Chapter Nineteen #4
Out of one corner of her eye, she spied a small stack of letters waiting for her.
Without moving her head, she reached one hand out and dragged them to her.
Setting her chin on a forearm, she flipped through them.
There were a few personal letters, one from Mr. Yeager, another from her solicitor--an updating of her accounts, most likely.
There were two from Aunt Olivia, which was unusual.
Normally she wrote once a week. Curious, Elizabeth sat up and broke the seal on the first letter.
It was dated at the start of the past week and relayed nothing startling.
John was already irritated with some opening speech at the House of Lords, and Francis had been quick to chime in with his impressions of the opposition.
Like children, Aunt Olivia wrote, and yet they are running the country.
Are you certain you do not wish to remove to South America with one of your uncle’s ships?
Grow pineapples and reside in a sunny clime?
Elizabeth smiled a little; in the past four weeks or so, her aunt’s humor had returned little by little, and her hand seemed stronger.
Or was it wishful thinking on her part? She set the first letter aside and opened the second.
There were two sets of handwriting, and the letter was so brief as not to be worth sending.
It was unlike Aunt Olivia to be so extravagant.
Elizabeth read both messages, then buried her burning face in her arms again.
She had written to her aunt all about Mr. Darcy’s confounding behavior but nothing about Papa’s supposition. How could she have been so blind when Aunt Olivia understood the entire situation all the way from London? “This is humiliating,” she groaned aloud. And diverting, she had to admit.
At the top of the page was a bold, masculine script she knew was John’s.
Lizzy, your aunt says I am to give my approval.
For what, precisely, I am not certain, as she refuses to take the time to explain.
However, to keep her from forever digging at me, I approve.
I simply hope this has nothing to do with more greenhouses or merchant ships.
Count Rumford is working on an improved coffee pot, he says.
You may wish to discuss it with him when you are here. An investment closer to home, perhaps?
My best wishes to your father, Jane, and Mary, and of course the rest of your family. We anticipate seeing you at Christmas, my dear.
John
Beneath this rather bemused approval came her aunt’s message.
Lizzy, tell your father that when Mr. Darcy asks for your hand, he is to grant it. The Darcys are long known to us, and even if they are a bit stiff-necked, they raise the very best of men at Pemberley. The best men, and the best Arabians. You shall be quite content, I should think.
My love to Georgiana when you see her next, and to all the Bennets.
Aunt Olivia
Darcy was sure his face appeared pained. Georgiana told him it always did when he was thinking. Pained or cold, she had said. You really must work on that, brother. He tilted his teacup and watched the remnants of his tepid tea swirl about the bottom.
No wonder, he thought. No wonder she is as strong as she is.
To be sent from home at ten—to lose her uncle at seventeen—to face, instead of a presentation and her first season, a year of mourning that had stretched into two.
To take over her uncle’s very involved business affairs, albeit with help from a trustee when her aunt proved unable.
She was, in most ways, the head of her little family while still being attached to her larger one.
To a woman who had lived through these things, who dealt with them still, a few words from a jealous woman like Mrs. Hurst were nothing.
It was sobering to think that she had only been in Hertfordshire since the early summer.
She had not grown up here with her sisters; though she had been a child here, the county was nearly as new to her as it was to him.
Yet she had spent her time here better than he; the community had welcomed her back with open arms due to her family, but she had herself reestablished connections and made new friends.
“That is quite a story, sir,” he said quietly. “I thank you for relating it.”
“There is more, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet said gruffly, “but that part is Lizzy’s to tell.” He set his own teacup and saucer on the silver tray and stood. “Shall I call for her now?”
Darcy stood to place his own cup on the tray. What more? He squared his shoulders. Whatever it might be, he was ready to learn it all. “Yes,” he said. “I would like that. Very much.”
Elizabeth knocked on her father’s study door, holding the folded letter from her aunt.
She had considered bringing her small ledger, the one she traveled with, but thought that might just as well wait for the actual writing of any marriage contract.
Aunt Olivia seems so eager for the match, she probably has John and the solicitors working on the contract already.
She took a deep breath and when her father called out “Enter,” she turned the knob and stepped over the threshold.
Mr. Darcy stood from his chair, inclining his head slightly, his gaze warm. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she replied, meeting his eyes and waiting just a moment too long to turn to her father.
“I imagine you two are prepared to delve into the details, Papa?” She handed him Aunt Olivia’s letter, and waited for the full-throated laugh she knew was coming.
She was not disappointed, but it did make her feel foolish.
“That woman should play chess,” her father remarked when he finally regained control. “She is always ten steps ahead of us all.” He raised an eyebrow and tipped his head towards Darcy, as if to ask permission. She nodded once, and Mr. Bennet handed it over.
Elizabeth observed Mr. Darcy’s face as it changed from interest, to confusion, to pleasure, and wondered if she could capture that transition on paper.
“Your aunt is correct,” he said, now unsmiling, handing the letter back to her. “We do raise the finest Arabians in all of England at Pemberley.”
How does he keep his face like that? Is he joking?
“Is that your only reaction to the letter, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, unable to keep a touch of petulance from her tone.
His reply was one brief upward tug of his lips.
He is. Oh, Lord, Jane was right. I shall have to keep my wits about me. She could hardly wait.
Mr. Bennet barked out another laugh. “This is a fine day for me,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of one eye. “I will add my voice to Aunt Olivia’s and heartily approve this pairing. The two of you together will be endlessly entertaining.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, her tone both fond and lightly mocking. “Entertaining you is precisely what we were hoping for when I agreed to a courtship, Papa.”
“Well,” Mr. Bennet said, “call for more tea, Elizabeth, if you would like some. Then you should fill Mr. Darcy in on your life with the Russells, since you have agreed to a courtship and your aunt evidently favors the match.”
“I do not require tea, Papa,” Elizabeth said, taking a seat. She clasped her hands together and placed them in her lap, staring down at them while she considered where to begin. “I suppose it is not necessary to request that the details of this conference remain private, but I shall ask anyway.”
Both men assured her of their assent. She nodded, lifted her head, and began. “The day I turned thirteen, my Uncle Phillip and Aunt Olivia gave me a unique gift…”
END BOOK ONE