Page 50 of Elizabeth in Scotland (Elizabeth and Darcy Abroad #2)

Once again, she was trying to read. And once again, she was failing.

Elizabeth could not seem to concentrate on anything these days, and she had always been such a voracious reader.

With a sigh, she closed her book and laid it on her lap.

What was wrong with her? Perhaps a walk in the countryside would help her focus on her reading and leave behind all the disturbing thoughts that rallied for her attention.

She was in her favourite spot in the drawing room, tucked away in the corner window seat where she could soak up the warmth from the sun.

But even with the unseasonably warm weather and the colours of autumn on display before her through the window, she could not concentrate.

If she were to get her blood pumping, perhaps it would help her mind to focus on what was in front of her eyes, rather than that ever-present companion. And his piercing, haunting eyes.

She knew very well what it was. Mr Darcy occupied her thoughts day and night, and there did not seem to be any way to extricate him from her mind.

Perhaps it was only natural, for she was a woman in love.

Elizabeth felt that she would have been the happiest woman on earth if it were but for one thing — that her sister was not angry with her.

Elizabeth was floundering in a whole new territory.

Always, she had known Jane to be so understanding, so apt to like other people and overlook their faults.

Why, then, could Jane not overlook how Elizabeth had disappointed her?

Even now, Elizabeth could not entirely understand what she had done to make Jane so angry.

Rather than the fault originating in her, it seemed almost as though Jane were taking out other frustrations on her sister, or as though she were angry at Elizabeth for stepping out of her place.

Perhaps that was it, after all. Jane had always been undisputedly first among the Bennet sisters — first in age, first in beauty, first in excellence of temperament.

All the trouble had started when their father had chosen Elizabeth to go to Scotland.

As soon as she had left Jane’s shadow to take her own place, her sister had changed beyond all recognition.

It was as though Jane suddenly saw her not as a beloved sister, but as her competition.

Oh, Jane, Elizabeth thought, sick to the heart.

Do you not see? I never wanted to surpass you.

You are still the most beautiful and the most elegant of the Bennet sisters.

I would have gladly praised you to the end of my days — but if you will stray so far from the right path, I cannot make myself small enough to do it.

“What are you reading?” Mary asked as she entered the room, startling her. Mary stopped short at Elizabeth’s reaction and raised a brow. “I am sorry if I surprised you. I thought I was very loud coming down the corridor.”

She came and joined Elizabeth near the window seat, pulling up a chair beside her.

It was strange that Mary would seek her out, for she was always such a recluse.

Either she was sitting at her pianoforte, running scales until all their heads pounded with them, or she was tucked away in the privacy of her room, reading works of philosophy and deep scholarship.

“Ah, I was trying to read a novel by Mrs Radcliffe.” She closed the book with a loud thud. “But I am not making much progress.”

Mary nodded. “Neither am I.” She set aside the book she had brought with her, and leant back in the chair, looking wistfully out the window.

“I have this feeling that I am not where I should be, Lizzy. Ever since you came back from Scotland and told us all about the country and its people, I have a longing to go there and see for myself. It seems a very mysterious place. Is it really as enchanting as they say?”

“It was for me,” Elizabeth replied. She thought back on the times she and Georgiana had spent in the old house, how she had sometimes felt that she was in the presence of friendly spectres from the past. “I shall never forget my time there. And I hope very much to go back for a visit before many more years have passed.” She looked sideways at her sister.

“Does your curiosity have anything to do with Mr Campbell?”

Mary’s cheeks coloured slightly. “Perhaps. Papa says that I may add something to his next letter to Scotland. But I have no idea what I should say. And would it not be improper for me to write to a gentleman at all?”

“You are right to be cautious, but I think you need not fear, since the letter will be from our father. In fact, since he does not like the trouble of writing, why do you not write it for him? Then it will feel more natural to add a postscript, writing as yourself.” Elizabeth’s mood lifted as she talked with Mary, for her sister’s careful excitement and modest hopes were delightful.

“A gentleman would never object to a young lady acting as secretary for her father.”

Mary’s face brightened at the suggestion. “That is a splendid idea. I shall ask Papa if there is anything I can write for him to Mr Campbell. I am very good at taking down dictation, which he well knows.”

“And you have such a pretty hand,” Elizabeth said.

Mary did not budge from her spot, however, and so Elizabeth knew she had something more to discuss with her. Perhaps it was something that she was uncomfortable asking. Mary, so quiet and reserved, might well need a little encouragement to broach a difficult topic.

“Is everything well with you, Mary? I mean, is there anything else you wished to ask me?”

Mary thought for a moment, staring out the window. “I have never thought of being in love, Lizzy. Is it very painful?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Why should it be painful?”

Mary raised her eyes to meet hers. “I have seen how you look at Mr Darcy, that is all. And every time you seem to be hiding a secret pain. Why is that?”

Elizabeth was taken aback by the question. She had not thought Mary of all people would watch her so closely. But once again, her quiet, unassuming sister had surprised her. “Surely I do not look particularly pained when I look at him. I look at him as I would look at any other.”

“But you do,” she argued, very matter-of-factly.

“You have such longing in your eyes that I think your heart will break.” She paused, looking off into the distance.

A small smile touched her lips. “And then there are other times when I think you are the happiest you have ever been in your life. Love is very strange,” she finished, shaking her head.

Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “That it is. I am afraid I cannot answer your questions. If that is what you have observed, there is little I can say to bring clarity. All I know of love is that it is at once exciting and agonising. I wish I could tell what he is thinking, what he is feeling. It is this guessing game that has been the most difficult.”

“Perhaps he will make his sentiments known soon,” Mary said encouragingly.

“I hope so,” Elizabeth said softly. “You are not wrong, Mary. It is delightful to love him and to think the world of him. But it is painful — sometimes very painful — to doubt how much he might feel for me.”

With much-appreciated tact, Mary said nothing in reply.

She only nodded and reached over to pat her sister’s hand.

After a long moment, Mary rose and excused herself.

“I want to go practice something from the Highlands, just in case Papa wants me to go to Scotland with him soon. You did say Mr Campbell likes the pianoforte?”

“As he is an accomplished player, I am confident he does.”

Mary smiled and left her alone with her book.

But Elizabeth could not focus. She stood and slipped out the back door and went for a little stroll through the garden.

The birds that were still in the area were chirping lazily in the trees.

Soon, they would all vanish to places unknown.

She found her favourite little bench, tucked behind one of the overgrown hedgerows, and tried to begin again.

For several minutes, she did her best to shut off her thoughts and picture what she was reading in her mind’s eye. Something about a young woman lost in a Gothic castle and a mystery that she must solve…

She sighed in frustration and started over at the top of the page, since she had not comprehended anything she was reading.

“Is the damsel in distress?” came a voice from behind the hedgerow.

Elizabeth startled, then closed her book as Mr Collins appeared around the corner of the tall shrub. “Ah, no. I am not in distress,” she replied.

“No, I mean the heroine in your book,” he corrected.

He came to stand in front of her, bow-legged and slouching as always, as though he feared the redoubtable Lady Catherine de Bourgh might suddenly appear and reproach him if he dared to stand up straight.

“Surely there is always a damsel in need of rescue in these little novels of yours?”

Elizabeth did not care for his contemptuous tone, but decided to ignore his question and go to the real reason he had interrupted her solitude.

“Is there something I can do for you, Mr Collins?” she asked.

She set her book aside but did not bother to keep her place marked.

She would likely have to restart the book from the beginning, anyway.

“There is, indeed. How perceptive you are, Miss Elizabeth.” He cleared his throat in the maddening way that set her teeth on edge. Hopefully, his request would be quickly delivered and quickly achieved, so she might go back to pretending to read.

“I must first say that your mother sent me, and she has approved of everything I am about to say to you.”

“That is good to hear, Mr Collins,” she said, a little confused about why her mother would have to approve of anything Mr Collins had to say to her.