Page 56 of Hidden Desires

“AUNT LIZZY, AUNT LIZZY!” came the chorus as Mary’s children threw open the door and jumped from the carriage almost before it had come to a complete stop. Elizabeth’s arms opened to receive the three boisterous youngsters, whose excitement at visiting their favorite aunt could not be contained.

“Isabel, Ruth, mind your manners,” Mary cautioned as she approached the happy gathering. “Anthony, you are the eldest, and I thought I could rely on you to keep your sisters from assaulting their Aunt Elizabeth.”

“I am sorry, Mama,” the boy replied, his voice muffled by Elizabeth’s loving embrace. “I forgot.”

“As you do every time we come to visit,” Mary said, her face wreathed in a smile. “It is a good thing your aunt loves you, or she would bar us from the estate.”

“Mary,” Elizabeth said. “Do not fill their heads with such falsehoods. You know I could never turn them away. You, though, I would bar the gates against.”

“Oh, Lizzy,” Mary said and laughed, “you would do no such thing. After all, who of your sisters comes to visit more? You would die from boredom if I could not convince George to allow my absence from home for a week.”

“How is your husband?” Elizabeth asked as she led the group to the garden, where a meal had been set on the table in anticipation of the visitors’ arrival.

When plates were filled and the meal begun, she asked, “Is Mr. Wickham planning to join you?”

Elizabeth poured the tea with a steady hand, though her thoughts remained unsettled. The visit had begun pleasantly enough, but the mention of Wickham still held the power to rouse suspicion.

“He intended to come with us,” Mary said, reaching out to steady the jam pot before Anthony could knock it over. “But one of his parishioners required comfort, so he remained behind. He promised to arrive tomorrow or the day after.”

Elizabeth handed her sister a scone and fixed her with a half-smile. “That sounds almost… conscientious.”

Mary accepted the scone and shot her son a look over the rim of her cup. “Anthony, not so close to the edge, please. If it falls, you shall go without.” The boy muttered something under his breath and slid back onto the bench with a huff.

“He has changed, Lizzy. More than I thought possible.” She turned to quiet Ruth, who had begun stacking the teaspoons into a leaning tower. “Ruth, my love, the spoons are not for building. Let them be.”

The girl sighed but obeyed.

Isabel, seated beside the vase at the center of the table, reached for a rose and began plucking the petals one by one, letting them drift onto the linen cloth. “Isabel,” Mary said, her voice low and warm, “those are Aunt Elizabeth’s flowers, my love. Let them be.”

The child paused, petal in hand, then let it fall, her fingers opening with the hesitant care of someone parting with a treasure.

Elizabeth took a sip from her tea, watching Mary with something between skepticism and curiosity. “We all assumed he would abandon you before the year’s end. I hope you told him that; he ought to know what a triumph this is.”

Mary chuckled. “I have. More than once. Even Lydia and Kitty envy me now, which I never expected.”

“I remain astonished, and not displeased, that I was wrong.”

“Our year near the Scottish border changed us both,” Mary said, tearing off a piece of her scone and placing it on Ruth’s plate.

“Life there was colder, quieter, lonelier than he liked. He could not charm the villagers as he once did officers’ wives.

No entertainments, no salons, no easy praise.

When I became pregnant with Anthony, something shifted.

I think he saw in the child a mirror, of sorts.

A question he had not prepared to answer. ”

Elizabeth set down her cup and leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Mary. “And did he?”

Mary exhaled, brushing crumbs from the table with her fingers.

“Not at first. He resented everything: our lodgings, our poverty, the daily monotony. There were arguments, harsh words, days when I feared he might vanish before nightfall. But he always came home. Sometimes late, sometimes angry, but he came back.”

Across the table, Elizabeth nodded once. “And now?”

Mary glanced at Anthony, who had begun drawing in a patch of spilled sugar with one fingertip.

“Now he tries. Since taking the living at Longbourn, he has grown more careful in his speech, more considerate of others. He walks the village every morning, asks after the ill, remembers names. There are still moments when I see the man he was, but those days come less often.”

Elizabeth offered the other half of her scone. “That sounds like effort. And effort is a kind of affection.”

“It is.” Mary gave a small smile and looked down at her hands. “He plays the role of the loving rector, referring to them as ‘his flock,’ but I believe he is no longer acting.”

Anthony reached toward the tray and paused, glancing at his mother for permission. She gave him a small nod.

“And when he stumbles,” Mary added, “I remind him what he almost lost. Sometimes I must remind myself, too.”

Elizabeth pushed the plate toward her. “Then it seems you have both done a great deal of work.”

Mary accepted it with a nod. “More than anyone expected of us. He has changed, but not in every way. He no longer chases after women, if that is what you wonder, but there are days when he drinks too much or loses his temper without cause. He regrets it, but the man he was still pulls at him.”

She looked down at Isabel, who had begun arranging fallen petals into a circle. “But he returns to us. He chooses us, and that counts for something.”

“And he dotes on little Isabel. It matters not what she is doing; when George arrives home, she runs to him, crying ‘Papa, Papa.’ I wish you could see the way her face lights up.”

Elizabeth smiled but said nothing. She watched her sister’s expression, searching for any trace of doubt, but found only calm.

“Our father was hesitant about offering him the living,” she said at last. “He feared the lure of the tithes and offerings would be too much for Mr. Wickham to resist.”

“Father came to me with his misgivings,” Mary replied.

“And I shared them, though I did not say so at the time. George had much to prove to all of us. He struggled at first. The work did not come easily; he had no habit of study, no structure to guide his days. He fumbled through his early sermons, often repeating borrowed phrases rather than forming his own. And though he handled church matters with care in public, he still fell into old habits at home. I often wondered whether he could ever be trusted with responsibility.”

She reached for her tea and held the cup without drinking. “But he made the choice to change. Not once, but over and over again. And the more he gave of himself, the more people responded.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, her head tilting as her sister spoke.

“Attendance has grown,” Mary went on, “and the offerings increase nearly every week. George uses that increase to give aid and comfort to those in need, something the previous parson had neglected. He keeps no excess for himself, and I believe that discipline has helped him more than anything.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “He resists temptation?”

“He does. Not without effort, but he does.”

Mary turned her eyes toward the garden. “He is earning acceptance among clergymen in adjoining parishes, and the very men who once looked down on him now debate him on points of doctrine. They write to him, visit him, and ask his opinion. Together, we study his sermons on Saturday evenings, testing each point of understanding to ensure they are faithful.”

Elizabeth reached across the table and took her sister’s hand. “These past ten years have changed you.”

Mary looked down at their joined hands. “And him. George is a faithful husband and a good father. He has done more than I ever expected.”

Approaching footsteps brought a pause to the conversation. Anthony, who sat facing the stable, beamed in excitement as the steps grew louder and Darcy came into view. With him were his and Elizabeth’s sons, Thomas and James, who, at seeing the new arrivals, ran to greet them.

“Hello, Mary.” Darcy kissed Elizabeth on the cheek before sitting beside her at the table.

“It is good to see you; Elizabeth has been waiting all morning. Was your journey pleasant?”

“As much as could be expected with three impatient children for traveling companions,” she laughed. “They could not wait to get here and see their aunt. She has a special charm that draws children to her.”

“I noticed.” Darcy smiled at his wife.

“Your sons have grown since my last visit,” Mary said. “They are very handsome young men and well behaved.”

She watched as they included Anthony in their conversation, making him feel welcome.

“You taught them well. I can see they take after their father.”

“I only hope this next one is a daughter.” Elizabeth sighed. “I am surrounded by men and boys; now I want someone to mother and love and raise to be a gentlewoman.”

Mary blinked. The remark startled her—not because of the wish itself, but because of the quiet certainty with which it had been said. She glanced at Darcy, half-expecting a reaction, but he only studied his hands, as though his wife had spoken of nothing more consequential than the weather.

She turned back to Elizabeth. The smile on her face and the glow in her eyes offered no hint of jest. As Mary studied her more closely, she noticed the slight change in her figure—the way her gown no longer hung quite as it used to, the soft curve beginning to form where there had been none before.

It had not been long since they last visited, but the difference was clear. That visit, Elizabeth had moved with her usual ease, her waist as slender as ever. Now, something had shifted.

Mary said nothing, but her gaze lingered. She lifted her eyes to her sister’s, and in that unspoken exchange, the truth passed between them.