Page 21 of To Love And To Cherish
She glanced at Jane. “However, Mamma is growing desperate. I fear what lengths she may go to now.”
The sisters sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the scratch of pencil against muslin and the occasional flutter of fabric. Outside, a blackbird called in the branches, and the wind stirred the ivy along the house.
In that little room above the world, the Bennet sisters sewed and whispered, a band of quiet solidarity against a mother’s ambition and the demands of society.
That night, Elizabeth sat alone in her little attic bedchamber, its faded walls still bearing traces of childish murals. The small hearth crackled low, casting shifting shadows across the familiarclutter, dolls long forgotten, a rocking horse, the faint scent of lavender and dust.
In the stillness, she drew from the bottom of her trunk two leather-bound volumes, the books Mr. Darcy had once given her. Her fingers lingered on the cover of the topmost tome before she opened it and touched the inscription within, running her hand lightly over the bold, elegant script of his name.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She read the inscription twice, then turned to the folded pages tucked safely within the endpapers, three letters, creased at the corners, softened by time and handling. She unfolded each one, her eyes tracing the words she knew by heart. They had once brought comfort, a sense of connection. Now, they stirred a dull ache.
After a long moment, she returned the letters to the book and carefully drew forth the sketch she had made of him so many years ago. Her friend’s eyes met hers once more from the page. Then she placed the book, with all its treasures, at the bottom of her trunk, beneath the second volume he had given her and the layers of muslin and tatting, where it would be safe from prying eyes.
She sat a while longer, gazing into the low fire, her thoughts drawn inexorably to him. Was he well? Did he ever think of her? Was he married with children of his own?
A tear slid down her cheek, which she brushed away with an impatient hand.
It pained her, more than she wished to admit, that he had ceased writing so abruptly, offering no explanation, no farewell. Oneday, his letters had stopped, as if she and the Gardiners had never mattered at all.
Well, she reflected with quiet bitterness, he is far too high to trouble with one such as I.She and the Gardiners had been a passing diversion, nothing more, during a brief interlude in his otherwise exalted life.
She knew better than to hope.
A man of his station could never regard a woman in her position as a suitable wife, or even, as a friend.
Drawing a long breath, Elizabeth rose with quiet resolve and extinguished the candle. She laid her gown neatly over the chair and pulled back the coverlet as she prepared herself for bed.
Whatever dreams might come, she would meet the morning with a steady heart and unclouded mind.
The past, like the book, would remain safely shut away.
Chapter 12: A Call To Aid
The rumble of carriage wheels drew Elizabeth’s gaze toward the front drive. Dr. Edgerton’s gig, mud-spattered and rocking on its springs, drew up in haste before the house. The physician himself jumped down, his coat unbuttoned, his expression grave. Before he could reach the front step, Hill had already opened the door.
"Is Miss Elizabeth within? I need her assistance," he said.
Mrs. Bennet appeared, one hand pressed dramatically to her bosom. “What has happened, Doctor? What is this urgency at such an hour? It’s almost time to sit down for dinner.”
The four sisters gathered in the doorway of the drawing room, watching and listening. Then Elizabeth hastened to fetch a clean apron from the pantry and snatched her bonnet and pelisse from the entry. “I am here,” she said firmly. “I am ready.
Mr. Bennet stepped out of his study, eyes narrowed. "What’s the nature of the crisis? It’s already past four.”
“Mr. Goulding,” the doctor replied shortly. “His pistol misfired, and he shot himself in the thigh. I’ll be operating and require Miss Elizabeth’s assistance.”
Elizabeth ran down the stairs, apron in hand. “I’m ready.”
Mrs. Bennet stepped away from the door, her eyes still on the drive where the physician’s gig had just disappeared with Elizabeth seated beside him. “Mr. Bennet,” she said thoughtfully, smoothing her sleeve, “have you ever considered that Dr. Edgerton might make a suitable match for one of our daughters?”
Mr. Bennet turned away from the door and looked at his wife. “Edgerton? He’s forty at the very least.”
“Yes, of course. But he’s respectable, owns a small estate, and has been a widower these nine years. It’s time he thought of remarrying.”
He arched a brow. “And you mean to thrust Lizzy at him, I suppose?”
“She’s not getting any younger,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “And he clearly admires her. Why else would he call for her during every emergency? He could summon any of the local women to help him, but he prefers Elizabeth.”
