Page 7 of Searching for Elizabeth (A Pride and Prejudice Variation)

—afternoon—

Elizabeth Bennet ate only a small luncheon, because she did not feel secure that her food supply could be easily replenished. Mary had reluctantly returned to Longbourn, and it was time, Lizzy thought, to get down to all the various kinds of work her mother would loudly disdain: housework, authorial work, and financial work.

As she cleaned her utensils and dishes, wiped the small counter and table, and swept the floor, Lizzy contemplated the news from Longbourn. Surprisingly, the news that took up most of her time and attention was the fact that Mr. Darcy had called on her.

She found herself carefully considering and reconsidering Mr. Darcy. It was clear to her that she had misunderstood his character, and Mr. Wickham’s as well. Having accepted that, several inconsistencies were explained, Mr. Darcy’s habit of staring at Lizzy was re-evaluated, and Mr. Wickham’s sharing of private affairs after so short an acquaintance was noticed. In other words, many things fell into place that she had somehow swept from her mind in her determination to think well of one man and poorly of the other.

Lizzy felt a tremor of disgust at her own prejudice. And, yes, at her own pride. She had mentally pegged Mr. Darcy as being too full of pride, but now she realized that, although that might be an accurate count against him, it surely was a count against her as well.

Rethinking her history with Mr. Darcy, Lizzy realized something she had apparently deliberately squished down inside: she realized how much enjoyment she had taken in sparring with the man. She realized that he had truly listened to the things she had said, and he had shown genuine interest in what she had to say on any and every topic broached. Even when he had disagreed with her, he had done so in a way that acknowledged her right to hold an opinion. This was starkly in contrast with Mr. Collins, who appeared to feel that her ideas could not have any more importance than those of Sootsuit, the Bennets’ stableyard cat.

Sinking down into one of her chairs, she realized that she was blushing, even though there was nobody there to see. She held her hands to her warming cheeks, wondering, Do I like Mr. Darcy?

There was no question that she had always viewed him as the most handsome man she had ever seen. Her two youngest sisters often twittered and giggled about how exceedingly handsome Mr. Wickham was, but Lizzy preferred Mr. Darcy’s sharper features and reserved manners over Mr. Wickham’s pretty face and overtly flirtatious style. When she first met him, Mr. Wickham had sounded quite open about his life, his likes, and his very strong feelings about her; but as time passed, and as she overheard Mr. Wickham address other young women, and as she heard the effusions of others about what he had said to them, she quickly realized that he talked to every woman as if she was the only woman he saw.

Lizzy had always known that she appreciated Mr. Darcy’s intelligence, too. When she referenced ideas from Greek philosophers or some insight on party politics gleaned from Horace Walpole’s writings, she noticed that other people’s eyes glazed over, but Mr. Darcy’s eyes sharpened, and the corners of his mouth often twitched into an enigmatic smile; he alone seemed to appreciate literary allusions or complex, nuanced ideas. Mr. Bingley had made at least three compliments of Lizzy’s intelligence that tipped her off that he sometimes felt unnerved by her conversation, but Mr. Darcy showed no sign of distress in dealing with a quick-witted woman.

Eventually, Lizzy stopped cycling around these thoughts, and she decided to just face the fact that she did, in fact, like Mr. Darcy far more than she had admitted, even to herself. So be it, she thought.

For some reason, her self-reflection ignited a surge of creativity, and Lizzy eagerly turned to her duties as an author. Mr. Briggs, her editor at Mortimer Press, was expecting the entire manuscript of Tales from the Hedgerows next week. She sat down and lost herself in writing the last tale, a farcical adventure starring a petulant fairy and a hideous ogre that, by story’s end, magically reverted to his original form of a Welsh pooka.

Setting aside the rough draft of the fairy/ogre/pooka story, she congratulated herself for her near completion of the book. She decided to reread all the final copies of the other eleven tales, looking for mistakes; upon completion of that read, she mentally patted herself on her back because she felt able to declare the stories perfect. Although she still had to edit and make a final copy of the last story, she was satisfied that she would be able to put it in the post sometime in the next few days.

It was time to make a serious inventory of her assets. She went through the little house, considering whether or not long-term occupancy would require any additions to what she already had. Luckily, she could identify only a few crucial deficiencies.

Lizzy then counted the money currently in her possession. It would do for now, she decided. She opened the little book in which she kept track of the money she had invested in her Uncle Gardiner’s business. She had earned far more with Uncle than if she had bought government bonds in the five percents, but she would soon need some of the money earned from writing in ready cash. She decided to write to her uncle, directing him to send her some of her earnings and investing only a portion. However, she needed to wait at least a short time in order to figure out how much money she would need each week.

She tucked her coin purse and investment booklet away and wandered aimlessly around the cottage.

A day seemed so much longer when she was not surrounded by sisters and parents and servants. She loved the peace, loved the quiet—and yet, somehow, she also hated the peace and quiet.

Lizzy longed to go outside, to exercise her body and enjoy nature. There was some risk in taking a walk, of course; more so when living alone, because nobody waited at home to notice and act if some accident befell her and she did not return in a timely fashion.

Walking to Meryton would likely be a problem. She had heard from Mary that Mama had made it seem like she had just stepped out somewhere when Mr. Darcy had asked to speak with her, so it was possible people would still not know she had been banished…but her presence without any sisters would be noted and talked about. And if someone knew about her expulsion, they would wonder where she was living.

Another problem reared its metaphorical head: Papa, who had told her to go to Aunt Phillips, would likely know by now that she had never made it to her aunt’s house. She wondered if there would be a search…although parents who would kick a young woman out of their house would surely not care enough to search for her, would they?

Lizzy decided she could not stay cooped up in Blackthorn Cottage forever, even if she was worried that people (searchers or gossips or whoever) would see her. Of course she worried!—she felt sure that, if her mother discovered that the cottage existed, it would be taken away—and Lizzy just could not see, after so many years of physical labor, losing her safe place. The mere thought of losing Blackthorn made her feel nauseous.

But being trapped in one’s safe place was not so nice, either.

She fetched her pelisse and gloves. Instead of wearing a bonnet, Lizzy pulled a cape over her outfit and head. Putting the ribbon-and-key around her neck, she cautiously scanned the forest from the slightly opened door, then stepped outside, pulled the door closed, and secured the padlock. She walked rapidly away from the cottage; once she was far from it, she relaxed her vigil a bit and thought through what she would say if she were to meet anyone.

She walked and walked, reveling in the fresh air, although it was cold enough to burn her lungs; the sunshine, although it was pale and weak this late in November; and the forest all around her, although it was more barren than lush at this time of the year.

A thought flit through Lizzy’s brain: Barren was quite an apt metaphor for her life just now.