Chapter Three
Elizabeth entered the drawing room in search of a quiet place to read.
She was surprised to find her aunt and uncle sitting on her favorite settee.
Normally, they were in conference together with their staff, stewards, or a solicitor at this time of the morning.
She did not pay much attention, really, as she had been told that her responsibility was to complete her lessons and the work kept her almost constantly occupied.
“Come in, my girl,” Uncle Phillip said quietly, “Your aunt and I have been having an important conversation about you, and we should like your opinion.”
“About me?” Elizabeth asked, stepping closer and holding her book tightly to her chest.
“Yes, dear,” Aunt Olivia nodded, patting the space next to her on the settee. “Please, come and sit with us.”
“Lizzy,” Uncle Phillip said briskly, as she settled next to her aunt, “You are twelve now.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she agreed.
“We have been discussing,” he explained, “whether it is time to send you to school.”
She returned his gaze for a moment, and then lowered her head. “I see.”
“Elizabeth,” her aunt said crisply, “look at us.”
She complied.
“Better.” Her aunt nodded, approving. “Now, we would like to hear your thoughts on this proposition.”
Elizabeth’s mouth flattened into a straight line. “I would prefer to remain at Weymouth House, Aunt Olivia,” she said decidedly.
Uncle Phillip reclined in his chair. “Why is that, precisely?”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow at him, and he began to smile.
It was a game they played. She was invited to express her opinion; once she had stated it, she was then required to explain.
She began a lengthy discussion of the subjects she was learning with them that would not be broached at a girls’ school.
“I should have to spend more time on needlework than economics, Uncle Phillip,” she finished with a half-smile. It was his favorite topic.
“You should practice your needlework, Elizabeth,” her aunt admonished her, but her smile was kind. “We simply thought you might enjoy being with other girls your age. You are rather solitary here, with only two old people for company.”
“I thank you for the thought, Aunt,” Elizabeth said gratefully, “but I would rather not.” There was a touch of pleading in her voice. “Must I go?”
“We may delay a bit,” Uncle Phillip replied, “but not forever. At school, you shall meet the girls who will be your contemporaries.” He tapped his finger on the arm of his chair.
“Knowledge is essential, but you must also create connections with girls from other good families if you are to be successful in society.”
Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. “I have not finished drawing the gardens.”
Her uncle and aunt gave her skeptical looks. She glanced away. “I should miss you both very much,” she confessed.
“This is simply the way of things, Lizzy,” Aunt Olivia replied, sympathetic but firm. “We shall also miss you.”
“Well,” Uncle Phillip said jovially, slapping his knees as he rose from his chair, “it seems we shall put off the idea for now.” He gestured at the book in Elizabeth’s hands. “What is it you are reading today?”
Elizabeth handed her uncle the tome.
“Ah,” he said, his eyes alight with interest, “Henry Thornton’s book. This is a bit advanced for you, no?”
“No,” she protested, but when he simply waited, she sighed.
“Yes.” As he handed it back, she reached to take it.
“You said it was an important book,” she said respectfully but defensively, “and you are here to assist me over the most difficult parts. I should not have the benefit of your insight were I away at school.”
Phillip chuckled. “Flattery of the most obvious kind, Lizzy.”
“I believe you very much enjoy such flattery,” Aunt Olivia retorted, but her eyes twinkled, and he returned her gaze, the expression of his eyes both admiring and tender.
“I would not know,” he teased her, “having never experienced it from my wife.”
Elizabeth listened to their banter with warm delight. It supported her burgeoning sense of romance to see her uncle and aunt so freely demonstrate their love for one another.
“How did you two first meet?” she asked, unconcerned that the question might be rather a private one.
The relationship the three of them shared was unusual, to say the least. Having pined for a child until they were both far too old to expect one, the Russells savored every moment with Elizabeth, delighting in her questions and pleased to offer any answers they thought would not hurt her to know.
“We first met,” Uncle Phillip said, smiling, “at a ball in London.” This was a surprising declaration.
When she asked about it, Elizabeth learned that unlike her father and grandfather, Great-grandfather Bennet had enjoyed the diversions of town.
Of course, London then was not the same as it was now.
“Yes,” Aunt Olivia told her. “My parents took me to town several months each year once I was of an age to enjoy the entertainments. My older sisters were married by then, so it was only the three of us.” Her expression softened. “We were fortunate to attend Handel’s Samson my first year out.”
“She would have none of me,” Uncle Phillip laughed, “and right she was, too. I had no time for a wife when first we met. I was even abroad for a time.” His expression grew thoughtful.
“Upon my return, we were more often in company. She was beautiful, witty, and deeply intelligent.” He gazed tenderly at his wife, who returned the look.
“At a ball halfway through the season, I asked for her first set.” His smile was smug and satisfied.
“During it, she suffered the shocking realization that she had fallen in love with me.” Aunt Olivia snorted ungraciously.
“I had suffered a reverse,” her uncle said quietly, “and she loved me regardless.”
Elizabeth wondered what that reversal might have been, but he did not explain. When she asked where he had gone, his face clouded over, and she did not protest when Aunt Olivia picked up the thread of the story.
“That set was the first time I believed it would not be a hardship to marry,” Aunt Olivia said as the memory washed over her. “Though,” she was quick to add, “he was much older than I had hoped.” She gazed at her husband, challenging him to respond.
“I was thirty-five, woman, hardly on my way to the grave,” her husband cried in mock indignation.
“Soon after we were wed,” Aunt Olivia explained.
“Your uncle worked very hard, and he not only rebuilt everything he had lost, but created a fortune far larger than anyone had ever expected—even himself.” There was no mistaking the pride in her voice.
“His family was pleased to help him, but the work was entirely his own.”
“Without John’s father,” Uncle Phillip remarked, “it would have been much more difficult.”
“In the process,” Aunt Olivia said, waving off her husband’s modesty, “your uncle forged strong alliances with some of the most influential Russells in England, including the Duke of Bedford—Cousin John’s father.
He and John also became very close as they worked to increase John’s fortune.
Our cousin John was not supposed to be the duke, you know.
He was a younger son with three sons of his own. ”
Elizabeth listened in silence. Her aunt and uncle could argue loud enough to rattle the windows, but they never did so in front of her.
Her uncle was a kind man, but there were nights he did not sleep well, and on the days following, he could be moody.
More often, though, they were like this—forever extolling one another’s best qualities.
Over the first year she was with them, her uncle and aunt had insisted she be introduced to all their acquaintance within twenty miles.
She was just learning to sketch then, and on these visits, Elizabeth had begun to see faces in a way she had not before.
She compared them to Uncle Phillip and Aunt Olivia, whose complexions were relatively smooth and cheerful, the deepest wrinkles in their skin appearing at the outer corners of their eyes.
Aunt Olivia called them laughing lines, and one day, Elizabeth had an epiphany. Faces told stories.
On her visits, where she was introduced to all and sundry as Miss Elizabeth Bennet Russell, come to live with her uncle and aunt, she met many married couples.
She learned to look first for the laughing lines.
Then she observed heavy lines on foreheads, craggy cheeks, baggy skin, and mottled noses.
Mr. George Darcy, her uncle’s friend in Derbyshire, had deep lines around his eyes, but they did not detract from his handsomeness.
The new Duke of Bedford, John Russell, Uncle Phillip’s cousin and best friend, was bald and smiled a good deal but was hardly wrinkled at all.
Every feature was a page in someone’s story—and she drew them all, building her skills with every portrait.
Since making the decision that Lizzy would remain at Weymouth House for the present, Olivia had spent a good deal of time pondering what kind of school would eventually be best for her niece.
She was already well read and accomplished.
She also required regular exercise to tame her energies.
Perhaps they would not send her to a boarding school after all.
If Lizzy were to be a day student at the kind of institution she had in mind, though, they should have to reside in London.