Chapter Three
Elizabeth and Jane were swiftly brought upstairs.
They each had a long, hot bath in their respective bedchamber, and then they were obliged to dress and pack their things for immediate removal to the dower house.
It had stopped raining by the time they made their way thither in Lady Gresham's carriage, accompanied by Sally and another maid, Rose. Three footmen had been sent to clean and prepare the small house for them, and after bringing in their ladies’ trunks, they took their leave as the ladies began settling in.
Elizabeth rested on a sofa in the parlor, her legs still aching from so much exertion, while Jane set about exploring.
She was not long in this endeavor, and she returned to Elizabeth with a frown.
“There is only one bedroom; we shall have to share. Oh dear, I hope we are not really taken ill.”
“You sneezed, at the manor.”
Jane gave a rueful shake of her head. “This may sound very odd, but it is a little habit of mine, when I am nervous. I very seldom fall ill, though I often have the appearance of it when my mind is troubled. But what about you, Lizzy? You were doused in the sea yesterday and drenched again today!”
“If novels are to be trusted, a young lady cannot possibly get the least bit damp without ending on her deathbed,” Elizabeth said with a devilish smirk.
“However, aside from my physical exhaustion, I am sure I feel perfectly well. And I do not mind sharing the bedroom; my friend Charlotte shares a bedchamber with her younger sister Maria, and I confess I have always envied their intimate sisterhood.”
Jane laughed nervously. “Mrs. Churchill mistook us for sisters! Perhaps while we are confined here, we might pretend, for I have always envied my neighbor Miss Woodhouse for the same reason, though now her sister has married and moved away.”
The two young ladies exchanged a tender smile, and Elizabeth was on the point of again broaching the subject of their family histories, when the local physician arrived to examine them both.
He declared them well enough at present and promised to call again on the morrow to ascertain whether any dire symptoms manifested overnight.
Jane and Elizabeth felt not the least bit unwell, and over the course of the day, the only thing to manifest was a greater sense of camaraderie between them.
They spent a few happy hours simply exchanging stories of their lives, though Elizabeth had little to say of her quiet life in Meryton that could compare to Jane’s tales of travelling England with the Campbells.
Lady Gresham came to look in on them during the next break in the rain.
She apologized profusely for capitulating to Mrs. Churchill’s outrageous demands, and as she took tea with them she declared many times over how well it pleased her to see the pair of them getting along so famously.
Before she departed, she lingered in the doorway.
“Lizzy, I nearly forgot – I meant to give you this – you left it behind in your chamber at the manor.” Lady Gresham opened her reticule and handed Elizabeth a simple silver locket on a delicate chain and then took her leave of the young ladies.
Jane looked at it with wide eyes and ran her fingertips over the small silver heart engraved with the letter E as Elizabeth held it in her hand. “Where did you get this?”
“I have always had it,” Elizabeth replied.
“I have supposed it must be a gift from my infancy, for the original chain was very short, and many years ago Mr. Bennet begrudgingly purchased me a new one, for I have worn it daily for as long as I can remember. I thought it too simple to wear at the ball; this morning I must have forgotten to put it on, in my haste to meet with you.”
Without saying a word, Jane hastened into the bedroom, and Elizabeth pursued her with rising curiosity. She watched her friend retrieve a small box from her trunk, and begin rummaging through its contents. Jane let out a little gasp as she found what she was looking for. “Here, look.”
In Jane’s open palm was a silver heart-shaped locket, identical to Elizabeth’s in every detail except for the engraving; hers bore the letter J. The locket was not on a silver chain like Elizabeth’s, but rather a thin pink satin ribbon. “I also outgrew the original chain when I was a girl.”
Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath and then opened her locket to show Jane the two small portraits inside.
“This is one of only two images I have ever seen of my mother. I believe she was younger than my present age when it was painted. With my hair turning as light as it was when I was a child, I am the very image of her, am I not?”
Jane radiated a strange presentiment as she stared at the locket, her lips slightly parted and her blue eyes wide. She remained utterly still, and Elizabeth began to laugh nervously.
“I believe my guardian Mr. Bennet must have been a little in love with my mother, whoever she was – it is the only explanation for why he will never speak of my parents. See, that is Mr. Bennet, as he appeared when he became my guardian – he has united himself with my mother, but that is exactly his idea of a joke.”
Jane silently pressed at the clasp on her own locket and it fell open in her hand, which she brought closer to Elizabeth’s hand.
There were two portraits in her locket; just like the lockets themselves, and the young ladies who owned them, the pair of portraits were absolutely identical.
She let out a shaky sigh. “What can this mean?”
“We were both born on the fourth of September,” Elizabeth murmured. “It can only mean… that your mother is my mother….”
“And your Mr. Bennet is our father!”
Elizabeth took a step back and shook her head, feeling suddenly defensive of him. Apart from her dear friend Charlotte and her housekeeper Bessie Hill, Mr. Bennet was the only person Elizabeth could say she truly loved.
“I cannot believe it of him! He is not that sort of man – not the sort to take a lover! I do not think he ever fancied his own wife, Lady Amelia, but I never heard of his taking mistresses, and I have a great deal of servants’ gossip from Bessie.
Besides, he never goes to London, nor spends any time away from home if he can help it – in truth, he is too indolent and too fond of his books to think of ladies . ”
“But you said that you believe he was in love with your mother,” Jane argued, tapping her finger on the portrait of the woman who resembled them both so well.
“In a wistful, romantic sort of way,” Elizabeth admitted.
“I have one other picture of her, a tattered old watercolor. I stole it from his desk drawer when I was twelve or thirteen and secreted it away. He was vastly cross with me, and demanded the servants search the house. Bessie searched my room – now that I think of it, she must have lied for me, for I could not have hid it well at such a young age, and she is not above telling a little fib in my defense. But even so, I cannot believe him to be the man in the locket. Perhaps it is his late elder brother, whom he seldom speaks of, or some cousin of his who bears a strong remembrance? That must be why he asked me to call him Uncle when I first came to him.”
Jane continued staring at the two lockets and gave a small shake of her head as if she, too, were struggling to make sense of it all. “You have another picture of your mother? I have a few of my mother, and one other of my father.”
When Jane went to again retrieve her box of keepsakes, Elizabeth followed suit. She had a few little treasures of her own in a small wooden box inlaid with ivory and gold filigree, and she now wondered what had compelled her to bring it, but for some marvelous sense of destiny.
The two sisters – for sisters she was sure they must be – sat together on the large, plush bed, each placing their boxes in the space between them.
Elizabeth displayed one of her most beloved possessions, a watercolor about the size of a book page, smooth on three edges, and irregular on the right side, as if it had been part of a larger picture torn in half.
The colors had faded with time and the initials PF in the corner were barely discernible, but the image depicted was burned into her memory with all the vibrancy that had once been visible.
The watercolor depicted a beautiful young woman in a yellow dress, seated on a blue and green upholstered sofa, holding a small bundle of wildflowers and smiling beatifically.
There had always been something familiar about the woman, as if Elizabeth knew her, had actually seen her, and not only with the eyes of a newborn.
Again, Jane’s reaction was so visceral that Elizabeth could feel it herself.
Waves of panic and confusion swelled through her, and mingled with something else, something terribly thrilling.
Jane reached into her box and produced a faded watercolor of about the same dimensions, with a tear down the left side.
The image depicted a fair-haired soldier seated on a blue and green sofa, holding a book in one hand, the other hand on his heart.
Jane and Elizabeth simultaneously brought the torn edges of their pictures together, and the image was complete.
It was an undeniable image of their parents’ courtship.
Then two sisters stared in silent wonderment at the now complete picture of their parents for what felt like an eternity, before finally Jane spoke.
“Yesterday Colonel Campbell said that he knew your guardian; he called him Captain Bennet. He was in the militia when he was a second son, yes?”
“Yes. He seldom speaks of it, but to lament that he was not raised to be the heir of Longbourn, which has proven a disadvantage, at times, in now managing two estates. I believe he was not at all fond of his father or elder brother – I had long suspected his marriage was an unhappy one, and perhaps forced upon him when he became the heir.”