Page 28 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

Miss Mary King and Elizabeth each sat on her side of the carriage, gazing silently out their respective windows as the city of Cambridge came gradually into view.

The road had long since flattened into the level lands south of the Fens, and now they passed fields dark with gault clay and the occasional outcropping of Chalk Marl.

When Elizabeth inquired about it, the professor replied that it was the distinctive Cambridge Greensand.

Off in the hazy distance, Elizabeth caught sight of a low hill where pits disrupted the earth.

"Is that a mine?" she asked, turning to Professor Trent, seated opposite the young ladies.

"Indeed it is," he replied. "Coprolite, Miss Bennet. A rather inelegant name for fossilized remains, but they contain valuable phosphate. It is mined heavily for fertilizer and is an important industry in these parts."

Elizabeth looked again at the pitted ground, struck by the utilitarian nature of the town, which produced both intellect and fertilizer.

"You seem interested," he said with a smile.

"Very much so. There is something oddly satisfying about the land yielding such variety."

He nodded. "Cambridge has always struck a balance between the lofty and the practical. The Romans knew it, too. Our principal Roman site lies just northwest of the city center, a small fort on Castle Hill, called Duroliponte."

Elizabeth's eyes lit with interest. "May I see it?"

"Certainly. I shall take you myself, or if you prefer, Ancilla will escort you. In fact, the student my daughter and I tutor spent months at the excavation. A clever boy, Gilbert Ludwig. Though now his father will have him shipped off to Italy as attaché to the ambassador."

"And he prefers the ruins to Rome?"

"He does. He would rather dig in English dirt than dine in Venetian palaces. He dreams of becoming an antiquarian."

"And his father disapproves?"

"Vehemently. Says no man can feed a family with ruins and relics."

Elizabeth tilted her head. "And what does Mr. Ludwig say to that?"

"He says he wants no wife, no children, only his spade, his relics, and the thrill of discovery."

As they passed over a narrow bridge, the River Cam came into view, its waters curling gently beneath the willows. Sheep's Green lay tranquil in the distance, a sprawl of water meadows caught in the amber light of afternoon.

Soon, the carriage rattled past Peterhouse, the oldest of the colleges. Elizabeth leaned slightly for a better look, struck by its austere beauty.

"Founded in the 13th century," said Mr. Trent. "Peterhouse is small, but proud."

A few turns later, the carriage drew up before a handsome red-brick house.

Perfectly symmetrical, with six evenly spaced sash windows and a central entrance adorned with a semi-circular fanlight above the door, it exemplified Georgian taste.

The roof was low-pitched and hipped, the whole facade tidy and imposing in its restraint.

The carriage halted, and the occupants descended. Elizabeth breathed in deeply. The scent of green grass and stone and late-summer blooms seemed to drift on the breeze.

"Professor Trent," she asked, "might I take a walk back toward Peterhouse? The city is so beautiful, and I long to stretch my legs."

"Of course. I shall send a footman with you. Niece, will you join her?"

Mary King shook her head. "No, thank you. I believe I shall take to my bed for an hour or so. The journey has quite overcome me."

Elizabeth set off, the footman trailing behind at a respectful distance.

The streets bustled with students, gentry, and tradesmen.

She turned toward the river and paused on a footbridge, watching a group of students rowing.

Their motions were fluid, their timing impeccable, and the boat skimmed across the Cam with almost ethereal grace.

She had never seen anything so graceful.

When the sky began to darken, Elizabeth returned to the house and changed into one of her new gowns.

A surge of gratitude rose within her for her father, who had seen fit to provide her with a new wardrobe.

She could appear at table prettily, though modestly, attired.

Her hosts were gracious, and she felt assured they would overlook the simplicity of her dress.

At dinner, she was introduced to Miss Ancilla Trent, twenty-six, unmarried, and elegant. Her red hair was swept back in Grecian style, her green eyes alert. She greeted Elizabeth with warmth and turned her attention, almost immediately, to her young charge.

"Cousin," she said, lifting a brow, "what did you think of the Roman site Professor Trent mentioned?"

"Oh," said Mary, blinking, "I thought it sounded very dirty."

Ancilla smiled sweetly. "Yes, dear. As is life, I’m afraid. But one does get used to the soil when something valuable might be underneath."

Elizabeth bit her lip to suppress a laugh. Mr. Trent was watching with quiet amusement.

Dinner continued with lively conversation, and Elizabeth soon found herself deep in discussion with Professor Trent about his work.

"My students are writing essays on the subject of Existentialism," he said, sipping his wine. "Rather modern, I grant you, but it speaks to them. Freedom. Choice. Responsibility. All very personal matters when one is just beginning to live."

"It must resonate," Elizabeth said quietly. "Especially for those who have never been allowed to make choices for themselves."

"Such as yourself?"

She hesitated. “Yes, it speaks to the general condition of women in the early nineteenth century, though in my own case, it is my mother who comes to mind.

She sought husbands for my two loveliest sisters as one might shop for hams. Jane, the eldest, was nearly matched to a man forty years her senior.

Lydia was mercifully sent to school by my uncle and escaped the persecution, though my mother still threatens to find her a husband. And I, I fled."

"To Scotland?"

She nodded. “When I was fourteen, I fled to my uncle. And now, to Scotland. My mother was determined to marry me to my father’s heir. We would never have suited. So yes, I fled, for freedom, and perhaps to find something of myself along the way."

He looked at her with interest. "And do you find it, Miss Bennet, this self you seek?"

"I hope so," she said. "I know I feel inspired by the trying."

From the other end of the table, Mary King inserted herself into the conversation.

"I don’t think women should go about unchaperoned. It leads to odd behavior and bluestocking tendencies."

Ancilla tilted her head and murmured, “Cousin, I confess, I’m not entirely certain of your meaning."

Mary flushed but said no more.

The meal continued in comfort and laughter. Elizabeth, seated between two people who respected thought and honored honesty, felt herself unfold in ways she had long forgotten.

For once, she was not resisting her world; she was exploring it.