Chapter 1 #3
She could not imagine he would ignore such a stain upon her family entirely.
And yet—oh, how her heart leapt at the thought—perhaps he meant exactly what she longed to believe: that despite everything, his regard had not altered.
She sat there for a long while, torn between doubt and hope, her fingers tracing the inscription as though it might yield its secret if only she lingered over it long enough.
Alas, it did not, and eventually Elizabeth was forced to return indoors.
She did take the book of sonnets up to her room, and copied out the sonnet, placing it carefully in the front of the book, which she then hid with all her most cherished treasures.
Then, she returned the book of sonnets to her father’s study, and she joined the rest of her sisters in the drawing room until it was time for the evening meal.
Dinner was a quiet affair, with their mother still in her room, where she had been since the letter had arrived announcing that Lydia had eloped.
Mr Bennet spoke little, and the four sisters were equally quiet, uncertain how to respond in front of their father, especially after their earlier conversation and his obvious anger and frustration over the situation.
At last, Mr Bennet broke the silence. “Lizzy, I forgot when I arrived earlier that I was to give you a letter from your aunt Gardiner. It is in my study; come and fetch it from me once we have finished the meal. She also implored me to bring you a small gift—something she had intended to give you herself, but circumstances prevented it.”
“Thank you, Papa,” Elizabeth replied quickly. “Yes, she mentioned having a little something for my birthday, though I tried to reassure her it was not needed. The trip into Derbyshire was certainly a gift enough.”
“Well, she insisted that I deliver it,” he said.
“It must be some trifle—the parcel is quite small and very light—but she would have you receive it today. I know we have not often marked birthdays with any grand affair here at Longbourn, yet I am sorry I did not think to purchase you a book or some such token while I was in London. Between our business there and my own neglect, the day quite slipped my mind until Mrs Gardiner reminded me this morning before I left.”
“I understand, Papa,” Elizabeth said, touched despite herself. Before she could say more, Jane interjected with a gentle smile.
“Papa, we have arranged a little celebration for Lizzy with our pudding tonight. Mrs Hill remembered and made certain there would be Lizzy’s favourite lemon tarts along with small cakes and other treats.
It is not much, and certainly not enough to celebrate her reaching her majority, but under the circumstances, I thought it would be fitting. ”
“Oh, Lizzy,” Kitty cried, her voice still rough from weeping, as she had likely done all afternoon.
“I did not remember the day either. You must forgive me.” Even Mary attempted an apology, though hers came cloaked in a platitude about how such frivolities were unnecessary.
Still, Elizabeth was touched by the efforts of them all, for at least for a few minutes they had turned their thoughts from the family’s troubles to celebrating her.
“Truly, nothing need be done,” Elizabeth said once the room had quieted again, “but I am grateful for the kindness you have shown me. We had a small celebration before I left, as you recall, since I was to have been in the north today. Still, I thank you sincerely for acknowledging the day now.”
Soon, the tea and cakes were brought in, and Elizabeth found herself quietly pleased by this small acknowledgement of her day.
The conversation around the table was pleasant, or at least more pleasant than it had been earlier, and full of stories about Elizabeth.
When the meal was finished, she followed her father into his study, where he gave her the letter and parcel from her aunt.
With eagerness she could scarcely disguise, she excused herself and immediately retreated to her room to see what they contained.
The letter was short—a simple wish for a happy day, or as happy as might be possible under the circumstances.
Yet one line gave her pause: her aunt hinted that she expected soon to be in company with a former neighbour.
Elizabeth puzzled over the words, unable to make sense of them.
Surely she could not mean Mr Darcy—for why should he be visiting her aunt, especially in light of the entire family being ruined? Besides, was he not still at Pemberley?
With this thought lingering in her mind, Elizabeth opened the parcel.
To her surprise, it enclosed a beautiful necklace.
It was clearly old, and she guessed it must be some sort of family heirloom, though she could not understand why her aunt had chosen to send it to her rather than keep it for her own child.
Between the necklace and the odd reference to a neighbour, Elizabeth felt certain there was some meaning she had not yet grasped—something secret that would, in time, be revealed.
That night, she slipped the necklace and the book beneath her pillow.
Somehow their presence steadied her heart, as though they brought her nearer to happiness.
She could not have explained it to anyone else, for it defied reason, but as she closed her eyes, her thoughts would not be kept from Mr Darcy—his voice, his kindness to her at Pemberley.
The weight of the book and the necklace seemed almost like a promise, fragile though it was, and she slept believing—hoping—that her future was not so bleak as she had feared that morning.