Chapter 27 Wishing
WISHING
I packed slowly in my room, or, more honestly, I unpacked and repacked, rearranging skirts and gloves and ribbons.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s proposal, with his selfless decorum, left me feeling sad and cruel. And confused, for I was unsure why I refused. He was not odious like Mr. Collins. And for all his claims of penury, compared to my prospects once Longbourn was lost, the colonel offered a comfortable life.
In fact, if Jane and I were correct that a bound Bennet daughter might inherit Longbourn, I should jump at the first marriage proposal I got. Instead, I had declined three.
And why was I constantly being surprised by proposals of marriage? That seemed a poor way to move through life. I must be horribly inattentive.
“It is because I wish to be in love,” I said to the mirror. I had never said that before. The words sounded silly and selfish. Then, irritatingly, the image that popped into my head was walking through the trees with Mr. Darcy.
“I will cure Jane,” I announced. That was better.
The coach would arrive soon, and I had farewells to make. I closed a hatbox, stretched tense shoulders, then went lightly down the stairs. After checking that Mr. Collins was engrossed in his book room, I exited into the sunlit garden behind the house.
I found an area free of fragile young sprouts. A few breaths later, the wyvern glided to earth several steps away. This time, she came no closer.
you are leaving
“My sister is ill.” Did sister mean anything to a wyvern? Did illness?
I concentrated on Jane as I had seen her last, wasted and silent.
The wyvern stamped one bronze foot, distressed, her wings half-unfurling. Like memory, I saw an unknown woman, gaunt and staring from a crude bed of reeds. A victim of binding sickness?
The wyvern’s wings settled, her eyes leaf-green like the foliage around us.
you are leaving him
“Who?”
Images flickered through my mind. Postures and strides, not features or dress as I would describe a person. But it was Mr. Darcy.
“Yes, I am leaving him.” My throat tightened. Anger? Emotions blurred and chased back and forth.
go to the lake
Deep water the color of cold. The lowered path of the sun in the north. People’s faces striped in brilliant patterns of glowing indigo.
“I do not understand. What lake?”
for your sister
Her wings fanned, leaves and twigs whirled, and she was gone.
“Lizzy?” Charlotte’s voice was hesitant behind me. “The carriage is here.” My turmoil must have shown because she took my hand. “You have hardly spoken since we were at Rosings. Are you so angry?”
I had told her that Jane was unwell. But nothing of… everything else.
“Not angry with you. You have been a generous and wonderful friend.”
Her smile was relieved. “I greatly enjoyed your visit. I feared you would be bored with so little society.”
I laughed at that, which cheered me up. “I assure you I was not bored.”
“Will Mr. Darcy come to see you off?”
I kept my smile, determined to be amused. “I fear not.”
We walked to the front. The driver was loading my bags while Mr. Collins squawked inane advice.
Charlotte looked down the road. “Perhaps you were mistaken?” One of her ladyship’s carriages was approaching.
Although I knew it would not be Mr. Darcy, I was surprised when the footman unlatched the door and Lady Catherine descended. She frowned at my iron-barred carriage and clanged it with her cane before approaching.
“Lady Catherine.” I curtsied.
“So, you depart,” Lady Catherine observed.
“Yes, madam.”
“Whatever for? Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”
“But my father cannot. He wrote to hurry my return.”
“Your father? What use has a father for daughters? If you will stay another month, it will be in my power to take you as far as London. There should be room for you, as you are not large.”
“You are all kindness. But I believe I must abide by my original plan.”
“Hmph. And where is my vexatious nephew?”
“Which one, madam?” I asked innocently.
“Darcy, of course. I was certain he would be here.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. I wished I had told her a little more so she could stop reminding me of how idiotic I was.
Her ladyship prodded open the door of my carriage with her cane. She peered inside, perhaps to ensure that Mr. Darcy was not hiding. “Did your father not send a servant?”
“I hired the coach myself.”
“You are traveling alone? Not through London, I hope!”
“I will not pass through London.” Because I was stopping in London. That was a false distinction, but it was none of her business.
“Very well. You will return in the autumn. Mrs. Collins will be glad of your company. I shall expect you at Rosings.”
I did not answer. Her ladyship drove off without noticing.
“Will you come back, Lizzy?” asked Charlotte softly.
“To you. Not to Rosings. We shall need a plot for that.”
I finished my farewells. Then I paused at the door to the carriage. The interior was stifling and dark, with narrow beams of light through the barred window slots.
“Do you need a hand up, ma’am?” the driver called from his perch.
His seat looked wide enough for two. “May I ride up there?”
“Here, ma’am?” He laughed.
“I have seen passengers ride atop.”
“Yes, ma’am. Them as can’t pay for the coach. Even had a woman sit up here, once. Not a lady, though.”
“A woman and a lady sit the same way.”
“Not sure I agree, ma’am.” I folded my arms and waited. “All right, then. Best I pull you up.” He reached down a hand.
It was a high step, and Mr. Collins turned red, then turned his back. But I reached the seat. The driver hopped down and locked the carriage so my luggage would survive if a pack of draca ate us.
We set off with a whistle and the clop of hooves. Loose bolts jingled festively. The view was wonderful, much higher than a usual carriage seat.
With a rustle of parted air, the wyvern flashed over us.
“Devil take me!” The driver cried. “It’s a dragon!”
That was, by far, the most vulgar language ever uttered in my presence. I tensed, waiting for an apology.
The driver twisted to watch the wyvern, his mouth hanging. He exclaimed again. Clearly, no apology was forthcoming.
I could sit with my mouth pruned like Lady Catherine. Or not.
“She is a wyvern,” I said. “A breed of draca. Dragons are only myth.”
“Is that so?” Our heads turned as she arced and swept over again. “What’s she doing?”
“Saying goodbye.”
“Blind me. She’s beautiful. A clever girl, too. See how she comes from behind and turns? Not spooking the horses.”
“I had not realized. I suppose she learned that from hunting.”
The driver explained how horses see the world, and the good and bad of blinders, and I chatted about draca, and we clattered along the road to London.
What cures an unwed woman who must bind? Mary would search the journal for answers. Our Scottish maid could quote lore and legend. The wyvern advised an unnamed lake.
Common sense offered a simpler path. Jane should marry Mr. Bingley. But if wishing produced weddings, my mother would have five married daughters by now. So, I would do more than wish.
I was willing to call alone on Mr. Bingley. But that was brazen, and a scandal would destroy any hope of reconnection. Also, I had no idea where he lived.
But Jane had corresponded with Miss Bingley, and I remembered the street name from the envelope, and that her sister, Mrs. Hurst, lived on the same street.
Mrs. Hurst approved of Jane, according to Colonel Fitzwilliam. And nothing prevented me from calling on Mrs. Hurst. Other than our mutual hatred.
When the driver stopped for directions, I climbed down to sit in the carriage. This was a time for decorum. We rolled on, questions were shouted, then we stopped. The carriage door opened.
“Ma’am. The Hurst residence.” The driver was all formality now, but he winked as I stepped down.
The Hursts lived in a narrow four-story terrace home on an elegant block. The entrance had huge white columns framing a wide, black door. The effect was modern and severe, but, judging from the rest of the street, in fashion.
I was nervous. Who has made a social call where the life of their sister depended on the outcome?
I rang. The door was opened by a white-haired man with a slight stoop. He was soberly dressed and subtly proud. A butler.
“Good afternoon, madam.”
“Good afternoon. I am calling without appointment for Mrs. Hurst.” I placed my card on his silver tray. “Please tell her it is an urgent matter.”
He nodded and left at a snail’s pace. A clock ticked ponderously. I scuffed at the marble floor, then checked my bonnet for dust in the mirror.
The clock had advanced eight minutes when he returned. “Madam.” He gestured to a doorway. I puffed a sigh of relief. I had not been sure I would be received.
I was shown into an elegant drawing room, long and thin by the standards of a country home, but good-sized in town. Mrs. Hurst stood at the far end, hands crossed against her elaborate floral dress.
She made no motion of greeting. She said nothing.
“Thank you for receiving me,” I said.
“You are visiting London,” she observed, which seemed rather obvious. Then she added, “Alone.”
On the drive up, I had considered behavior so much more egregious than traveling alone that I forgot how scandalous my mere presence was. A lady did not travel unaccompanied. Perhaps Mrs. Hurst had received me solely to gather gossip.
But social fencing would end this interview in moments. We had to reach the real topic before I was cast out.
I took a deep breath and began.
“Mrs. Hurst. Unintentionally, and through private communication, I have learned the cause of Mr. Bingley’s sudden return to London and his separation from my sister Jane. I should add that my sister knows nothing of this, and she is unaware of my presence here.”
There. I was committed now.
Mrs. Hurst was silent.
“Part of my information,” I continued, “is that certain parties”—Mr. Darcy—“believed the separation of your brother and my sister was of little consequence, for my sister held no great affection for your brother.” My voice caught. I swallowed. “I can assure you that is untrue.”
There was dead silence. I could feel my opportunity to reach this woman closing. I rushed on.
“I am aware that my visit and request are extraordinary—”
“I have heard no request,” she interrupted sharply.
It was a relief to hear a response, even that.
“I… I will presume to suggest that the separation of Mr. Bingley and my sister, however well intentioned, may not be in their mutual best interest. Not… conducive to their happiness. I have reason to think you are sympathetic to my view. Therefore…”
“Therefore, what?”
“Perhaps we could… have them thrown into each other’s way somehow? I am sure it would take no more than that. If only they met again—” I stopped. I sounded like a meddling fool in a terrible romantic novel.
Mrs. Hurst was staring like she had admitted a lunatic to her drawing room. Perhaps she had.
“How does your brother feel?” I asked, clutching at any straw.
She stiffened and turned, staring at a vase of daisies as if her brother’s innermost secrets hid in the petals. Seconds passed. “My brother was devastated.”
“Then why did he leave?” Pathetically, my voice quavered on the last word.
“Charles is very influenced by the ‘certain parties’ you mentioned. Will you name them?”
That was a brilliant, vicious request. Now I was forced to utter a specific accusation. If I was wrong, or if she wanted to use my words against me, all was lost.
But her escalation broke my restraint. Fear of society’s rules—those vacuous moats that hold everyone in their allotted place—fell away. The rules still existed. Their practical power was unchanged. But if they blocked me from helping Jane, they were unjust. Unworthy of consideration.
“Mr. Darcy,” I answered, in a tone of moral condemnation that would have impressed even Mary.
Mrs. Hurst laughed bitterly.
“Your sister Jane is a gentle, kind-hearted girl. I thought she loved my brother, and I know my brother loves her. But I do not like you, Eliza Bennet. You are a clever, pretty flirt. The sort who drifts through life pursued by doting men whom you treat thoughtlessly, as if it is an accomplishment to bend hearts. The sort who never learns that life is a battle. Have children, and you will learn what it means to care, and to fight for something, and to defend those whom you love from those who would take everything you cherish.”
I had never been called a flirt before. I thought it a poor attack. Compared to her sister’s unblushing pursuit of Mr. Darcy—or to my two youngest sisters—I was a cloistered nun. But her words stirred unpleasant echoes of Mary’s criticism at the ball.
A lot had changed since then.
I said, “I think, madam, that you do not know me. I certainly do not know you. I will say only that I love, and defend, and am fighting for my sister.”
She shook her head, derisive or disbelieving. “For my brother’s sake, I would not oppose your plan. If I could call it that. But Charles is traveling.”
My relief at securing so crucial an ally made me light-headed. Now, there was hope of success. More than success. A happy ending. A fairytale ending.
Then I realized what else she had said.
“Traveling? May I ask when he will return?” Perhaps I could have Jane in London by then.
“He is in America. He is not expected back for a year. Longer, most likely.”
My relief—my vision of hugging Jane and Mr. Bingley at their wedding—fell to dust.