Page 78 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

Wicked man! I caught myself before I swatted him again. I turned to Lord Matlock, who sat opposite.

“My lord, His Grace said he wished to talk with you?”

Uncle Henry smirked. “Indeed, my dear. Twenty thousand! If you had let him take the supper set, I am sure he would have put up another ten!”

* * *

The next morning, I was early to breakfast. I set plates next to my own and Fitzwilliam’s, and buttered three slices of bread: one with melted butter, the other two buttered once the toast had cooled.

“Oh, my dears, it was such a lovely ball. I danced with two dukes, a marquess, two earls—well, three, if you include Uncle Henry—I drew the line at mere viscounts and barons, but there was one particularly charming baronet and, of course, Lord Wellington. Rather dashing in his regimentals, but certainly not as handsome as was rumoured.”

I glanced up, suddenly aware that Fitzwilliam was standing at the doorway. “Lizzy, what are you doing? Should we make a quiet trip to Bethlem Hospital?”

I burst into tears. “Oh, Fitzwilliam. I am so sorry. It is just that, on my coming out at the Meryton assembly, I wished to share my experience with my sisters.”

“Sisters? But you have only the one—Jane.”

“No, no! My sisters—Mary, Kitty and Lydia. They are Mama’s children who were never given the chance to grow up to become her beautiful daughters.”

“Kitty? Your friend in Keswick, who paints and draws, just as you do?”

“Yes,” my voice now barely above a whisper.

“And Lydia, who loves to remake bonnets, as you did sitting with Georgiana in the parlour at Ambleside?”

I nodded, my eyes red-rimmed, my handkerchief twisting in my hands.

“And Mary, who plays Beethoven and Clementi as beautifully as you?”

“Oh, forgive me, Fitzwilliam. Am I truly mad for believing they live on in my heart?”

Fitzwilliam took me in his arms, holding me ever so tightly, the room quiet except for the rumble of wagons rattling across the flagstones of Hanover Square. He stroked my hair, his voice gentle.

“No, Lizzy. If loving those lost to us is madness, then the world is full of madmen.”

I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of amber and sandalwood. “You are too good to me, Fitzwilliam—I love you ever so much.”

‘Lizzy, can we have breakfast now? I’m so hungry.’ Lydia dragged me to the table.

‘Marmalade! At Hathaway House there was always marmalade.’ I will ask the kitchen, Kitty—it is my favourite as well.

Now Mary, what do you want? ‘Do you think, Lizzy, we could attend the Argyll Rooms, where Ferdinand Ries is performing on Thursday? He’s ever so skilled.’

* * *

Chapter 31

PEMBERLEY

ONE YEAR later

“Fitzwilliam, hold me, hold me more tightly than you’ve ever done before!” I was alone—no! Fitzwilliam was with me; I clutched his hand. A maid—Sally?—wiping my brow. There was nowhere for the babe to go but out. How long did this inescapable pressure last? An hour, twelve hours, a day? I knew not; time lost all meaning.

Abruptly, I felt relief from the burning—the babe dropping into the birth canal. Oh, what a wonderful feeling! The pain irrelevant; I felt so powerful.

“I can see dark hair, Mrs. Darcy!” Mrs. Reynolds?

Carefully, she wiped the child with a soft cloth. Then, taking twine, she bound the cord that had given it life in the womb, cutting it with her knife.