Chapter Twenty-Three
Longourn
Elizabeth
The morning broke crisp and cold, the kind of biting chill that turned breath to mist and tempted one to linger beneath a counterpane.
Frost glistened upon the glass, painting delicate arabesques with nature’s unseen hand, and obscuring the world without.
And within Elizabeth’s chamber, the fire had burned low in the night, and the air now held the sting of winter against her cheeks.
Still, curiosity overpowered comfort.
Elizabeth stretched, her arms reaching toward the bed curtains before she tossed the coverlet aside and slipped from the bed.
The chill met her skin with a nip, and she gave a startled squeak as she padded across the rug in haste to the table where a new parcel awaited.
Another gift: large, ornate, and gleaming in the early light, it rested beside a folded slip of paper bearing her name in that now-familiar, strong hand.
With tingling fingers, she opened the note first:
On the eleventh day of Christmas, in a jewel box divine,
Eleven sapphires of deep, steadfast shine.
Her breath caught. Sapphire? She reached for the box.
It was unlike any she had ever seen. Made of rich rosewood with inlaid panels of ivory and mother-of-pearl, it was shaped like a miniature chest, the lid curved and edged in gilt filigree.
A delicate clasp of bright sterling silver caught the light.
Upon the top lay a marquetry design: a bouquet entwined with musical notes, carved with precision into the glossy surface.
When she lifted it, a lining of plush ivory velvet was revealed, against which rested eleven sapphire hairpins, each crowned with a faceted gem set in fine silver stems, their brilliance heightened by so pure a ground.
The stones shone with the brightness of twilight.
Her heart thudded as she took one in hand, the gem catching the light. “To match my fine eyes, I imagine,” she murmured with a smile.
The door opened, and Jane and Mary entered, both wrapped in shawls.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Jane exclaimed, stepping nearer to admire the box and pins. “They suit you perfectly.”
“Your gentleman has exquisite taste,” Mary observed, touching the edge of the box reverently. “Are you prepared to learn who he is?”
Elizabeth hesitated, her smile wavering. “I…I do not know. What if he never comes forward? What if it ends as a riddle never solved?” She bent over the pins, her fingers gently brushing one gem. “He could vanish, leaving his identity a mystery forever.”
“To think he has shown such devotion,” Jane mused softly. “Eleven gifts already.”
Elizabeth, in true Bennet fashion, turned the subject before her emotions could take root. “And speaking of devotion, Mary, should we not be speaking of Mr. Sanderson?”
A rush of pink stole into Mary’s cheeks, her hand flying to her mouth. “Elizabeth!”
“Well, he is expected at tea, is he not?” Elizabeth continued, recalling her sister’s mention of it the previous evening. “And from what I have observed, he has every intention of declaring himself soon.”
“I have every expectation of a proposal,” Mary admitted, cheeks still flushed. “And with the militia possibly relocating, we may not wait long after that to marry.”
“Then you will be the second of us wed,” Elizabeth teased.
At this, Jane gave a soft laugh.
Mary turned to her eldest sister with interest. “Mama monopolized the conversation yesterday; we never heard the tale of the necklace. Is it new? Did Mr. Bingley commission it?”
Jane’s hand lifted to her throat, touching the ornament. “No, it belonged to his mother. She left it to him, intending he should one day give it to his wife.”
“How romantic,” Elizabeth said sincerely. “It is truly lovely.”
“And Mama was not pleased with the date. We have settled on the twentieth of February. She spent the rest of the evening trying to convince us to delay.”
“I cannot imagine why,” said Elizabeth.
“She fears it is too soon, that there will not be enough flowers. But we do not wish to wait any longer.” Jane’s tone held firm resolve. “There is no reason to.”
Mary nodded. “Your wedding day ought to be precisely what you and Mr. Bingley desire. Mr. Sanderson and I shall likely wed quickly too; there is no telling when his regiment will receive orders.”
Elizabeth was all-a-mort, caught by the image of another man—Darcy, upon one knee. Her name upon his lips, spoken with solemn intensity. His eyes, so intense, so full of restrained longing, lifted to hers as he asked the question that had hung between them for days.
She drew in a breath and pushed the thought aside. No sense dreaming. Best to be realistic. Best not to build dreams upon silence and glances.
The moment passed. With mutual smiles, the sisters gathered their things and went to their separate chambers to dress for breakfast, the morning light and warmth of the fire beginning to melt the frost-touched glass, and the jewel box gleaming like a promise.
After breakfast, the Bennet household dispersed to various corners, but Elizabeth felt too restless to remain indoors.
Bundling herself in her warmest pelisse, she secured the Paisley shawl about her shoulders, its vivid pattern a welcome comfort against the encroaching chill.
She tugged on her fur-lined gloves, tied the ribbons of her bonnet, and stepped outside.
Though the morning sun had broken clear, a bank of clouds now drew across the sky, dimming the light.
The air hung heavy, promising snow before long, and the ground crunched beneath her half boots with frost that had not yet lifted.
She had scarcely set foot upon the drive when Kitty and Lydia burst from the vestibule.
“We wish to walk with you!” Kitty declared, shrugging into her own wrap.
“Yes, as far as the lane. We want to visit the haberdasher’s,” Lydia added, her expression bright with anticipation. “Do you think it is too late to re-trim my sleeves for tomorrow’s celebration?”
Elizabeth smiled. “If you sew all day and all night, you might finish—if you enlist the maids to help and forgo tea.”
“I shall settle on new shoe roses and that blue ribbon Pratt gave me,” Lydia said with a dreamy sigh. “I cannot decide which officer I shall allow to fetch my punch cup first. They are all so charming.”
“I want a new fan,” Kitty chimed in. “A white one with painted blossoms.”
As her sisters skipped ahead, Elizabeth followed at a measured pace, the breeze teasing tendrils of hair from beneath her bonnet. Their laughter and chatter carried back to her, full of ribbons and admirers.
Her own gown, ready and waiting in her wardrobe, rose to her thoughts: cream muslin with a delicate blue sash and fine ribbon trimming the sleeves and hem.
Modest yet elegant. And perfect with the sapphire hairpins.
One of her shawls, perhaps the ivory with the embroidered border, would suit well.
And mayhap she would wear the pearl necklace as well.
Would Lydia or anyone else remark upon it? She trusted not.
But even if they did, it would hardly matter—not after tomorrow. A private smile touched her lips. If all went well, there would be no more need for secrets.
At the fork in the lane, Kitty and Lydia turned toward Meryton, waving gaily.
“Do not let your cheeks freeze, Lizzy!” Lydia called with a grin.
“We shall be back before dinner!”
Elizabeth waved in return, then took the path toward Oakham Mount. It steepened, winding through bare trees whose branches clawed at the leaden sky. Her breath rose in small clouds, the cold stinging her nose and ears, but the steady climb warmed her limbs and cleared her mind.
By the time she reached the summit, color had risen in her cheeks and her pulse beat fast—not from exertion alone.
But the hilltop was still and silent.
No tall figure silhouetted against the sky. No trace of Darcy.
The wind caught at her shawl, and she pulled it close, struggling not to yield to disappointment.
She had dreamed—perhaps too much. Had she conjured what was not there?
No. He will come tomorrow. He must.
And still, she lingered, her gaze sweeping the horizon. The bare hills stretched into the distance, stark and cold beneath the January sky. She drew in a long breath and closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts as neatly as the shawl drawn close about her shoulders.
Tomorrow. It will all be clear tomorrow.
Then, with resolution, she turned and began the descent toward home, even as she held back tears of disappointment.
The fire crackled cheerfully in the drawing room, casting a golden glow upon the assembled guests.
The tea service had been set out with delicate china cups and plates of ginger biscuits, seed cake, and sugared walnuts.
Elizabeth poured a cup for Jane and had just taken her seat when the butler announced their visitors.
“Mr. Sanderson, Mr. Denny, and Mr. Pratt, ma’am.”
Lydia and Kitty perked up at once. “Oh! Pratt, do come sit here,” Lydia called with a coquettish tilt of her head.
Kitty followed suit with a coy smile toward Denny, and the four soon gathered near the hearth, deep in talk of ribbons, the Meryton assembly, and the scandal of Miss Carter’s ruined slippers.
Sanderson, however, approached Mary with purpose, and with a gentlemanly bow, asked leave to join her in the window alcove. Mary, cheeks tinged with color, nodded shyly and led the way.
Elizabeth caught her eye briefly, then moved to intercept her mother, who was about to follow. “Mama, will you sit beside me? I was just about to ask your opinion on the color of the new ribbon I received.”
“Oh yes, dear. Let me see. Was it the one trimmed with lace? Or the one with the narrow border?” Mrs. Bennet seated herself eagerly, and thus began a prolonged discussion on trimmings, lace widths, and which colors best suited which complexions.