Page 21 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“M iss Bennet, you are smudging my clean windows!” clucked Mrs Porter. She bustled about the common room, her hands constantly busy as more people came from out of doors to seek shelter somewhere warm and dry.

Elizabeth’s eyes were round as saucers, absorbing the ferocity of the Derbyshire thunderstorm. The rain had only just begun, but she had been hearing the echoing thunder and watching the sky light up for nearly ten minutes already. She had never before witnessed such raw power, such terrifying savagery from the skies. She pressed her face to the window, fogging it and wiping it repeatedly. This was by far the most magnificent thing she had ever seen!

She remained there, thoroughly enraptured, until Mrs Porter tramped up to stand behind her. “‘T’will be a bad one!” she tsked, shaking her head.

Elizabeth turned to face her. “Does it always storm like this in Derbyshire?” she asked breathlessly.

“No, lass,” Mrs Porter answered, her eyes still fixed out the window. “And a good thing, too. This will make a pinch for the wheat crops this year!”

Elizabeth took a moment to think about that, then spun back to the window. She did not wish to miss a second! Guilt quickly overcame her, however. “Mrs Porter,” she asked without turning back around, “is Jane’s tea ever going to be done brewing? Miss Fairbanks said she needed it!”

Mrs Porter chuckled, patting her on the shoulder. “Soon, Miss Bennet. Very soon. You stay here while it finishes brewing. I’ll not forget you!”

“Yes, Mrs Porter,” she answered dutifully as the woman walked away. She was not disappointed to wait. The window in Jane’s room was small and faced entirely the wrong direction to watch the storm. It was only a pity that there was no one here with whom to share her enjoyment! A quick glance about the room revealed only adults—some labourers, some travelers—all of whom appeared occupied enough with the business of getting dry. The storm had taken everyone by surprise, and a number of people had been caught in town, far from their homes.

Elizabeth was musing over her disappointment when the door opened again to admit more wet residents. This time it was a tall boy, quite a few years older than herself, and obviously a gentleman’s son. He was carrying a little girl of about Kitty’s age. They were both bedraggled mops, and the girl had her face buried in the boy’s coat. It looked like she was crying.

Her interest piqued, Elizabeth hopped down from her window seat. The boy had stopped upon entering the room, his eyes roving nervously about the tables. Some of the men gathered round the private alcoves reserved for the gentry were staring back at him in recognition. One even started forward to welcome the boy with his sister, but the tall boy brusquely turned aside. Why he would not simply join them, Elizabeth could not understand, but the friendly stranger withdrew, rebuffed. All others remained still, at a watchful and respectful distance.

She held no such trepidation. She marched up to them and spoke directly to the little girl. “Good day! I have a very comfortable seat at the window. Do you like watching thunderstorms? I do hope you will join me!”

The girl shyly picked her head up from the boy’s sodden chest, peering at Elizabeth through a single blue eye. She promptly hid her face once more. Undeterred, Elizabeth tried again. “Mrs Porter is making me a special tea that is for resting—you know, there is nothing like a hot cup of tea for real comfort. It shall be very nice and warm, and I would be pleased to share it with you!”

The girl dared to peek up once more, but again, only briefly. Elizabeth puckered her little lips and looked up… and up… to the boy’s face. Why, he was nearly as tall as Uncle Gardiner already! He was glowering back at her in annoyance, tightening his grip upon the girl.

“Your sister is all wet,” Elizabeth informed him.

“I had not noticed,” he retorted obtusely. He gave her one last disdainful look, as though she were a filthy dog to be avoided lest one acquire muddy paw prints over one’s person. He shifted the girl in his arms and walked over toward Mrs Porter.

Elizabeth glared after him. Of all the prideful, vain, unfriendly people! She crossed her arms in frustration and fumed for about three seconds. Then, another thunderclap diverted her attention back to her main source of entertainment for the afternoon. She rushed back to the window, the disagreeable boy and his inarticulate sister temporarily forgotten.

A moment later, there was a tap at her elbow. Mrs Porter was there, glancing with wide eyes over her shoulder at the boy and girl. “Miss Bennet,” she hissed lowly, “you are a friendly sort. Can you help ease this poor child? She has had the wits frightened out of her! I am afraid she is quite terrified by me as well, but you are closer in age….”

Elizabeth tipped her chin up primly. “I already tried, Mrs Porter, but they are not at all nice.”

Mrs Porter shushed her promptly, glancing again over her shoulder to see if Elizabeth’s saucy words had been overhead. “They are from one of the most prominent families in all of Derbyshire! Of course, they are above this present company! The young master does not seem to desire to take the private parlour, though I am certain those gentlemen there would gladly give it up if he wished. Nor does it seem fitting that they should remain with the common folk by the fire, though they are wet to the bone, the poor dears! I think they would prefer to share your quiet place by the window here while I fetch some dry things. I have told the young master you are a gentleman’s daughter, so it would be no disgrace to allow the dear child to visit with you. Now, do yourself credit as a young lady, and use your very best manners! I am bringing you all some tea.”

“Tea?” Elizabeth perked up. “Oh, is it Jane’s special tea?”

“It will be very special,” Mrs Porter promised with a whimsical smile. “I have already taken some very nice tea up to Miss Fairbanks. Do not fret about your sister. Now be a good little lass and watch your tongue!”

Elizabeth sighed glumly. Though she had longed for company to enjoy the storm with, she did not relish sharing her window seat with silent and unfriendly companions. Why, she might not even get to enjoy her glorious storm if she had to constantly worry over whether they were comfortable.

Pouting just a little, she eased off her bench and presented herself once more to the tall boy with the dripping brown hair. She bobbed a proper curtsey—imitating Miss Fairbanks rather than her mother, because she thought Miss Fairbanks was the most elegant lady she had ever seen. “Pleased to make your acquaint-ance,” she managed, smiling at her more successful pronunciation of the long word.

The boy still stared at her in something akin to scandalized fascination. “I do not think we have been properly introduced.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Did not Mrs Porter tell you my name? She told me who you are.” She stretched the truth only a little. She knew they must be wealthy, but she had not caught their names. Nor, thought she, did she care to really know more of them.

“Apparently it escaped her,” he returned drily. He glanced down at his sister, who was hugging his leg and still trying to hide her face. He leaned to murmur some reassurance as the thunder rolled once more, causing her to clutch him even more tightly.

Elizabeth sighed in irritation. She started to turn back to the window to watch her storm but felt a tug of pity for the littler girl. She did, after all, have younger sisters with no nanny, and she and Jane both knew a thing or two about comforting them. A stern glance from Mrs Porter across the common room assured her that it was most certainly in her best interest to be kind to the little one.

Casting about for some item of interest, her eyes fell upon her geography book, nestled where she had been sitting before. She retrieved it quickly, causing the boy to tilt his head and gaze after her in astonishment. Such abrupt manners he had never before witnessed!

Elizabeth returned to the little girl, who hid her face all the more determinedly in her brother’s embrace at her approach. “Would you like to look at my book?” Elizabeth asked brightly. The child peeked suspiciously at her, but turned her face away again. The brother’s gaze had shifted up over her head to take in the sheets of rain falling against the window, and Elizabeth felt quite invisible to this haughty boy and his unsociable sister.

She frowned, then her natural will prevailed, and she decided to try again. One way or another, she would make this girl like her! She flipped open her book and dropped to her knees before the child, causing the eyes of both to fix upon her in amazement. “Look here, this is Hertfordshire, where I come from.”

The girl—whose eyes matched Jane’s nearly to perfection—gazed carefully back. “Hertf…” she attempted hesitantly.

“Good!” Elizabeth encouraged. “Hert-ford-shire. You can say it!”

The boy shook his head, scowling. “Let her alone, please.” He turned to pick his sister up once more.

Elizabeth jumped indignantly to her feet. “I am only trying to be nice! You ought to as well.”

The boy narrowed his eyes, glaring at her. “She prefers only my company. It would be a kindness to leave her be and not to trouble her with your presence.”

“Then I shall!” Elizabeth flew back to her window in a great huff, crossing her arms and sulking in the window seat. The very insolence of that boy! She supposed the very wealthy were all like that, caring only for their own pride and the dignity of their position. At least, she had read something like that somewhere, and it looked to her to be true. She sulkily tucked herself into her little nook, back turned to the other children, as she pressed her face once more to the window.

Lightning clapped several times in succession, and a moment later the very building shook with the power of roll after roll of thunder. Elizabeth gasped in awe and trembled a little herself at the unbridled fury of the elements. A mild-very mild—sensation of guilt pricked her when she heard a wail rising from the terrified little girl, but it was quickly stifled. Elizabeth did not turn round to find out how.

“Here you are!” Mrs Porter’s cheerful, calming voice added another layer of conviction. Elizabeth looked up to see the matronly woman arriving with a steaming tea tray and a stack of dry linens. “Will the young Miss be comfortable with only these, sir?”

Elizabeth observed him narrowly. Mrs Porter must hold this boy’s family in some high regard, to be calling a lad of fourteen ‘sir’.” It seemed he was not well used to such address, either. He flushed and awkwardly accepted the woman’s kindness. He quickly wrapped the little girl in a blanket, using it to dab her hair and face where she would let him. He never once made a move toward his own comfort—his attention and care were all given to the child. That—along with another firm sideways glance from Mrs Porter as she left them—sealed Elizabeth’s contrition.

She slid down from her seat once more and addressed herself to the tea tray. It was a very nice tea service, once more confirming the status of this family—at least in Mrs Porter’s eyes. None of the inns they had visited thus far had graced the Bennet party with such a setting. Goodness, who were these people?

Glancing up, Elizabeth saw that the disagreeable boy was not paying her any mind. Well, she would not allow that to trouble her. She hefted the pot with both hands and carefully poured a cup of tea, just as she had been taught at home. Her little tongue tipped her lips as she slowly measured out the hot liquid, spilling only a couple of drops. She lowered the pot proudly. She was getting better at this! One day, she might be as elegant as Miss Fairbanks.

She tilted her head and considered the young child buried in the blankets, as though she could determine by looking at her how she took her tea. At last, she simply made it the way she did Mary and Kitty’s, with generous quantities of both cream and sugar. Gingerly, she picked up the delicate saucer, and with silent little cat paws, walked as gently as she could to offer the beverage.

Ignoring the boy—who, she had to admit, seemed kind enough to his sister, though he cared little for anyone else—she spoke to the girl. “Here is that special tea I told you about. Would you like to try it?”

The child’s head popped curiously out of the blankets. Elizabeth extended the cup and saucer enticingly, then set them down on a little round table next to her window seat. She retreated away quickly, just as she did at home when she tried to feed the bashful squirrels.

Eyes wide, the girl slowly eased herself out of her brother’s embrace and toddled toward the little table. Elizabeth by now was pouring a second cup, and a moment later she returned with it. With satisfaction, she saw the little girl inspecting the cup, touching her fingers daintily to the side to test the temperature.

The boy, however, was scrutinizing her like an insect under a magnifying glass. Elizabeth did not care to be treated as a spectacle, though it did happen so often. She lifted her little chin, staring right back.

“I… I must thank you,” he fumbled as she came near. He extended his hand to accept the second cup and saucer, but Elizabeth did not offer it. Instead, she turned toward the table with the girl.

“You may join us if you like,” she shrugged airily as she walked past. “There is still another cup.”

E lizabeth closed the book she had held before herself, revealing once more the rounded, expressive eyes of the little girl. “Did you like it?” she chirped gleefully.

The girl—whose name Elizabeth had yet to catch—nodded and smiled shyly. “Eugenia sounds nice,” she whispered. “Like my mama, but mama was pretty.”

Elizabeth glanced down at her book in some dismay. “It is not Eugenia you are supposed to like, but Camilla.”

A sliver of flint appeared in the child’s eyes, and the striking resemblance to Jane’s sweetness, which Elizabeth had noted, suddenly disappeared. Indeed, the face looking up to her now bore an expression very like Elizabeth’s own mirror. “I like Eugenia!” she maintained, sticking her lower jaw out in the manner of an obtuse little tot.

“Well,” Elizabeth dropped the book, deciding that she, at age seven, was possessed of far too much dignity to argue with a three-year-old. “Perhaps you may read the rest of it some day and come to understand it better.” It was not without some degree of condescension that she spoke. She was not insensitive to the fact that the novel was one that fashionable young ladies read and was therefore not at all a children’s book. How fortunate was she that her father permitted her to read whatever she liked!

They had been left in merciful peace for some while, as the ill-natured older brother had taken himself to the livery stable down the street to see to his horse as soon as the hail had passed. It had been with a surly glare that he had allowed his little sister to remain with Elizabeth, but he had little choice if he did not wish to expose the child to the rain once more. It happened to be that he had just returned, once more dripping wet and glowering his disapproval as he stood behind the oblivious Elizabeth.

“Do you mean, child, that you have been reading to my sister from a novel ?” he sneered in disgust. “I ought to have known.”

She turned to him with all the salt and pluck she possessed. “Yes, you ought, for novels and the people who read them are interesting , while you are not!”

Stunned, William’s mouth nearly came unhinged as he gaped at this outrageous child. What horrendous manners! And where the devil was her parent? “Georgie!” he snapped, “Come with me at once!” He snatched his little sister’s hand and attempted to drag her away from her abominable companion. What would his father say if he knew the daughter of Pemberley had been seen with such a beastly little scamp? Feeling he had twice failed to protect his sister in one day, he forgot to consider poor Georgiana’s tender feelings from earlier and moved to dispatch the budding acquaintance with celerity.

“No, Will!” Georgiana allowed her hand to go slack and wormed it from his tight embrace, even as he tried to secure his grip. “I want to stay!”

Fitzwilliam Darcy, the future Master of Pemberley and a strapping, educated lad in his own right, was left to stand helpless and embarrassed before the two pint-sized females. It was, he would eventually discover, an experience which would one day become all too familiar. In this moment, however, he only paused in horror at this regrettable turn in his sister’s sentiments. “Georgie!” he cried in betrayal. “Come wait with me over by the table.”

Little Georgiana crossed her arms, the first flicker of defiance she had ever shown to him. “Lizzy is my friend,” she declared with childish determination. “Lizzy,” whoever she was, somehow managed an expression which appeared both pert and serene at the same time. She tipped a puckish little smile up to him, smug in her victory in the battle over Georgiana’s loyalties.

Never before had the carefully schooled would-be gentleman been tempted to wring the neck of any human—except for George Wickham—but just then, he would have given a great deal to wipe that saucy look out of the child’s eyes. Whoever had the management of this wicked girl had done her a great disservice, indeed!

Oh, to be sure, she was clearly the daughter of a gentleman. Her dress, her concise speech, her level of education—all pointed to a gently reared child who had the opportunity to garner accomplishments. He doubted rather strenuously, however, that such an impertinent youngster had been given the proper guidance for such an undertaking. Never had he known any young girl of his own sphere to be permitted to behave so outrageously!

Speaking more from the furious thoughts tumbling round his mind than the failed attempt to secure his sister, he growled lowly. “It is not meet, girl, that a child should think herself a young lady before she has taken the trouble to improve her manners!”

The odious little creature stared right back at him, but rather than taking his constructive advice to heart, she burst into laughter—laughter so merry, it grated on his ears and made his fists curl. She squealed in delight, and even Georgie saw fit to join in.

Fitzwilliam blanched in horror. To be defied by a child of half his age and less than half his station in life was mortifying enough. To have her openly mock him and holding sway over his own sister… Think! he ordered himself. A Darcy does not tolerate the ridicule of an urchin such as this!

The girl was pointing at him now, still giggling. “’ Not meet ’,” you say! Papa read me that phrase from one of his big books, and we did laugh so. Do you really talk like that?”

His ears turning red, Fitzwilliam made another grasp for his sister. “Come, Georgie!” he demanded—not very gently. “We shall be going home soon enough!” He trapped the squirming child beneath his arm and carried her away from the window seat to another, much smaller window. Scowling darkly, he turned his back to the room and forced Georgiana to do the same.

There was no sniffling, no sound of heartbreak or remorse behind him. If that dreadful little girl were disturbed at losing her companion, she gave no sign. As staring out of the window upon the abandoned street was not the most diverting of pastimes, he cocked a curious look over his shoulder… just to see if she happened to be watching.

She was not. She had wandered over to a chessboard, apparently quite unmoved by his disdain. Intrigued, he watched her a moment, expecting her to bump the board and send the pieces flying like any other child would have. Rather than fulfill his expectations, however, the girl pulled a chair up to the board, and began a careful inspection of the arrayed battle which some other patrons had begun.

He could not stop watching her. Apparently, someone had taken the time to instruct her, for she began playing both sides of the board. His interest in the child sharpened as he amused himself by watching her strategies. Short little fingers hovered over the knight and he tensed, knowing before she made the move that it would leave her queen vulnerable. Not that it mattered, of course. He did not care, naturally! And besides, she likely did not either, as she had no opponent.

The girl’s brow was puckered in thought, and her fingers moved away from the knight to make an entirely different move. Fitzwilliam was impressed, to put it mildly. He clenched his teeth, turning back to the window. Georgiana, beside him, had dropped off to sleep in her seat. He tucked a blanket more snugly about her, but his ears listened behind him for the soft taps of wooden chess pieces on the board.

His lips sealed in frustration. Was it ungentlemanly to refuse to make amends with a child of lower station, and a girl at that? It certainly was impolite to leave her to play chess all by herself while he sulked in the corner. His stomach twisted in conviction. She was not such a bad girl, really—and she was the daughter of a gentleman, placing her more firmly within his own sphere than he had originally wished to confess.

She had been attentive and kind to Georgiana since the first moment he had stumbled through the door with her and had asked nothing of him but basic civility. He clenched his eyes. He , Fitzwilliam Darcy, the darling of the region and the most well-brought-up young man for fifty miles around, had acted so disgracefully he was ashamed to even confess his own name.

What would George Darcy think of the figure his son had cut this day? A fool and a blackguard! A vain and selfish boy who had arrogantly assumed the care of his sister, failed to properly safeguard her, then lashed out in wounded pride at the first being to cross his path! That little girl deserved better… why, his own dignity and the honor of his name deserved better from him! His conscience continued to niggle at him until at last he growled in reluctant surrender. Perhaps she might prove generous enough to allow him an opportunity to better acquit himself.

Lizzy—that was her name, if he remembered correctly—looked up in astonishment when his large, brown hand moved the bishop from the other side. “Would you like an opponent?” he asked, suddenly shy.

She tilted her curly head and studied him in childish gravity. “Very well,” she shrugged. “But you must play this side.”

He frowned, and his gaze swept the board. “That seems unfair. This side is currently losing the match. I should take it.”

“No,” she grinned—a sparkling, joyful expression which he liked better than he cared to admit. “I should, because if I lose to you, I may then claim that I began with the disadvantage.”

Stunned, he gaped as she serenely pirouetted into the position she had claimed for herself, leaving him to assume the other. Then, Fitzwilliam Darcy did something he had not done in a very, very long time, except with Georgiana.

He laughed.

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