17. Of Journals and Literature
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OF JOURNALS AND LITERATURE
A few days of fever and a puppy’s presence had left Elizabeth remiss in her duties, and not solely those Mrs. Reynolds would have sanctioned.
She sat in the drawing room, her writing desk precariously balanced on her lap, the green leather journal open to a page she had not visited since her earliest days at Pemberley.
She nibbled the end of her quill, suppressing a smile at her own first impressions.
Beside her, a sheet of stationery waited, displaying nothing but Dear Jane in her tidiest hand.
Observations of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the heading read. Beneath it, her earlier entries now seemed charmingly na?ve:
He adores his sister and tolerates her impetuous behavior. She has not had the guidance of a mother since she was six.
He performs reserve for his household, practicing his scowls in the mirror. He told me not to smile at Mrs. Reynolds.
The half-brother’s name is George. He is not to be mentioned. But Georgiana will talk, and so I will know.
Apparently, the story is that I am Darcy’s secret lover. I suppose I must be pleased that Mr. Darcy has asked me to dance on at least two occasions. That is more than any other female can claim.
Elizabeth reread the last entry, her cheeks warming.
She had written it with such arch detachment, as if reporting the habits of an exotic jungle creature she meant to observe from a safe remove.
It was most inconvenient, then, that the creature in question had since declined to remain at any distance at all.
She dipped her quill and added, in handwriting that she refused to admit had grown rather less steady.
He whistles before breakfast. Georgiana reports this as unprecedented. The household staff confirms with expressions suggesting they have witnessed a miracle and are uncertain whether to genuflect.
He smiles when he forgets to guard against it.
The trick, I had written, was to make him forget more often.
I appear to have succeeded beyond all reasonable expectations.
He has smiled at me eleven times in the past three days.
I have counted. I do not know what this signifies about my character, but I suspect nothing flattering.
Across the room, Georgiana sat on the carpet—entirely improper for a young lady of her station—with Thomas curled against her side, both absorbed with the puppy’s antics.
Harley had wedged himself beneath the settee and was refusing to emerge, his ridiculous ears pooling on the floor, his expression suggesting that settees were fortresses and he intended to hold this one until relieved.
“Harley, come,” Thomas shouted. “Sidney wants you.”
He held up the wooden soldier as an enticement. Harley’s tail thumped twice, but he did not move.
“He is sulking,” Georgiana informed him. “You must coax him with something he wants.”
“Want him.”
“Then tell him so. Dogs appreciate sincerity.”
Thomas shook his head, but when Georgiana patted the carpet, he lay flat on his stomach, put his face level with Harley’s, and said, with perfect seriousness: “Harley. You mine. Come.”
The puppy’s tail wagged harder. A moment later, he wriggled free and launched himself at the toddler, all paws and tongue and wriggling hindquarters. Boy and dog rolled together on the Aubusson rug in a tangle that would have given Mrs. Reynolds palpitations.
Elizabeth concealed her smile, quill poised, as her chest filled with a warmth she resolved to record in memory, if not in her list.
He bought the puppy without a moment’s hesitation.
I believe the transaction was concluded before I had finished speaking.
He saw Thomas’s joy and produced his purse as though the two were naturally connected—as though making a child happy required no deliberation whatsoever, only the means and the will.
He brought me wildflowers yesterday. They were slightly crushed, and he presented them with the air of a man delivering diplomatic correspondence, but they were wildflowers nonetheless, picked (I suspect) during his morning ride and concealed in his coat pocket for several hours.
He did not acknowledge the romance of the gesture.
He merely said, “These were growing near the stream,” as though this explained everything.
He also reads to Thomas before bed. I discovered this by accident, passing the nursery and hearing his voice through the door.
He was reading from a book of Greek myths, which seems rather advanced for a two-year-old, but Thomas appeared to be listening with grave attention.
When I mentioned it at breakfast, he changed the subject.
“Lizba!” Thomas extracted himself from Georgiana and toddled toward her with Harley, scrambling, his paws not quite matching his ambitions. “What doing?”
Elizabeth slid the Dear Jane stationery over her journal. “A letter to my sister.”
“Want see.”
She tickled his curls, all askew on his head. “Dear, it is frightfully dull. All weather and compliments.”
“Want see.” He had reached her knee and attempted to climb, his small fingers grasping at the writing desk with the determination of a mountaineer.
“Thomas.” Georgiana picked up the puppy. “Shall we take Harley to the garden? Perhaps we can find Sidney the Snail and make our acquaintance.”
“Snail?” Thomas paused, weighing the relative merits of Lizba’s correspondence against the real Sidney. “Harley come?”
“Harley will certainly come, as he is an excellent sniffer of snails,” Georgiana reassured.
Thomas released his grip on Elizabeth’s knee and placed his tiny hand in Georgiana’s, though not before casting her a look that suggested he was not entirely fooled by the cover-up stationery.
“Say goodbye to Lizba,” Georgiana prompted.
“Bye, Lizba.” He waved with the hand not occupied by Georgiana. “Later, see Lizba paper.”
Elizabeth watched them depart in a tangle of puppy and laughter, Georgiana’s voice drifting back as she instructed Thomas in the finer points of snail surveillance.
The room settled into quiet as Elizabeth removed the stationery from her journal and returned to her list.
He calls me essential, she wrote, and paused with her quill suspended, savoring the word as one might savor the last bite of something unexpectedly sweet.
Essential. A man might call a woman beautiful and be speaking of nothing more than the arrangement of her features. He might call her beloved and mean only that she had secured his passing fancy. But essential meant that without her, he ceased to function.
And the way he said it. The roughness in his voice, as though the word had to be dragged from a place he did not usually permit visitors. The intensity in his eyes. The pause before he spoke, selecting the word with the care another man might give to selecting a ring.
I begin to understand him. His reserve conceals depths I had not fathomed. He feels a great deal—perhaps more than he knows what to do with—and discipline is merely his method of management. When he does speak, the words carry weight precisely because they come from such depths.
I had thought I was accepting a practical arrangement. I find I have stumbled into something far more dangerous.
She paused, rereading what she had written.
This was hardly the sort of list she’d originally created for her observation—all wit and irony—held at arm’s length.
This was something else entirely. A confession, perhaps.
A map of her own changing heart, drawn while she was too busy falling to notice she had begun.
I believe I may be in love with my husband.
The words looked as startling on the page as they felt in her chest.
I did not expect this. I had not prepared myself for it. But the evidence accumulates daily, and I am too honest a creature to deny what it plainly suggests.
He is more than I had supposed. A great deal more.
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel interrupted her contemplation. Elizabeth closed the journal with more haste than dignity, turned the little brass key, and rose to peer through the window.
A barouche drew up before the entrance, gleaming with the Cathcart insignia.
Sure enough, Lady Cathcart, unmistakable in her signature purple, descended with the assistance of a footman.
Behind her came Miss Entwhistle, clutching a book and wearing the expression of a woman with “Definitive Opinions” to share.
Elizabeth tucked the writing desk into the cabinet beside her chair. The dreamy afternoon of cataloging Darcyisms was concluded, and the duties of Mrs. Darcy now asserted their claim.
Smoothing her skirts, she composed her features into something appropriate for receiving callers, and reflected that the timing was, in its way, rather convenient. She had written quite enough dangerous admissions for one afternoon.
Lady Cathcart swept in first, all gracious condescension and sharp-eyed assessment.
She was a handsome woman in her middle years, possessed of the overwhelming confidence that came from being both wealthy and well-connected.
Though she had called before, she examined Elizabeth’s drawing room anew each time, as if surveying either improvements and deficiencies for later report.
“Mrs. Darcy! How delightful to see you recovered. We were all so concerned when we heard of your illness—caught in that dreadful storm, I understand, and quite overcome by the time Mr. Darcy carried you into the house.” Lady Cathcart’s smile suggested she questioned the embellishments she had no doubt heard from below stairs.
“Such devotion in a new husband. We are all quite charmed.”
“My husband is nothing if not practical, Lady Cathcart,” Elizabeth said, ringing for tea. “I was incapable of walking, and Mr. Darcy preferred not to leave me in the rain.”