4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
21 September, 1813 Derbyshire
I t had been a quiet journey, these four days in a carriage from London. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was no longer accustomed to such a mode of travel, as long days on horseback had been his lot since his first tour on the Peninsula with General Craufurd’s Light Brigade. Now even at home, he tended to prefer riding his horse alongside a carriage rather than sitting backward inside one.
Such had not been an option on this journey. Georgiana could not be left so long without companionship, and less so now when they had at last crossed the boundaries of the estate. The mansion would soon be within sight, but no thrill of anticipation lit her eyes. He cast a hesitant glance to his young cousin and the elderly maid who had traveled with them from Matlock House. The woman was sour, dull, and nearly bent double by the cares of a life in service, but even she was livelier than the girl in her charge. Georgiana gazed constantly out of a window with listless devotion, and Richard gazed constantly at her.
It had been her habit as a girl to look fondly upon the flora and landscape of her native Derbyshire, and always on such journeys, her countenance would take on a sort of radiance as she neared her home. It was as though Pemberley contained her life blood, pulsing ever more vibrantly as she drew closer to restoring communion with that dear place. On this day, however, each jingle of harness and every grinding beat of hoof on frosted gravel seemed to bring a darkness over her. She quietly absorbed all that passed by, her soft looks nearly apologetic to the dying fields and autumn flocks of geese within her view. To look on her face was to know the emptiness and weight of duty, and like himself, she clearly felt inadequate.
“Georgie?” he ventured.
She turned, her mouth quivering.
“Georgie, are you certain this is what you wish? It is not too late to turn back.”
She drew in a trembling breath. “I want to go home—but oh, Richard, I am not equal to this! Surely, I needn’t do all you say just for now. Pemberley has been my home since I was born; may I not recover in peace for some months before—”
“Georgie, we have been over this,” he sighed wearily. “The moment you step to the gravel, everyone at Pemberley will be looking to you as their authority. Of course, they will view you with sympathy, but you must assert your command of matters from the start, or it will be all the more difficult when you do wish to take up the reins.”
“But I know nothing of managing the estate! I only wish to retire to the places I love.”
“I know your experiences have not prepared you for this,” he answered gently. “None could have expected that such a duty would ever become yours, but you must rise to it. Those people waiting for you deserve no less than the very best you have to offer them.”
She snatched her gaze back out the window, her teeth set. “I never wanted to be in authority over anyone!”
“And that is precisely why you will succeed. You have not your own interests at heart. Think, Georgie, of all the good Fitzwilliam did with his power. Your influence may be no less benevolent.”
She made no response, but his careful scrutiny discerned some easing of her breath, a slight slackening of her clenched jaw. The house was within sight now, and in only a few more moments, he was descending the steps, then turning to assist her.
From within the carriage, her black-clad arm emerged and her gloved hand tremblingly clasped his. Her bowed head was then visible, and as she lifted it, her blue eyes rounded in terror. Arrayed up the steps of the house, on either side of her path, were all the household staff. All were dressed in their own fashion of mourning, according to their respective stations, and behind them, black shrouds darkened the windows of Pemberley.
Mr Jefferson, the steward, was the first to approach, flanked by the head butler and the housekeeper. “Miss Darcy,” he bowed humbly. “On behalf of Mr Hodges and Mrs Reynolds and the entire staff, may we express our sincerest condolences on the passing of the master.”
Georgiana’s frame began to shake violently, her eyes filling with tears. Perhaps in her imagination she had expected to flee quietly within the house, her presence unremarked by most. This gentle formality on the part of Pemberley’s staff was likely a slap to the face—a harsh reminder that the pinnacle of accountability for the entire estate had now fallen to herself, and she could no longer shelter behind Fitzwilliam Darcy. She managed a broken nod, biting her lips together to prevent an unseemly outburst, and Mrs Reynolds quickly took her in hand.
“Come, miss,” she comforted. “I’ve a nice hot bath drawn for you upstairs. There’s nothing like that after a long, cold journey.”
Georgiana was now looking over her shoulder at him in some bewilderment. “Where is Mrs Annesley?”
“Oh,” Mrs Reynolds cast a doubtful look toward Colonel Fitzwilliam as she shepherded her mistress toward the steps. “Perhaps that is a matter best left for later, Miss. Here is Sarah—come, let us see you to your rooms.” Georgiana meekly submitted to the motherly housekeeper and her upstairs maid—her shoulders bravely squared, but her chin trembling as she passed each familiar face.
Richard Fitzwilliam lifted a brow toward the steward. The man came and Richard spoke lowly, “What of Mrs Annesley? We have heard nothing of any indisposition. Miss Darcy was quite anticipating her company.”
“I believe, sir,” Mr Jefferson answered softly, “that she has been called away on some family crisis.”
“Family crisis? She had only a brother, as I recall from our first interview. What could be so important that it would call her away from her post?”
“I do not know the particulars, but she pleaded that the matter was one of some urgency, sir. She received the summons earlier in the week and believed she could return before Miss Darcy’s arrival. The fault is mine for providing for her journey, sir, but Mrs Annesley is a lady, and not answerable to me—”
“No, no,” Richard held up a hand. “I am sure you did right. She has always proved dependable, and Mr Darcy promised her that she might request any holidays she desired. It only seems strange that she would do so just now.”
“Indeed, sir. Colonel, if I may be so bold, three letters arrived for you this morning, and I took the liberty of sending them to your accustomed apartment. Also, I expected that you would wish to view the accounts and business correspondence of the estate. Shall I arrange for them to be brought to the study?”
“The study! Saints preserve me, but I dare not. No, the library shall suit.”
“Very well. I am at your disposal, at whatever time may suit.”
“Thank you, Jefferson.” Richard felt his chest freeze, contemplating the duty he himself was about to shoulder. Everything once in Darcy’s able care—how was he to oversee it all for Georgiana? He owed it to his cousins to try, but he would have greatly preferred to be once more astride his battle charger with a brace of pistols at his hip. Nevertheless, he gave the steward a quick nod. “I need little time to refresh myself. Perhaps we may meet in the library in an hour?”
“Very good, sir.” Jefferson bowed, and left to attend his duties. A footman approached, offering to show him to his apartment, but Richard waved him off. If there was one thing he did know, it was the location of the room he always took. His brow pricked as a new notion occurred to him. Georgiana’s things ought to be moved to the Mistress’ quarters—but not yet. Not until something had been done about the adjacent Master’s chamber and Darcy’s personal effects….
Richard closed his door and leaned against it. His head swam, and his stomach twisted nauseatingly. Were his hands shaking? How was it that he could stare fearlessly down the barrel of Boney’s cannons, with the dead and dying all about him, but the present civilian demands seemed too daunting? War was what he understood—war, and politics.
Unconsciously, he straightened his uniform front with a jerk. War was no more than his duty, he tried to counsel himself. His duty he would do, though his current post was a bewildering one. So reasoning, he made his way to the writing desk and the silver tray of letters.
The first letter was from his father—odd, since they had scarcely left Matlock House. The letter must have been sent in haste to arrive before them. Sighing reluctantly, he broke the seal.
Grosvenor St, 21 September Richard, I have received word at last from Darcy’s attorney here in London. It is as I believed; George Darcy’s will stipulated no more than that you and FD should retain guardianship of Georgiana upon his death, and that any further provisions were for FD to make. You were to have complete secondary charge of her in the event that FD should be incapacitated or deceased. A careful search of all the late Darcy’s records and correspondence find no instance of any changes to that arrangement. The only alteration he made was one curious document regarding Georgiana’s settlement. The stipulations therein placed very heavy constraints on the release of her dowry, in case he should disapprove of her future husband. He seems to have issued this condition only a year and a half ago; a few months after she was taken from school, as I understand. In any case, this matters little, as the document named you as a secondary person of authority in that regard. Even were it not so, the entirety of Darcy’s fortune falls to Georgiana, therefore thirty thousand pounds seems hardly worth troubling ourselves about. This is all excellent news, for it permits us to shield Georgiana properly and completely until her marriage. I know you find the duty a disagreeable business, my boy, but I think in time you shall overcome your discomfort. Georgiana will greatly depend upon you these months. In my experience, there is no surer way to a man’s heart than the trust of one who needs him, nor to a woman’s heart than the faithfulness of a protector. I trust you will make good use of your time at Pemberley. Fondly, JF
Richard groaned and tossed the letter aside. His father had an inarguable point—no one else could yet be relied upon to care so tenderly for Georgiana. It seemed scarcely possible that she might find one better suited to her fancy, in whom he could trust utterly to preserve her best interests. Though the quest was a worthy undertaking, the chances of success seemed too slim to risk her heart on yet another rogue like Wickham. Could he, himself…?
An inner shudder tightened through his stomach. No! seemed to be his own heart’s vehement response. She was… why, she was everything sweet and delightful, but she was a child! Besides that, his were eyes that had seen too much of the horrors of the world for him to wish to impose his scars on one so innocent. He had expected never to marry, but if he did, the woman he chose would be… would be….
He swallowed. That hope was long gone, and there was no sense in mourning it.
Grimacing, he turned to the next letter. His eyes leapt wide in glad shock when he read the script. It was from an old correspondent in the Bow Street Runners, one who had many times proved his worth in clandestine affairs. He tore eagerly into it and flew over the words.
My dear sir, My deepest condolences on your recent loss. Regarding the matter of which you wrote, I have obtained some little information that might be of interest. Please advise how to proceed.
Richard turned the letter over, not truly expecting to find more. The man was always discreet and succinct, never penning a word or even a name that might be traced back under unfavourable circumstances. He was a spare, taciturn fellow, but extraordinarily well connected to London’s underbelly, and perfectly willing to take on private matters for one able to pay.
Perhaps he had at last unearthed details of Darcy’s attackers. Not that it would bring back his cousin, but Richard still burned with fury at the audacity of it all. Nobody murdered one of his family without bringing the wrath of Colonel Richard Andrew Fitzwilliam, and of every resource among his formidable connections!
He could not summon his investigator to Pemberley—no, it must be somewhere unremarkable, on the road to a large town where two men meeting quietly could not generate much interest. Nottingham or Leicester might do, though both were still too near Derby for his comfort. The outskirts of Birmingham seemed more promising, though it would mean leaving Georgiana alone for nearly a fortnight while he made the trip. To obtain the information that might avenge Darcy, however, was worth every inconvenience.
Richard took the seat at the writing desk and addressed himself at once to pen and paper—noting how well-stocked all the supplies were. It was yet one more innocuous reminder of the workings of that great house. And Georgiana and I must now manage it all. Oh, what he would give to exhume Fitzwilliam Darcy from the grave and demand some life-restoring miracle from the man’s Creator!
As he shifted the letter tray out of his writing space, the third and final letter caught his eye. He glanced at the seal, froze, and studied it again. It was from his aunt.
What could she want of him now? She had retired to Kent a few weeks prior, and had been remarkably silent in her correspondence. His toes beginning to curl in dread, he ripped open the letter, then let it fall in shock.
Lady Catherine was coming to Pemberley.
12 October, 1813 At Sea
T he heavy wooden door groaned on iron hinges, swinging open to a flood of light. It was the first time it had done so in days—was it weeks? When was the last time he had seen a human face?
Twice daily a smaller door had opened and a hand had delivered food, but otherwise he had been entirely and maddeningly alone. In the dark. And at sea… he had never known sickness such as had plagued him those first days. With no proper horizon, no fresh air, and no means of orienting or bracing his body, he had endured most of the journey in a wretched indisposition.
The bucket placed in the corner of his fetid cell was wholly inadequate to the demands of his present affliction, and the entire chamber stank. He stank. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the gentleman of impeccable dignity and one of London’s most eligible bachelors, whose estate was the jewel of Derbyshire and whose family pride traced well over six hundred years of nobility, had been reduced to a displaced, nauseated, and thoroughly revolting example of humanity.
Two men entered through the blinding portal, speaking in low voices to one another. Darcy squinted, panting. He braced one hand beneath himself, preparing to rise, while the other shielded his weakened eyes from the sudden light behind the door. Just as he began to focus on the men’s faces, a trickle of sweat mixed with grime stung his eyes and he was obliged to wipe them before once more trying to identify his visitors. “Who are you?” he demanded in his best approximation of authority. “Why have I been brought here?”
Neither of the men answered him directly, but one of them bent low. His nose wrinkled in disgust, but his hand wrenched open Darcy’s jaw, inspecting his teeth as if he were a horse. With a briskness born of long practice, he next inspected Darcy’s hair, peeled back his eyelids, and lastly turned over each hand for a quick perusal of his fingers. Darcy flinched and writhed away with each new discourtesy, swatting and protesting the indignity of such treatment, but the quick little man was not troubled.
At last the stranger stepped back, gesturing plainly for him to rise. Darcy crouched hesitantly, sweeping his gaze up and down the pair. He was not entirely certain that such an act would not inspire another beating such as he had sustained upon boarding the ship. What could they want of him? Their appearance was not remarkable to his eyes, but there was something immediately foreign about their mannerisms, and the words the pair had exchanged sounded alien to his ears. Where the devil am I?
Long as he had been at sea, he might be halfway around the world—but no, there had been too many ports of call for the ship to have crossed the Pacific. Spain, then? Italy? The heavy, smothering air of his little chamber exchanged now for fresh air from the sea, and he hungrily sucked it in. Warm—not quite warm enough for a tropical port, he thought, but far more temperate than the crisp autumn air back home. Home!
A bitter shudder rent his being, and the anger surged once more. No man could feel loss more deeply than one who has lost much, and none had more to lose than he. His freedom and dignity as a man; his home, the pride of generations. He choked— his family —dear Georgie, and Richard, and his aunts and uncle… what did they think had become of him? Were any searching for him, or did they believe the worst?
Yet the deepest pang, the most crippling heartbreak of all that had been ripped from him, he reserved for the one thing that had never truly been his own. Elizabeth! his heart cried out in agony. Greater even than the deprivation of his worldly treasures had been the loss of his hope—the one energy that had driven and inspired him to prove worthy of all the others. Where once he had been a man with a dream for the future, now he knew not whether he would be permitted another day, nor what purpose he was destined to serve.
The man had grown impatient with Darcy’s reluctance to rise. He flicked a head to his companion, and the pair each took one of Darcy’s shoulders to force him to his feet. “Wait!” he cried, pushing them away. “I will stand on my own.” Yes, at least he would do that much! No man need assist Fitzwilliam Darcy to his feet.
His vow was not an easy one to keep. Weakened from poor food and illness, and disoriented by the piercing light revealing the space that had been his home for untold weeks, he was scarcely able to shift to his knees. Shakily he placed his right foot forward, but as he tried to push his weight into it and rock back to his other foot, his knee gave way and he dropped painfully to his backside. The change in posture had caused the blood to rush from his head, and all his vision was rocking, sickening field of blackness.
Grimacing, he made the attempt again, but the men had seen enough. The man who had looked him over turned to the other with angry words and gestures, pointing to his soiled clothing, his failing stature, and clearly demanding that something be done.
Darcy had spared little attention for the second man. In truth, his eyes had only just cleared somewhat, but now he could see that the second man wore some manner of seaman’s uniform. Perhaps, then, this had been the man responsible for his well-being during the voyage, and had been found wanting in his duties. The seaman scurried out of the chamber, and Darcy heard him calling to his mates.
He shifted his attention back to the other man. “Who are you?” he asked again. “What do you want of me?”
The man reached to roughly pinch the flesh of Darcy’s shoulder, testing the tone of his muscles. Darcy swept angrily away. “ Tell me who you are! ” he thundered, earning himself a short coughing fit from his swollen throat.
The man stepped back and made eye contact at last. He smiled tightly and crossed his arms, then spoke in thickly affected tones. “My name is Pereira. You are Senhor Darcy, yes?”
Darcy rubbed his offended arm, staring suspiciously. “Where am I, and why am I here?”
“That is for my master to tell. Now, rise. You must come with me.”
“I certainly shall not.” Darcy rocked back and assumed the most disinterested pose a man in his position could possibly summon. “I am in no humour to be made to wait upon a man unknown to me, whose men slight me with such offences. Let him come to me, if he dares show his face.”
The man offered a faint chuckle of condescension. “I think, Senhor Darcy, you do not understand of whom you speak.” He turned his head sharply at the reentry of the other man. Returning to his native tongue, he gave quick instructions to the seaman. Before Darcy could react, a cold bucket of salt water doused over him.
He sputtered a moment, in equal parts insulted by the lack of courtesy to his person and refreshed by the shower. A second bucket was then placed at his side with a greasy rag floating upon the surface, and Darcy understood this would be his only hygienic provision. Glowering, he slowly took up the rag and meticulously cleaned his bristled face, his arms and torso, and then submerged his head to scrub his hair. When he turned his attention to his fingernails, his “host” finally lost patience. “Come now!” he insisted.
Darcy sighed and carefully eased himself to his feet. Wherever the man so eagerly desired to take him, it had to be better than the hold of this ship. He might be in a strange land and without resources or assistance, but beyond that door was light—the craving for which had nearly driven him mad and suffocated him in the darkness. Where there was light, there were people, and where there were people, he might find a friendly face to aid his plight. He grunted and bent his trembling knees to accommodate the faint rolling of the floor beneath his feet, then risked a step.
He was not permitted to take another on his own. The seaman produced a flour sack, and the man in charge clasped Darcy’s arms behind him. “You must not struggle so, Senhor Darcy,” he admonished as the darkness descended once more. “I do not know when my master will choose to see you, but it will be much better for us both if you can still walk when he does.”
Longbourn
“L izzy, there is something important I wish to ask you.”
Jane Bennet had to compete for time with her sister of late. Elizabeth had flung herself into the management of the house, as their mother had been more occupied with wedding plans. Her free time was often spent instructing the unhappy Kitty in the household accounts and in music, for Elizabeth seemed to have determined that one, at least, of her younger sisters should have some claim to recommend her.
When she was not so employed, she had discovered an intensified passion for walking out, and she would be away for hours together. Upon her return, she was nearly always secreted in a corner with a book, her head dipped behind it as a shield, and her hearing closed off to anyone else in the room. At night, she retired late and slept so poorly that Jane hated disturbing her, even in the privacy of their own bedchamber.
At last, Jane had found her out by the drawing room window. Their mother had taken the carriage, along with Kitty and Mary, to call on Mrs Philips. Lydia remained, as always, in her room, and their father had locked the door to his library some while earlier. Elizabeth gazed in solitary reflection out the window, but only because her book lay finished beside her and a cold northern wind blew in the bitter months of winter, rendering a long walk impossible. She appeared deaf for a moment, but when Jane repeated her request for an audience, she gave a little start, and turned.
“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane breathed. Elizabeth’s eyes still shimmered strangely, their soft glow only enhanced by the dark circles beneath them. “You look so weary! Dearest, I wish there were something I could do. Will you not allow me to send for Mr Jones?”
Elizabeth swallowed forcibly, turning her face back to the window. “There is nothing anyone can do, Jane,” she whispered.
“But you are not yourself! I know it has been hard for you, with my wedding to plan and Lydia’s… marriage. Most of the usual household affairs have been yours, with Mama occupied. I know what a burden it has been!”
Elizabeth shook her head vaguely, her eyes still focused on some unseen point out the window. “The additional duties do not trouble me.”
Jane only chewed her lip in agonised silence. Elizabeth had ever been her soul mate, her confidante, but now, she had better luck conversing with a wall than her own sister. “I wish you might say a kind word to Lydia,” she advised gently. “I know you are angry with her, Lizzy, but perhaps when you see how broken-hearted she is, you might come to feel some pity for her. I think it might ease your own cares just now.”
Elizabeth made no response, but Jane could see her fine jaw clenching, her nostrils distending, and her eyes hardening. Jane gave up the point as hopeless.
“Well, anyway,” she sighed, “it is not that of which I wished to speak with you. Lizzy, Charles and I have talked it all over. We would like you to come live at Netherfield with us, once we are settled.”
Elizabeth turned silent, astounded eyes toward her sister, and Jane rushed to justify the offer. “Charles thinks very highly of you—he credits speaking to you in Derbyshire last August with lending him the courage to propose to me at last. It would really be a very great favour to us, Lizzy, for I do not know how I shall manage such a large house! Caroline shall not remain at Netherfield, for he has determined to provide her with an establishment of her own in London. So, you see, it will be very lonely with just the two of us there, and it would gladden our hearts to have you.”
“I never heard of newlyweds as violently in love as you feeling lonely. I would be an uncomfortable addition to your home, Jane.”
“You could never! Lizzy, I cannot marry tomorrow and go away, leaving you as miserable as you have been. I could not dream of it! And Charles… well, to tell the truth….”
“He cannot wish for his sister-in-law to live with him!” Elizabeth objected. “Your Mr Bingley is kindness itself, but I will not impose upon his generosity.”
“No, Lizzy, it is not that. He likes having you near, as a friend, do you see. He likes hearing your opinions and enjoys the clever way you speak. He says he finds your presence comforting, for you remind him of Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth put her hand to her eyes, her frame beginning to shake and a small sound escaping her.
“Oh, Lizzy, I am sure he did not mean it quite that way!” Jane fluttered helplessly, still uncertain what way she could have meant, and why it seemed impossible to mention Mr Darcy’s memory without causing Elizabeth to close down entirely. “Why, I know that you and he were never friends, but he was a good man, after all, and I should think you might have been flattered by the comparison. Oh, Lizzy, do say something!”
Elizabeth’s fingers worked over her eyes, eventually pinching the bridge of her nose before her hand finally dropped from her bowed face. “I do not wish to speak of Mr Darcy, Jane,” she grumbled. She turned then, and her voice grew with the strength of anger spurred by sorrow. “Nor do I wish to speak to Lydia, or—do forgive me—your Mr Bingley, or anyone else who was close to him! I wish to forget that he ever entered our lives!”
Jane drew back, her lips and cheeks pale. “Lizzy, you cannot mean that! Darling, you must tell me, what is the root of all this resentment toward Mr Darcy? Was he unkind to you when you saw him in Derbyshire? You never did tell me how he first heard of Lydia’s troubles,” she added reproachfully.
Elizabeth turned back to the window, her arms crossed. Her chin trembled, and she blinked several times in rapid succession. “It does not matter now, Jane. He is dead. Nothing can change that.”
“Do you know,” Jane murmured gently, sliding an arm about her recalcitrant sister, “I think that if things had turned out differently, you and he might have become friends. Oh, he was a bit prickly on the surface, but given time, I think—oh! Dearest, you are crying!”
“I am not!” Elizabeth shook her head, cowering behind her hand.
“You are! Lizzy,” Jane grasped her sister’s shoulders and forced her about. “Why—you were in love with him! I see it now! Oh, how could I have been such a fool?”
“No, Jane, you are entirely mistaken.” Elizabeth heaved a fresh breath, drying her eyes. “In love with him! Do not be ridiculous. No more dissimilar souls ever walked this earth. Have I never told you how we always set to arguing when we were in Kent?”
“Yes, and I know how you adore a spirited debate. And he was in love with you, you told me of that once! Oh, Lizzy, to think that he has been so cruelly taken—”
“Stop it, Jane!” Elizabeth stamped her foot, wringing her handkerchief in a clenched fist. “I was not… not in love, as you say! I only… I came to appreciate his qualities, I suppose. I think it so horribly unfair that his life was cut short. His poor sister!”
“You and Charles have both told me of her,” Jane agreed sadly. “She must be devastated!”
“She cannot be otherwise, for she was most prodigiously attached to him. So good to her he was! I am very sorry for her, but also angry when I consider it. To think that it was all the fault of Lydia and Mr Wickham!”
“Lizzy, now you go too far. You sound as if you would accuse them of murder!”
“Not deliberately, perhaps, but their carelessness led directly to…. He would never have gone to such a place if not for… for… oh, Jane!” Elizabeth crumpled the handkerchief uselessly over her face.
“There, dear.” Jane enveloped her sister in an embrace—the sort where the mourner can lose herself to the ravages of grief, where no shadow of condemnation might follow. Elizabeth shook and trembled, her arms clasped tightly to her own breast, for she had not the courage at first to return the affection. Only when the keening sighs—high and utterly beyond her power to restrain—wavered from her lips did she risk embracing her sister. Jane shushed and soothed, stroking Elizabeth’s hair and instinctively rocking to and fro as she would to comfort a babe.
“He—he did it for me, Jane!” Elizabeth choked at last, her hot words crying against Jane’s shoulder. “He went there, looking for them… he did it because of me! I shall bear this guilt forever. The fault was theirs, but the motivation was all my own doing. I was so—so stubborn! I was wrong about so many things, accusing him of the worst sort of malice and pride. Would that I had never spoken so harshly to him! He lost his life trying to help Lydia—stupid, stupid girl! —and to prove that he was not the sort of man I had once thought. How could I have been so blind? He was the very best of all, Jane, and I—I flung him away!” Elizabeth gave up all pretense of control. She sought her sister’s arms now, her slim body racked with anguished sobs and gasping breaths.
“Oh, dear Lizzy!” Jane murmured, awkwardly patting her sister’s back. “I had no idea… little wonder you have had such a frightful time of it these past weeks! I begin to understand now. This is why you speak so little to anyone and why you do not sleep!”
Elizabeth turned her face away, shrugging off her sister’s arms as she pulled back. “I sleep.”
“Not well. You toss and turn most of the night. Have you been having nightmares?”
“No… not exactly. Well, not most of the time.” Elizabeth bit her lip thoughtfully. “I think I had one last night.”
“I heard you cry out. Do you remember it?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I just remember darkness, feeling cold and alone, as I have nearly every night of late. Then, there was a sudden panic, like a flood of white light, and I awoke.”
“How dreadful! Lizzy, surely your grief has led you to feel all manner of horrors by night that you will not allow yourself to experience by day. Perhaps if you talked more—”
“ No ,” Elizabeth retorted firmly. “I do not wish to speak of it.”
“But, Lizzy, do you remember how Aunt Gardiner says it can help?”
“No! I will not waste away my days whimpering and sniveling like some lovelorn kitchen maid! It will change nothing, and I have too much to do. In fact, I ought to be going in to Papa, for we were to look over the household accounts this afternoon.”
Jane sighed, stepping back as Elizabeth swept around for her book. “Do come talk to me when you are ready, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth paused, not missing the reluctance in her sister’s tone. She studied Jane’s sincerity for half a second, with eyes almost willing to see and lips nearly prepared to speak, but swiftly her face closed down once more. “I promise, Jane,” she lied.