Page 78 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“I am aware of my good fortune, Mrs. Collins.”

“Charlotte, please. If Elizabeth is to become Mrs. Darcy, we shall all need to be on more familiar terms.” Her smile was dry but genuine. “I understand there was a proposal at a fallen tree. Very romantic. Very symbolic. I trust you did not actually stand on the tree while asking, as that would have been excessive.”

“I refrained from theatrical gestures.”

“Wise. Elizabeth dislikes them. Now, Mr. Darcy, before Mrs. Bennet commandeers the wedding timeline, when will you post banns, issue invites, and inform your relations?”

“Mrs. Bennet has decided that both couples should be wed at St. George’s in London; however, I do not see why we cannot simply elope, now that I have Mr. Bennet’s consent.”

Elizabeth’s jaw dropped, but she could not help the smile, as it would definitely avoid both Mrs. Bennet’s busy bustle and the censure of Darcy’s aunts. Charlotte pressed her lips together in the manner of a woman suppressing a very great deal of amusement.

“You would deprive Mrs. Bennet of her wedding?” Charlotte said. “That is not an elopement, Mr. Darcy. That is a hostile usurpation of maternal privilege.”

“I have survived Lady Catherine. I fancy my chances.”

“Lady Catherine does not have nerves, Mr. Darcy. She has pronouncements. Mrs. Bennet has nerves, and they are contagious, and they multiply under provocation.” Charlotte glanced at Elizabeth with the air of a woman delivering a friendly warning. “If you elope, she will take to her bed for a month and blame you both for the ruination of her health, her complexion, and her standing in the neighborhood. In that order.”

“Charlotte speaks from intimate knowledge of my mother’s afflictions,” Elizabeth said. “You do not wish to be subjected to her nerves.”

“No, indeed, and I can assure you that Pemberley is sufficiently fortified and distant to withstand a forced march by such nerves.” Darcy gave Elizabeth a wink. “But I suppose having Lady Catherine as a bulwark for us at St. George’s will suffice.”

“And that, Mr. Darcy, is perhaps the wisest thing you have said all evening.”

“Dinner,” Hill announced from the doorway, and Elizabeth had never been more grateful for Hill’s impeccable timing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

HIDDEN TEARS

Elizabeth smiled to herself as she wrapped her warmest pelisse about her shoulders, bracing for a January morning that seemed determined to freeze every good intention. The engagement party had dissolved only when the last candle guttered, leaving the entire household—servants included—collapsed in grateful slumber. The day ahead promised a campaign of cleaning, repairs, and the delicate art of measuring for new draperies, for the combined efforts of the Gardiner and Lucas children had left the furnishings in a state that made Hill’s daily dusting list look like a page out of a historical fantasy.

The steward’s cottage would provide a more manageable task for Elizabeth, and so she took her measuring tape, a charcoal pencil, and her improvement journal and crossed the frosted yard. The south-facing window wanted widening. The chimney drew well enough, but the hearth was too shallow for proper warmth. A set of shelves along the east wall would hold Charlotte’s books, and if the brickwork proved sound behind the damaged plaster, perhaps a second room could be fashioned from the lean-to at the rear.

And she smiled to herself, considering how Darcy’s elopement jest would flourish if ever her mother caught wind of it. She could almost compose the letter herself: Dear Mamma, we have eloped. Please do not take to your bed for longer than a fortnight. Your loving daughter, Elizabeth.

Her mother would never take to her bed. She was more likely to write the entire militia and order a cavalry charge to chase down their carriage and force them back to marry at St. George’s, as no lesser location would do.

The cottage emerged through the bare trees, its thatched roof pale against the sullen sky. The exterior bore the marks of recent patching, but Darcy’s attentions had been diverted by Georgiana’s illness before he could conquer the interior. Elizabeth unlatched the door and stepped inside, greeted by darkness and a chill that seemed to resent intrusion. She flung open the shutters, inviting what little January light dared to enter.

The hearth was cold, and the furniture covered with cloth. She glanced at the desk and the small crack underneath it where Darcy had stuffed that letter he had not meant to send. The plaster would have to be done to ward off any drafts, and the windows sealed. She examined the door to the bedroom. The hinges were rusted, and it squeaked, but the entire room was too small for a lady. She would suggest expanding it to add shelving for books and a proper wardrobe for her clothes.

Elizabeth pulled out her improvement journal and began her circuit of the room, noting the condition of the windows, the state of the floorboards, and the places where the plaster had cracked or crumbled. The thatch was sound—Darcy’s workmen had done an excellent job—but the walls needed attention. Several patches of damp exposed the underlying brickwork, including a section near the hearth where the mortar had begun to fail.

The interior wall between the sitting room and bedroom was in even worse shape, with visible cracks, missing plaster, and discolored patches, slightly raised in one area but sagging in the next.

She tapped at the wall, suspecting a missing or broken brick, and to her horror, the plaster crumbled, revealing a cavity. Elizabeth peered into the opening, scarcely larger than a breadbox, the type of space someone would hide coins or treasure.

She withdrew a packet wrapped in oilskin, opened it, and found documents. The papers were aged, and the ink faded, folded together. She could barely make out the writing, a tidy hand with the words:

To the Bennet girl who imagines she would marry a Darcy.

Elizabeth stared at the words. This was a feminine hand—certainly not Darcy. Could it be Georgiana? Or even more far-fetched, Caroline Bingley or Mrs. Hurst? Charlotte? Someone was trying to warn her away from Darcy. Or the letter from a hundred years ago. To Alice, the original Bennet girl who would have married a Darcy?

Her hands shaky, she untied the faded ribbon that held the papers together and unfolded them.

The first one was a letter, dated 1723, written in a man’s hand of strong, round letters. She brought it to the window where the light was better and read.

My dear Alice,