Chapter 8 Lifelines
Miss Millicent Freight had come to learn how to make fragrances.
Elizabeth had no stillroom, but the kitchen nook in her main room served the purpose.
Mr Freight wanted his only child to have the best education.
Whomever his daughter married would ultimately inherit his farm, so she needed to attract the best man possible.
Mr Freight must have realised Mrs Darcy was a genteel lady of a finer education than any of the other women in their village.
He had been delighted when she approached him about the firewood because he wanted help raising his daughter.
They had exchanged services with each other and soon became friends.
There was no flirting between them, though many of the other women in the village tried their luck with the only eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood.
Elizabeth had told the villagers her husband was missing, and Mr Freight, like everyone else, had assumed Mr Darcy was a soldier.
The years had since passed without any sign of the man.
Mr Freight probably thought she was living in denial as he had never asked her a single question about her illusive husband.
The war had ended in May the previous year.
It had flared up again in March, but it was highly unlikely her husband would not have had one leave of absence for two and a half years.
“Your father has returned early.” Elizabeth remarked to Millicent at the unmistakable sound of approaching hoofs pounding the dirt.
“How inconsiderate of him. Let us pretend we have not noticed.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That would not be ladylike, Millicent.”
“Please, let us hurry to collect the last jasmines of the season. It is superior to every other fragrance. It will only take a minute,” Millicent begged.
“Let us be quick about it, then.”
Elizabeth hoisted her daughter up into her arms and ran to the jasmine bush. The girl squealed then laughed heartily at her mother’s antics. Millicent ran behind, huffing and puffing, carrying a small basket for the blossoms.
They made quick work of divesting the bush of its last flowers and hurried back to the cottage. The rider was waiting outside the house. He had dismounted and stood behind his horse, doing something or other.
Millicent approached the rider whilst Elizabeth escaped into her cottage with the basket.
“Who are you?” Millicent asked rather directly.
Hearing those words, Elizabeth hurriedly returned to her charge and came to an abrupt halt when her position enabled her to take a good look at the intruder.
“I am Mr Darcy. I might ask you the same question.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and willed him to be a mirage, but her wishes were not answered; he was still there when she opened them.
“Oh my! I am Millicent, Millicent Freight. Mrs Darcy is going to be so happy to see you, sir, what with you having been missing for so long. She might faint.”
Millicent was at a melodramatic age, but correct, though not for the reasons the girl assumed.
Mr Darcy’s eyes rose above Millicent’s shoulder. The blue orbs did not settle on Elizabeth but on her daughter. Ellie squirmed under the scrutiny, tucked her thumb into her mouth, and hid her face against her mother’s neck.
Elizabeth contemplated running into the cottage and bolting the door.
Would Mr Darcy manage to break it down? Probably.
If not, he could chop his way through it with the axe conveniently placed on the block beside it.
She could not stay inside the cottage for the rest of her life in any case. There was no escape from fate.
Millicent looked expectantly between the two. The scene did not unfold as a fanciful, romantic girl would have imagined.
The air was charged; neither made a move towards the other, but their gazes were locked in a silent battle of wills.
Into this mute conflict between a stranger and an unsmiling Mrs Darcy came Mr Freight, who had arrived to escort his daughter home.
“Father, Mr Darcy has returned,” Millicent shared triumphantly and hastened to her father’s side.
“Our conjectures have been wrong because I do not think he is a lowly soldier. He must be a gentleman with such a fine tailored suit, magnificent horse, and the quality of his saddle. If those items had not given him away, the Hessian boots would. He must be rich indeed,” she whispered.
“Mr Darcy, this is Mr Freight, Millicent’s father. Mr Freight, may I present my husband, Mr Darcy.”
Mr Freight’s surprise was evident on his countenance. He must be pondering how a man of considerable fortune could allow his wife and child to live in such stark contrast to himself, though he made no comments.
Mr Freight called for his daughter to accompany him and took his leave with a tip of his hat.
Awkwardness befell the threesome once the Freights had left. Elizabeth said nothing. Besides, Mr Darcy had come to her, and he must state his purpose.
#
Elizabeth was staring at him unflinchingly—straight into his eyes. It was a hardened look that softened immediately when her daughter grabbed her cheek and pulled her face towards her.
“I am sorry, petal, I had forgotten you were there. Are you hungry, Ellie?”
The child nodded, and Elizabeth turned to walk inside.
“Did you name her after yourself?” he asked.
“No,” Elizabeth retorted with an edge to her voice.
“Is Ellie not short for Elizabeth?”
“No.”
His wife proceeded into the cottage, and he followed.
She prepared a piece of bread and jam for Ellie and put her in one of the two chairs at the table.
“What is her name?”
“Elysande Darcy.”
“Your mother’s name?”
“No.”
“Why Elysande, then?”
“The name is from a legend. I do not know whether it is true. Back in medieval times, Longbourn was called Riverlong. It was a farm, much as it is today. The myth says Elysande, one of the daughters of the churl who owned the estate, was traded by her brother to a Viking warrior. She married and left England to fight alongside her husband. She fought at the battle of Hafrsfjord, on Harald Fairhair’s side.
They won, and she became the lady of Nidaros, an earldom gifted by the king for their heroic efforts in the war that won him sovereignty of Norway.
According to the legend, Elysande was an accomplished archer. ”
“Why would her brother trade her? Were they poor?”
“I do not think so. The ruins of the house still exist, about two hundred yards behind Longbourn, and it was not a small house.
“The brother had been captured by the Vikings. I suppose you are aware that the educated boys were usually castrated and sold to the Far East as eunuchs? To escape that fate, Gaillard, the brother, offered the warrior his prettiest sister, the fair Cecily, but Ulvhedin preferred Elysande for her beautiful long red hair. The legend asserts she fell in love with her Viking warrior and had many children. Their estate, Nidaros, prospered, and their eldest daughter was fostered by Alfred the Great for years. They were even related to the Normandy king Rollo, whose descendants rule England today. Elysande was a strong lady, turning her misfortune into victory. My Elysande will need some of that strength.”
“Elysande will have everything she needs and more,” he stated flatly, making Elizabeth’s eyes flare at his ineloquent statement of the truth.
“You have come to take her from me, then?” Elizabeth picked up her daughter from the chair and held her close to her chest, burying her face in the babe’s soft curls.
“No,” he hastened to amend. In her ears it must sound like a threat, and that was not his intention. “Not necessarily. You are welcome to join her.”
It was insanity to suggest that Elizabeth accompany her daughter. Yet, he could not rip a child from her mother’s arms. Not when the mother was alive and well. Besides, he was in no more danger from her at close proximity than he was from a distance.
“Why?”
“I shall not separate a daughter from her mother if it is not absolutely necessary.”
He reckoned the child was more important to Elizabeth than anything else, and he stooped to bargaining with her maternal sensibilities.
Judging by the disdainful look she gave him, any love she had once harboured for him had been extinguished that night in December.
She has never held me in any regard, he reminded himself.
Her performance in the library contradicted the existence of any tender sentiments.
“She is my heir. Most likely the only one I shall ever have,” he hastened to explain.
“Pemberley does not have an entail?” she asked, clearly bewildered.
“No.”
“Georgiana could inherit…” Elizabeth suggested.
She could not know to whom his sister was engaged.
Darcy contemplated how to tell her, but he had so far jumbled every attempt at conversation.
He had thought it wise not to rehearse something previously written as he had done with his disastrous proposal at Hunsford.
Of course, when he had first made a beginning, he had added much nonsense.
His second proposal had come from the heart on the spur of the moment.
It had served him much better at the time than his rehearsed speech, which had of course led him to the conundrum he was currently facing.
He had no idea what to say. He chuckled mirthlessly.
“I do not relish leaving Pemberley to Georgiana because she is engaged to be married to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth gasped, and her hand flew to her chest.
“Owie, Mama?” his precious daughter asked and tried to blow on Elizabeth’s hand.
“No, petal. Mama is well.”
Darcy noticed Elizabeth’s hands. They were not the soft and delicate ones that had caressed him so tenderly. Had it only been two and a half years? It felt like a lifetime. Her hands had become worn and callused, and the skin was brown from working the fields.
Elizabeth noticed where his gaze was resting and hid her hands in her daughter’s gown. Darcy wanted to cry. He forced his eyes away and bent his head.
“I have pondered what could have been his motive. I had not thought it to be such a grand scheme. What does Georgiana believe happened? Did you leave her uninformed or did you blame the disaster solely on me?” Elizabeth accused him.
“No, she knows the whole sordid tale. She does not believe the colonel has done anything wrong.”
“She believes I instigated the incident in the library?” Elizabeth asked with an incredulous expression on her face. “But of course she believes her heroic cousin and infallible brother. Never mind my stupid question, will Miss Darcy and the colonel be staying with you?”
“Occasionally. Where they are to live permanently has not yet been decided. Will you accompany your daughter to Pemberley or not?”
“What choice do I have?” she asked with bitterness lacing her voice.
“There is always a choice, Mrs Darcy. You could stay here and live off your seventy pounds a year. You could go to the bank and withdraw your pin money and live much more comfortably on your own, or you could follow Elysande to Pemberley.”
“Not much of a choice, then,” Elizabeth remarked flatly.
“May I hold her?”
Elizabeth pretended she had not heard his request.
“I want my sister to come and visit me at Pemberley.”
“I suppose that could be arranged,” he allowed.
“That simple? I know she gave you the cut direct.” Elizabeth’s mistrust showed no bounds.
“Pemberley is a large estate. If she wishes to avoid me, it is easily done.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze upon her daughter, resting on her hip.
“Ellie, meet your papa.”
“Like Mr Bingkey?”
Elizabeth bit her lip to quash the laughter that threatened to spill, which did nothing to relieve his sudden longing to hold her and his daughter in his arms.
“Yes, like Mr Bingley is Charlie’s papa, Mr Darcy is your papa.” Elizabeth emphasised the correct spelling of Bingley’s name once she had reined in her mirth.
The precious child stretched her arms out towards him.
“Want Papa.”
“She must have learnt that from Charlie, who adores his father above everyone else.”
Elizabeth’s remark stung. Then she moved to bar the door, as if she was readying to cut off his escape should he try to flee with their daughter.
An image of his wife’s green eyes flashed in his mind, together with Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brown ones, as he looked into his daughter’s blue eyes that mirrored his own.
His pulse beat heavily in his throat as his precious little girl tucked her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. His treacherous heart knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ellie was his own child.
“Pretty Papa.” She smiled brilliantly before she noticed his intricately tied cravat.
It immediately caught her interest, and she tugged at it until he was half strangled.
He did not mind; she could tug all she wanted as long as she was in his arms. He kissed the curly head that was bent over his chest. She smelt divine; he could not help himself that as he sniffed her hair, a single tear escaped his eye.
He did not care whether Elizabeth could see it.