Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth had not expected the move to Mayfair to be so…permanent.
Though she had resided in town for several seasons now, always in the comfort and elegance of her sister’s household, there had remained some private sense that she was only passing through—that her place, in some undefined way, lay elsewhere.
Perhaps at Longbourn, perhaps nowhere at all.
As she stood at the window of the chamber newly prepared for her in Matlock House, watching the orderly movement of carriages along the street below, she found that feeling altered.
She belonged here now. Not as a debutante to be admired, nor as a bride to be settled, but as something less easily named. Aunt, companion, observer. It ought to have felt like a narrowing of her world. Instead, it felt—if not expansive—then at least consistent.
Behind her, the murmur of voices carried faintly from the nursery.
Jane was within, overseeing the settling of the children after their morning walk, her tone as gentle and collected as ever.
Elizabeth smiled to herself at the sound.
There was a time when she would have found such domestic constancy stifling. Now, she found it…comforting.
How strange that one may grow accustomed to what one never imagined desiring.
She turned from the window and crossed the room, her gaze falling briefly upon the small table near the bed.
There, laid with gentle care, rested a familiar object—the shell necklace Jane had given her years before, removed briefly as she refreshed herself.
She reached for it without thinking, her fingers brushing lightly over its smooth surface.
The memory it carried was as vivid as ever. Time had not dulled it. It had not dulled anything.
She fastened the chain about her neck, letting the shell rest just at her collarbone, hidden beneath the modest neckline of her morning gown. It was a habit now, as natural as breathing. An act of remembrance, or perhaps of stubbornness.
Nearly seven years, she thought, not without a trace of wonder. So long, and still—
She did not finish the thought. She did not need to.
The morning passed in its usual pattern. Elizabeth joined Jane in the nursery for a time, where the children—two boys of lively disposition—clamored at once for her attention. Their sister remained upstairs with the nurse.
“Aunt Lizzy! You must come and see—”
“No, no, tell her about the soldiers—”
“You promised a story—”
“I did not promise it this morning,” Elizabeth said, though she allowed herself to be drawn into their eager circle all the same. “And if I am to be surrounded in this fashion, I shall require at least one of you to speak sensibly at a time.”
This produced a moment of solemn consideration, followed immediately by renewed enthusiasm, though a little better ordered.
Jane watched with amusement. “They will have you entirely at their command if you are not careful,” she said.
Elizabeth laughed.
“I fear they already do.”
It was some time before she escaped them, and when at last she did, she returned below to join Jane for tea in the smaller drawing room.
The room, though less grand than those reserved for entertaining, was her favorite within the house.
Its windows overlooked a peaceful stretch of the street, and the light that filtered in, even on a gray day, seemed gentler there.
Jane was already seated, the tea things arranged neatly before her.
“You have been detained,” she observed with a smile.
“I have been besieged,” Elizabeth corrected, taking her seat. “Your sons are most determined in their affections.”
“I am glad of it,” Jane said simply. “They adore you.”
Elizabeth’s expression warmed. “And I them.”
There was a pause, companionable rather than strained, as Jane poured the tea.
“I have something to tell you,” she said after a moment, her tone brightening.
Elizabeth glanced up. “Something of consequence, I think, if your manner is any indication.”
Jane smiled. “It may prove so. Bramley brought the news this morning.”
Elizabeth waited.
“There is a new neighbor,” Jane explained. “The house across the way—Ashcombe House, the plaque says—has at last been taken.”
Elizabeth set down her cup with care. “Indeed? I had thought it destined to stand empty forever.”
“So had I,” Jane agreed. “But it is now occupied by a gentleman newly arrived in London. A foreign nobleman, no less.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted slightly. “How very dramatic.”
Jane laughed. “You must not dismiss it so quickly. Bramley says he is a count—from Sardinia, I believe. His name is…Mr. Dantès. No—Count Dantès. Or perhaps Vendicarsi is the title.”
Elizabeth considered this. “And we are to accept, without question, that a Sardinian count has chosen our street above all others in London?”
“It does seem a fortunate coincidence,” Jane admitted. “Though Bramley assures me the gentleman is possessed of a considerable fortune.”
“Ah,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Then the mystery is solved. Wealth will always find its way to Mayfair.”
Jane smiled at that, though her eyes held a spark of curiosity. “My husband intends to call upon him on the morrow.”
Elizabeth’s interest sharpened, though she did not immediately show it. “Does he indeed?”
“He does. And he suggested—” Jane hesitated, then continued with eagerness, “—that we might invite the count to dine, once the acquaintance is established.”
Elizabeth could not help but laugh. “You move very swiftly, Jane.”
“I only think it would be pleasant,” Jane replied. “It is not often we have the opportunity to welcome a new neighbor—particularly one so…intriguing.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, considering.
Ashcombe House. The name lingered in her thoughts. It did not sit easily with what Jane had said.
“A Sardinian count,” she said slowly, “who calls his residence Ashcombe House.”
Jane tilted her head. “You find it odd?”
“I do,” Elizabeth admitted. “It suggests an English association, does it not? Or at least one not entirely foreign.”
Jane smiled. “Perhaps he has ties here we do not know.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed.
The curiosity remained.
Later that afternoon, Elizabeth found herself walking alone.
It was not unusual. She often took such walks when the weather permitted, finding in them a reprieve from the persistent rhythms of the household. A maid or footman generally trailed after her. Today, however, her steps led her in a direction she had not entirely intended.
Toward Ashcombe House.
She told herself it was mere coincidence, that she had no particular reason for choosing that route. That she did not, in truth, care who occupied the long-empty house across from her own.
Still, she slowed as she approached.
The house had been transformed. Where once there had been an air of neglect—subtle, but unmistakable—there was now order, polish, and distinction. The windows were clean, the steps freshly swept, the brass fittings at the door gleaming even beneath the muted light.
And there, beside the entrance, newly affixed—
A plaque that read Ashcombe House.
Elizabeth paused. The name was engraved in clean, elegant lettering, its simplicity only adding to its peculiarity.
Ashcombe.
It did not sound Sardinian. Nor French. Nor anything but English. Surely, a foreign count would have named his house after his title…or something more foreign sounding.
“Odd,” she murmured.
She stood for longer than she ought, her gaze lingering upon the door, wondering whether it might, at any moment, open and reveal its mysterious occupant.
It did not.
At length, she turned away, her thoughts more engaged than she cared to admit.
That evening, she and Jane attended a small gathering—one of those pleasant, all-female assemblies that required no great exertion of spirit and offered, in return, a comfortable degree of society.
Even there, the count was discussed.
“Have you heard?” one lady exclaimed, her fan fluttering with barely concealed excitement. “A foreign nobleman has taken up residence in Mayfair—quite near to Lady Bramley’s house, I am told.”
“Yes, yes,” another replied. “A count! And fabulously wealthy, by all accounts.”
“They say he has a brother as well—quite handsome, I believe.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane.
Two eligible gentlemen, she thought, amused despite herself. How very obliging of them.
“Do you suppose he will attend the season’s events?” a third lady asked.
“He must,” came the eager reply. “It would be unpardonable if he did not.”
“And unwise,” another added. “One does not come to London and remain invisible—not if one wishes to be acknowledged.”
Elizabeth sipped her tea, listening with interest.
It was remarkable how swiftly a stranger could become the subject of universal speculation.
He has not been seen, she thought, and already he is half-engaged to every daughter in London.
She smiled faintly at the absurdity of it and found herself wondering about the mysterious count.
The following evening brought a larger gathering.
The rooms were crowded, the air warm with conversation and expectation, and once again, the name of the count moved through the assembly with surprising persistence.
Elizabeth stood beside Jane and Bramley, listening as her brother-in-law spoke with two gentlemen whose presence she did not entirely welcome.
Mr. Hargrave and Mr. Langford. She had met them before, though only briefly.
The latter was a distant relation of Mr. Darcy's, if she recalled correctly from those long-ago conversations. There was something in their manner—particularly Mr. Hargrave’s—that she found difficult to like.
It was not merely confidence, but something sharper, less easily defined.
“Bramley,” Hargrave was saying, his tone smooth, “I understand you have acquired a most interesting neighbor.”
“So I am told,” Bramley replied evenly.
“You have not made his acquaintance?”
“Not so far. I intend to call on the morrow. I was to call today, but matters of business detained me.”