Chapter 20 #2
“Oh Charles, I am so worried about Elizabeth! It has been months since she departed these shores, and we have not heard a word from her!”
“My love, letters from across the Atlantic are dependent on ships being available to carry the mail. Darcy warned us that it would be some time before we could even hope for word.”
Jane merely cried more, and Charles wisely lay down next to her and pulled her close to him. He knew from experience as an older brother to two temperamental females that often words were useless.
A few minutes later, his wife sat up and scrabbled around inelegantly for a handkerchief. He reached into his own pocket and handed his hanky to her solemnly, which she used to blow her red, but always gorgeous, nose.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I do not know what has come over me. I have been so weepy and distressed of late! It is not like me to give way to such fears.”
He gazed at her expectantly, but she merely looked down at the green and blue counterpane, her expression one of shame.
“I suppose it is not unexpected that you might be more emotional than usual,” he tried.
At this, she looked up at this with a wrinkled brow, “Because of Elizabeth?”
He bit his lip and tilted his head, “Yes, but no. I mean, it has been eight weeks since ...”
She stared at him, clearly shocked, and he saw her lips moving slowly.
“It has been eight weeks!” she replied in a hushed tone. “Charles, I ... I am with child!”
He chuckled now, “I know, my love. I thought surely you must know as well.”
She whacked him on the arm playfully, though she still looked bemused, “I am embarrassed to admit I did not until now. I lost track of the time ...”
“I suppose it is not a definite thing,” her husband declared, suddenly contrite. He did not wish to raise false hopes.
“No, I am. It explains many things; I have been a little ill in the mornings, weepy at night and I have been so tired. I was remarkably obtuse.”
“I understand,” Charles said hastily, pulling her close to him. “My dear Jane, we are going to have a child!”
/
“Are you quite sure that Miss de Bourgh’s dresses were packed properly?” Catherine de Bourgh demanded of Mrs. Jenkinson.
“Yes, Lady Catherine,” Anne’s companion replied sedately as Anne’s trunks were loaded onto the carriage. “I oversaw Sally’s work myself.”
“Excellent,” her employer boomed. “It is quite unbecoming of a lady to have her dresses packed incorrectly; inevitably, they will be wrinkled at the end of the journey.”
“Yes, Lady Catherine.”
“Ah, there you are, Anne! You are tardy! I do not wish to arrive late for luncheon at the Bell. I always eat at the proper time to aid digestion.”
“My apologies, Mother,” Anne replied meekly. “I was completing my final preparations for the journey.”
“You there, assist Miss de Bourgh into the carriage.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Anne accepted the footman’s assisting arm, climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat facing her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson.
“Is the document safely stowed in my trunk?” she asked softly.
Mrs. Jenkinson nodded, allowing Anne to relax.
Anne was quite confident that in London, she and her companion would be able to creep away one day for a visit to her publisher.
Perhaps in a few months, her latest book would be for sale in London’s shops!
It had been a dream come true to see her writing published, knowing that people would be able to enjoy her stories.
It was also a welcome respite from the dullness of life at Rosings; her body was trapped in some ways by its own infirmities and her mother’s expectations, but her mind soared free.
Lady Catherine entered the carriage with a whirl of skirts, sat down next to Anne, and quickly banged her walking stick on the ceiling, “Drive!”
The carriage jolted into motion, and they were on their way to London.
/
“We are to London tomorrow?” Lydia squealed in excitement.
Her mother winced at her youngest daughter’s strident voice, “Yes, my dear Lydia, yes. But do not shout, please! Dearest Jane has invited us to spend a few weeks in London at Mr. Bingley’s house.
Furthermore, the dear girl says Mr. Bingley will provide funds for you girls and Mary to purchase some new dresses; you will be out of mourning soon. ”
Lydia wrinkled her nose, “It hardly matters what Mary wears. She is not handsome like I am.”
Mrs. Bennet frowned at this, “Now Lydia, do not be rude. Mary may not be particularly handsome, but she is accomplished and older than you. Given that Mr. Bingley is wealthy, I have hopes that you girls will have opportunities to marry someone with sufficient income to support you. Mary will not attract as fine a suitor as you and Kitty, but there is hope, especially as Jane has been paying for her pianoforte lessons. I understand Mary is far more accomplished on the instrument than she was.”
“I am so looking forward to seeing Jane and Mary,” Kitty declared. “It has been lonely here with just the three of us. Has … has Jane said anything about where Elizabeth is?”
Her mother huffed indignantly, “No, she has not, and indeed I do not care! I have no interest in undutiful children. If Elizabeth had accepted Mr. Collins, we would not have been hurled from Longbourn. If she had accepted Sir Claude, you would have been exposed to the cream of London society! I have no patience with her selfish ways. It is almost certain she will never receive another offer now that your father is gone, and I will not support her!”
“I do not blame Lizzy,” Lydia commented, taking a bite of bread. “Sir Claude is horribly old, is he not? Nearly father’s age!”
“Sir Claude is not that old,” Mrs. Bennet responded in irritation. “He is only five and forty.”
Both her daughters shuddered.
“That is terribly old,” Lydia insisted.
“Better to marry an old husband than to die of starvation in the hedgerows.”
“Mary says that Sir Claude hurt his first wife,” Kitty averred abruptly.
Mrs. Bennet turned her surprised gaze on Kitty, “What are you speaking of? That is complete nonsense!”
“There are husbands who harm their wives,” her second youngest daughter declared. “Mr. Simeon …”
“Is a drunkard. You can hardly compare a Baronet to the village blacksmith!”
Kitty continued doggedly, “Mary says that Uncle Gardiner interviewed some of Sir Claude’s former servants.
Sir Claude is drunk a great deal, and he gambles, and is in debt, and he used to hit his first wife.
That is what Mary said. Furthermore, she says that Uncle Gardiner sent you a letter about this man’s repugnant proclivities, and you did not care.
Does it really not matter if we marry a man who will harm us, Mother? ”
Her mother stared in astonishment at her usually meek daughter, whose face was flushed with outrage, “Your uncle ... he never, ever said such a thing to me in a letter! That is ridiculous!”
“I am confident he did,” Kitty riposted boldly.
“It is not like you to pay attention to anything you do not wish to, Mother. You have wanted one of us to marry since Jane was fifteen, and it seems you do not really care whom we marry. Mr. Collins is a stupid, boorish oaf, and Sir Claude, apparently, is a cruel drunkard. Neither of them would be good for Lizzy, or indeed any of us, but you have never given a thought to such matters as compatibility or kindness.”
Mrs. Bennet responded by bursting into dramatic tears, “You have no idea how much I suffer, Kitty! You have no compassion on my nerves.”
“I am completely tired of your nerves,” Kitty snapped, “especially since you always place them ahead of the well-being of your daughters. I am going to go pack for London.”
She rose to her feet and stalked out of the room, leaving a weeping Mrs. Bennet, and a rather awed Lydia, behind.
/
Elizabeth peered eagerly east, her eyes straining to pick out any sign of land.
“I do not see anything,” she admitted, turning toward Darcy, who was leaning on the railing looking down at her adoringly.
“I do,” the man replied with certainty.
Elizabeth scowled and turned back to stare at the horizon, “Are you quite certain, Fitzwilliam? I think you are imagining things.”
“He is not, Mrs. Darcy,” Captain Drayson said mildly as he walked up to the railing. “The lookout just informed me that he can see the shores of fair England in the distance, though only barely. Mr. Darcy has good eyes.”
“Are you implying that I have bad eyes?” Elizabeth demanded archly.
The captain laughed, “Not at all, Mrs. Darcy. It takes very keen sight to separate the motion of the waves from the distant lands. In any case, based on our lunar from two nights ago, we will arrive in Portsmouth by tomorrow afternoon.”
Elizabeth smiled mistily up into Darcy’s face, “We are almost there, my darling.”
“Yes,” he agreed softly. “We are almost home.”