23. A Sister’s Questions
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A SISTER’S QUESTIONS
The morning after Twelfth Night dawned grey and cold, and Elizabeth woke with the taste of cider still on her lips and the memory of three kisses warming her from the inside out.
She lay in bed longer than was her habit, twirling the crinkled paper crown in her hands and remembering Darcy’s face when she had quoted the lines from his letter.
She had told Jane everything—well, almost everything, and the two sisters had talked until either one or both of them had drifted off to the land of dreams. Jane, however, was up already, but she hadn’t been kissed until she could scarcely breathe, as she and Bingley had stayed close to Mamma and Papa throughout the wassailing, the songs and the gunshots.
A knock on the door hurled Elizabeth out of her Darcy-inhabited dream world.
“Lizzy,” her sister’s voice was soft. “Are you still abed? The Netherfield party has sent word. They are coming to call this morning. All of them.”
Elizabeth sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes, her pulse leaping at the news.
“They are all up so early.” She wondered if Darcy had dreamed about her, too.
“And I suppose Mr. Bingley found it quite impossible to remain another hour at Netherfield without consulting you on the state of the roads, or perhaps the weather?”
Jane blushed, like she had been doing every quarter-hour since Bingley arrived. “Yes, and while Mamma wishes to set up the card tables and have another musicale, Georgiana expressed a wish to explore the grounds.”
“Will her brother come along?” Elizabeth felt a sudden, sharp swoop of anticipation. After last night’s orchard confessions, the thought of walking the frosty paths beneath his steady gaze made her breath catch, even as her mind raced with the sudden, delightful probability.
“You would ask about her brother,” Jane teased. “I do believe she intends to monopolize you so her brother can check up on the repairs. He has requested that Bingley come along, and well… I suppose he wished for Charles to learn Longbourn in case…”
“In case he marries you, Jane? Do you think he will propose?”
Jane’s cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. “Papa is in good health, and we have plenty of time. But Darcy likes to be prepared.”
Elizabeth supposed it was just as well. After last night’s adventures, she and Darcy would need to tread with the utmost delicacy, lest they provide the neighborhood with more entertainment than it deserved.
Her father had already made sport of marriage by compromise, but Elizabeth had no intention of becoming the subject of every tea-table, even for the sake of a man who had, quite inconveniently, ceased to be either infuriating or insufferable.
The Netherfield party arrived promptly at eleven, and Georgiana immediately gravitated to Elizabeth’s side while Bingley flowed to Jane the way water ran down a channel.
Darcy stood aside, sandwiched by Mr. Hurst and Mrs. Hurst, but his eyes found Elizabeth with an intensity that made her pulse stutter.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed, perfectly correct.
“Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied, equally correct. Neither of them mentioned the orchard or the fact that the King and Queen had been misplaced amongst the wassail, songs, and revelry.
“Brother, you are blocking the door.” Georgiana appeared at Darcy’s elbow, her cheeks pink from the cold, her eyes bright with curiosity as they swept the hall and landed on Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth! I was hoping—that is, I wondered if you might show me the stiles you use to elevate yourself over the mudpits. Fitzwilliam has told me about the improvements you have been making, and I should so like to see them.”
“You mean to see the places where your brother got acquainted with Hertfordshire.” Elizabeth’s glance at Darcy was teasing.
“I wish to see everything.” Georgiana’s smile was disarming. “I have been trapped at Matlock for weeks with no one to talk to but my aunt, who believes young ladies should not have opinions, and my cousin Richard, who has too many. I am desperate for sensible conversation.”
“Then you have come to the wrong house,” Elizabeth said solemnly. “We have five sisters, a mother who believes volume is a substitute for reason, and a father who finds the commotion entertaining. Sensible conversation is in short supply.”
“Perfect.” Georgiana’s grin widened. “I shall feel right at home.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. Elizabeth caught his eye, and a sentiment passed between them—amusement, warmth, and the shared recognition of a sister being welcomed into the fold.
“I should be happy to walk out with you, Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “Though I warn you—the paths are muddy, and I intend to visit several tenants on the way. Mrs. Pratt is elderly and appreciates company, and I have been meaning to bring her some things from the stillroom.”
“May I help? I am quite good with baskets.” Georgiana’s eagerness was entirely without pretense. “And I should like to meet your tenants. Fitzwilliam says you know them all by name.”
“I have been managing the estate in practice for three years.” Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. “Will you join us, Mr. Darcy?”
“I would not presume to intrude on a ladies’ expedition, especially if stiles are involved.” His voice was dry, but his eyes were warm. “Bingley requires a detailed tour of the boundary stream between Netherfield and Longbourn to forestall any future boundary disputes.”
“Poor Mr. Darcy, condemned to boundary disputes when he might have been racing me across stiles.”
“The sacrifices of friendship are not to be underestimated, Miss Elizabeth.”
They were flirting in front of his sister and her family, but Elizabeth loved the ease, and she never wanted it to stop. To think that only a fortnight ago, she had resented his dark, brooding presence.
“Come, Miss Darcy.” She turned before her face could betray her entirely. “Let us assemble our basket and escape before my mother conscripts us for a tedious duty.”
The basket sat by the kitchen door, packed that morning with Hill’s help—tea, seedcake, dried beef, a pot of the blackberry preserves Jane had put up in September, and small clay jars of remedies Elizabeth had prepared from Philippa’s commonplace book.
Lip balm made of beeswax and a crimson root for Mrs. Turner.
The chilblain salve for the Millers, rendered from mutton tallow and elderberries.
A cough syrup of horehound and honey for old Mr. Henderson.
A jar of comfrey ointment for Widow Pratt’s knees, the receipt copied in Elizabeth’s own hand from Philippa’s cramped and fading script.
Georgiana lifted one of the jars and read the label. “Comfrey and goose grease, for rheumatism. Did you make this yourself?”
“From a receipt in my great-great-grandmother’s commonplace book. I cannot vouch for the goose grease. Hill swears by it, but she swears by several things I find medically improbable.”
“You have a working stillroom?” asked Georgiana.
“We have a room that was once a stillroom and is currently a repository for broken furniture and Lydia’s discarded bonnets. Jane and I have been discussing its restoration.”
“I studied botany with my governess. Herbal preparations and tinctures. I have always found it fascinating and have wished to explore it further. Although at Pemberley, Mrs. Reynolds manages the stillroom with a precision that discourages interference.”
“If she is at all like your brother’s valet, then she is rather formidable.”
“She is a force of nature,” Georgiana said. “Rather like your mother, I think, though quieter about it.”
“Although my mother cares nothing for herbs and mixing tinctures, or melting beeswax and rendering goose grease, so if you are eager to dabble in unguents and infusions without incurring a housekeeper’s wrath, we can commence your education here in ours.”
“I would love that.” Georgiana looked up with an expression of such eager, unfeigned admiration that Elizabeth felt a sudden, heartwarming glow. She could grow to love Darcy’s sister as her own.
Their walk to the Millers’ cottage led them past the stile where Elizabeth had once bested Darcy, now rendered unclimbable by a treacherous glaze of ice.
Georgiana, undeterred by the cold, inquired after the tenants—their number, their histories, and their needs.
She displayed the same meticulous curiosity as her brother, her mind keen and her interest unfeigned.
“Your brother was very kind to the Millers when he was here,” Elizabeth said, handing the chilblain salve to Mrs. Miller while the youngest child clung to her mother’s skirts. “He sent for the physician when the baby was ill. Paid for it himself and told no one.”
“That sounds like Fitzwilliam.” Georgiana knelt to the child’s level. “He does a great deal and says very little.”
“He does.” Elizabeth felt a warmth in her chest—the warmth of fully understanding Darcy and realizing how worthy he was of knowing. “It is one of his better qualities.”
They left the Millers’ and visited the Hendersons, where Mr. Henderson immediately swallowed a large spoonful of the cough syrup, licking the sweet residue from the spoon.
The eldest boy showed them a wooden horse he had carved for his younger brother, and told them that Darcy had introduced him to the stable before he left, and he had been mucking stalls.
Elizabeth commended the boy and left peppermint sticks, apples, and carrots for him to befriend the horses.
The Turners and Fosters were not home, likely out visiting, and so they left the lip balm salves with a note.
The walk to Widow Pratt’s cottage took them past the frozen duck pond, along the orchard wall, and through the copse where the bare trees stood silver-grey against the winter sky.
A thin curl of smoke from the chimney carried the scent of baking bread, and the repaired roof gleamed with new thatch.