Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Would this dowry make her worthy despite her family living in a cottage? Could he see past her low connections?
Did she want him if he could not, no matter how she felt about him?
Elizabeth shook her head, rattling away fanciful hypotheticals.
Back to more practical thoughts, she realized that only left Mary and Lydia, for Elizabeth knew in her heart that Mr. Wickham wouldn’t wed her youngest sister.
She’d read as much on his face the moment he’d learned that Mr. Bennet didn’t plan to give him a large sum and that, if any such sum were forthcoming, it wouldn’t be for years.
But their father certainly had enough to care for a wife and two daughters without Elizabeth giving her inheritance to them.
She closed the ledger, moving it, alone so far, into the pile of what she would keep, and turned to a small cluster of items. She took up a painting of a woman who vaguely resembled the madwoman who’d attacked her, Mrs. Clegg.
The frame made the small piece of art heavy.
Elizabeth was no judge as to whether it was the right weight for being solid gold, but trusted Lady Catherine’s assessment.
There were also the candlesticks her mother wanted. They were functional, rather than decorative, but Elizabeth would bring them home. She wondered if they would please Mrs. Bennet, or rankle as the only small portion of Elizabeth’s inheritance she meant to give over to her mother.
Beside the golden frame rested a small wooden box. Curious, Elizabeth opened the lid to find three seashells. She closed her eyes, taken by a sudden wave of guilt and loss.
Mr. Collins hadn’t struck her as a sentimental man, but he’d recently moved.
He wouldn’t have brought anything he didn’t need.
The little shells obviously meant something to him.
She doubted anyone alive knew what. Should she keep them?
Not to seemed wrong, somehow, when he’d obviously cherished them as mementos of some occasion.
But what of her mementos? The shawl her grandmother had knit for Elizabeth’s fifteenth birthday, gone and irreplaceable.
Her favorite nightgown, the little bluebells on it embroidered by her older sister.
Possibly replaceable, but it wouldn’t be the same.
Her copy of a book of recipes and household hints, passed down from her Grandma Gardiner to her mother, and then to Elizabeth.
Mrs. Bennet had made them each write out their own copy, both to practice their handwriting and to keep.
None of them had thought to take their copy from the house.
That information, those memories, examples of their young and improving handwriting, gone.
Elizabeth could copy over her Aunt Phillips’ copy, but that, too, wouldn’t be complete, since Mrs. Bennet had made changes to many of the recipes and added her own household hints.
Mr. Collins had taken all that and more, and Elizabeth had no use for his seashells. Maybe if she’d loved him. If she knew the story behind them. If she’d been his wife. None of those ifs were true. She snapped the box closed.
The seashells hadn’t even been on Lady Catherine’s list, but the box was mentioned. Perhaps Elizabeth would give it to Lydia to keep her ribbons. A piece offering, as the candlesticks would be to her mother.
Aware the box would do as little to mitigate ire as the candlesticks, Elizabeth shrugged and reached for the first book.
One of the books her father had asked for from the list Lady Catherine had brought with her to Hertfordshire was there, so Elizabeth put that with the ledger. She added to the small pile a book in which Mary had expressed interest. There were also two Elizabeth thought she might like to read.
Elizabeth stood looking down at the pile. Two candlesticks, four books, a box, one ledger and a framed picture of a woman Elizabeth had never met. That and money were all that Elizabeth would keep of Mr. Collins’ life. The sermons would only be useful to start a fire.
She felt guilty taking even those few items. Much like the money, they didn’t seem to be hers. But to whom else could they go? Perhaps she should speak to Mr. Darcy about her guilt. He evaluated things with less emotion. He would see the truth of what was right.
With so little to carry, it was good Elizabeth hadn’t brought a footman. She went to find the maid, who was asleep on a sofa which had seen better days. No, she thought, it had seen better decades.
Before Elizabeth could call out to the girl, a shadow passed between her and the light coming in the parlor window.
Elizabeth started, her head snapping up to glimpse a figure stepping out of sight along the side of the house.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Her gaze riveted on the door, which stood in the direction the figure headed.
Elizabeth reached out to touch the maid’s shoulder and paused. Would she start? Should Elizabeth put a hand over her mouth? She hoped the person outside hadn’t looked in the window and didn’t know they were there.
A knock sounded and Elizabeth jumped. The maid sat up, blinking groggily.
“Miss Bennet?” a familiar voice called.
Elizabeth’s shoulders drooped in relief. Mr. Darcy. She found the key in her pocket and hurried into the little entrance hall to open the door.
Mr. Darcy stood there, one hand raised to knock a second time. He dropped his arm, expression warming. “Miss Bennet. I thought you might need help carrying books.”
Elizabeth smiled, exceedingly happy to see him. “In truth, I think we could. We’ve four books, a ledger, a box, the candlesticks, and that picture to carry, and your assistance and company are most welcome.”
He searched her face. Elizabeth’s breath caught. Usually, his height put a certain amount of distance between them, even when they stood side by side conversing. A step lower than her, his face seemed quite near, only a touch above her own.
“I would be happy to carry any burden you wish,” he said.
Elizabeth couldn’t help but glance at his shoulders, broad beneath his greatcoat. “I doubt a few books will be a burden for you, Mr. Darcy.” She mustered a smile to mask any other emotion, worried he’d read his appeal in her eyes, and stepped backward, away from the door. “Please, come in.”
The maid now stood looking attentive. They put out both fires and Elizabeth gave Mr. Darcy all four books.
She handed the ledger and the candlesticks to the maid and took up the portrait and box.
Elizabeth may not have met Mr. Collins’ mother, but it seemed only right that she should carry her likeness, rather than hand the image off to someone else.
Thus laden, they went back out into the snow and Elizabeth locked the front door of the parsonage behind.
She and Mr. Darcy headed down the drive, the maid trailing behind.
Elizabeth felt a strong sense of rightness to be by Mr. Darcy’s side.
About them, the snow sparkled, brighter now that the sun stood high above and Mr. Darcy accompanied her.
The winter air lent a coldness conducive to a strong stride, though Elizabeth made sure not to walk too quickly for the maid.
“I intended to tender my offer of help at breakfast, but you didn’t arrive. I waited, only to learn that you’d left quite early.”
Elizabeth flushed slightly, but didn’t balk from admitting, “I had a likely silly notion that if anyone stalked the cottage to accost me with a rock, they wouldn’t be up early.”
Mr. Darcy cast her a quick, worried look. “You don’t truly fear that, do you?”
“You tell me. You assured me I would be safe in Rosings. You said nothing about on walks to the parsonage, or in the kitchen there.”
He grimaced. “I said you’d be safe in Rosings to reassure you, not to cause you to fear leaving.”
The obvious concern in his voice warmed her.
Elizabeth wished she’d given more of the books to the maid.
Their weight posed Mr. Darcy no difficulty, but balancing all four meant he couldn’t offer his arm without risking books ending up in the snow.
The lack of Mr. Darcy’s arm was yet another example of the annoyance of Mr. Collins’ possessions.
Elizabeth’s mood darkened. She shouldn’t permit such uncharitable thoughts.
Her anger at her cousin and his books was spurred less by Mr. Collins or the inheritance he’d left her than by her guilt over receiving that inheritance.
She cocked her head to listen for the maid’s footfalls.
Was she near enough to eavesdrop? Elizabeth could use this opportunity to ask Mr. Darcy his opinion.