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Chapter Seven

October 1811 Longbourn Elizabeth

“C harlotte! Welcome.” Mrs. Bennet greeted the Lucas ladies as they entered the parlor. To the youngest lady, she said, “Maria, Kitty and Lydia are upstairs waiting for you.”

Maria Lucas bobbed a quick curtsey and rushed from the room. At just sixteen years of age, the younger Miss Lucas had been allowed to attend the first half of the assembly the night before. Kitty and Lydia had begged their parents to allow them to go as well, but Mrs. Bennet firmly reminded them that all her girls were required to wait until eighteen before attending even local events.

“You will have time enough to enjoy yourselves,” she said. “Perhaps you might walk into Meryton and pick a pretty ribbon.”

This had pacified the youngest Bennets, and they reluctantly agreed to bring the matter up no more.

Nineteen-year-old Mary had stayed home the night before. Having caught a cold three days previously, she did not feel up to attending the assembly. “I can barely breathe as it is,” she reasoned when Mama tried to convince her to go. “It would not do for me to swoon on the dance floor.” She looked much improved that morning and now sat at the pianoforte, playing quietly in the corner.

Papa and Thomas had also remained at home. Neither liked assemblies, preferring the peace of the library to the noise of a ballroom. And though Mrs. Bennet often tried to cajole her husband and son into escorting the ladies to events, they more often than not refused.

“How did I marry a lady so fond of society?” Mr. Bennet teased his wife with a twinkle in his eyes. “We are very much the opposite, my dear.”

“They say that opposite temperaments attract,” Mary would reply. “Perhaps Mama is just different enough from you to keep things lively.”

Elizabeth greeted Charlotte warmly. She looked very well that day, dressed in a new blue day gown that Elizabeth had never seen before. “You look lovely, Charlotte,” she said.

“I thank you, Eliza,” she replied. “Mama has convinced Papa to take me to town for the season. This is one of the new gowns we ordered. Good morning, Jane! What a pretty shawl!”

Jane, too, hugged their friend, thanking her for the compliment. The three ladies seated themselves on a settee by a window, far enough from their mothers that they could speak with privacy.

“Mr. Bingley paid you a good deal of attention, Jane,” Charlotte said. “What a triumph!”

“He danced the first with you, Charlotte.” Jane tapped their friend’s hand.

“But he danced two sets with you, ” Charlotte countered. “We all know where his attention will fall; you are quite the prettiest girl he will ever meet, with a gentle temperament, too.”

“Mr. Bingley has been to town. Surely, he has seen other ladies that surpass my physical features.”

“They may be lovelier in looks, but I doubt he has ever encountered a lady whose inner goodness is a match for her outward appearance,” Elizabeth insisted. “You, the golden-haired goddess, make us all appear inferior by comparison. Oh, you cannot deny it, my dear sister. I, for example, am far too judgmental to ever have your goodness.”

Charlotte and Elizabeth teased Jane a bit more before the subject turned to Mr. Darcy. “What do you think of Mr. Bingley’s friend, Eliza? He watched you a great deal.” Charlotte raised an eyebrow appraisingly. “I have never seen a more handsome man.”

“Yes, he is very well favored. And so tall! His towering height makes me seem more diminutive than ever. And as for his attention, I am certain you are imagining things,” Elizabeth demurred. “He watched the dancers and the other guests. That is all.”

“He was kind enough to dance with Miss Bates,” Jane observed. “I do not recall the last time she stood up for a set. The smiles his attention prompted were the most genuine I have seen in some time.”

Yes, Elizabeth had noted his patience with the spinster. Miss Bates’s father had been a solicitor in London before he died. After his passing some ten years ago, she had been shipped to Hertfordshire and was now dependent on the goodwill of a relation. Her aunt, Mrs. Norris, was a hard, bitter woman, who hardly embodied generosity. No effort had ever been made to secure a match for her niece.

Jane rose and left the room to seek her work basket. After her departure, Charlotte slid next to Elizabeth.

“Mr. Darcy was not the only gentleman to watch you last night,” she said quietly.

Elizabeth sighed and asked, “Did you notice Mr. Bingley’s strange behavior? I found his attention oddly unsettling.” His inscrutable looks had haunted her dreams last night.

“His admiration of Jane is obvious,” Charlotte added. “What is more confusing is his fixation on you. Perhaps he cannot decide which sister he favors more.”

“I saw nothing of that in Mr. Bingley’s gaze.” Elizabeth shook her head. “No, it is likely that I have a face that reminds him of another. I know for certain that we have never met.”

“Whatever the cause, you have the attention of two eligible men. Do not throw away this chance at marriage, Eliza.”

She laughed. “Oh, how very rapidly you predict their motives! We have only just become acquainted. Surely, you would not have me throw myself at them in hopes of a proposal.”

“Whilst I would not have you behave with anything less than perfect conduct, I would encourage you to secure a match as quickly as possible. Remember, I too, was once a hopeful young lady.” Charlotte smiled sadly. “Papa is taking me to London in the spring. It is my last chance. My dowry is not as impressive as yours, you know.”

“You will know success, dear Charlotte.” Elizabeth clasped her friend’s hand. “You are sensible and kind.”

“If only a man could see it.” Charlotte frowned before hiding her despair behind a smile.

The Lucas ladies left after tea. Feeling at odds with herself, Elizabeth donned her bonnet and pelisse, intending to take a long walk to clear her thoughts.

I do have a dowry, she thought to herself. But it ought not to be mine. Dismally, she recalled her come out nearly two years ago. Papa had called her into his study.

He gazed at her solemnly, his hands on a wooden chest in his lap. Elizabeth approached cautiously, sitting in the chair next to him as he directed.

“My dear Lizzy,” he said tenderly. “Do you recall when we came to Longbourn?”

“Yes. “It was a great change for all of us.”

Her papa had taken his duties as the new master of Longbourn seriously, increasing the estate’s annual income until it exceeded three thousand pounds. Mama, too, had adapted to life asmistress of an estate with ease. She stumbled here and there, but overall, she became a consummate hostess and a competent mistress.

“What do you recall from before that?” he asked gently.

She froze. “There is nothing before that.” Her hand went, unconsciously, to the scar on her head. It throbbed a little, and she winced.

“You were eight when we came to Hertfordshire, my dear.” Gently, he explained how he and Mrs. Bennet had found her. He patted a small chest he held in front of him. “You have had memories these last ten years, but none ever helped us discover who you are. Yes, Elizabeth, you know that you are not a Bennet by blood. But you are the child of my heart, and I love you dearly. Your mother does, too.”

He handed her the chest. “This contains your clothing and the possessions you carried when we found you. There have been no answers all these years. I now pass these treasures to you. Do with them what you will, but know you will always be my child—my dear intelligent Elizabeth. And as my daughter, you are entitled to a dowry. These many years, we have been careful. Investing with Mr. Gardiner, working to improve the yield of the estate… Jane’s ten thousand pounds are in the four percents and have been since her eighteenth birthday. Your ten thousand is there now, too. It will grow if you do not marry quickly, but with your wit and vibrancy, I believe it will not be long before some astute gentleman sees your worth.”

Elizabeth’s thoughts returned to the present. The dowry was the least of Mr. Bennet’s gifts. He told her of the day he and Mrs. Bennet found her. She did not know what had happened to her. Indeed, she tried to remember more fervently after that day in the study. The memories were elusive, slipping away from her mind even as she tried to grasp them. It was very frustrating.

“It does not matter,” she said aloud. “For all intents and purposes, I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire.”

Yet her dreams the night before had been more disturbed than they had in years. A man’s face haunted her rest—one with a genial smile and fair coloring not unlike Mr. Bingley’s. But the features were older, the hair redder, the expression more seasoned by time. Though she could not place him, the resemblance to Mr. Bingley had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Other faces had surfaced now and then over the years. She had even taken to drawing so that she could capture likenesses. Unfortunately, she never mastered sketching people and eventually gave up.

There was a lady. She had warm brown eyes and dark curls. Elizabeth often heard her voice singing lullabies in her dreams. There was a boy, too. Younger than her, with sandy blond hair and an infectious laugh. He always giggled when he was tossed in the air by another person. She never saw the man’s face, but his deep voice reverberated in her mind. I love you, he said.

But those were the pleasant recollections; there were other, darker snippets of memory. These caused her to wake in a cold sweat. When she was younger, her screams had awakened the entire house. Mama had held her as she cried, whispering soothing words in her ears. “It is only a dream, my darling,” she said over and over until Elizabeth drifted off to sleep.

Those dreams were never remembered for long. All that remained upon waking was the fear and anxiety that had taken root during the night.

She walked briskly up the slope that led to the top of Oakham Mount. It was merely a prominent hill, but still the highest point for some miles. Elizabeth enjoyed looking out over the fields. During the summer, wheat and other crops swayed gently in the breeze. Now, with the harvest over, the fields sat empty. Even the trees had lost their leaves. Still, there was beauty to be seen.

She crested the summit and turned her gaze toward Netherfield Park. Elizabeth could see it in the distance. The red and white stone glistened in the sunlight. In a distant field, she watched two riders push their mounts into a gallop.

Turning away, she walked a different path back to Longbourn. Feeling calmer, she entered the house and removed her outerwear.

Elizabeth went to her chambers, intending to refresh herself, but soon grew distracted. She knelt on the floor and reached under her bed. The small chest her father had given her was tucked behind a bedpost out of immediate sight. Her younger sisters had thus far respected her privacy, but Elizabeth did not wish to take any chances with this link to her past.

Slowly, she pulled it out and stood to lock the door, then climbed onto the bed, chest in hand. She crossed her legs and set it down before her, rubbing a hand on the smooth surface before opening it.

There was not much inside. A ragged and stained blue dress that the servants had been unable to get clean, a soiled handkerchief that had once been white…and a piece of jewelry.

It was the nicest thing in the entire chest. An ivory crest had been set in gold filigree. There was a clasp on the back that could secure it as a brooch. Elizabeth had always felt that there was something more to the piece. She could make out tiny hinges on the side, indicating that the brooch opened somehow. There was also a tiny hole at the top. It might be decorative, but she thought it looked as though something was missing.

She rubbed her thumb over the surface, marveling at the detail. Once, she had considered taking the brooch to London in hopes of finding out whose crest adorned the surface. Papa had insisted that she not do so. “What if you lose it?” he asked. “Or what if it is stolen? What if someone believes you stole it?” None of her sisters knew the truth about her origins, and Elizabeth could not draw well enough to capture the design. She had allowed his fears to sway her and the token from her past remained locked away beneath her bed.

Now she took it to her desk. Carefully, she sketched the crest on a sheet of paper. The likeness was not perfect, but it was close enough to the original. Two swords crossed behind a shield. The letter ‘M’ stood out, carved roses climbing the sides of the letter, and the outside edge of the ivory boasted intricate scrolls and ivy. The effect was lovely.

A family crest meant prominence. But what if Elizabeth was only a child thief? What if she sustained her injury when she fled with her purloined treasure?

Perhaps Papa was right to caution me, she thought. She tucked the paper into her writing box, burying it beneath a bundle of letters. You ought to leave it alone, she scolded herself. Nothing good can come of your curiosity.

She put the brooch back into her chest, closing it securely before hiding it under the bed. Determined to think of happier things, she retrieved a favorite novel and made her way to the parlor.