty in the intervening years.
It was generally believed that he had gone away to pursue his studies, though the accounts differed as to their nature.
Some thought he had intended to take orders, while others had understood that he was preparing for the law.
No one, Jane wrote, seemed entirely sure which report had been correct.
Jane then wrote that they expected Mr Bingley to return shortly to the neighbourhood, and that Mr Darcy was believed to be with him. She hoped they might soon call at the cottage, as Mr Bingley had spoken kindly of doing so before they parted.
Elizabeth smiled a little at this passage.
Jane’s pleasure was plain enough between the lines.
By now they must already be back in Derbyshire. Elizabeth could almost picture the scene—the carriage at the gate, Mr Bingley eager as ever, and Mr Darcy more composed, yet perhaps enquiring, with quiet civility, whether Miss Elizabeth was enjoying the sea air.
Elizabeth finished the letter and folded the sheets again with care.
For a moment she remained at the window, watching the rain fall steadily upon the garden below. Jane’s words lingered in her mind—Mr Ashton’s enquiries, the uncertain accounts of Mr Wickham, and the quiet warmth with which Mr Bingley had been mentioned.
She smiled a little at that.
Below, the sound of the pianoforte began hesitantly, followed by Kitty’s voice protesting some instruction.
Elizabeth set the letter aside.
The morning, it seemed, had resumed its ordinary course, rain or no rain.
Elizabeth took up the letter again and folded it carefully. She ought to write to Jane at once, if only to thank her for the news she had so kindly sent. Yet the house was unusually quiet, and she had been absent longer than she intended.
The sound of the pianoforte came again from below, accompanied by Kitty’s uncertain attempt at the same passage.
Elizabeth smiled a little.
She set the letter aside and went downstairs to see how the lesson was progressing.
Elizabeth paused outside the drawing room a moment before entering.
Within, the pianoforte sounded again—first Georgiana’s careful demonstration, then Kitty’s attempt, which faltered after only a few bars.
“That was nearly right,” Georgiana said gently. “Only the second measure must be lighter.”
Mary stood beside the instrument with patient attention, the music open before her.
Mrs Younge sat near the window with her work, looking up briefly as Elizabeth entered.
Elizabeth crossed the room and glanced at the music upon the stand.
“You improve faster than you think,” she said.
Kitty shook her head. “Not nearly fast enough for Mary.”
Mary replied with composed gravity, “Practice seldom rewards impatience.”
Georgiana smiled and began the passage again, playing it slowly for Kitty’s benefit.
Elizabeth moved to the window. The rain still fell steadily, though the sky had begun to lighten.
They had scarcely resumed the lesson when a quiet knock sounded at the door.
Mrs Allen entered.
“A gentleman has called.”
Kitty turned at once. “In this weather?”
“Mr Wickham.”
Even as she spoke, the door behind her opened again.
Mr Wickham stepped into the room, removing his hat with easy composure.
Georgiana’s hands stilled upon the keys. Mrs Younge looked up from her work.
Elizabeth felt Jane’s letter suddenly very present in her mind.
Mr Wickham bowed with his usual easy civility. His manner was perfectly composed, his greeting easy and correct, though his eye rested a moment longer upon Georgiana.
“I fear the weather has made me a most unseasonable visitor,” he said with a smile. “But the rain promised no abatement, and I hoped the morning might not find you entirely engaged.”
Kitty looked delighted by the interruption.
“Not at all,” she declared. “Mary has been improving us.”
Mary inclined her head gravely.
Georgiana rose from the pianoforte, her composure restored, though she did not speak at once.
Elizabeth stepped forward with calm politeness.
“Mr Wickham, we did not expect to see you this morning.”