Page 23 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
In her room, Jane sat near the window, the light falling gently across her lap. The letter from Aunt Gardiner lay on the nearby table. Elizabeth opened the door softly and glanced toward her sister, noting the subtle lift of her brows and the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“All are well at Gracechurch Street,” Jane said, looking up. “Aunt writes that Peter has begun Latin lessons—though he complains of headaches—and Louisa sketches everything she sees, from the drawing-room curtains to the coal scuttle.”
“I never doubted Louisa would attempt a likeness of the cat if he sat still long enough,” Elizabeth replied with a fond chuckle.
Jane laughed softly, then turned back to the page. “She also mentions that the Lawrences have been to visit.”
That gave Elizabeth pause. “Charlotte and her husband? I knew they were temporarily settled in Portsmouth.”
“Yes, they were. But there has been a change. I shall tell you. They stayed two nights with our aunt and uncle on their way from the south coast to Essex. Captain Lawrence has inherited an estate—near Colchester, in a village called Ardleigh. He is to leave the army within three months and will receive full pay for his commission.”
Elizabeth stilled, absorbing the image. Charlotte, calm and deliberate, presiding over her own household at last. A quiet place in Essex, distant from Meryton yet not unreachable for the Lucases. There was something almost wistful in the idea—so settled, so practical, so unmistakably Charlotte.
Jane handed her the letter, pointing to a paragraph near the bottom. “Aunt included Charlotte’s new direction. She asked that we write, once we have a moment.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “Do not worry. I shall. It has been too long. I should like to know how she finds Ardleigh—what sort of house it is, and whether she has taken to Essex air.”
She paused, then glanced at Jane.
“Mama will be curious once she hears of the inheritance,” Jane said with a faint smile. “Though I doubt she would trouble herself to write—or visit.”
“True,” Elizabeth agreed. “But she will be pleased to know that Charlotte is mistress of an estate at last. Let us give her that pleasure, at least. I think I shall write to Charlotte this afternoon,” she added, watching the light shimmer on the elm leaves beyond the glass. “She will be glad to hear from us.”
Jane smiled, folding Aunt Gardiner’s letter. “Do tell her I was pleased to hear of her visit. And that I hope the air at Ardleigh is truly as fresh as she claimed. Though I believe, with Captain Lawrence beside her, she would find even a desert agreeable.”
Elizabeth turned toward her sister, the corners of her mouth lifting. “It is good to hear you speak of such things with ease, Jane.”
A blush rose, but Jane did not look away. “It has been some weeks now… and still Mr. Bingley comes. Without fail. I do not wish to be hasty or vain, but—he speaks with more confidence lately. And I think—” her voice dropped almost to a whisper, “—I think Mama may not be entirely wrong.”
Elizabeth reached for her hand and gave it a fond press. “Then I am glad. He would be the happiest man alive to deserve you.”
Jane hesitated. “Lizzy, I sometimes wonder… have you grown more fond of Mr. Darcy since he left?”
Elizabeth, caught off guard, looked down quickly. “What makes you ask?”
“You seem altered—quieter at times, and yet more steady somehow. As though—” her voice softened, “—something has settled in your mind. You speak of him differently now. Less doubtfully. Less sharply.”
“Well. He has written to me. Twice.” Elizabeth allowed herself a soft smile, then turned again toward the window.
“Oh.” Jane drew a quiet breath. “That may explain it.”
There was a long moment in which the sounds of the day drifted in through the open sash: a bird calling from the hedge, a carriage rumbling distantly along the lane.
Elizabeth spoke again, her voice low but composed. “It is not a courtship—not by any usual design. There are no visits, no declarations. Only letters. And in them, a kind of honesty I did not expect. He writes... not to impress, but to be understood. Which I find rare.”
Jane said nothing, but her fingers tightened gently around Elizabeth’s.
“I thought at first he might write only once—or not at all. But he replied to mine, not with gallantry or poetry, but with thoughts. His family, his home, even his regrets. I cannot quite explain what it means to receive such a letter. Only that I have read it twice already—and shall likely read it again.”
“Did you write back again?” Jane smiled, nodding with quiet understanding.
“Yes. But not too much, nor too boldly. We are still at the beginning, I think. It is a quiet thing… but it matters.”
“I am so glad,” Jane whispered. “And I hope—truly I do—that whatever it becomes, it will make you happy.”
Elizabeth looked at her elder sister then, her eyes bright with feeling. “Whatever it becomes,” she echoed, “I am glad for it already.”
And there, between them, the hush of shared hope settled like a soft shawl—light, comforting, and not yet spoken of beyond the room.
***
Monday morning dawned fair and dry, with a slight breeze stirring the curtains at Longbourn.
After breakfast, Mrs. Bennet, already in lively spirits, announced her intention of taking Lydia and Kitty into Meryton to inquire about a new ribbon shop recently opened on the High Street—and perhaps, she added with casual indulgence, “see whether there is any news of Colonel Forster’s wife, poor dear, now settled in those rather modest lodgings near the apothecary. ”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “I was under the impression that officers’ wives do not accompany the regiment to their quarters.”
“Well, of course not among the men,” her mother huffed, waving her reticule. “But she is a long-married woman and must be kept near, poor soul. Besides, it is all quite romantic to be close to one’s husband—even if it is in borrowed rooms behind the pastry cook’s.”
Mr. Bennet, who had listened in silence until this point, set down his teacup with deliberate care. “Romantic or not, I think Lizzy ought to accompany you today,” he said mildly. “Not all generals wear red coats, and you will need one among you who knows when to retreat.”
Mrs. Bennet was prepared to protest, but Mr. Bennet continued, addressing his daughter: “I daresay a brisk walk will do you good, Lizzy. You may serve as true chaperone in their stead, since the usual one is—how shall I put it?—rather inclined to distraction.”
Elizabeth glanced at him with a small smile. “You suspect they may lose their way between the milliner’s and the lodgings, Papa?”
“I suspect no such thing,” Mr. Bennet replied gravely. “I am certain of it. Alas, I know too well how well your mother chaperones a party where red coats are concerned.”
Thus enlisted, Elizabeth joined her mother and younger sisters as they set out with purpose. Mrs. Bennet strode ahead, chattering of purchases and prospects, while Lydia and Kitty darted this way and that in bursts of giggles, their bonnets tied hastily and gloves only half-fastened.
At the tailor’s shop, there was much ado over trimmings and cuffs, with Mrs. Bennet holding forth on the superior cut of coats in London compared to those “patched together here in the country.” Kitty considered a bit of lace, Lydia argued for crimson silk, and Elizabeth, standing politely to one side, began to regret her compliance.
But it was on their return, as they took a circuitous route past the edge of town where several officers were billeted in a row of rented rooms, that the morning took a more eventful turn.
A figure emerged from the corner, tall and trim in uniform—Mr. Denny, with a ready smile and impeccable civility.
“Good day, ladies! What an unexpected pleasure,” he said, doffing his hat with warmth. “Are you come to admire the magnificence of our temporary barracks?”
Lydia laughed. “We came for ribbons, but Mama said we might stop by if we passed close enough.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Bennet declared, “one cannot have daughters so fond of the regiment and not give them some chance to wave at it. We were just saying how quiet Meryton seems when you gentlemen are in your drills.”
Mr. Denny bowed. “I shall take that as high praise, madam.”
Kitty, who had coloured slightly at his arrival, now accepted his compliment on the colour of her pelisse with wide eyes and a demure smile.
Elizabeth, observing from a small remove, noted his easy manner and courteous address. There was something earnest in his tone, unmarred by affectation.
“I hope Miss Catherine’s sprained wrist has quite recovered?” he inquired with real solicitude.
“Oh! It is quite well,” Kitty murmured, and then—gaining boldness—“I suppose you must drill a great deal, Mr. Denny, with the Colonel in command?”
“A fair amount,” he acknowledged, “though I confess it is dull work without our audience of ladies along the hedgerow.”
At that moment, a second officer appeared behind him—Mr. Wickham.
He greeted them all with his usual flourish, though his gaze lingered too long on Elizabeth. “What fortune to meet such a charming party this morning! Miss Bennet,” he added, stepping forward with a half-bow, “I hope you have not found the town too dusty for comfort?”
Elizabeth curtsied with composure. “Not at all, sir. The weather has been most pleasant.”
Wickham lingered near her as the conversation scattered. Lydia and Kitty had both drawn Mr. Denny aside with questions about his sabre, and Mrs. Bennet was peering toward the modest brick buildings where the officers lodged, in hopes of glimpsing someone of superior rank.
“I am glad to see you out again,” Wickham murmured, lowering his voice. “The morning quite suits you.”
Elizabeth raised a brow, wary. “You are kind, sir. But I imagine all ladies benefit from fresh air.”
“Some do,” he returned with a smirk, “though some are naturally more improved by it than others.”