Chapter 6
Elizabeth allowed a sigh of relief to escape her as the piece of metal slipped free from the leather. The small, decorative buckle made out of steel fell into her hand, and the leather strap it had been attached to dropped to the side of the valise.
It had taken a long time of rubbing and soaking and rubbing some more before Elizabeth was able to free the buckle. Now, to see if it did her any good.
Elizabeth stood, rearranging the valise on the bench so that nobody could see the damaged strap or missing buckle. She suddenly became aware of the fact that she smelled of urine. She sniffed her hands and wanted to retch.
What to do about it?
She decided to spill a bit of urine onto the wooden floor where she had used the chamber pot for its usual function.
She would make the excuse that the room and her hands smelled because of that mishap.
She moved the chamber pot back to the bench.
It would make sense, would it not, to wish to move the pot to an area where she could hold onto the bench while squatting and standing?
She rubbed her hands together hard enough to remove some of the urine-soaked flakes of skin. She wished she had a cleaning brush or a towel, but then she might as well wish for her freedom, as well.
How long had it been since her last meal? It seemed like weeks, but she knew it was still the same day to which she had first woken. It was certain, however, that the next meal might come any minute. Should she take a chance of being discovered, or should she just sit on the bed and relax?
She picked up the book, perched on the bed, and tried to read a poem.
It was impossible.
She decided to use the poetry book as an explanation for her stance near the window. Making sure she was partially hidden by the curtains, she held her poetry up with one hand, as if she was reading, and with the other hand she began to dig at the wood, starting at its weakest spot.
It was going to take some time.
Elizabeth experimented with slightly different holds and angles.
She found the best way to hold it and ended up scraping up a piece of wood about half an inch by an inch in size.
She left the piece where it was, even though that part of the window frame was always covered by the curtains, even when they were opened as far as they could be pulled open.
Still, she judged it wise to attempt to keep the room looking entirely unchanged.
A slight sound caused her to stop scraping. She stared at the poem, still standing at the window. But there were no further sounds, and the door remained closed.
She went back to scraping for a few more minutes.
Another sound prompted another halt in the work. This time, the door swung open, and the woman entered with her tray. She looked startled to see her prisoner standing at the window, but Elizabeth just smiled sadly and said, “I wish to be able to see the sky.”
The woman did not reply, as usual, and Elizabeth looked at the tea, broth, and bread with some satisfaction. She reminded herself to ask for a glass of water when the woman came back to pick up the empty dishes.
There was no comment about the smell of urine, but the woman had not uttered a word about anything, and for all Elizabeth knew, she could be mute.
When the woman was gone, Elizabeth quickly poured a bit of the tea onto one part of the window frame that was most rotted, and she poured a smaller amount of the broth onto another part of the wood.
She sat down and ate the rest of the broth and bread. She drank most of her tea, and she poured a few more drops of tea onto the rotting window frame. She used the chamber pot, and then she lay down on the bed and pretended to sleep.
When the woman came in again and collected the tray and empty dishes, Elizabeth sat up on the bed and asked, “Could you please bring me a glass of water?” She pantomimed drinking from a glass and said, “I am still so thirsty.” She grasped her throat and panted, trying to exaggerate the indicators of great thirst. The woman seemed not to react to anything Elizabeth did or said, and she wondered—not for the first time—if the woman was deaf.
In case she was not, just as she reached the door, Elizabeth said, “Please!” as fervently as she could.
The woman did not look back or react in any way.
Once again, Elizabeth stood, carried her book and the buckle to the window, and began to chip away at the problem life—and her family—had foisted on her. The repetitive work allowed her mind, once again, to wander among pleasant memories….
Before the kiss, before the betrothal…that first moment when Elizabeth had seen Darcy while she and her relations were touring Pemberley—
She had been mortified. To have turned down Darcy with the harsh words, “…I knew that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed on to marry”…and then to be seen traipsing about his beautiful estate! Oh! She had felt so deeply ashamed.
Without a doubt, he would see her and immediately cut her. In a flash, she pictured exactly how he would react: his eyes would narrow in disdain, his eyebrows lowering as his lips curled into a derisive sneer, and then he would turn his back on her and stalk away—
Instead, when Darcy raised his head and spotted her, his entire face lit up. He smiled, he blushed, he stopped walking abruptly, swaying with the suddenness of the halt, and then he hurried forward with the words, “Miss Bennet!”
She had read his letter so many times she had memorised it, and she knew him to be far less proud and disagreeable than she had thought.
However, no man would be cordial after being wrongfully accused of mistreating the rogue that nearly ruined his sister, after being accused of cruelty towards his own good friend, after being called ungentlemanly.
And yet, there was Darcy, rumpled and sweaty from travel, humble and unguarded in face and voice—making every attempt to be cordial.
He bowed. “It is an unexpected pleasure to see you so far from Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth. I trust you have enjoyed good health since we last…um…since we last saw one another?”
She mumbled something conventional—she could never know what, since her mind was not functioning properly.
He said, “How are your parents? And all your sisters?”
Again, she mumbled the usual sort of reply to his usual sort of question. But then she blurted, “I read your letter.”
Instead of looking pleased, he blushed more deeply and said, “I must apologise for my defensive and harsh wording. I wrote it in so much bitterness of spirit—”
“No!” Elizabeth said, “It is I who must apologise. I took the words of a rogue as truth, without seeking evidence or even consulting logic—and I judged you too harshly in the matter of my sister and your friend—it is I who did you wrong. I am so very sorry.”
She assumed—she was always making assumptions!
—that he would accept her apology with a nod and turn away.
What more could be said? But instead he came close to her, grasped her hand in his own, and raised it to his mouth in a kiss.
“You are too kind to me. All that you are guilty of is trusting a scoundrel who made himself liked by your entire community. Again and again, I must apologise to you, and I must thank you for standing up against my unfortunate attitude and incorrect presumptions. I will always be grateful that you did so.”
Stunned, she squeezed his fingers and smiled and said, “I am grateful that you apparently do not hate me, after my harshness towards you.”
“I could never hate you.”
Darcy’s voice was so low, as he said those words, Elizabeth felt them as a rumbling vibration in her body almost more than hearing them with her ears.
And somehow, a tiny spark of hope shone for her. Maybe—probably not, but maybe—they could start again, wipe away Darcy’s horrible proposal and her even-more-horrible responses, and see how they suit….
Elizabeth heard subtle noises outside the door, and she immediately stilled the hand that held the buckle, curling her fingers around it to both keep it close and to hide it from the woman.
Her eyes were already trained on the poetry book and now she read one of the poems, hoping that actually looking at the text helped her pretence of standing at the window merely because this lover of poetry also craved sunshine.
The woman entered the room with a glass of water in one hand and a bucket in the other. Wordless as always, she put the water onto the table and dumped the contents of the chamber pot into the bucket. She swiftly left.
Water into body, water onto windowsill. Scrape and scratch and dig. Elizabeth’s entire life seemed to have dwindled into a dismal set of repetitious movements—but her mind took flight once again, and she knew delight.