Six #2
Elizabeth knocked on Lydia’s door and entered after the quiet “come in.” The room was small and dim, the curtains half-drawn. Lydia sat by the window, a book open in her lap. She raised her head and managed a smile that did not quite hold.
“Lizzy.”
“Hello, dearest.”
Elizabeth sat beside her and took her hand.
They did not speak of anything important.
They spoke of the weather, of Kitty’s mending, of the neighbour’s cat that had taken to sleeping on their doorstep.
Small, safe, inconsequential things. Lydia’s fingers gripped hers tightly, but her eyes were elsewhere. Elizabeth held on and did not press.
She went back downstairs and Jane made tea. Jane, Elizabeth, and Mrs Bennet sat in the cramped kitchen. The tea was weak because it was expensive, and they squeezed the leaves to make the most of it.
“The child,” Mrs Bennet said. “What is she like?”
“Extraordinary.” Elizabeth wrapped her hands around the cup. “She is six and asks more questions than Parliament. She has a wooden horse named Muffin and firm opinions about potatoes.”
Jane’s mouth curved. The almost-smile, the one Elizabeth lived for. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She is.”
“And Mr Darcy? As an employer, I mean.” Mrs Bennet was watching her over the rim of her cup. “Does he treat you well?”
“He does, Mamma. He is considerate and fair.”
“Considerate.” Mrs Bennet set her cup down.
“Fair. He sends his carriage for you on your half day. This is more than fair.” She pinned her daughter with her eyes.
“Lizzy, I was not born yesterday, and I was not born stupid, whatever your father may have thought. That is not an employer. That is a man who—”
“Mamma.” Elizabeth’s voice was low and firm. “He is my employer. That is all.”
Mrs Bennet held her gaze for a long while. Then she picked up her tea, and said nothing, which was the most alarming thing she had done all afternoon.
At six o’clock precisely, Elizabeth kissed her mother, embraced Jane, and stepped out onto The Polygon.
The carriage was waiting; she had expected that. What she had not expected was the man leaning against it.
He was in regimentals. Tall, fair-haired, broad across the shoulders, with an easy stance and a face that belonged on a recruiting poster. He straightened when he saw her, and his expression broke into a grin so warm and immediate that Elizabeth stopped on the pavement, her breath catching.
“Miss Bennet!” Colonel Fitzwilliam swept his hat from his head and bowed. “I do not believe it. Seven years, and you have not changed a particle.”
This was generous and not entirely true, but the Colonel had always been generous, and Elizabeth had always liked him for it.
At Rosings he had been the only bearable company in Lady Catherine’s drawing room.
She liked him now, standing on a narrow street in Somers Town, grinning at her as though the intervening years, the scandal, and the poverty were details too trivial to acknowledge.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She took his offered hand. His grip was firm, uncomplicated, carrying none of the charge that had shot through her when another hand had touched her. She pushed that thought aside. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Escorting you home, of course.” He opened the carriage door and handed her in.
“I arrived at Grosvenor Street this afternoon, fresh from Gibraltar and smelling considerably better than I did a fortnight ago. Darcy and Miss Darcy informed me of your situation, and when I heard the carriage was coming to collect you, I seized my opportunity.” He climbed in after her and settled into the opposite seat. “I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all. Though I confess I did not expect a military escort for the journey from Somers Town.”
“The streets of London are treacherous, Miss Bennet. One cannot be too careful.” His eyes were bright with amusement.
He had not changed either. He was older, certainly.
Lines around his eyes that had not been there, and a tan that spoke of years under a harsher sun than England’s.
But the warmth was the same, the directness, the refusal to stand on ceremony.
The carriage moved through the evening streets.
The Colonel talked easily, filling the space between them with news of his regiment, an anecdote about a mule that had eaten his commanding officer’s dispatches, and a description of the Gibraltarian countryside that was vivid enough to make her smile.
He did not mention her circumstances. He did not mention Lydia, or her father, or the house she had just left.
He treated her precisely as he had treated her at Rosings: as an equal, as a companion whose wit he enjoyed, as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.
Longbourn did not exist anymore, not for her, but the Colonel either did not know or did not care, and the kindness of it pressed against her chest.
“Darcy tells me you are governess to little Anne,” he said, as the carriage turned north. “How do you find her?”
“She is remarkable. She has the curiosity of a scholar and the negotiating skills of a diplomat. I am frequently outwitted.”
The Colonel laughed. “That sounds about right. She had me in full retreat within ten minutes of my arrival this afternoon. Asked me why soldiers carry swords instead of talking, and I had no answer that would satisfy a six-year-old philosopher.”
“You would not be the first grown man she has defeated, Colonel.”
“No, I rather suspect that honour belongs to my cousin.” His smile shifted, a degree warmer, a degree more knowing. “Darcy is devoted to that child. I have never seen a man so thoroughly conquered by someone under three feet tall.”
Elizabeth said nothing to this. She turned her face to the window and watched the streets pass, the lamplighters beginning their rounds, the city softening into dusk.
The carriage delivered them to Grosvenor Street. The Colonel handed her down and offered his arm up the steps. Barton opened the door, and the house received them in its usual quiet warmth. Elizabeth heard voices from the dining room and understood that the evening had been arranged without her.
The table was set for five.
Georgiana was at her usual place, radiant in cream silk.
Beside her sat a young man Elizabeth had not met before, tall, fair, and attentive.
He rose when she entered and was introduced as Lord Lofton, Georgiana’s betrothed.
He bowed over her hand with easy courtesy and a pleasant smile that reached his eyes.
Mr Darcy was at the head of the table. He rose when she entered and pulled out the chair at his left, the one she had occupied every evening for a week, and said nothing.
The Colonel took the seat opposite her and Lord Lofton immediately asked about his military duties. The conversation flowed, warm and quick, the comfortable hum of people who knew each other well and were glad to be together.
Elizabeth sat among them and felt the distance.
She was neither family nor a guest. She was the governess who happened to eat at the master’s table.
Tonight, the table was full of people who belonged to each other.
This was visible in every glance, every shared reference, every laugh that carried the weight of years.
Georgiana touched Lord Lofton’s arm. The Colonel called Mr Darcy by his Christian name.
Georgiana teased her brother about a childhood incident involving a pony and a lake.
They were a constellation, bright and interconnected, and Elizabeth was the dark space between the stars.
She smiled when spoken to. She answered questions about Anne. She laughed at the Colonel’s anecdote about the mule, which he told again for Georgiana’s benefit with additional embellishments. She performed the evening competently, graciously, and with the composure she had spent years perfecting.
At nine o’clock, she set down her napkin.
“If you will excuse me, I find I am rather fatigued from the day. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lofton. And Colonel, I am very glad to see you well.”
Georgiana’s face fell, briefly. The Colonel half-rose from his chair. Mr Darcy’s hand stilled on his glass.
Elizabeth smiled, thanked them for a lovely evening, and climbed the stairs to her room. She closed the door and leaned against it, her palms flat on the wood.
The house hummed below her. Laughter drifted up through the floor, muffled by the carpet and the distance. She pressed her back against the door and breathed. She did not cry. Crying was a luxury she had given up along with everything else, and she was not about to reclaim it now.