Page 11 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)
The afternoon sun cast a golden haze over the nursery bedchamber, filtering through muslin curtains and warming the old wooden floor where scraps of muslin and dimity had fallen.
The room smelled of lavender sachets, dried rose hip tea, and fresh bread, scents Elizabeth associated with comfort.
Once the domain of dolls and daydreams, the nursery had transformed into a sanctuary, a sacred place where the Bennet sisters could speak freely, unhampered by their mother’s schemes or the world’s expectations.
"I love this time we have together," Jane murmured, her soft smile radiant as she threaded her needle. She sat near the hearth, where a small fire warded off the chill that crept into the old house in the afternoon.
Elizabeth looked up from the seam she was stitching. “I so look forward to Mamma’s visits to Aunt Phillips or Lady Lucas. It gives us a good three hours of peace. I do not know how I would have survived my enforced isolation without these stolen hours.”
Jane gave her a sympathetic glance, but said nothing. There was nothing to be said; they had all learned to speak around the subject of their mother.
“Jane,” Mary asked, straightening a paper pattern, “can you help me draw the bodice for Abby’s dress? I will cut the cloth, but you must guide me with this part.”
“Of course,” Jane said, rising gracefully and crossing to the table. Mary moved aside to make room.
Kitty sat on the bed. “I brought Lydia’s letter,” she announced. “Papa gave it to me after breakfast. We are to destroy it before Mamma returns. Lizzy, what would she do if she knew you correspond regularly with Lydia?”
Elizabeth sighed, setting down her needle. “Poor Mamma. She is making her own life bitter by clinging to resentment. I've become her scapegoat, and I do believe she prefers it that way.”
Kitty unfolded the letter and read aloud:
I tremble when I think that Mamma will overbear Uncle Gardiner and pull me out of school to return to Longbourn. In her last letter, she said I’m nearly sixteen and quite old enough to be married and save the family from the hedgerows.
I shared the letter with Mrs. Lewis, and she advised me to write to Uncle Gardiner and tell him everything.
She says he’s firm and won’t allow his sister to force me into marriage.
I took my courage in hand and wrote to him yesterday; now I wait for him and Aunt Maddie to visit and advise me on what to do should Mamma act on her threat.
I wish I could depend on Papa, but we have Lizzy’s example. He loves her best, yet he let Mamma exile her for a year. And she’s still in exile, living in the nursery .
Mary’s voice broke the silence that followed.
“Uncle Gardiner did our family a very good turn when he recommended that school to Papa. Lydia is so changed. I love her now, truly. And I wish only the best for her.” She hesitated.
“Aunt Maddie says Lydia has become as beautiful as Jane. And that, I fear, is a death sentence for any dreams our little sister may have. Mamma will want to run her life.”
Mary glanced at Jane, then flushed. “Oh, Jane, I am sorry for saying it. Mamma has run your life for years.”
Jane only offered a quiet smile. “It is true. I pray Lydia can be spared.”
Kitty looked down at the letter she held, then back at Elizabeth. “Lizzy, you and Jane have been treated the worst. Jane, because she is best loved… and you because you are…” She faltered.
Elizabeth gave her a faint, ironic smile. “It’s all right, Kitty. Say it. It’s the truth. I am her scapegoat, and she hates me. But Jane has it worse. At least I’m not paraded before every eligible man in Hertfordshire.”
Kitty’s face was grave.
“I’ve led a peaceful life,” Elizabeth continued, threading her needle once more. “A strange reward, perhaps, for Mamma’s hatred. But Papa kept his word. None of us were ‘out’ until we turned seventeen.”
She glanced at Jane. “However, Mamma is growing desperate. I fear what lengths she may go to now.”
The sisters sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the scratch of pencil against muslin and the occasional flutter of fabric. Outside, a blackbird called in the branches, and the wind stirred the ivy along the house.
In that little room above the world, the Bennet sisters sewed and whispered, a band of quiet solidarity against a mother’s ambition and the demands of society.
That night, Elizabeth sat alone in her little attic bedchamber, its faded walls still bearing traces of childish murals. The small hearth crackled low, casting shifting shadows across the familiar clutter, dolls long forgotten, a rocking horse, the faint scent of lavender and dust.
In the stillness, she drew from the bottom of her trunk two leather-bound volumes, the books Mr. Darcy had once given her.
Her fingers lingered on the cover of the topmost tome before she opened it and touched the inscription within, running her hand lightly over the bold, elegant script of his name.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She read the inscription twice, then turned to the folded pages tucked safely within the endpapers, three letters, creased at the corners, softened by time and handling.
She unfolded each one, her eyes tracing the words she knew by heart.
They had once brought comfort, a sense of connection. Now, they stirred a dull ache.
After a long moment, she returned the letters to the book and carefully drew forth the sketch she had made of him so many years ago.
Her friend’s eyes met hers once more from the page.
Then she placed the book, with all its treasures, at the bottom of her trunk, beneath the second volume he had given her and the layers of muslin and tatting, where it would be safe from prying eyes.
She sat a while longer, gazing into the low fire, her thoughts drawn inexorably to him. Was he well? Did he ever think of her? Was he married with children of his own?
A tear slid down her cheek, which she brushed away with an impatient hand.
It pained her, more than she wished to admit, that he had ceased writing so abruptly, offering no explanation, no farewell. One day, his letters had stopped, as if she and the Gardiners had never mattered at all.
Well, she reflected with quiet bitterness, he is far too high to trouble with one such as I. She and the Gardiners had been a passing diversion, nothing more, during a brief interlude in his otherwise exalted life.
She knew better than to hope.
A man of his station could never regard a woman in her position as a suitable wife, or even, as a friend.
Drawing a long breath, Elizabeth rose with quiet resolve and extinguished the candle. She laid her gown neatly over the chair and pulled back the coverlet as she prepared herself for bed.
Whatever dreams might come, she would meet the morning with a steady heart and unclouded mind.
The past, like the book, would remain safely shut away.