CHAPTER 4 – Smeared Fingers and Easter Eggs
One of the customs that the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh had followed at Rosings when he was still alive was Easter festivities according to German traditions.
His widow had honoured his wish during the years following his death although she disagreed with the adoption of foreign customs. Notwithstanding Lady Catherine’s distaste for such practices, the servants were immersed in the task of preparing the house for the celebration.
That was how, on Maundy Thursday, Miss de Bourgh and other ladies of the village—about a dozen of them—gathered together in the dining room of the mansion to paint the eggs that would be hidden around the gardens for the children and young ladies to find.
“What a lovely tradition you have here at Rosings, Miss de Bourgh,” Charlotte placed a freshly painted egg inside a basket. “We do not paint eggs in Hertfordshire; we simply attend services and meet our neighbours for an abundant breakfast.”
“My grandfather learned of this tradition during a visit to Germany in his youth, and my father continued it after his death. He always said it was the best way to end Lent and give the poor families on the island a chance to break the Lenten fast with a feast of food and merriment.”
“It was generous of him to do so, and in such an entertaining way,” Elizabeth said. “Pray tell, what other activities will there be on Easter Sunday, in addition to the egg hunt?”
“We play battledore and shuttlecocks, blind man’s buff, and many other summer games. Although my mother considers them a bit indecorous, we still maintain the custom. But tell me of your traditions. How do you and your family celebrate Easter?
“Nothing nearly as energetic as the egg hunts, although we have welcomed more than twenty families in Longbourn. Meryton’s society is extremely fond of social events, more so now that the militia is encamped in the neighbourhood for the season.”
At this, one of the young ladies sighed wistfully. “How I wish we had a regiment stationed here! It would make assemblies far more enjoyable.”
Another added with a giggle, “Men in uniform always lift one’s spirits—ordinary sailors cannot dance!”
The whole party erupted in laughter.
Elizabeth pursed her lips, recalling the officers quartered in Meryton: their bright uniforms, lively conversation, and eager manners.
“They do make for agreeable company,” she said.
“Though too many red coats in one room can lead to a good deal of mischief, especially when hearts are easily turned.”
That only drew more giggles from the younger girls, who were much more enthralled by the romance than warned by the danger.
“I should dearly love to see that,” Miss de Bourgh said, her voice edged with melancholy.
“There are but few balls held here at Rosings. I am not permitted to attend even those hosted by our neighbours, for my mother deems such assemblies beneath our station, and quite unsuited to my constitution. I assure her I am greatly recovered, yet she will not be persuaded.”
Charlotte had told Elizabeth that Miss de Bourgh’s health had always been delicate.
A serious illness in her youth had prevented her presentation at court, and ever since, she had been confined to the island, with little opportunity to broaden her social circle.
No wonder she had grown so fond of Maria, whose lively disposition was an excellent counterpoint to the young lady’s habitual languor.
There was a quiet eagerness in Miss de Bourgh’s manner, a wistfulness that suggested she longed for friendship, despite her mother’s efforts to discourage such attachments.
“And your cousins, do they not visit you often?” Elizabeth asked, already pitying Miss de Bourgh for her forced isolation.
“My cousin Edward usually comes for Michaelmas, and Darcy always visits at Easter. I am happy Richard was able to join him this time; last year his duties with the regiment did not allow him to travel.”
“You seem especially fond of your cousins.”
“They are most dear to me.” The young heiress’ smile broadened noticeably at the mention of the gentlemen. “Richard is most charming, and Darcy is also quite kind.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, “is far more accommodating when it comes to acquiring new acquaintances—unlike Mr. Darcy, who seems almost repelled by the demands of society.”
“Darcy was—is—a good man as well,” said Miss de Bourgh, with a thoughtful pause.
“Though I wish he were not so serious. I recall him being much livelier before the death of his father. I imagine his duties as master have demanded much of his time. He has grown so quiet lately, so. . . so bitter and withdrawn.”
“I heard his estate is magnificent,” said Elizabeth, changing the subject.
“Pemberley? Oh, yes, it is.” Miss de Bourgh returned to her painting with deliberate grace.
“I have never been there, but I have heard so much praise of it that I can almost testify to its beauty.” Her tone was wistful, though her fingers stiffened around her paint brush.
“Still, I much prefer the sea breeze of Rosings to the hills of Derbyshire. I dare say Richard finds this place just as agreeable. He says the air here suits him best, and I like to believe that is not the only reason he returns.”
There was a pause in which Elizabeth waited for Miss de Bourgh to mention her tacit engagement to Mr. Darcy, but apparently, she found the subject unpleasant.
Neither he nor she showed any sort of particular regard for each other beyond the kinship they shared, looking quite disquieted when the topic was even suggested.
Truth be told, both seemed repulsed by the idea of marriage.
Miss de Bourgh’s attachment to her other cousin was plainly evident—perhaps too much, given the circumstances—but Elizabeth was not certain her feelings were returned.
The colonel for his part, showed no sign of partiality towards her, his manner uniformly cordial to all.
Still, the lady spoke of him with such ease and fondness, almost as if she were planting the idea in the minds of others, subtly drawing connections where none had been formally declared.
Not much later, Mr. Darcy and the colonel entered the room, catching everyone’s attention.
Miss de Bourgh bolted to her feet. “Richard! Come, you must see what I have painted!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam approached her and looked at the baskets full of coloured eggs, pointing at the one in Miss de Bourgh’s hands. “These are exquisite. Thank you, ladies, for your efforts. Tomorrow we shall enjoy an excellent party!”
Maria, who had been copying Miss de Bourgh’s patterns on her eggs, asked what colours she should use next, and the lady showed her how to draw little blue flowers that looked like forget-me-nots.
The conversation drifted towards various painting techniques, with Charlotte recalling how her younger brothers had once attempted a similar craft, only to make a terrible mess of it.
Mr. Darcy took a turn around the table, observing the ladies in their task. He stopped close to Elizabeth, his gaze lingering on her work. Her eggs were not as precise as Miss de Bourgh’s, so she spoke before he could comment.
“Do you mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming all this way to scrutinise my work? My talent may not rival your cousin’s, but I shall not be intimidated. My courage always rises with a challenge. With enough practise, I dare say I might even approach some measure of her skill.”
“Not at all, madam,” he said with a smile that Elizabeth found quite becoming. “I find your drawings rather charming. Although, I should have expected such an unfair attack from you for I know you well enough to say that you are rather quick in forming opinions, especially regarding my person.”
Elizabeth raised a brow, feigning offence. “Yet I am rarely wrong in them, sir.”
Mr. Darcy bit his lower lip. “I hope you will make the effort to reassess, should new evidence present itself.”
“I have evidence enough, sir.” Elizabeth was full of playful defiance, and struggled not to laugh. “Do you wish me to tell our friends about your behaviour in Hertfordshire? I have knowledge that may shock them.”
“By all means, Miss Bennet. I am quite prepared.” His smile spread, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Miss de Bourgh’s eyes darted from Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy, her brush stilled in mid-stroke. A string of giggles echoed around the table. Elizabeth face tingled, but she would not succumb to the gentleman’s provocations.
“Pray, tell us, Miss Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “I demand to know how he behaves among strangers. We could all use new reasons to laugh at him.”
“According to his friends, Mr. Darcy cannot be laughed at,” Elizabeth said archly.
“That is one of the advantages of kinship, madam,” said the colonel in jest. “A cousin may make fun when a friend dares not.”
A chuckle arose from Mr. Darcy. “I fear I am being unfairly accused. I have been the subject of your teasing before, Miss Bennet, and I have never resented it. In truth, I find it quite charming.”
The colonel grinned. “Ah yes, so I gathered. You spoke of such talents more than once on our journey here.”
The gentleman cast him a warning glance.
“Beware, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said in caution to him. “Or you shall fall victim to his implacable resentment.”
“Fear not, madam—his implacability is mostly reserved for the fencing ring.” The colonel pressed a hand to his chest. “I still bear bruises from our last encounter. Believe me, although he takes great pains to conceal it, my cousin can be an amiable fellow. He simply does not give himself the trouble.”
The room was unusually merry that afternoon. Lady Catherine’s absence—she had confined herself to her apartments for the day, likely recovering from a bout of sherry—had left everyone in excellent spirits.
“I can attest to it,” Elizabeth said. “On the night of the assembly—his first among Meryton’s society—he refused to dance, and his obstinate reserve left several ladies without partners.”
“Cousin! Is this true?” Miss de Bourgh’s giggles echoed the colonel’s laugh. The other ladies exchanged glances, clearly astonished by Elizabeth’s easy manner with Lady Catherine’s most distinguished nephew.
“I knew no lady beyond those of my own party.” His tone was amiable.
“You might have asked for an introduction.” Elizabeth’s point was reasonable; Miss de Bourgh nodded emphatically. “I recall Mr. Bingley made the attempt, but you declined to be introduced to anyone and spoke only to those you already knew.”
“Yes. . . I ought to have judged better.” His gaze fixed on Elizabeth’s. “Though there is one dance in particular I regret having missed that evening.”
Elizabeth faltered for the briefest moment. He could not mean her. After all, she had been barely tolerable that evening—certainly not handsome enough to tempt him!
“I do not have the talent some possess for conversing easily with strangers,” he continued. “It does not come naturally to me.”
“Perhaps you have not tried hard enough. Successfully acting in society is a matter of effort and practice. Take myself as an example: I do not have the patience for drawing, and I consider myself an appalling painter. I despise the activity, for I am incapable of holding the brush without painting my fingers or staining my clothes. Yet here I am, nevertheless, overcoming my shortcomings, for I know that today’s discomfort will soon bring happiness to many. ”
“It is most charitable of you, Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “Thank you for kindly giving your time and submitting yourself to such a dreadful practice for the amusement of all.”
Elizabeth stared at her fingertips smeared with paint. “Your praise is undeserved, sir. I confess that I am participating only because Miss de Bourgh requested my assistance. As much as I like to give joy to others, there is nothing I despise more than painting Easter eggs.”
For the first time in years, the sounds of laughter echoed through the passages of Rosings Manor.
What they did not know then was that it would be the last.