Chapter Fourteen #3
Elizabeth’s mind returned, unbidden, to the gentleman in the park.
Sober…unmistakable…
“And the count’s manner?” she asked.
“Reserved,” Bramley said. “But not cold. He speaks well—his English is excellent, though touched with something I cannot entirely place. His conversation is intelligent, his opinions thoughtful. He does not flatter, nor does he seek to impress—one is impressed all the same.”
Elizabeth felt a curious stirring of interest.
“And his appearance?” Jane asked, with gentle curiosity.
Bramley smiled faintly. “I wondered how long it would take for that question to arise.”
Jane laughed. “You must forgive me.”
“He is handsome,” Bramley said simply. “Though not in a way that invites easy admiration. There is something…severe in his countenance, perhaps, though it is tempered by expression. He wears a beard—well kept, but unusual enough to distinguish him.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly.
A beard… “How very foreign,” she said, striving for lightness.
“Perhaps,” Bramley agreed. “It suits him.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
“And his brother?” Jane prompted.
“Also present,” Bramley replied. “Mr. Lucien Dantès, I believe he is called. More openly engaging, though no less observant. He is more gregarious—he reminds me of Richard. The two appear closely attached.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “And you found them agreeable?”
“I did,” Bramley said. “More than agreeable, in fact. There is a steadiness in the count that I find…reassuring.”
Elizabeth glanced at him. “That is not a quality you often remark upon.”
“No,” he admitted. “Which is why I remark upon it now.”
There was a brief pause. “He has accepted an invitation to dine,” Bramley added.
Jane’s expression brightened. “How delightful!”
Elizabeth felt, rather than thought, her response. I shall see him again.
The understanding that she had observed the count on her walk occurred to her. It was something like excitement and anticipation…something she did not fully understand.
She rose after a moment, moving toward the window without conscious intent.
Across the street, Ashcombe House stood as before—silent, composed, unremarkable to any casual observer.
Elizabeth rested her hand lightly against the glass, her gaze fixed upon the closed door.
What is it? she wondered. Why does this matter?
She had no answer.
Elizabeth had only just dismissed her maid for the morning when the knock came.
It was a low sound, scarcely more than a courtesy, and she turned at once from the small writing desk where she had been sorting through a handful of notes and invitations. The hour was not so early as to make interruption improper, but there was something in the timing that gave her pause.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and a footman entered, bearing a single letter upon a small tray.
“This arrived but moments ago, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth stepped forward, her gaze already fixed upon the familiar hand.
“Thank you.”
The servant withdrew, leaving her alone once more.
For a time, she did not move. The seal was unremarkable, the paper of good quality but not extravagant. Nothing in its appearance would have distinguished it from any other letter she might receive in the course of a week. She knew it at once. Mrs. Wickham—Georgiana.
Elizabeth broke the seal with careful fingers and unfolded the letter. Her eyes moved swiftly over the first lines, then slowed, her attention sharpening as she read more closely.
My dear Miss Bennet,
It has been too long since I last wrote, and I must beg your forgiveness for my silence.
Time, which I had once thought would ease the ache of absence, has instead passed with a most perplexing swiftness, leaving me scarcely aware of its progress until I find myself wondering how so many weeks have gone without word between us.
You must not think me negligent in my affection, for I assure you that I think of you often—more often, perhaps, than is quite proper, though I cannot bring myself to regret it. You remain, as ever, one of my dearest connections to a time that now feels very distant indeed.
Elizabeth paused, her breath catching.
The words were warm. Affectionate. Still, there seemed to be something beneath them. She could not have said what. Only that the tone felt…strained.
Or am I imagining it? she wondered. Do I look too closely, and find fault where none exists?
She read on.
Our life here continues in a manner that is, I believe, considered most satisfactory.
The estate is well attended, and I am assured—frequently—that all is as it ought to be.
There is a great deal of quiet, which I have endeavored to make a comfort rather than a trial, though I confess that I sometimes long for the livelier society we once enjoyed.
My dear husband is much occupied and is often called away to Town, where his affairs require his attention. He is most diligent in all things, and I am, of course, grateful for his care and consideration in ensuring that I am well provided for in his absence.
Elizabeth’s brow drew together slightly. The phrasing was…peculiar.
I am assured—frequently—that all is as it ought to be.
My dear husband…is often called away…
She could not say why the sentences unsettled her, only that they did. Georgiana had been married for nearly seven years now. Was her husband so often gone from Pemberley?
“Her words are ordinary enough,” she murmured aloud. Still, they did not feel so. They never did.
She continued.
I have lately taken to walking in the gardens when the weather permits, and I find a certain peace in the regularity of it.
The grounds remain as beautiful as ever, though I sometimes think they might benefit from a lighter hand.
There is a great deal of industry now where once there was only silence, and though I am told it is necessary, I cannot help but feel that something of its former character has been altered.
Elizabeth’s hand tightened upon the page.
Darcy’s voice rose in her memory, as clear as though he stood beside her still—his pride in the estate, his care for its lands, his determination that it should remain as it had always been: well managed, well preserved, never exploited beyond reason.
He would not have approved. The thought came unbidden but with assurance. And with it, a sharp, familiar ache. She opened her eyes and forced herself to read on.
You must not be uneasy on my account, for I am in good health, and I am surrounded by those who attend to my comfort with the greatest diligence. I lack for nothing that can be provided, and I endeavor to be content with that which is within my reach.
I hope that you, too, are well, and that your days are filled with the society and occupation that best suit you.
I cannot tell you how often I think of our conversations, nor how much I value the continuation of them through our letters.
There are few to whom I may write with such ease, and I count myself fortunate in that regard.
Elizabeth’s gaze lingered upon the words.
I endeavor to be content… It was not the phrase itself. It was—Everything surrounding it.
She does not sound unhappy, Elizabeth thought slowly. But neither does she sound…free. She does not write as if she enjoys the freedoms of a married woman.
A faint unease settled over her.
She had never before questioned Georgiana’s letters beyond her understanding that her friend was required to be circumspect in her correspondence. The missives had always been affectionate, always written with care, always carrying some echo of the gentle disposition Elizabeth remembered so well.
Pray give my compliments to your sister and to Lord Bramley, and accept, I beg you, my continued affection and regard.
I remain,
Your sincere friend,
Georgiana Wickham
Elizabeth lowered the letter slowly. She crossed to the chair near the fire and sat, the paper still in her hand, her gaze fixed upon the flames as they flickered and shifted.
Georgiana Wickham. The name had never ceased to jar her. Even now, after years of repetition, it felt wrong upon her thoughts.
She writes as she always has, Elizabeth told herself. There is nothing here to alarm you.
She lifted the letter once more, reading certain lines again, more carefully.
I am assured—frequently—that all is as it ought to be.
I endeavor to be content…
My dear husband is much occupied…
Elizabeth’s lips pressed together. “She is not unhappy,” she said. But the words rang hollow. Not unhappy. Not content. Not—what? Not anything she could name with certainty.
What is it you are trying to say? she wondered, her gaze tracing the careful strokes of Georgiana’s hand. And why do you not say it plainly?
She folded the letter with deliberate care and placed it upon the small table beside her.
Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the shell at her throat.
The smooth curve of it rested beneath her fingers, cool and familiar.
Darcy. The name rose within her, as it always did in moments of uncertainty.
What would you make of this? she thought. What would you see that I do not?
There was no answer. There had not been for almost seven years. She found herself wishing, with a sudden and almost painful intensity—That he was there to give one.
The fire crackled. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant, her thoughts unsettled.
Beyond the walls of the house, London moved as it always had—unaware, indifferent, unchanged.