Page 44 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

ELIZABETH

S ome time after the New Year, I felt a familiar sensation in my belly, indicating that it was likely my monthly courses would come soon.

Unlike three of my sisters, mine were not regular, nor consistent.

It was yet another similarity between Lydia and me, and our unpredictability was frustrating to each of us, as well as our maid.

I called for the maid, Caitrìona, and when she arrived in my room, I asked her to find the supplies for me that I would need.

She stared at me in surprise for a moment, which confused me, but only a moment later she curtsied and left the room. I suspected she meant to find what I needed, so when there was a knock on my door not five minutes later, I did not enquire who it was; I simply called for the visitor to come in.

Instead of Caitrìona, I was surprised to see Mrs. Mackenzie step into the room.

“D’ye need me tae fetch the midwife?” she asked without preamble.

For several moments, I just stared at her, blinking in confusion.

“Why would I need a midwife?” I asked at last .

“Are ye no worried there’s somethin’ wrong wi’ the bairn?”

“Bairn?” I echoed—not because I did not understand the word, but because I could not begin to fathom how she had come to such a conclusion.

“Aye, the bairn,” she said again. “A wee one. Is that no why ye’re here?”

I could only gape at her for a moment longer, trying to make sense of it all.

“I am not with child,” I said firmly.

Mrs. Mackenzie’s brow drew together in a deep furrow. “But… but that’s why ye were sent here, was it no?”

“It is not!” I cried. “I was supposed to go to London to assist my aunt and uncle there, but instead, the carriage went north. No one told me where I was going or why, and then I arrived here. I am not permitted to send letters to my family or my intended, although, frankly, I am less concerned about not being able to write to my parents. It is my hope that at least my sisters and my Fitzwilliam are searching for me, but I do not even know how they will find us since, whilst I have little doubt my parents agreed with sending me here, I suspect that another is behind the plot. Perhaps there is someone who knows the truth and might reveal it in time. Until then, I must remain vigilant and maintain hope that my loved ones will uncover the mystery of my whereabouts.”

“The letter said it came from yer faither,” the housekeeper told me, her brows drawn low as she folded her arms. “Said ye’d been caught wi’ a lover after yieldin’ yer virtue and had to be sent away to deal wi’ the consequences. Was it no certain ye were wi’ child?”

I could not help it. I gaped at her.

“I was not caught with anyone, nor have I surrendered my virtue to anyone!” I exclaimed. “Do you still have this letter?”

Mrs. Mackenzie nodded, eyeing me carefully, particularly my midsection, for several moments before she spoke.

“Aye, I do,” she said, though it needed no confirmation.

“It struck me as odd from the start. When ye arrived and gave your name as Miss Bennet, I began to wonder if it was your lover who penned the letter, not your father. The maid’s seen none of the signs we expected of a woman with child—no sickness, no fainting—and your belly’s not begun to swell, neither. ”

“Of course it will not,” I said, my voice tight with exasperation. I drew in a calming breath, reminding myself that the housekeeper was not to blame. “May I see the letter?”

“Aye, of course,” Mrs. Mackenzie replied, hurrying from the room.

“How very generous of Miss Bingley,” I said bitterly a few minutes later, lowering the letter that Mrs. Mackenzie had brought me.

“One might expect her to be more frugal with the cost of my imprisonment. But I suppose this was never about my comfort. I have no doubt she’s already begun whispering of my supposed condition to anyone who will listen.

A disappearance of nearly a year will only confirm the rumours she so desperately wants to have believed. ”

Mrs. Mackenzie gave a slow nod, her expression unreadable.

“Aye, well… ye wouldnae be the first lass sent to this house for such a reason—even if that’s no’ truly why ye are here.

I didnae think much on it at the time, but when ye said Miss Bingley, it stirred a memory.

We had another young lady here, some years back.

Went by another name at the time, but she received letters addressed to Caroline Bingley, same as the one ye mentioned.

I’d assumed it was her father or brother who sent ye. ”

“Caroline Bingley was here?” I asked, startled. “When?”

“Five, maybe six years past,” she replied.

“Her final year at school, I think. Got herself wi’ child—some said it was a groom, or perhaps a footman.

She was sent here to have the bairn, and once it was born, it was taken in by a family in Glasgow.

She went back to her life soon after, and nary a word was said of it again. ”

Blowing out a slow breath, I attempted to see if I could use this to my advantage. “Since I am not with child, and this is obviously an attempt to ruin my reputation, will you now permit me to send a letter?”

Mrs. Mackenzie gave a shrug and nodded. “I cannae see the harm in it, I suppose. We’ve already been paid for the full year, after all.

Truth be told, the instructions were odd from the start—most lasses are allowed to send and receive letters from their kin.

But aye, you may write your letter if you like.

Just know, it will be more than a fortnight before it can be posted.

The supply cart came just yesterday, and none’ll be back until the next delivery.

And with a storm blowin’ in, there’s no chance of reachin’ the village and returnin’ before it hits. ”

I nodded and hurried upstairs to write my letters.

It was pointless to rush, but the idea that I could finally write a letter that would actually be posted, made me desire to hurry.

In my letter, I told him about where I was staying, to the best of my ability, and knew I would have to ask Mrs. Mackenzie to give me more information later.

The part about Miss Bingley, I did not commit to paper.

It was not because I intended to keep what I had learnt about her secret—certainly not after all she had done—but I was not yet ready to write it out, not when so much remained unclear.

That story I would save for another time.

Perhaps I would share it with Fitzwilliam once we were married, but not before I made certain that Caroline Bingley understood I knew exactly what she had done.

I might not have every detail, but that did not matter.

The truth had a way of surfacing—and when it did, I intended to ensure she could not escape it.

I could not help wondering how much her brother knew.

It was hard to imagine she had kept it entirely from Mrs. Hurst, but it seemed likely the pair had left Mr. Bingley in the dark.

Still, that was not my chief concern—not tonight.

Yet I allowed myself a few moments to reflect on what Mrs. Mackenzie had shared.

I had little doubt that the letter signed “C. Bingley” had been from Caroline.

The handwriting had been far too neat to belong to Mr. Bingley.

I had never seen his hand myself, but I recalled enough of his and Fitzwilliam’s laughter over his illegible scrawl to make a fair assumption .

Shaking my head to rid myself of all thoughts of the Bingleys, I turned back to my task and finished writing the letters I had begun earlier.

I penned two to Fitzwilliam—one addressed to Darcy House in London and the other to Pemberley.

We were engaged, even if my father had never granted his blessing, and I doubted Fitzwilliam would be troubled by my impropriety in writing to him directly.

Besides, he had told me once to write to him at Darcy House if I ever had cause to do so.

I prayed he was still looking for me, and I was fairly certain that was the case.

Next, I wrote to my aunt and uncle Gardiner. Since my sisters had believed I had gone to Gracechurch Street, they likely had sent letters there. If so, my aunt and uncle might be worried on my behalf. I owed them the truth or at least to know that I was well.

The final letter I addressed to Charlotte Lucas was intended for my sisters. I knew Charlotte would make sure they received it, and I trusted her to pass along every word faithfully.

That task took most of the afternoon, and by the time dinner was served, I felt a bit more at ease, my thoughts no longer tangled. But as the evening passed and I reflected on the conversation I had had with Mrs. Mackenzie, a plan began to take shape in my mind.

Caroline Bingley—along with anyone who had helped her carry out her scheme—would not go unpunished, not if I had anything to say about it.