Chapter Ten
Mr. Weston dispatched his own carriage to return Elizabeth to the cottage at the end of the village. She was touched by Emma’s invitation to stay the night at Hartfield, but after the turn of Emma’s conversation with her sister, it was clear that Hartfield would be fraught with familial tension.
Miss Bates had taken a sleeping draught, but Mrs. Bates had waited up for Elizabeth. “You were quite indispensable to Miss Woodhouse this evening, my dear.” The old woman patted the sofa beside her, bidding her granddaughter to sit with her.
Mrs. Bates was frail and slight, but there was a warm softness about her despite her quixotic manners, and her fragrance of lavender and mint was comforting to Elizabeth, who boldly rested her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. “What an ordeal,” she sighed, and then yawned.
Mrs. Bates stroked Elizabeth’s shoulder affectionately, and her eyes gleamed with mirth.
“I had always thought it odd that you and Miss Woodhouse never got on together. Even since you went away with the Campbells, it still seemed a reasonable expectation that you might strike up enough of a friendship on your short visits home to write to one another during your time away. But nothing, for twenty years. And tonight, when the arrival of two eligible gentlemen might have turned your indifference to rivalry, you are suddenly the best of friends.”
“Emma attributed it to the influence of my aunt, Lady Gresham, and I am sure she is right,” Elizabeth said cautiously.
“What a marvel my daughter-in-law is, to affect such a change in your entire demeanor, after only three weeks in Weymouth. You have visited her for longer, and without such a drastic effect.” Mrs. Bates still wore a gentle smile, but there was something sharp in her gaze that unsettled Elizabeth.
“Does it not please you?” Elizabeth hated to deceive the woman for whom she already felt a great fondness and attachment. She did her best to affect innocence, and she truly did wish to hear that the woman could love her as she was, even when she was not very Jane-like.
Mrs. Bates pressed Elizabeth’s hand in hers. “I am sure everybody at the party admired your easy, open banter, and it pleased me to see you garner that approbation. It gives me hope that you are happy, child, which is all we have ever wanted, my daughter and I.”
“I know that is why you sent me away,” Elizabeth said softly. This was as much true for herself as it was for Jane, and a little tear formed in Elizabeth’s eye.
Her grandmother stroked her hair and gave her a little kiss on the forehead. “It is good to have you here, my darling girl. We are so proud of you. Now, I suppose you have something to tell me.”
Elizabeth lifted her head a little, momentarily apprehensive. “About what happened at Randalls?”
Mrs. Bates chuckled softly. “Whatever you wish to confide – keep your own counsel, if you choose.”
There was something enigmatic about her grandmother’s words, and even the gleam in her eyes, but Elizabeth was determined to dismiss this as her own paranoia. “Emma’s sister pressed the issue, and so she consented to marry Mr. Bingley, who was also willing to satisfy honor.”
“I should say he is!” Mrs. Bates laughed again. “Are you not disappointed?”
“I am sorry for her, for I know she is not happy with the idea of marrying down. I would never hold such a view myself, but I am not surprised that she does.”
“Nor I,” Mrs. Bates agreed. “Forgive me, dear, but I had wondered if perhaps your liveliness was brought on by the charms of a certain gentleman.”
“He is certainly gregarious – perhaps it is catching, though not for his odious friend! Mr. Darcy called me an impertinent adventuress, and even insulted Emma.”
“No!” Mrs. Bates’s eyes shone with delight; clearly she shared Elizabeth’s relish of absurdity. “He said this to you?”
“Emma heard him say it to Mr. Knightley. She told me that he asked her a great deal of questions about me. My origins being what they are, she supposed he thought his friend in danger of making an unfortunate alliance.”
“Though he stumbled into quite the reverse. Was it really an accident, do you think?”
“I believe it truly was,” Elizabeth said. “And strangely, I do not agree with Emma’s grim outlook; I think they might be a fine match.”
“She seems to prefer your company when you speak your mind; I do love to hear it.”
Elizabeth smiled brightly. “If my newfound boldness were to prove a lasting change, would you not mind it?”
“You are still the delightful and very bright creature you have always been, I am sure.” Mrs. Bates yawned and then motioned for Elizabeth to help her stand. “Well, I am an old woman, and now that I have seen you safely returned to us, and had my fill of the news before my daughter, I must retire.”
Mrs. Bates gave Elizabeth a wink. “Do you require anything, my dear? A glass of warm milk, perhaps?”
Elizabeth screwed up her face. “No, thank you.”
“But it is your favorite, before bed – with a little cinnamon on top, and a dollop of honey.”
How decadent of Jane! Elizabeth smiled, but shook her head. “I am sure I shall be asleep the moment my head hits the pillow. I think I will take a long walk in the morning – do not fret if I am above an hour in walking out – I have much to think on, am perhaps Emma will be wanting company.”
Mrs. Bates kissed her cheek, then waved her off. “To bed, then; it has indeed been an evening of fascinating developments.”
***
Elizabeth rose early the next morning and slipped quietly out of the house to take her morning walk. She knew each path in every direction for miles, at Netherfield. There was a promising novelty of new sights to be discovered in her present environs, which Elizabeth had yet to explore.
She first went to the post office, which was not far, to inquire after any letters.
Jane had promised to send word of her safe arrival in Hertfordshire, and her first impressions of Mr. Bennet, Netherfield, and the village of Meryton.
Elizabeth was delighted to see that her sister had kept her word, but she was surprised that this was not the only letter addressed to Jane Fairfax.
There was another; the return address indicated the sender was Francesca Churchley-Hillshire.
This was not the name Jane had agreed to use in her correspondence, but it was undoubtedly a false name; Jane had mentioned no such person, and even the sound of the name was ridiculous. But then it struck Elizabeth – it was from Frank Churchill.
Elizabeth tucked both missives into her pocket as she made her way beyond the village, toward the rambling countryside. She chose a path that was especially scenic, though she hardly knew where it led. She was well beyond the village when she finally allowed herself to examine the two letters.
She was not sure it would be right of her to open the letter from Frank Churchill – it seemed an invasion of her sister’s privacy. However, if he had written of his imminent arrival, Elizabeth ought to know of it so that she could prepare herself accordingly.
Since reading a love note not intended for herself seemed far less pleasant than hearing of Jane’s inevitable delight, Elizabeth thought it best to first have done with the less palatable letter.
She broke the seal delicately and began to read Mr. Churchill’s elegant script.
She skimmed over his words of ardent passion, a little mortified by his language, then she read his apologies for failing to attend his father’s first party at Randalls.
Elizabeth felt no little irritation on Jane’s behalf as she read Mr. Churchill’s flimsy excuses.
She had thought well of the man when he rescued her and Jane in the rain that day at Weymouth, but in the face of his mother’s hostility, he had done nothing to defend Jane or even put her at ease.
And that he would keep her a secret! Elizabeth was sure would never accept such an arrangement – if a man would not openly acknowledge his attachment to her, the attachment could not be so very great, and therefore not worth the trouble.
She read on, and after all his paltry defense of failing to arrive once already, he went on to promise he would make another attempt within a week.
This was far sooner than she and Jane had imagined he might be permitted to leave his aunt!
Knowing him to be bound to her whims, which were undoubtedly designed to keep him from visiting his father, Jane had assured Lizzy that it was unlikely he would come to Highbury before Jane could induce her father to unite her and Elizabeth.
They had thought to delay their reunion another month, around the time of their birthday.
Elizabeth held the letter in her hand and walked on in a pensive reverie, debating whether she ought to write to Mr. Churchill and put him off, or perhaps simply hope that his aunt might rescind her permission to part with him, as seemed to be a common occurrence.
Surely it would be unjust to ask Jane to cut her time at Netherfield short, and Elizabeth knew that if she met with Frank Churchill while she was pretending to be Jane, she would be tempted to give the man a piece of her mind.
The sun rose about the tree line along the horizon as Elizabeth meandered through a meadow of wildflowers, and then she turned toward the grove beyond, basking in the warm sunshine; she liked Surrey very well.
Finally, she was ready to open Jane’s letter. Still holding the note from Frank Churchill behind the letter from Jane, she began reading with relish, expecting that Jane’s disposition to speak nothing but kindness would shine through in her marvel at Meryton. Instead, Jane was worked into a panic.
Elizabeth silently berated herself for briefly forgetting what Mr. Bingley had said the night before, which caused her such consternation at the time.
To her rising dismay, Jane’s words only confirmed the horrible truth.
Their father was engaged to be married to a young woman only a few years older than his daughters, a fortune hunter of ruthless and rapacious disposition, who intended to marry her step-daughter off at the first opportunity.
Caroline Bingley must be a vicious harpy for Jane to think so ill of her, and Elizabeth’s gut wrenched at the ruin of all her grand plans. But perhaps it was not too late.
“She is Mr. Bingley’s sister,” she mused aloud. “It is, at least, a means of getting them here. Oh, my poor mother! I hope it will not break her heart!”
A sudden breeze shook the leaves of the trees around her, and sunlight flickered through the bending branches.
Elizabeth extended her arms wide, allowing the sensation of the wind blowing through her hair and her garments to soothe her anxiety.
She closed her eyes for a moment, until she became too aware of her hair blowing about her face. Her bonnet had blown away.
Still clutching both letters, she brought her hands to her head, attempting to restrain her thick blonde curls. The sight of her hair so light a shade was still foreign to her, and in a moment of foolish vanity she was distracted by the pleasant appearance of her golden hair catching the sunlight.
Her grip on the letters relaxed for just a moment, and in that instant the wind carried them off. Elizabeth cried out in alarm. The bonnet she could easily part with, but the letters! She could not risk them being discovered. Pulling up the skirts of her lovely pink day dress, she took off running.