Elizabeth’s Happy New Year
Elizabeth’s Happy New Year
Zarilda Belle Frost
“It is not sound. No, it is not possible. No man is such a paragon!” I leaned over the bannister to shake a finger at my soon-to-be brother, Charles Bingley. The white ribbons in my hand caught in the pine boughs I was securing on the bannister, and I stopped to disentangle them.
“Come, Jane,” I said to her as my sister tied ribbons a few steps below. “You, at least, must admit that you have never seen such a man. I have never seen such capacity, and taste, and manners, and intelligence, as you describe, united.”
“Lizzy,” Jane scolded mildly. “Charles would not mislead you!”
“Very well, he is a paragon,” I pretended to surrender. “In that case, I shall be determined to hate him, simply to be contrary. And I shall live to find his faults.”
This teasing argument had been repeated many times since Charles Bingley began courting my sister.
His friend, Mr. Darcy, had been intended to visit with him and guide him in the management of his leased estate, Netherfield Park.
Instead, Mr. Darcy had been occupied with family business, so I had yet to meet the gentleman.
“Ah,” Charles smiled, handing Jane a branch of holly, their fingers brushing.
“You will see, Lizzy. He is the best friend, the best brother, the best landlord and manager of his estate. I wish he could have joined us this autumn, but despite his absence, I would have been lost without his advice through correspondence.”
“Yes, ‘brother’ I yield the field. I shall just have to judge your Mr. Darcy for myself. But, for now, I should see that my mother and sisters are not confounding your staff too much. We would not want to disturb their preparations for our Christmas feast.”
Mr. Charles Bingley had arrived in Hertfordshire soon after Michaelmas. From the moment he saw Jane, he had been enthralled, and now they were to wed. The Bingleys and Bennets were to celebrate Christmas together on the morrow at Netherfield with a few other families from the neighbourhood.
The festivities were to continue with a celebratory ball on the 31st of December, and then their wedding on the 2nd of January.
Charles had just received word that his good friend, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Pemberley in Derbyshire, would arrive in time for both, and would stand up with him at the wedding.
After three months of accolades, I would finally meet the gentleman.
I could only wonder if he would live up to the praise.
***
31st December 1811
“You are positively glowing,” I stepped back after adjusting a pearl-tipped pin in Jane’s hair.
We looked at our shared reflection in the mirror of the Netherfield guest room where we prepared for the ball.
Her blond hair gleamed golden in the candlelight, while my darker curls were picked out with hints of copper.
“If only everyone could be so happy,” Jane said softly.
“Oh, but we are not all angels as you are,” I teased. “For me, perhaps another Mr. Collins will come along some day.”
Mr. Collins was a distant cousin, and heir to our family’s estate. A more ridiculous man I had never met. He had proposed -quite ineptly- to me the day after Jane’s engagement to Charles.
“We shall find you someone much better suited than Mr. Collins,” Jane said with a rare grin. “After all, ‘Mr. Bingley will put you in the path of other rich men’,” she quoted our mother.
“And if they are all such perfection as the illusive Mr. Darcy, they shall run away at the first signs of my impertinence,” I quipped.
Unbidden, a vision of a tall, dark-haired man, his arm about the shoulders of his young sister, appeared in my mind. I shook my head.
“No, no, I shall be with you always, teaching your seven children to climb trees, and play the pianoforte very ill. Come, it is time to go downstairs.”
From the chatter rising from the entrance hall, the rest of the Bennet family already awaited us.
I stayed a few steps behind as Jane descended the stairs, watching for Mr. Bingley’s expression as he first saw her.
As I expected, his eyes widened, and mouth gaped softly.
Jane was always beautiful, but in the ice blue dress, from a London modiste rather than the Meryton dressmaker, she was incandescent.
Charles gulped, then he stepped forward to greet Jane at the foot of the stairs.
I continued my descent, eyes scanning the other occupants of the hall for their reaction to Jane, when ice blue eyes met mine.
I froze, then I clutched the railing for balance.
My heart raced, and the air seemed to escape from my lungs, as all of the sounds around me faded away.
***
A few months before…
August 1811
I discretely blotted the perspiration from my forehead and neck, glancing toward my companion, Mrs. James, and her maid, who appeared less fraught from the heat.
Mrs. James, a friend of my Aunt Gardiner, had been kind enough to offer me passage as far as Hatfield, where my father’s carriage would collect me.
I had spent the past two months in London, assisting my aunt with her older children.
Her offer was far superior to taking the post coach, but as Mrs. James’ conversation was dedicated to my aunt’s delicate condition and her own daughter’s similar circumstances, I was relieved to feel the carriage slow as we approached the inn in Hatfield.
I glared at my bonnet then put it on with a sigh. The August heat made me long for the cooler breezes of the woods near my home of Longbourn, where bonnets could be set aside.
As the footman handed us down, I examined a fine carriage and four across the yard. The shining surface beneath dust and mud spatters suggested a long journey. I peered more closely. There was a coat of arms beneath all the dirt, as well.
I followed Mrs. James and the footman into the inn, and we found -as I had already observed- that my father’s carriage had not yet arrived. We were some thirty minutes before our expected arrival, so I welcomed the respite.
The innkeeper led us to a private room, promising refreshments with a genial bow, and I discarded my bonnet with relief.
As Mrs. James settled with a cascade of instructions for her maid, I murmured my intentions to visit the ladies retiring room which had been pointed out as we entered, and stepped into the hallway.
Rounding the corner I stopped short. A gentleman, tall, in fine, but rumpled clothing, paced before the door I sought, four steps one way, four steps the other.
I stepped back in the hallway to avoid notice as I counted his paces.
What could he be about? After two rounds he approached the door, raising his hand as if to knock, then drew back.
Another round of pacing, then he approached again, leaning toward the door, an unruly curl almost touching the dark oak.
“Sister? Sweetling, please speak to me.”
There was no response, and he resumed his pacing. I waited another moment, unwilling to draw his attention, then retraced my steps, entering the private parlour just behind the maid with the tea.
“I will wait until after we have our tea,” I said, without further explanation, joining Mrs. James at the table.
The tea was good, if weak, and the cakes excellent. As we finished the last, a distant clock tolled the hour. Our family’s carriage should arrive at any time.
“If you will excuse me.” I rose and retraced my steps toward the retiring room. This time there was no tall man stalking the hallway, and I approached the door unhindered. I knocked briskly, to no response, and opened the door.
Against the far wall, crumpled into herself, a young woman sat, sobbing, her face buried in a handkerchief.
I stopped, startled, looking around for a companion or maid.
Why could Jane not be with me? She was far more adept at soothing distraught young ladies -she had plenty of practice with four younger sisters.
But Jane was not here, so I must do what I could.
I cleared my throat, then spoke. “Miss? I do not wish to importune you, but can I offer you any assistance? Some water? A glass of wine?”
The young lady raised her face, blotchy red from her tears. She was younger than I first thought, probably my youngest sister Lydia’s age. Was this the ‘sister’ the man had been waiting for?
“No, no,” her voice was thick and muffled. “There is nothing. I have ruined everything. My brother will never forgive me.”
I envisioned the gentleman who had been pacing earlier.
“Is your brother very tall? With dark hair, and a curl at the front?” I asked with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
The girl nodded, her eyes widening.
“I saw him, pacing in front of this door for a very long time -I was wishing he would leave so I could enter,” I raised an eyebrow. “Miss, the gentleman I saw was not angry, he was very, very worried, and perhaps sad. I am sure that if you talk to him about your concerns, he will reassure you.”
“You do not know how foolish I was. He…” she trailed off.
“Well,” I said, not sure whether to coax or scold. “I have four sisters, and they, my youngest in particular, are frequently foolish. I may be angry with them at times or annoyed, but I will always love them. Has your brother ever given you reason to doubt his care for you?”
“Oh, no, he is the best of brothers,” she protested.
“Well, there you have it. Now, if you will excuse me for a moment,” I waved toward the door which I hoped hid the necessary, “I will assist you in putting yourself at rights.”
Returning with relief after refreshing myself, I assisted the young lady in blotting her tears and arranging her hair, murmuring reassurance as I did so. Finally, we faced the mirror together, and the girl produced a watery smile.
“Thank you, ever so much. I have never had a sister, but you have acted as I have always imagined a sister would.”
“I am very pleased to assist. Now, let us find your brother.”