23. A Sister’s Questions #2
Widow Pratt opened the door before they knocked. She was one of those women who seemed to know when company was approaching, and her face creased with pleasure at the sight of Elizabeth and Georgiana.
“Miss Elizabeth! And—oh, my dear, you’ve brought a visitor.”
“Mrs. Pratt, may I introduce Miss Georgiana Darcy? Mr. Darcy’s sister. She is staying at Netherfield and wished to see the estate.”
“Miss Darcy!” Widow Pratt’s eyes went wide. “The gentleman’s sister! Oh, do come in, miss, you must be frozen through. Such a fine lady, visiting my little cottage.”
“It is a lovely cottage,” Georgiana said. “And much warmer than the walk here. I confess I am still adjusting to Hertfordshire winters. Derbyshire is colder, but somehow this damp gets into one’s bones differently.”
“That it does, miss, that it does.” Widow Pratt ushered them inside, directing them to the best chairs near the fire. “Now, let me see what Miss Lizzy has brought—oh! Preserves, and dried herbs, and is this the comfrey salve? My knees have been aching something terrible.”
“From my great-great-grandmother Philippa’s commonplace book,” Elizabeth said, settling beside Georgiana near the hearth. “I have been copying some of her receipts. This one is meant for aching joints in cold weather.”
“Bless you, child.” Widow Pratt clutched the jar with gratitude. “Philippa, ah, I remember my own grandmother talking about her. She was a great healer, knew every herb in the hedgerow and what it was good for. My grandmother learned from her, years and years ago. Philippa was Miss Alice’s mother.”
“Yes, she was,” Elizabeth said. “The one you told me who had fallen in love with the Darcy boy.”
At the name Darcy, Georgiana emitted a small “oh.”
“My grandmother knew them,” Mrs. Pratt said, pouring tea and cutting slices of hearty bread. “I thought about Alice and that boy since the last time we spoke about them. She carried a letter in her pocket. It was old and worn, but she would unfold it and read it.”
Georgiana’s eyes brightened. “Was the letter from the Darcy boy?”
“I do not know,” Mrs. Pratt said. “I was quite young. I only observed her sitting on a stile, her legs swinging, as she read the letter. Her lips moving, calling for him. His name was George, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, George.” Elizabeth drew the miniature from her pocket—the infant with dark eyes and strong brows. “I wonder if you might look at this. We found it in the attic, among Philippa’s things.”
The old woman took the miniature in both hands and held it close to the firelight. Her face softened. “Oh, a baby boy. The people at the big house have these miniatures painted. It looks quite old.”
“When do you think it was painted?” Elizabeth asked.
Georgiana leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “May I see?”
Elizabeth handed her the miniature. Georgiana studied it carefully and then turned it over.
“There is no date,” she said. “No painter’s inscription.
Every miniature in our family has the date and the artist’s name on the reverse.
Grandmamma insisted upon it, and Father continued the practice.
Even the infant portraits.” She looked up, a small smile breaking through.
“You should see the one of Fitzwilliam at six months. Those eyebrows—as though a baby could scowl.”
Elizabeth laughed, the image too perfect, tiny Darcy, already disapproving of the world from his christening blanket. “I should very much like to see that.”
“I shall show you when you visit Pemberley,” Georgiana said it easily, naturally, as though Elizabeth’s eventual presence at Pemberley was a settled matter.
“We have an entire gallery of family portraits. Perhaps you could compare this miniature with others from the same period and see whether the artist’s hand matches any we have. ”
“That is an excellent idea, Miss Darcy.”
“Georgiana, please, or Georgie.” The younger girl’s smile was warm. “If you are to be my sister, and I very much hope you are, we should not stand on ceremony.”
Elizabeth felt something loosen in her chest—a knot she had not known she was carrying. “Then you must call me Elizabeth. Or Lizzy, if you prefer. My family does.”
“Lizzy.” Georgiana tested the name. “I like that. It suits you.”
Widow Pratt, who had been watching this exchange with bright, knowing eyes, cleared her throat gently.
“More tea, ladies? And I should tell you if you’re interested in the old stillroom knowledge, I learned a thing or two from my grandmother.
Miss Alice used to share her receipts with the tenants, you know.
Perhaps Miss Darcy would like to see my herb garden in the spring?
It’s nothing much in winter, but come May—”
“I should love that.” Georgiana’s enthusiasm was invigorating. “I have always wanted to learn more about herbal medicine and making salves, ointments, and syrups. At Pemberley, the housekeeper manages such things, and she is very territorial about her stillroom.”
“Then you must come back,” Widow Pratt said firmly. “Both of you. And bring that brother of yours. He was kind to me before he left, you know. Brought me a goose himself, walked all the way from the cottage. A good man, that one. You could do worse, Miss Lizzy.”
Elizabeth felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Mrs. Pratt—”
“Oh, I have eyes, child. I saw how you ran to that carriage last night. The whole neighborhood is talking of it.” The old woman’s smile was knowing. “But I’ll say no more. Some things are best discovered in their own time.”
“I suspect Miss Lizzy is of the impatient variety,” Georgiana said brightly. “Her race to the carriage being a character study by itself.”
Mrs. Pratt bade them farewell, tucking slices of bread into their hands, and Elizabeth walked back to Longbourn with Georgiana’s arm linked through hers.
“I like her,” Georgiana said. “Mrs. Pratt. She reminds me of the older tenants at Pemberley, the ones who remember my father, who tell stories about the family that no one else knows.”
“She has been a good friend to me since I began managing the estate in earnest.”
“You do it well.” Georgiana’s voice was thoughtful. “The estate, I mean. Fitzwilliam told me about the improvements you implemented: the sluice gate design, the tenant negotiations, and the reorganization of the accounts. He was quite impressed.”
“Was he?” Elizabeth felt a smile bloom, quiet and inward. Trust Darcy to admire her management rather than her eyes or her complexion.
“He said you had better instincts than most land agents he has worked with.” Georgiana glanced at her sidelong. “Coming from my brother, that is high praise indeed. He does not give compliments lightly.”
“I have noticed.”
They walked in silence for a moment, the bare trees stark against the winter sky, the Longbourn chimneys visible now above the hedgerow.
“Elizabeth,” Georgiana said quietly, “may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you love him? My brother?”
The question was direct, unexpected, and entirely Georgiana. Elizabeth considered dissembling—considered the proper, modest answer that a young lady ought to give—and decided she was done with propriety.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“I am so glad.” Georgiana’s face lit up. “When he discovered we were your third cousins, that he was heir of Longbourn, he dropped all of his business to introduce himself properly. I knew from the way he spoke of you that it was more than duty.”
“Yes, he was quite diligent with his duty,” Elizabeth said.
“You might say he took Longbourn under his wing, and then he gave us flight. He has been everything kind and generous. I cannot take all the credit with the repairs and tenant gifts. He robbed Pemberley to pay Longbourn, and then…” Elizabeth’s throat grew thick. “He gave it away.”
“I believe legally, he only barred the entail and added female heirs,” Georgiana said. “It is his sense of fairness. My family’s entail includes females, although I am the only one in many generations.”
“You inherit after Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, but I would rather he marry and have many heirs, boys and girls, as I would love to dote on my nephews and nieces.” Georgiana nudged her hip with hers. “May I tell you a secret?”
Elizabeth was not certain, but she nodded.
“I do not believe I saw my brother truly happy until that moment when you came running to the carriage. I shall never forget the look on his face. I hope, Lizzy, that you will always keep that wide-eyed, slack-jawed look on his face.”
“I hope so too.” Elizabeth touched her pocket where Darcy’s letter rested. “Because he is ever more handsome when he is not scowling.”