CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Courage in Company
Kitty was presented the following spring.
She had spent the winter studying drawing in London and no longer copied Lydia's laughter before deciding whether a remark amused her. When Lady Bennet suggested that Lydia be presented at the same time for convenience, Lydia herself refused.
"I am not ready."
The breakfast table fell silent.
Lydia looked around defensively. "I know how to curtsy. But everyone still expects me to do something foolish. Sometimes I do it because they are waiting. I should like one year in which they stop waiting."
Sir Thomas set down his cup. "That is a wise decision."
"Do not look so surprised."
"I am impressed, not surprised."
"You are both," Lydia said, but she smiled.
Kitty entered Court in white silk with a small sketchbook hidden in the carriage for courage. Elizabeth attended with Darcy. Georgiana waited near the antechamber, and Mary stood beside their mother.
Kitty's curtsy was graceful. When Queen Charlotte asked whether she was the artist, Kitty answered clearly and presented a small drawing of the oak in Meryton beneath which the King had rested after his recovery.
"You drew this from memory?" the Queen asked.
"From the tree, ma'am. Papa says memory improves composition and ruins accuracy."
The Queen laughed. "Your father is inconvenient."
"Yes, ma'am."
Afterward Kitty cried with relief and then sketched the Queen's spaniel from memory.
Mary's life advanced more quietly, though not without difficulty.
A week after Kitty's presentation, Mr Avery called at Brook Street while Georgiana was visiting. Mary had received a proposed contract for her third collection. The publisher offered respectable terms, but a clause transferred ownership of every future arrangement made from the music.
Mr Avery read the clause and reached at once for pen and paper. He dictated three changes, named a solicitor who should handle the negotiation, and began explaining why Mary must refuse the agreement.
Mary's fingers closed around the edge of the score. His advice was sound, but he had taken the page from her without asking.
"Mr Avery," she said, interrupting him for the first time, "I asked what the clause meant. I did not ask you to answer for me."
He stopped with the pen above the page. Embarrassment rose beneath his composure.
"You did not. I beg your pardon."
"Papa and Lizzy have spent years teaching me to use my judgment. I can understand the law without surrendering the decision."
"Nor should you." Mr Avery set down the pen and moved the contract back across the table. "May I explain the risks and leave the decision—and every instruction to the solicitor—to you?"
Mary looked toward Georgiana. Her friend touched two fingers to her wrist, their old signal to slow the measure, and waited.
"Yes," Mary said. "Explain. Do not direct."
Mr Avery went through the contract clause by clause.
He marked questions in the margin and distinguished what he knew from what required specialist advice.
When they finished, Mary chose which provisions to reject and drafted her own letter to the publisher.
Mr Avery read it only after she offered the page.
Two days later he returned with a shorter memorandum headed Questions for Miss Bennet. It contained no instructions. Mary kept that page long after the contract was replaced.
Their next meeting occurred during an escorted walk in Kensington Gardens. Georgiana and Elizabeth walked ahead with Mrs Bell; Sir Thomas remained close enough to satisfy propriety while pretending interest in winter pruning.
Mary said, "Sometimes I think you admire the music and have mistaken its maker for part of the composition."
Mr Avery was silent long enough that she feared she had offended him.
"Your music first made me curious," he said.
"It is not why I look for you when I enter a room.
I admire the way you gave Miss Darcy courage without making her indebted to you.
I admire that you hide a wicked sense of humor until someone has earned it.
I admire your loyalty to your sisters, including when they exhaust you.
The compositions matter because they are yours.
You are not valuable because you compose them. "
Mary's eyes burned. She looked toward Georgiana, who had slowed without turning around.
"That was a very long answer," Mary said.
"I am a barrister. We are trained to fear brevity."
She laughed, and the last of the fear loosened.
Before the Bennets returned to Netherfield, Mr Avery asked Sir Thomas for permission to correspond with Mary.
Sir Thomas first confirmed that Mary wished to receive his letters, then questioned him about income, family, law, and the moral implications of publishing music under initials.
Mr Avery emerged pale but returned the next day.
Mary and Mr Avery wrote for the remainder of the winter.
Their letters discussed music and law, but also irritating relatives, favorite walks, household economies, and the books each had abandoned halfway through.
Georgiana encouraged Mary to answer honestly whenever old habit tempted her to write only what sounded accomplished.
"He must court you," Georgiana said, "not the version of you who never disagrees."
Mary folded Mr Avery's latest letter. "He has already met the version who interrupts legal advice."
"And returned."
Mary smiled. "Yes. He returned."
Darcy enjoyed the evolving Bennet household from a safer distance. At Pemberley, Elizabeth received letters and read portions aloud. Lydia's were the most entertaining.
I have completed Miss Harwood's course in household accounts and discovered that candles cost enough to justify darkness.
Mrs Forster says I may assist with the regimental charity again, though Papa has forbidden me from addressing unmarried officers without another lady present.
This is unreasonable because married officers may be just as silly.
Darcy folded the page. "She has a point."
"Do not encourage her."
"I am expected to answer honestly."
"Marriage has made you troublesome."
"Your family deserves credit."
Elizabeth sat beside him on the library sofa, one hand resting unconsciously low upon her abdomen. She had been tired for weeks. Certain foods turned her stomach. The date she expected each month had passed unnoticed during travel and Kitty's presentation.
Darcy followed the movement of her hand.
Their eyes met.
"Elizabeth?"
"I do not know."
Hope and fear entered his face together.
"Shall we send for the physician?"
"Tomorrow. I wish to hold the possibility one night before everyone begins telling me what to eat."
Darcy covered her hand with his. "What do you wish me to do?"
"Hold it with me."
He drew her against him.
They sat in the library as evening gathered, saying nothing, the possible future no larger than the space beneath their joined hands.
* * *
The physician confirmed that Elizabeth was with child.
Darcy thanked him, asked six questions, forgot every answer, and followed him into the hall to ask them again.
Elizabeth remained seated near the fire, half laughing and half crying.
When Darcy returned, he knelt before her.
"You are well?"
"So he says."
"He recommends rest."
"He recommends ordinary activity without strain."
"That includes rest."
"It also includes walking."
"Short distances."
Elizabeth placed both hands upon his face. "Fitzwilliam, if you become impossible now, we shall not survive seven months."
He closed his eyes. "I am frightened."
Honesty dissolved irritation.
"So am I."
"My mother died years after Georgiana's birth, but I remember the fear during her confinement. I remember my father waiting."
"Mama delivered five daughters safely and tells every confinement as a military campaign. Jane is well. I am healthy. Fear may come without directing us."
Darcy opened his eyes. "You are returning my lessons."
"It is a family habit."
They told Georgiana first. She cried and embraced them both. Mrs Reynolds knew before the formal announcement because the physician's carriage had been seen and Darcy ordered three books on childbirth from the library shelves.
Letters went south.
Lady Bennet's reply contained eight pages of instructions and a final sentence in Sir Thomas's hand: Your mother has forgotten that women in Derbyshire give birth without Hertfordshire supervision. I have not told her.
Jane wrote from Longbourn, now heavy with her own child.
I am glad our babies will be near in age, though not in miles. Charles speaks to mine every night and believes it kicks in answer. I have not told him digestion is equally likely.
Elizabeth wished to be with Jane for her confinement in February. Darcy wished the same and feared winter travel. They compromised by going to London in January and waiting for safe roads before continuing to Netherfield.
The compromise was tested when snow closed the northern road for four days. Darcy watched weather reports. Elizabeth paced the London drawing room. Neither said I told you so, which they considered a marital triumph.
They reached Netherfield two weeks before Jane's expected time.
Lady Bennet transferred half her attention from one pregnant daughter to the other and exhausted both.
"Lizzy, do not sit in a draught. Jane, you have walked enough. Mr Darcy, she must not climb stairs quickly. Mr Bingley, why is Jane's shawl over there?"
Sir Thomas created a rule: no maternal instruction could be repeated within the same hour.
"You cannot regulate concern," Lady Bennet said.
"I regulate volume. Concern may continue silently."
The sisters found comfort in one another's fears. Jane admitted she dreaded pain. Elizabeth admitted she worried something in her would be lost to motherhood.
"Everyone speaks as if the child becomes your whole heart," she said. "What happens to the rest of me?"
Jane considered. "Perhaps the heart grows. Mama remained herself after five of us."
From the corridor came Lady Bennet's voice demanding to know who moved the foot warmer.