Chapter 29
Meryton
“Lizzy, what a pleasant surprise! Come in, come in.” My Aunt Hattie welcomed me into her parlour, the wildflowers on the wallpaper still as bright as the day she, Kitty, and I had hung them five years before. “I shall call for tea; it will be like old times, before you went off to the Lakes.”
“I have always loved this room,” I replied, taking a seat. “There has been so much to do since we returned to Meryton, I thought I would take a moment of your time—just the two of us.”
“Of course, my dear. Is Fanny with Jane, discussing the menus for the wedding breakfast? Fancy, an earl and a countess! Such excitement for the town—nothing like it since Sir William gave his address to the King.”
Dear Aunt Hattie, she would chatter on so. Of course, being the premier gossip of Meryton, she was well practised.
“How did you find Mr. Darcy?” I asked. We had held a dinner at Hathaway House the night before, just for close family, including Uncle Edward and Aunt Madelaine, who had come from London.
“A lovely man, and so considerate of Fanny. Why, he was just like your dear Papa when he was courting your mother.” She paused, thinking back—was it four and twenty years?—when Mama was but sixteen years old, and Thomas Bennet a young man.
She poured tea, insisting I take a lemon biscuit—still my favourite.
“And Miss Darcy, what a pretty girl, with fair hair just like Fanny’s.
It is uncanny—they look so alike. When you walk out together as a family, she will be taken for Fanny’s daughter, and you and his son—Fitzwilliam?
—the children of Mr. Darcy, both of you being dark like him. ”
Aunt Hattie chuckled, then peered at me, puzzled—while I dearly love a laugh, I found it impossible. Tears moistened my eyes; angrily, I pulled my handkerchief from my sleeve and wiped my cheeks.
“Why, Lizzy, whatever is the matter? You look so sad.”
I took her hands in mine. “I love him, Aunt. I love him so much, yet we cannot, can never marry.”
“Oh, you poor dear. You love Mr. Darcy’s son, Fitzwilliam?”
“I did not know it, for I truly thought my affection for him was that of a sister for a brother. That our teasing, holding his hand when we climbed the fells, his hands about my waist when I stumbled, his carrying me upstairs when I could not walk, his kiss on my cheek and mine on his—I thought all of these were just the care and concern of an affectionate brother.”
Aunt Hattie squeezed my hands. “And you, my darling, are all that is vivacious, always full of laughter. I think you would draw anyone in. And Darcy, does he return your love? Has he declared himself?”
“He cannot! We are siblings—brothers and sisters cannot marry.”
I fell into her arms; she gently stroked my hair—oh, that I could have Mama do the same, as she had done when I was a child.
“Elizabeth, you are not upset that your mother is remarrying?” Uncle Philips entered the room, taking a seat opposite.
“Oh, no! It is my dearest wish, that she and Mr. Darcy are united. He is an excellent man, so kind and caring. And they truly do enjoy each other’s company.”
“Then why are you crying? Is there some impediment that would prevent them marrying? The settlement is exceedingly favourable—your mother retains control of all her fortune, he makes no demands on her. Indeed, he has added five thousand to your dowry—very generous for a step-daughter.”
“There is no impediment to Fanny’s marriage,” said Aunt Hattie gently, holding me ever so tightly. “But there is to Elizabeth’s heart—she loves Fitzwilliam Darcy. Yet, they cannot marry.”
Mr. Philips shook his head. “Indeed, ‘tis so under law. Have you spoken to your mother, Elizabeth? Does she know where your heart lies?”
“No! I cannot countenance it! She deserves all the happiness in the world. Mr. Bennet loved her very much—he would certainly wish her such joy.”
I broke free of Aunt Hattie’s embrace. “You must promise me that you will never tell her. Surely there is another man whom I can love as much as Fitzwilliam?” I laughed.
“Perhaps I shall never marry—I have said before that I will become a spinster aunt, teaching Jane’s or Georgiana’s children to play music and embroider.
Though my embroidery is very ill, I have a fair voice and light touch on the piano-forte. ”
Once again, tears threatened to overwhelm me. An image of a young child running across the Pemberley lawns sprang into my mind.
‘Little Ben!’ exclaimed Lydia. ‘He looks ever so like Fitzwilliam.’
‘Why Ben?’ queried Kitty.
‘Because his mother is a Bennet, silly.’ Mary knelt down and he ran into her arms. ‘Oh, I do so much like being an aunt.’
* * *
I had one last task to perform before Mama’s wedding.
No more dinners, soirées, card parties, visiting the merchants and shopkeepers to cancel our accounts, playing with my little Gardiner cousins, weeping on Aunt Hattie’s shoulder.
Pretending all was well: that I was overjoyed at Mama’s marrying—oh, so true; that Georgiana’s elegance made me so proud to call her sister when we visited neighbours or walked to Meryton; that an earl and a countess were to become family; that each night I wept my selfish tears.
“Perhaps, Lizzy, you should climb Oakham Mount one last time,” Mama said the evening before. “While not so high as the fells, it is a memory of Meryton and Longbourn that, I believe, you will always cherish.”
“I wish you could accompany me, Mama.”
She shook her head. “And have me limp up the aisle? No, Lizzy, I saw the injuries that climbing too high did for you. I shall content myself with leaning on Mr. Darcy’s arm.”
My eyes swept the Chiltern Hills, the hint of early autumn colouring the oaks, chestnuts, and ash as the sun began its daily journey rising above the horizon.
The dew had yet to clear the sward and low bushes, the first rays of light sparkling off the droplets, the surrounding country bejewelled just as Lady Matlock’s diamonds shone under candlelight.
It was then that I saw the footprints, damp shadows making a path towards the summit of the hill. I knew who had made them before I turned. Darcy stood a little way off—gazing at the pinks and golds of the dawn.
I caught my breath, putting my hand to my mouth. Abruptly, he turned.
“Elizabeth.” He spoke so softly, his voice hardly carrying above the morning breeze.
I cannot remember walking to stand so close to him. Or did he come to me? I steadied myself—in a few short hours, I was to be his true sister. Surely, I should not repine at having the best of brothers?
“You are an early riser.” I gave a little laugh. “The sun cresting the Chilterns is not as impressive as that rising above the Derbyshire Peaks, but I suppose we must make do with what we have.”
“Perhaps, at Pemberley, you will ride with me of a morning. I would like that, very much. Just as I enjoyed our walks by the lake.”
“Why, Fitzwilliam? Why did you walk out with me?”
The intensity of his gaze caught my breath. “That is where you belonged, Elizabeth, on my arm—Kendal, Grasmere, Catbells, Buttermere, St. Bees, Mickledore. After your fall, I wished you would never recover, for then I had every reason to carry you in my arms.”
I reached for him, hesitating, as if afraid he might vanish like the mist. When his fingers found mine, neither of us spoke, the world reduced to the warmth of his hand.
“We are selfish creatures, are we not? To stand here as though the world were to end, when we will have a lifetime together. Surely, you do not repine at Georgiana being your sister?—you love her as fiercely as I do.”
“Did I ever tell you, Elizabeth, that you are the most remarkable woman I have ever known?”
“Oh, I believe you did, though not in the most propitious circumstances. I recall, though I thought it was a dream, your saying it at Lingmell Col below Scawfell Pike—remarkably foolish I would have thought. And the other time, when you came upon me in the folly, standing close by the statue of Diana.” I blushed, yet I could not take my eyes away from his.
“Surely you are too much the gentleman to compare my form to that of hers?” Unclothed as she was…
“Dearest Elizabeth, so wont to make a joke. Where none is intended.”
The sun was rising; both of us soon to return, to stand up with Mama and Mr. Darcy. Yet, I lingered.
“Fitzwilliam, the Song of Solomon says that kisses of the mouth are tastier than wine.” I trembled, my fingers intertwined with his.
“So it is said.” His look, so very intense.
“Do you think, as a brother, you could kiss me on the mouth? For I cannot conceive of ever allowing another man such intimacy—I would very much like to know the truth.”
I tilted my head, surely a flush of pink coloured my neck and cheeks. Darcy’s lips found mine; I felt their warmth, their soft moistness, my tongue hesitantly caressing his. Should my heart be beating so?
“Wine, Elizabeth?”
“Better than wine,” I murmured. “So much better than wine.”
“I must go,” I whispered. “If I stay a moment longer, I will not be able to leave.” I turned, my vision blurred by tears. I did not look back—I would see Fitzwilliam soon enough as we both stood by the altar in the church.
* * *
Mama and Papa had been married in this church. Mr. Smythe, the vicar, had read from the Book of Common Prayer—The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony. This was where he had baptised Jane and me, and where Jane had married Charles Bingley. Now, he was to marry Mama and George Darcy.
Uncle Edward handed his sister to Mr. Smythe, then stepped back to sit with Aunt Madelaine. I stood with Mama, just as Hattie had stood with her when she married Mr. Bennet. Fitzwilliam stood with his father.
Was that amber and sandalwood? The scent still lingering from when he had kissed my lips on Oakham Mount.
My eyes, of their own will, sought his face, his dimples, his lips, now slightly pursed as he listened to Mr. Smythe begin the litany that would bring such joy and comfort to Mama, but steal away our felicity.