Page 50 of To Love And To Cherish
"And he prefers the ruins to Rome?"
"He does. He would rather dig in English dirt than dine in Venetian palaces. He dreams of becoming an antiquarian."
"And his father disapproves?"
"Vehemently. Says no man can feed a family with ruins and relics."
Elizabeth tilted her head. "And what does Mr. Ludwig say to that?"
"He says he wants no wife, no children, only his spade, his relics, and the thrill of discovery."
As they passed over a narrow bridge, the River Cam came into view, its waters curling gently beneath the willows. Sheep's Green lay tranquil in the distance, a sprawl of water meadows caught in the amber light of afternoon.
Soon, the carriage rattled past Peterhouse, the oldest of the colleges. Elizabeth leaned slightly for a better look, struck by its austere beauty.
"Founded in the 13th century," said Mr. Trent. "Peterhouse is small, but proud."
A few turns later, the carriage drew up before a handsome red-brick house. Perfectly symmetrical, with six evenly spaced sash windows and a central entrance adorned with a semi-circular fanlight above the door, it exemplified Georgian taste. The roofwas low-pitched and hipped, the whole façade tidy and imposing in its restraint.
The carriage halted, and the occupants descended. Elizabeth breathed in deeply. The scent of green grass and stone and late-summer blooms seemed to drift on the breeze.
"Professor Trent," she asked, "might I take a walk back toward Peterhouse? The city is so beautiful, and I long to stretch my legs."
"Of course. I shall send a footman with you. Niece, will you join her?"
Mary King shook her head. "No, thank you. I believe I shall take to my bed for an hour or so. The journey has quite overcome me."
Elizabeth set off, the footman trailing behind at a respectful distance. The streets bustled with students, gentry, and tradesmen. She turned toward the river and paused on a footbridge, watching a group of students rowing. Their motions were fluid, their timing impeccable, and the boat skimmed across the Cam with almost ethereal grace. She had never seen anything so graceful.
When the sky began to darken, Elizabeth returned to the house and changed into one of her new gowns. A surge of gratitude rose within her for her father, who had seen fit to provide her with a new wardrobe. She could appear at table prettily, though modestly, attired. Her hosts were gracious, and she felt assured they would overlook the simplicity of her dress.
At dinner, she was introduced to Miss Ancilla Trent, twenty-six, unmarried, and elegant. Her red hair was swept back in Grecian style, her green eyes alert. She greeted Elizabeth with warmthand turned her attention, almost immediately, to her young charge.
"Cousin," she said, lifting a brow, "what did you think of the Roman site Professor Trent mentioned?"
"Oh," said Mary, blinking, "I thought it sounded very dirty."
Ancilla smiled sweetly. "Yes, dear. As is life, I’m afraid. But one does get used to the soil when something valuable might be underneath."
Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a laugh. Mr. Trent was watching with quiet amusement.
Dinner continued with lively conversation, and Elizabeth soon found herself deep in discussion with Professor Trent about his work.
"My students are writing essays on the subject of Existentialism," he said, sipping his wine. "Rather modern, I grant you, but it speaks to them. Freedom. Choice. Responsibility. All very personal matters when one is just beginning to live."
"It must resonate," Elizabeth said quietly. "Especially for those who have never been allowed to make choices for themselves."
"Such as yourself?"
She hesitated. “Yes, it speaks to the general condition of women in the early nineteenth century, though in my own case, it is my mother who comes to mind. She sought husbands for my two loveliest sisters as one might shop for hams. Jane, the eldest, was nearly matched to a man forty years her senior. Lydia was mercifully sent to school by my uncle and escapedthe persecution, though my mother still threatens to find her a husband. And I, I fled."
"To Scotland?"
She nodded. “When I was fourteen, I fled to my uncle. And now, to Scotland. My mother was determined to marry me to my father’s heir. We would never have suited. So yes, I fled, for freedom, and perhaps to find something of myself along the way."
He looked at her with interest. "And do you find it, Miss Bennet, this self you seek?"
"I hope so," she said. "I know I feel inspired by the trying."
