Unfinished History
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Elizabeth’s laughter escaped her as she made her way to the library after breakfast. The spectacle of Darcy and Bingley vying to corner Mr. Bennet had been worthy of a wager at Tattersall’s, with Bingley snatching victory by a nose.
Darcy, detained by Georgiana’s inquiries, was left in the dust while Bingley spirited Mr. Bennet into his study.
There was no getting through the phalanx of Mrs. Bennet and her girls when she was sure an offer of marriage was pending.
That Darcy, perhaps, had meant to speak to her father about something other than drainage, the fallen tree, and needing a steward to oversee the mill repair and spring planting, did not pass Mrs. Bennet’s single-minded determination to lock down Bingley for Jane.
And so, the evening passed with Darcy subdued, Jane and Bingley duly celebrated, for no sooner had Bingley emerged from Mr. Bennet’s study with his permission for courtship, than did that ebullient gentleman drop to one knee in front of his dear Miss Bennet and propose marriage.
Jane accepted with her usual grace, while Mary and Kitty propped up their mother, and Georgiana cast her brother a look that suggested he ought to follow Bingley’s example without delay.
Elizabeth, for her part, was perfectly content—her happiness for Jane unalloyed.
Not even Mary ventured to mention the impending change of name, as Bingley declared his intention to purchase Netherfield Park, thus ensuring Jane would be only three miles from home.
The celebration, in true Bennet fashion, was more loquacious than sensible, stretching past midnight with toasts, Mary’s dutiful performance at the piano, and a spirited game of charades, which Mrs. Bennet used chiefly to hint at wedding attire and guest lists.
So it was that the next morning found the entire household abed, save Elizabeth.
She breakfasted alone, then slipped her pink improvement journal under her arm and retreated to the library, careful not to disturb Jane’s blissful repose.
Her sister slept on, a smile lingering about her lips.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, had receipts to record and a scheme brewing: Widow Pratt might yet earn her living by presiding over the Longbourn stillroom, selling cordials, preserves, salves, and medicinal herbs for every common ailment.
Elizabeth studied one of Philippa’s receipts—a cordial of elderflower and lemon balm with marginal notes in faded brown ink advising three spoonfuls for melancholy, five for a husband.
The ingredients themselves were manageable, although Longbourn’s hothouses would have to be repaired to allow lemon trees to survive the cold and damp winters.
Perhaps elderberry cordials with a few drops of honey could serve as the basis for a cough syrup, and of course, all ladies required red-tinted lip balm in the wintry months.
She estimated the costs of ingredients and a partnership with Mrs. Foster, who drove her own donkey gig of baked goods to Meryton for sale on the high street every Wednesday.
A tentative footstep paired with Georgiana’s delightful giggle brought a smile to her face.
The Netherfield party was no doubt eager to call, as well as the entire neighborhood to view the soon-to-be bride.
Hill would have spoken to Reed, the Lucases’ maid of all work, who would have gone to Meryton and…
well, there would be no peace in Longbourn until the beautiful heiress married the charming prince of wool from Yorkshire.
A measured knock sounded on the door, and Hill announced, “Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy here to call on Miss Elizabeth. Shall I bring tea to the drawing room?”
“Since my father is still abed, perhaps we can take tea here.” Elizabeth lifted her quill from the inkwell.
Hill nodded and withdrew, and a moment later the library door opened wider to admit the two Darcys. Georgiana swept in first, still wearing her riding habit and gloves, her cheeks bright from the cold.
“Elizabeth, for I may call you Elizabeth, is that right?” She turned to Darcy with an almost reproving expression that he had not proposed, and Elizabeth suppressed a smile at the visage he presented, a slight tension but gaze steady on her.
“Yes, Miss Darcy, you may indeed call me Lizzy. I rather believe you have already taken the liberty yesterday while we visited the home cottages.”
“I did, indeed. I hope you do not mind that Brother and I rode our horses instead of taking the carriage. I wished to experience riding where the paths are unkempt with a rustic wilderness about.”
“Is this a way of implying that our grounds are not as manicured as Pemberley?” Elizabeth asked with a hint of humor. “Because I can assure you, our grounds are as undisciplined as this library is organized.”
“Oh, it is wonderful.” She clasped her hands together.
“At Pemberley, the library is arranged by a method my grandfather devised, and only the male Darcys understand. My brother claims it follows a rational principle. Still, I suspect it follows no principle except that the first Mr. Darcy who assembled the collection placed each volume wherever he happened to be standing when he finished reading it. Every subsequent Darcy has been too proud to admit the system is nonsense.”
“Our system is simpler,” Elizabeth said. “We have no system whatsoever. My father knows where everything is through a process he describes as instinct, and I describe as chance.”
Darcy entered behind his sister. He filled the doorway in a way that ought not to have affected the room’s proportions but somehow did—the library contracting, the bookshelves drawing closer, and the space between the writing desk and the fireplace suddenly insufficient.
He wore his dark-blue coat, the brass-buttoned one, and his gaze found Elizabeth before the rest of him had quite finished arriving.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy. Do come in and sit down before your sister rearranges my father’s books.”
“I was not rearranging,” Georgiana protested. “I was admiring.”
“In this household, the distinction is perilous. My mother once admired a vase so thoroughly she relocated it to three different rooms in a single afternoon.”
Georgiana laughed and dropped into the armchair by the fire, tugging off her gloves with the assurance of a girl who, after two days at Longbourn, had decided she belonged.
“We must congratulate your sister properly,” Georgiana said, her eyes dancing. “Mr. Bingley’s proposal was—well. I have never seen a gentleman drop to one knee with such velocity. I thought he might go straight through the floor.”
“His enthusiasm was certainly commendable,” Elizabeth agreed. “Jane, however, received him with a composure that would have done credit to a duchess. I believe she had been practicing her serene acceptance in the mirror, though she would deny it under oath.”
Georgiana’s laugh was musical, and even Darcy managed a dry chuckle as he settled into the chair opposite the writing desk—her father’s chair, though Elizabeth chose not to mention this.
A thump followed by a plaintive meow landed near Darcy’s boots. Cleo had apparently jumped from her perch atop the bookshelves to greet her favorite gentleman.
“She has missed you,” Elizabeth observed. “She spent four days in the steward’s cottage after you left, you know. Waiting.”
Darcy bent to stroke the cat’s ears. “I did not know cats could be loyal.”
“Cleo has always had excellent judgment.” Elizabeth watched the movement of his fingers through the cat’s fur and the almost-smile at his mouth. Only yesterday he had raced his horse across a frozen field to reach her, and the recollection still kindled a warmth in her chest.
Darcy said nothing, permitting the cat to leap onto the armchair and settle beside him.
“Will Jane be taking her mare to Netherfield?” Georgiana asked as she accepted a cup of tea from Elizabeth.
“You mean old Molly?” Elizabeth poured another cup for Darcy, marveling at the steadiness of her hands. “I suppose she would, as she will need to ride her around the estate for inspections and such. It is one of my failings, not being able to ride, and so I have not inspected the farthest reaches.”
“Oh, but Bingley said he would be hiring a steward so Jane can be a proper mistress of Netherfield.” Georgiana took the plate of Shrewsbury cake offered. “I only wondered because Molly has the look of the Pemberley line of bays, and she has the conformation of my grandfather’s careful breeding.”
“Perhaps Molly was sired by your great-grandfather George’s horse,” Elizabeth began, and felt the words turn strange in her mouth even as she spoke.
Great-grandfather George was Darcy’s to speak about.
Not a Bennet, but a boy lent in case Thomas left no heir.
A boy who had agreed to take the Bennet surname should it have been needed.
Darcy took the mention in stride, his expression barely changing as he sipped his tea, but color rose to Georgiana’s cheeks.
“I knew it when I saw Molly. The other horses are grey, but the way she holds up her head, and her perfectly straight knees. From her high-neck carriage, she appears to be a warmblood rather than the usual stock or hunter.”
“I would suppose several generations would have passed since George’s horse stayed at Longbourn,” Darcy said. “He left a hundred years ago.”
“Yes, and Widow Pratt says he never returned.” Georgiana’s face lit with curiosity. “Brother, did you know that Elizabeth’s great-something-aunt Alice fell in love with George Darcy?”
“I am aware.” Darcy shifted uneasily in his chair. “Although I am sure Miss Elizabeth is not taking tea with us to talk about our ancestors.”
“But if he left his horse, wouldn’t that have been romantic?” Georgiana clearly believed romance was the only reason for taking tea.