Chapter Five #2
Elizabeth hated the way that at most times she was cossetted and treated as a cripple.
She hated the way that the servants and Miss Wilson watched her to ensure she never did anything dangerous or daring.
She hated the way that she had to act in an appropriate way lest Mr. Darcy remind her that she was a burden on Jane who should have died.
Died. Died. Died.
Jane should have been the one to die.
In any case, sneaking out late at night allowed her to explore the whole of Pemberley house and gave her a chance to entertain herself as she wished without knowing that everything she did was watched by people she could not see.
By the time Christmas passed, Elizabeth knew the whole of the halls quite well. Though, unfortunately, certain attics required tall ladders to access.
A blind person might make an excellent spy.
While one cannot give a detailed description of a physical space, and there is always that chance that they will trip over something or knock it astray if it had been left out of place by a careless servant.
However, this is offset by a significant advantage: A person with exquisitely sensitive hearing is peculiarly able to move in such a way that they make little noise.
Further, this hearing allows them to know a great many things about the world that others might be surprised at.
This night when Elizabeth softly creeped past Jane’s door to go towards the library, she heard a keening, heartbroken sob from her sister. For half a minute Elizabeth listened, and then a pain felt in her guts made her hurry on.
As Elizabeth took one soft step after another through the cold halls of Pemberley, following the memorized patterns, but still letting her foot down cautiously with each step, she felt as though she wished to vomit.
She tried to not think about it. That shamed feeling was returning, and now it was no simple task to convince herself to not feel it.
What if Jane truly wished to heal the breach because they were sisters, and because she was not lying about how she loved her?
The library.
The smell of the books always reminded Elizabeth of Papa.
She entered the great room and softly closed the door.
Elizabeth lightly ran her hands over the leather covers of the books on the nearest shelf.
Papa stood before her in her mind’s eye.
She took out a book at random, and felt the smooth paper, and the smell of an old book, ink, dust, and paper.
Papa.
She missed him so terribly.
She missed Jane as well.
And she resented that. She did not need her sister’s affection. She didn’t need her support. She could manage for herself. She was not a useless burden, and she deserved the portion of the fortune she’d received, and she was fortunate that she had survived.
Jane could despise her and…and she’d hurt her sister deeply.
Elizabeth sat in a great armchair, her feet not able to touch the ground and as much as she wished that the sense of shame would go away, it did not.
When Elizabeth returned to her room, she paused by Jane’s door, wondering if she would hear continued crying.
There was no sound.
It was impossible to sleep. Elizabeth knew that she should apologize to Jane, but she did not wish to. She climbed out of bed once more after a half hour and went to the writing frame.
Georgiana woke up from the bed on the other side of the nursery. There was a rustle, and her bare feet slapped onto the floor. “Lizzy, what are you about?”
“I wish to write a letter.”
“To Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes.”
The girl yawned. “Send him my greetings also. It is so funny that it makes no difference to you that it is dark.”
“It is a little different, but I can write equally well,” Elizabeth said laughingly, but quietly to not risk waking Miss Wilson in the adjoining room.
Elizabeth wondered at herself when she turned back to the letter and dipped the quill in the ink.
To speak laughingly was such a habit with her.
It seemed that no matter how miserable she was, she would still try to be amused.
The letter that followed was an incoherent jumble of thoughts, feelings, and her anger, all of it turning around the central point that Elizabeth had been justified in being upset with Jane—why had Jane never written a letter to her after the fire?
Why had Jane barely spoken to her after Elizabeth arrived at Pemberley?
And why was Jane secretly, Elizabeth had no doubt, dreaming of that fortune which could have been hers, if only the beam that crushed Lydia had been a little wider?
Yet that clearly was not what Jane was thinking. If Jane thought that, why would she have sought Elizabeth at all? Why would she sob alone at night?
And why, when Elizabeth imagined approaching Jane to apologize, did she feel sick inside and angry at the thought that she should do it.
This was the last thing Elizabeth wrote: She is not blind. She is not mutilated. She wasn’t there when they all died. If I wish to be angry at her, that is my right. I do not need to apologize.
Elizabeth was dreadfully sleepy when she finished writing, and she folded the papers together and wrote the address on the outside, once she’d felt for the center of the page. She did not seal it, as her inability to see either the wax or the candle made it dangerous to do so.
When she woke the next morning Elizabeth immediately noticed that it seemed brighter than usual in the morning.
A few minutes thought convinced her that she did not wish to send that letter to Fitzwilliam.
It was too embarrassing, and it described her behaving in a terribly childish manner, and she refused to be such a child. At least not in front of Fitzwilliam.
He would rightfully think ill of her if he read it.
However, when Elizabeth walked to the desk, she found that the paper was impossible to discover. It was gone. A surge of anxiety went through her.
When Elizabeth went out to breakfast, holding the banister as she went down the stairs, she found that she had in fact missed the main breakfast and been allowed to sleep quite late.
They were all finishing eating, and Georgiana explained that she had convinced Miss Wilson to let Elizabeth sleep as late as she might, this one time.
When Elizabeth made inquiry about the letter, Georgiana said that she’d taken it down to be mailed, and that the footman had taken it off with the rest of the morning post, and that Elizabeth did not need to worry, it would be delivered to Fitzwilliam at the nearest chance.
This did worry Elizabeth greatly, but she did not say that.
For the rest of the day Elizabeth dreaded when she would be in the room with Jane again. For the whole day Jane was with the dancing master, so Elizabeth saw nothing of her in the school room during their lessons.
That evening Jane did not appear in the drawing room, having sent down news that she felt quite sick with a headache.
The next morning at breakfast Jane entered late. Mr. Darcy asked her if she was well, and Jane said that she now was. Elizabeth tried to say a cheerful ‘hello’ or a similar greeting to her sister, but she found that there was a lump in her throat. It would seem wholly artificial.
Elizabeth barely ate anything herself over the course of the day. She needed to make herself speak to Jane, but no favorable opportunity arose. Yet, Elizabeth knew that the chief reason she could not find an opportunity was that she also desperately wished to avoid speaking to Jane.
It seemed to her that Jane was avoiding her.
The next afternoon while they all were in the drawing room paying attendance on Mr. Darcy, a letter arrived for Elizabeth from Fitzwilliam.
This was the letter that she had dreaded. Of course, Mr. Darcy was the one to pick it up so that he could read it to Elizabeth.
The letter began in the ordinary manner of Fitzwilliam’s letters to her—descriptions of what he’d studied, the weather and the arguments that currently absorbed him. It was clear to Elizabeth that he had written this before he had received her letter.
But at the end there were these lines: Lizzy, I was as always pleased to receive your most recent letter this morning, and I am honored that you would ask for my advice in such a matter.
The feelings you expressed on the subject are natural, though I do not think them wholly just. You do not need my advice.
There is a reason that I always have the highest confidence in you and in your character.
You know what you must do, and I know that you will act as your duty and your conscience demand.
Your devoted friend,
F. Darcy
When Mr. Darcy finished reading, there was a pause of some seconds. Elizabeth heard the soft rustle of the paper as he set the letter down, “And what matter did you ask for my son’s advice upon?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks felt flushed and hot. “It is a childish thing. I made a mistake. A childish thing. That is.”
“That is what?”
Elizabeth had no answer to her guardian’s question.
She rather feared being made to answer, as she did not know what she would say.
It was not a matter that she wished for him, or for anyone else in the room, to know anything about.
The whole time that she waited to hear what Mr. Darcy would say next, Elizabeth was keenly aware of that spot in the room where Jane’s voice had come from last. She dearly hoped that her sister was not keen enough to guess it related to her.
After a while Mr. Darcy said, “I see. I shall leave this then to you both. I have confidence in Fitzwilliam that if it was a matter which he should direct to my attention, that he would. But I also trust that you will do as my son advised, and that you will act as your duty and your conscience demand.”
“Yes, sir,” Elizabeth agreed.