Chapter 2 #2
On the promenade, Miss Darcy pointed out clouds that resembled animals. She described the sonata she was learning and hummed four bars of it before catching herself with a blush. And then Mrs. Younge would speak and Miss Darcy would falter.
Elizabeth could not point to a single sentence and say There, that is wrong. But something did not feel right.
As she was musing, Miss Darcy stumbled on an uneven paving stone. It was a small thing. She caught herself almost immediately. But Mrs. Younge was at her side in an instant, steadying her elbow with a grip that was firm but not unkind.
“Careful, my dear. The stones here are treacherous.” She produced a handkerchief and dabbed at a spot of mud on Miss Darcy’s hem. “There. No harm done.”
For a moment, watching Mrs. Younge fuss over the girl’s skirts, Elizabeth felt uncertain. Perhaps she had been unfair. Perhaps Mrs. Younge was merely strict in the way that women of a certain upbringing believed was a way to show care.
Mrs. Younge looked up at Elizabeth. Something odd flickered in her expression before it smoothed into her usual pleasant neutrality.
“Miss Bennet. You are looking rather pale this morning. I do hope you are not overtaxing yourself.”
Today Miss Darcy talked a good deal about her brother. He wrote letters that were too serious but always long and lovely, where he assured her that the cook was feeding her cats and that the lilacs along the south wall at Pemberley had come up well.
Each time, Georgiana mentioned that she had asked her brother to come to her, and that he was certain to arrive any day.
That she could not understand why he had not come.
And although there were a hundred reasons why a brother might be delayed or could not come to Ramsgate the very instant he was called, Georgiana’s certainty had Elizabeth wondering the same.
When she returned to the house, Elizabeth sat at the writing desk in her room and stared at a blank sheet of paper.
The house was quiet. Mrs. Morgan was resting, suffering with a headache she attributed to the company of Mrs. Younge. Through the window, Elizabeth could hear the distant wash of the waves.
Elizabeth opened the paper Miss Darcy had given her and stared at the direction. Perhaps she was manufacturing a melodrama because her own life had grown too quiet and her imagination too restive.
Miss Darcy had given her the direction urgently, furtively, as though she knew she might not have another opportunity. I may not be in Ramsgate much longer.
Something was wrong. Elizabeth did not know what, and she was not arrogant enough to pretend she did.
Miss Darcy admired her brother, and she had sent more than one letter asking him to come.
The trouble was, Elizabeth did not trust Mrs. Younge and therefore did not trust that Mr. Darcy had received the requests his sister had written.
Elizabeth dipped her pen.
She chose each word with care. She did not exaggerate. She did not accuse. She said only what she had observed. She concluded by saying that Miss Darcy spoke of her brother with great affection and wished very much for his arrival.
She signed it, sealed it, and took it downstairs before she could change her mind.
Mrs. Morgan was in the parlour, reading. She looked up as Elizabeth passed the door. “Where are you going at this hour?”
“To find Hannah. I wish to post a letter.”
Mrs. Morgan set down her book. “To whom?”
Elizabeth hesitated, but she would not tell Mrs. Morgan a falsehood. “Miss Darcy’s brother.”
Mrs. Morgan’s expression underwent a series of rapid changes, from surprise to concern and then calculation, before settling into something that looked very much like resignation.
“How did you find his direction?”
“Miss Darcy gave it to me when we met at the lending library.”
“Did she ask you to write?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Not to him. But I must.”
“Elizabeth.” Mrs. Morgan’s voice was sharp. “You do not know this man. You are a gentleman’s daughter writing to a stranger about his private family affairs, and if he chooses to take offence . . . well the least consequence is that you will likely not see Miss Darcy again.”
“I know.” Elizabeth’s hand was on the door handle. “But if I do not write and something happens to Miss Darcy, there is nothing I or anyone else can do to protect me from the shame of that.”
“I could write the note.”
Elizabeth stilled. She did not wish to hurt Mrs. Morgan’s feelings, but . . .
Mrs. Morgan looked at her for a long moment. “Let me see it.”
Elizabeth brought her the letter, and Mrs. Morgan studied the script. “It does not immediately suggest a feminine hand.”
“No. I was careful it should appear more like my father’s.”
“I would normally forbid it,” her companion said, eying her warily, “but I suspect you would only slip out later.”
Elizabeth did not respond.
“And that poor girl requires a friend. I would write the letter myself, but my hand is quite feminine, which might lead him to toss it aside.” She sighed.
“And if he did read it, I suspect her brother would be even less likely to give credit to a letter from an officer’s widow than Miss Darcy’s genteel friend. I see you have signed it E. Bennet.”
“I thought it wise, should anyone happen to see it.”
The older woman gave Elizabeth a serious look. “You are certain of your course?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“If that is your choice, send Hannah,” Mrs. Morgan said. She frowned, leaned back in her chair, and picked up her book.
Elizabeth resealed the letter then called for Hannah and gave her the letter. Then she stood at the parlour window and watched the maid emerge from the front of the house and head off in the direction of the post office.
She slept poorly that night. Not from regret, but the restlessness that came of having set something into motion and relinquishing all control over what happened next.