Page 7 of The Talented Daughters of Longbourn

Longbourn

Midnight

Elizabeth let herself into Jane’s familiar, comfortable room.

It was only slightly larger than her own, but it felt like much more space.

Jane preferred clean straight lines and efficiency in furniture to maximize the area.

An artfully arranged line of wooden beasts and birds marched across a green runner over a shelf, and a marble horse reared on the nightstand beside the bed.

After a moment spent admiring Jane’s handiwork, Elizabeth looked at her sister’s dressing table.

It was even more spare than usual, Jane having recently gone through her belongings to pass on a pearl comb to Kitty, a necklace to Lydia, and a bottle of scent to Elizabeth herself.

Such sweet gestures were semi-regular, as Jane detested clutter.

The lady herself, who was looking angelic in her white nightgown and lace nightcap, sat on a green-upholstered chair, scowling down at the piece of paper beneath her pencil. Beside her, a wax candle cast wavering light across the otherwise empty writing desk .

“What are you doing, Jane?” Elizabeth asked, stepping closer to her sister.

“I am trying to draw the right side of the elephant,” Jane responded, “but am making a dreadful muddle of it. Is this at all right?”

Elizabeth looked down at the paper and shook her head. “Not quite. The right rear leg and the ear are ... here, let me do it.”

Jane gladly rose to her feet to allow Elizabeth to take her place.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, her mind shifting back to a week earlier when Jane and Elizabeth, accompanied by their Uncle Josiah, had visited the menagerie at the Tower in London, where a male Indian elephant was one of the prize beasts in residence.

She opened her eyes, focused on the paper, and quickly drew the lines of the elephant before handing the sheet to her sister.

Jane peered down at it intently and then smiled at her sister. “Thank you, Lizzy. I do not know what I would do without that incredible memory of yours.”

Elizabeth shrugged and said, “It is my pleasure, nor can I take much credit for being able to remember details of the things I see.”

Jane kept her eyes on the paper for a long moment and then set it aside .

“Nonsense,” she declared, walking over to throw another log on the fire. “If nothing else, you are kind enough to accompany me when we look at various animals, and you have worked hard on your sketching. You are definitely gifted.”

“Thank you, dearest, but I do not wish to speak of my sketching or your sculpting.”

“What do you wish to speak of?” Jane asked, looking genuinely confused.

Elizabeth chuckled and said, “Of tonight’s assembly, of course! What did you think of our new neighbor?”

“Oh! Mr. Bingley is pleasant enough, I suppose.”

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow at this marked lack of enthusiasm and asked, “But you are not attracted to him?”

“Not at all,” Jane said and yawned. “Indeed, Lizzy, how could I be? We danced one set together and exchanged a few words. I do not know him at all!”

“He wished to dance with you a second time,” her sister said mildly.

“Yes, I know,” Jane said, and rolled gracefully to her feet in order to be begin pacing.

“I know why, of course; I am blonde and handsome! It is exasperating; gentlemen are so very flattering and attentive, but only because of my face and figure, as if I did anything in particular to be gifted with beauty!”

“It is, I fear, the way of the world that pretty women are pursued more vigorously than plain women, and wealthy women more than poor ones.”

“It is annoying,” Jane said flatly. “In any case, I have no intention of encouraging Mr. Bingley. I will be polite, certainly, but I will not pursue the man. At least the new master of Netherfield did not insult me openly; that was very rude of Mr. Darcy, to call you merely tolerable!”

Elizabeth could see that her sister was genuinely angry on her behalf, and she rose and caught Jane up in a warm embrace before saying, “Indeed, do not worry about that. Mr. Darcy effectively apologized by asking me to dance a few minutes after his insult, and I turned him down openly and impertinently. I would say that if our interaction was a duel, we both have been wounded, but not mortally. Do not concern yourself; I was not distressed in the least.”

Jane peered intently into her sister’s eyes and then relaxed.

“Very well, I will not concern myself. Now Lizzy, while I do not anticipate marrying any of the three single gentlemen we met tonight, I was quite impressed with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fitzwilliam’s heads.

The former is handsome in a haughty way, with those high cheekbones and thin lips.

And Mr. Fitzwilliam, while not conventionally good looking, has such an interesting face.

Did you see his scar above his right eyebrow? It gives him such character!”

“Do you not think that Mr. Bingley is handsome?” her sister asked.

“Yes, but in a rather dull way. A conventional way. The other two are far more interesting. Do you think you can sketch them for me? I have been pondering doing some carving and sculpting of people, not merely animals.”

Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully and then regretfully shook her head. “I could try, but I confess I was focused more on dancing and insults than their features. If we see them again, I will be more attentive, so I can provide you with appropriate sketches.”

“If our mother has anything to do with it, I am certain we will see them all again, and soon!”

/

Darcy’s Bedchamber

Netherfiel d

“Thank you, Percy,” Darcy said to his valet, and he watched as his man turned and strode out of the room.

Percy must be tired given that it was nearly an hour after midnight, but such was the life of a valet – to stay up late and wake up early.

Darcy considered himself a good master; he was always courteous and arranged for Percy to have a few days of leave several times a year.

His father had taught him that a good manservant was worth his weight in gold and that Darcy would do well to be an excellent employer.

He sighed and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his neck as the room was a little chilly.

He let his eyes wander about, taking in the heavy dark-stained oak of the furniture and the navy upholstery. As tiresome as Miss Bingley could be as a person, she kept an orderly house. The brass accents gleamed, and not a speck of dust was to be seen.

A roaring fire warmed the room. Darcy stretched luxuriously, finding where the warming pans had been. He nestled his face deeper into the fluff of the pillow, inhaling the scents of fresh air and grass. The linens were crisp and clean and smelled of the outdoors, newly off their airing.

Darcy closed his eyes and then opened them again. He knew from experience that while his body was weary, his mind was currently too active to allow him to sleep. He rolled over on his side and gazed at the quivering flames in the fireplace.

He thought of the assembly, filled with people of little beauty and no fashion.

He thought of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her brown eyes sparkling with wit and daring, her slim figure swirling on the dance floor. He had entirely deserved her arch rebuke. He had insulted her loudly. He deserved her disdain.

He burrowed further under the covers and, for the thousandth time, wished that Harold had not died.

Harold Darcy, his elder brother by two years. Harold, who had been raised from birth to be the master of Pemberley. Harold, who combined reasonable intelligence with charm. Harold, who had died from consumption at the age of twenty.

Darcy had been eighteen at the time, and he had abruptly found himself the new heir of Pemberley. His father, George Darcy, devastated by the loss of his elder son, had fallen into a decline which led, five years later, to his death.

Darcy had done the best he could without mother, father, or elder brother. He was an intelligent, diligent man, and the current steward of Pemberley, a wise and experienced individual, had provided both insight and encouragement on how to best manage the estate.

Darcy thought he had done a reasonably good job in the last five years. Pemberley was thriving, and he had studied, and recommended, new farming practices to the tenants. The Home Farm was a model of its kind in Derbyshire.

But he was very tired. He had been toiling away for a decade to learn what he needed to know. It seemed that whenever he excelled in one area, he failed in another. And while he cared about Pemberley, he cared most about his dear little sister.

Georgiana did not remember Harold well, as she had been only six years old when her brother died.

She remembered her father better, as she had been eleven when the elder Mr. Darcy had passed onto his reward.

Ever since that day, Darcy had done his best to be father and brother to his dear sister, only to fail miserably the previous summer at Ramsgate.

At least he had Richard now. After Ramsgate, Darcy had realized that he needed help.

No longer could he fool himself into believing that he could manage the estate, and his dear sister, and all the necessary interactions with local and London society.

Richard, who shared guardianship with Georgiana, had long desired to leave the army.

Now Richard Fitzwilliam, second son of an earl, was acting as a sort of aide-de-camp to his Darcy cousins, with a written promise that when Georgiana turned twenty, Richard would gain ownership of a small subsidiary Darcy estate in Sussex.

Darcy rolled over toward the darkened wall opposite the fireplace. He needed to get some sleep, else he would be exhausted in the morning.

He closed his eyes and, as was common for him, found himself drifting into a half dream of a library filled with valuable books on oaken shelves.

He had loved his time at Oxford, and if Harold had survived, he might well have chosen to become a don at Oxford.

He loved the written word. He loved quiet days of study in his little room, with the sound of the tower bells in the distance.

But alas, such a life was no longer for him. He had his duty to his sister and his estate.

Darcy drifted off to sleep.

/

The Library

Longbourn

The Next Da y

Elizabeth shifted gratefully closer to the fire at her left and looked up briefly. Her father’s brow was knit with concentration as he studied the small tome in his hand – the translated Iliad . Elizabeth smiled and glanced to her right, taking in the frosted blue sky through the windows.

She loved this room, with its comfortably worn chairs and windows across the eastern, western, and southern walls, which allowed the sun to pour in no matter the time of day.

It was a haven of peace, with hundreds of books from which she could choose, and was the perfect place to spend a chilly morning.

Elizabeth turned her attention back onto the estate ledger in her hand, and after a moment of cogitation, altered a figure or two, and wrote several notes.

She then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and set the ledger aside with a sigh.

Her father lifted his own head and cocked an inquiring eyebrow. “Must you leave, Lizzy?”

“I think I must,” his daughter said. “Mamma wishes for us to make a morning call at Netherfield Hall, and I promised Jane I would draw a few more views of the elephant.”

Bennet pulled his blanket closer and said, “Jane was kind enough to bring the sculpture down last night so I could see it. It will be magnificent when it is done. ”

“It will,” Elizabeth agreed fervently. “She definitely is the gifted artist in the family.”

“You are gifted as well, Elizabeth,” her father said firmly. “Your ability to sketch animals and plants and even people from various aspects is impressive and enormously helpful to Jane.”

“It seems easy enough to me,” his daughter admitted. “But I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am,” Mr. Bennet said. “Run along, my dear, and perhaps after you return from Netherfield Hall, we can play a game of chess?”

“I would enjoy that,” his daughter said as she inspected the empty tray of food sitting on a small table near her father. “Is there any other food you need?”

“I would like more macaroons,” her father said, and his gaunt face stretched into a smile. “But do not dare tell your mother, as she might decide, for reasons unknown, that such fare will be bad for my gout.”

“Do not worry,” his daughter assured him, bending over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Jane, Mary, and I are conspiring together to ensure that you are given whatever foods seem most palatable.”

“Thank you, my dear,” her father said, clasping her wrist with one skeletal hand. “I already feel more energetic now that you and Jane are here. ”

She kissed him again and gently disengaged, walked over to the door and into the corridor, and passed the kitchen where her mother was conferring with the cook. She then entered the east wing, where the sound of the pianoforte caused her to halt and slip into the music room.

Mary was playing a piece from Beethoven, and when she had finished the last stanza, Elizabeth clapped and said, “Bravo, Mary! That was lovely!”

Mary turned toward her with a face made pretty by her happiness.

The girl had always been rather ignored by Mrs. Bennet, who prized beauty and liveliness above anything else.

When Jane had started earning money from her sculpting and wood carving, she had arranged with Mr. Bennet to begin paying for a music master for Mary, who, while initially distressed by the expense, had improved rapidly under Mr. Turnball’s tutelage.

She had consistently been diligent, but the young parson had taught her to play in an easy, unaffected manner which charmed her listeners.

“Do you plan to come to Netherfield Park today, Mary?” Elizabeth asked.

Mary shook her head determinedly. “No, I do not. Mr. Turnball is coming to give me a lesson and...”

She trailed off and blushed fiercely. “Is Father well enough to...? ”

“He is,” Elizabeth promised. “Indeed, I think today is the perfect time, since Mamma will be out of the house, and thus you, Father, and Mr. Turnball can make all the necessary arrangements without her interference.”