Chapter Two
After nearly three full days of traveling, Thomas Bennet’s temper was fraying. He had despised the inconvenience of travel as a young man, and as an older man he felt the physical strain as well.
Elizabeth had taken to the journey with a fervor that had quite overpowered him at first. He had made it through the trip in part because he was entertained so thoroughly with her delight.
He had exerted himself to answer the incessant line of questions as long as he was able.
Still, he knew his limits and had come prepared; each evening, he unpacked ink and a pen, and Elizabeth spent at least an hour scratching out her many impressions in her new journal and in a long letter he would take back to Jane.
“Look, Papa,” Elizabeth called, sitting on her knees, her face pressed to the glass.
Thomas slid across the bench to his own window and saw a large hive of bees, alive with activity, hanging from the branch of a tree set back a short way from the road.
When he moved his vision back to his daughter, she was sitting demurely, little gloved hands folded neatly in her lap.
Though she could not entirely disguise a tiny wriggle of excitement, she asked, quite properly, “I do hope Uncle Phillip and Aunt Olivia shall have honey at their house.” Her eyes twinkled.
“I like honey in my tea,” she informed him, as though he had never observed it.
This one thinks with her stomach, he thought, amused.
“I am sure they shall, my dear,” he told her with a small smile, “as I do not believe they use any sugar.” He paused to watch her brows knit together in thought before adding, “The honey here might not taste the same as it does at home. Do you know why?”
She frowned, concentrating. “Because the flowers taste different here?” Her voice had an uncertain lilt.
He smiled. “Very good, child. Every region had its own flora and fauna, and therefore the honey the bees make will taste like what they collect.”
Elizabeth’s face glowed at his praise.
The carriage rolled north, and Thomas noted that they were turning onto the road that would carry them away from bustling Sheffield and out into the country.
He was grateful to see that the road was wide and in good repair.
Wildflowers dotted the landscape, and black-faced sheep wandered the sunny fields beyond.
“We will arrive at Weymouth House quite soon, Lizzy,” he informed her. “No more than half an hour, I should think.”
“Weymouth House,” she repeated, almost to herself. “But Weymouth is in the south. We are in the north, are we not, Papa?”
“We are indeed,” he replied. “Your aunt’s husband is a Russell, and a Russell, many years ago, represented Weymouth in the House of Commons. I would imagine the name is to honor him.”
Elizabeth’s little lips pursed as she took in that knowledge. Thomas watched her fondly. With a hint of anxiety, she next inquired, “Is it a very large house, Papa?”
“I have never seen it, my dear,” he informed her, “so we shall have to discover that together.”
This seemed to satisfy his inquisitive child, and she turned her face back to the window.
Eventually they turned onto a long gravel drive, and he realized that they were at last approaching the house.
He heard Elizabeth gasp as they passed a stone lion on a plinth, mouth opened wide in a perpetual roar, but otherwise they did not speak again until the coach stopped before a splendid Palladian home.
Elizabeth wrung her hands as the carriage drew nearer and the house seemed to increase in size. She quickly judged from the edifice that Weymouth House was vast.
“Ah,” her father sighed, “Even larger than Netherfield, I do believe.” He winked at her. “I daresay there are endless treasures within its walls, my Lizzy.”
Her eyes widened her father’s pronouncement. I shall have to be very careful, she thought, before turning her attention to the stone staircase at the front of the house. A man and woman stood at the top, awaiting them.
The man was taller than Papa and dressed finely, in trousers, a snowy white shirt and cravat accented by a blue and gold waistcoat beneath a black coat.
Elizabeth very much approved of his style of dress, which seemed to fit more loosely than Papa’s breeches and topcoat.
He was older than her father, but he stood up straight and strong.
She glanced across the carriage. Papa’s hair was thinning, but only just beginning to grey.
The man standing at the top of the white steps had a full head of rich silver hair.
He stood beside a woman who was several inches shorter.
Her aunt’s hair was dark, like her own, though it was also shot through with silver.
She wore a blue silk gown with gold trim, the hems embroidered with a design she could not discern from this distance.
They match, Elizabeth realized, and wondered if married people were supposed to match their clothing. Papa and Mama never did.
Elizabeth kept her eyes on the couple as her papa helped her from the carriage.
They were both wearing soft smiles, and her heart began to beat rather quickly.
She smoothed her skirt with her hands, intent upon making the best possible first impression.
She was to visit with her aunt and uncle through the whole summer, and she found herself already desiring their approbation.
Mama was never entirely happy with her, and while Papa would sometimes ask her what she was reading, he was nearly always too busy with his steward to play or sit with them or go for walks.
Kitty and Lydia were still able to demand his attention from time to time, but she was too old to sit on his lap now.
She had tried not to burden him on this trip with her questions, but she had so many!
She took her father’s arm and allowed him to guide her up the stairs rather than skipping up them as she would normally have done.
When they reached her uncle and aunt, she studied their faces.
Their smiles were a little wider now. Her uncle’s face was handsome and kind. Her aunt’s face was familiar, somehow.
“My goodness, Elizabeth,” Aunt Olivia exclaimed loudly, “you are the very image of me at your age.” She bent down a little to take a closer look. “Except for your eyes.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as her aunt’s face hovered inches from her own. She tried not to smile, but she could not entirely suppress a grin. Her aunt was kind but could also be improper. This was a most welcome development. I wonder if she likes newts?
“Mrs. Russell,” her uncle said with a chuckle, gazing affectionately upon his wife, “perhaps we might begin with the introductions?”
Elizabeth schooled her features as the formalities were completed and the party moved indoors.
“Elizabeth,” Aunt Olivia said, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, “I will be with you in a moment and we shall go up to your rooms. Will you wait here for me?”
My rooms? Elizabeth thought. More than one?
She nodded, and her aunt disappeared into the drawing room with Papa and Uncle Phillip.
The hall was larger than the largest drawing room at Longbourn, and heedless of the two footmen and the maid standing along the wall, she strolled to the middle of the intricately tiled floor to stare up at the high ceiling.
She felt her mouth dropping open as she gazed up at a scene from Roman mythology, brightly colored and exquisitely rendered.
She was sure she recognized the figure hammering something on an anvil from the stories she had read, but to see it here, in the entry hall of all places, greater than life-size…
it was beautiful. It was breathtaking. Something inside her stirred to life.
She felt her aunt’s hand upon her shoulder again, and reluctantly tore her eyes from the art above her head.
“Do you know who that is, Elizabeth?” her aunt asked.
“Is it Vulcan, Aunt?” she asked in an awed voice not much above a whisper. She began to roll up to her toes and down, up and down, up and down.
“Yes, dear, it is.” Aunt Olivia sounded pleased. “Can you guess why we have a painting of Vulcan on our ceiling?”
Elizabeth shook her head solemnly. “Will you tell me?” She began to roll up again but remembered suddenly that Mama did not like it when she was always moving. She set her feet firmly back on the ground.
Her aunt smiled. “Of course.” She patted Elizabeth’s cheek. “You are in the land of copper and coal and steel, you see. Many a man’s fortune has been made by industry, including my husband’s.”
Elizabeth considered that. “Is Uncle Phillip in trade like Uncle Gardiner?” She liked Uncle Gardiner and his new wife very much.
Olivia shook her head. “No, dear, but he and his father invested in men who were. He paid them so they could buy the materials to perfect their inventions. When those inventions were eventually able to be produced and sold, he shared in the profits. His family were among those who invested in the first steelworks in Sheffield.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, grasping the connection immediately. She drew a steadying breath and said, hands held behind her back, “Vulcan is appropriate, then.”
Her aunt’s eyes sparkled merrily. “Come now,” she said conspiratorially, “let us have none of that.”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “Aunt?” she asked, perplexed and worried. Had she already said something amiss?
The older woman’s face was kind, like her husband’s, but also full of mischief, and Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of warmth for her.
“Your father has written me about all the Bennet girls,” her aunt said teasingly, “and I suspect you will not be able to pretend to be a boring, proper girl for long. There are places we cannot escape propriety, but they are not here at home.”
Elizabeth’s heart filled with so much joy that it lifted her to her toes. “May I ask a question, Aunt?”