Chapter Eight

July 30, 1812

The Lake House

Ramsgate

Elizabeth

Elizabeth closed the door to Jane’s bedchamber softly, careful not to disturb her sleeping sister. Over the past five days, Jane’s condition had seen a dramatic improvement, and earlier that day she had even managed to stomach a bit of toast without feeling ill. The hopeful expression on Charles’s face remained imprinted in Elizabeth’s mind, his pure love and adoration for her sister displayed for all to see.

Jane’s strength had not returned, although she was now awake for longer periods than she had been the previous weeks. Charles remained by his wife’s side, and when he could not, Elizabeth would take his place in the chair next to Jane’s bed, reading or embroidering half-heartedly as her sister slept. She even added some lace to the fine baby gown Jane had completed before the sickness had fully taken hold.

Eager to be out of doors and disinclined to the company of a footman, Elizabeth made her way to the garden at the rear of the house. Large enough for a solitary walk, it would provide the quiet she craved. Donning her bonnet and half-boots, she slipped through the door and into the midst of the summer blooms.

The garden paths were familiar now, and Elizabeth soon reached her favourite spot—the stone bench beneath the tree that concealed the snuffbox. As she rounded the bend, she froze, her mouth falling open in shock.

Lining the wall on either side of the tree were rows of lavender! A quick count revealed ten plants, each in full bloom. Her heart warmed at the sight, and she approached cautiously, almost fearful that if she blinked, the plants might vanish.

Drawing nearer, she bent to tenderly brush the purple blooms with her fingers. Their fragrance rose on the breeze, and she breathed deeply, savouring the heady aroma. Carefully, she picked a bundle of the herbaceous flowers to take with her into the house.

With the gathered lavender in her hand, Elizabeth hesitated before returning to the house and sank onto the bench, her gaze wandering across the garden as her thoughts drifted to Mr Darcy. What sort of man would add a stranger’s favourite bloom to his garden simply on a whim? Surely, he had done so after receiving her last letter, for the lavender had not been present when she had last sought sanctuary in the garden.

Elizabeth enjoyed sketching characters and Mr Darcy had become a fascinating study—a puzzle she could only piece together through his letters. After his first, she had labelled him haughty, egotistical, and arrogant, but she had long since amended her opinion of him. Mr Darcy was kind, intelligent, and possessed a bit of humour and whimsy. He seemed to be a dedicated brother and master, too.

Elizabeth started, realising that she ought to guard her heart, for what she knew of Mr Darcy spelled danger. It would take but little effort to fall completely and irrevocably in love with him. What folly it would be to lose her heart to a man in the past! Such heavy thoughts required more reflection, and the confines of the back garden offered little relief. Rising from the bench, she felt an overwhelming restlessness. Her steps carried her swiftly through the shrubs and blooms back to the house, where she rang for a footman to accompany her to the park. Elizabeth handed the lavender to a maid and requested she put it in water and place it in her chamber.

James and John stood waiting by the door as Elizabeth tied her bonnet. John stepped forward to open the door, following her out into the warm summer air. She set a brisk pace, and John, keeping a respectful distance, allowed the illusion of being alone.

Her thoughts were in turmoil as she neared the park. Was she mad to be corresponding with a man so wholly unconnected to her? If someone ever discovered their letters, it would utterly ruin her reputation, whilst Mr Darcy, safe in the past, would remain beyond the reach of her father.

And what of the thoughts that had come to her in the garden? If she were to lose her heart to Mr Darcy of Pemberley, how could they ever meet? Would he appear suddenly in her life, at some inauspicious moment—perhaps when she had entered a courtship with another? Where was Mr Darcy in her time? Could he already be married? Why else would he lease the Lake House, when he claimed he had never done so before?

Her feet carried her to the far end of the park, where another gate led to a different street. As she approached it, a familiar figure came through. Mr Blandishman called out to her cheerfully.

“Miss Bennet! I have walked the park daily hoping to encounter you.” He stepped forward and bowed, grinning broadly as he straightened. “You need not fear for your safety today, as I left Griswold behind.”

Elizabeth smiled and returned his greeting. “How do you do, Mr Blandishman?”

“I am very well, thank you. Might I have the pleasure of joining you on your stroll?”

He looked so eager that Elizabeth could not bring herself to deny him. “I would be pleased to walk with you, sir. John, my footman, will accompany us.” She glanced at the burly servant, whose face bore a slight scowl. After a moment, John nodded.

Mr Blandishman tugged at his cravat. “Very good,” he said, offering his arm. Elizabeth took it, mindful to keep a proper distance between them.

“I had nearly given up hope I would see you again. That is, I know your brother was to send his card, but I had hoped that we might meet before then…” he trailed off into silence.

Elizabeth smiled to herself at the man’s awkwardness. “My sister improves with each passing day,” she replied. “She is able to eat more now, and I believe within a few weeks she will be well enough to venture out.”

“And is the entire household eschewing guests whilst the mistress convalesces?” Mr Blandishman shuffled his feet as they walked, causing Elizabeth to narrow her eyes slightly at his question. Why was he so interested in social calls?

“I only mean to say that I would like the opportunity to come to know you better,” he added hastily. “And your brother, of course—but mostly you. I confess I do not wish to wait several weeks to become better acquainted.”

Ah, so that was the rub. He wished to call upon her. Elizabeth felt an inexplicable distaste for the idea, her thoughts drifting towards Mr Darcy and their continued correspondence. Mr Darcy was far more engaging than Mr Blandishman.

Immediately, she chastised herself. It was unfair to judge Mr Blandishman so early in their acquaintance. Had she not done the same with Mr Darcy after his first letters? In truth, she knew little of Mr Blandishman.

Besides, Mr Darcy was not here—Mr Blandishman was. For all Elizabeth knew, whatever strange occurrences had allowed her to correspond with Mr Darcy across time might not last. She was beneath him in station; was it so unlikely that by 1812, he might have a titled, well-dowered wife, and possibly a child?

“I believe my brother will not object to receiving callers,” she said carefully. “Mr Bingley is an amiable man and fond of company. He is often at home.”

Mr Blandishman favoured her with a wide smile, and once more, Elizabeth noticed just how ordinary his appearance was. He was not so poorly favoured as Mr Collins, but she imagined there would be a greater resemblance if Mr Blandishman sported the same sycophantic smile her cousin often wore. Could Mr Darcy be equally plain?

They walked on, with Mr Blandishman bearing the bulk of the conversation. Elizabeth attempted to focus, but the gentleman was, simply put, dull. He spoke at length of his house in Ramsgate and the improvements he was making. She might have shown some interest had he not delved into such excruciating detail. His conversation was too reminiscent of Mr Collins, further deepening her aversion towards the gentleman. He also spoke of his dog, Griswold. Elizabeth was not fond of dogs and felt horrified to learn that Mr Blandishman owned three of the enormous creatures—and that they roamed freely about his house.

After some time, she said, “I must turn back now, sir. My brother will expect me for tea.”

“Of course,” Mr Blandishman replied, bowing as he released her arm. “Might I ask when you plan to walk again? I would be happy to accompany you.”

“I have no notion of when I might next venture out,” she answered firmly. “Today was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Until Jane is well, my walks will be scarce, I fear.”

“Then I shall come to the park every day, hoping to meet you,” he said, his words striking Elizabeth as an awkward attempt at romance. Instead, Mr Blandishman’s words rendered him somewhat… Was there even a word for it? Off-putting ?

“Your time is yours to spend as you will.” Her voice remained even, giving him no encouragement. It seemed he was already thinking of an attachment after only two meetings. Once more, Elizabeth felt the situation was far too reminiscent of Mr Collins for her liking, and she resolved she must know him much better before even considering the idea of courtship.

“I am sure my brother will send his card should there be a day he is available to receive company,” she said, dipping a curtsey before turning away. John fell into step behind her, and once they had covered a distance, she sighed loudly.

“If you do not care for his company, simply say so, Miss Bennet,” John said in a muted but firm tone. “I will not tolerate a gent poking his nose where ‘tis not wanted. Too many are hurt when that happens.”

“Thank you, John,” Elizabeth replied sincerely. “I am still forming my opinion of him, though he seems quite certain I am worth pursuing. I will inform you if I no longer wish for his company.”

“Very good, madam.” John fell silent but stayed close as they returned to the Lake House. Elizabeth wondered at his protective nature and what had spurred it.

Charles dined with Jane late that evening, and though he invited Elizabeth to join them, she declined, feeling unequal to the company after the disruption of her peaceful walk. Instead, she ordered a tray sent up to her chamber and thrilled at the discovery of another letter from Mr Darcy in the day’s post. She eagerly broke the seal, her heart lifting as she saw the letter was just as long as the one she had written. After casting a glance at the lavender in the vase on her dressing table, she settled into her chair to devour the latest words from the past.

July 24, 1810

Dear Miss Bennet,

Pray forgive the delay in my reply. I wished to complete two tasks before writing to you. The first you may already have discovered in the garden. Tell me, is there now lavender lining the wall where the stone bench stands? I know little of the plant, nor how swiftly it grows, but I trust that in two years it has blossomed from the small starts I procured into handsome plants. My servants were somewhat puzzled by my request but carried out their duties admirably. Pray, inform me if the plants have survived in your next letter.

The other matter you will learn of later. I bid you to be patient, for I will reveal all before I close this missive. So, I pen most of it now in the hope that by day’s end, I shall be ready to sand and seal it with the enclosed item.

I am pleased that my coin travelled with the letter. I wonder what else we might send to each other. Could we perhaps send books or other items? Is there a limit to the size and scope of what can pass through these unexplained currents of time? I know not, and so for now, I shall content myself with small tributes.

I, too, wonder why Georgiana has not retrieved the snuffbox from its hiding place. My father has been gone these three years already; I would have thought she would have collected the memento by now. She knows I abhor snuff, so there would be no cause for me to take it.

Does your playing really cause listeners distress? I must admit, I find it difficult to determine whether you are teasing me or entirely sincere in your self-deprecating remarks. Be that as it may, I hope you master the Mozart piece, and that it brings you as much comfort as it once brought my dear sister.

Georgiana… Allow me to tell you more of her. She may not be a paragon, but I am certain that when she comes out in a few years, she will captivate the ton. With impeccable lineage, a considerable dowry, and excellent connexions, I expect I shall be fending off suitors with a stick when the time comes. Yet, all that pales in comparison to her innate goodness, her sweetness of temper, and her kind heart.

At fifteen, she is still just a girl, though already tall for her age. With fair hair and blue eyes, I believe she will resemble our mother even more in the years to come. She is quiet and shy, much like her elder brother. Before you laugh at my use of ‘shy’ for myself, let me assure you that, as a boy of fifteen, it suited me well. I was tall and awkward, my voice prone to cracking, and I often held my silence, particularly in the company of my peers. Now, I would say I am merely reserved. I do hope, for your sake as well as theirs, that your sisters experience a similar transformation in the coming years. Is Jane your only sister who is wed?

Pray, do not allow me to suspend any pleasure of yours should you wish to continue to do so. I could prattle on about the foibles and faults of my family as much as you do yours. As proof, I shall regale you with more tales of my cousin, Richard. Yes, I believe you would find in him a kindred spirit, and I eagerly await your own judgement on the matter.

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam is as fine a man as any I know. He is honest to a fault, courageous, loyal, kind, and intelligent. He is loquacious where I am quiet, and I often find company easier to bear when he is present. As a younger son, he must make his own way in the world. His brother, the heir, is competent yet unmarried. My aunt and uncle adore Richard, and I know it troubles them he is often in harm’s way. Make no mistake: they love him as more than just the ‘spare,’ but the responsibility of continuing the family line is ever-present, since their eldest has no son of his own at this time.

Richard has always been a stalwart companion, from our youth through Eton and university. He defended me when the sons of peers attempted to disparage me, and our bond has remained steadfast. He also stood by me when a childhood friend tried to tarnish my reputation and have me sent down from school. If it were not for Richard’s timely presentation of evidence corroborating my story, that former friend might have succeeded.

Ah, I have become maudlin. It pains me to recall that particular individual. He was the son of my father’s steward and my father’s godson, and thus, we spent much of our youth together, even attending school side by side. As we grew older, however, he began to resent my position as heir. I believe he wished to supplant me in my father’s affections, hoping to benefit from his godfather’s generosity as much as possible. In the end, my father bequeathed him one thousand pounds, along with the offer of a valuable family living, should he choose to take orders. He accepted the money, but the living is yet to fall vacant. Impatient, he declared his disinterest in taking orders and expressed a desire to study the law instead. We eventually agreed on a sum of three thousand pounds for the living. It was a fortunate decision—his conduct at university was not befitting a clergyman. I do not know what he has been doing these three years past.

Richard is best suited to tell you what I was like as a boy. He would likely claim that I was always well-behaved and never gave my parents cause for displeasure. He would be mistaken, of course. I have already acquainted you with one of my youthful escapades, but I assure you, there were many more. Your imaginings are close to the truth—I did indeed have knobby knees and gangly limbs until I reached my full height. I stand at six feet two inches. Though I now wear my cravat and coat as expected of a gentleman, I did not always dress impeccably, and even at sixteen, I often discarded them. My tolerance for such garments has not improved with age.

I cannot fathom having the liberty to wander freely as you did. Even as a young man, my father insisted a footman or groom accompany me whenever I ventured out. How different it must have been for you, a young lady, to enjoy such independence. A part of me is inclined to criticise your father for his laxity in your care, but you strike me as a woman who knows her own mind and does not easily bend to the will of others. Had your father attempted to rein you in, would you have obeyed?

Now, I wish to address both ‘connexions’ you have listed. You cannot imagine my astonishment upon reading that my aunt, in your time, appointed your cousin as rector for the Hunsford parish! No doubt I shall meet him at some point during one of my visits to Rosings Park. It perplexes me we did not cross paths at Easter in 1812, as I traditionally visit at that time to inspect my aunt’s estate. What kept me away remains a mystery. Perhaps your supposition is correct, and I have somehow earned my aunt’s displeasure. I can almost hear her saying, with her usual imperious air, “I am most seriously displeased.”

I can well envision Mr Collins and his character. My aunt surrounds herself with those who flatter her and indulge her with excessive compliments. The false humility, pomposity, and condescension you describe suggests that your cousin fits this mould perfectly. My aunt is surely pleased with her new toadeater.

Is it poor form for me to rejoice in Mr Collins’s failure to secure you for a bride? You seem far too lively a lady to be under my aunt’s influence. As I am sure you noted during your visit to your friend, Aunt Catherine is excessively attentive to all within her sphere and never hesitates to direct or command as she pleases. I hope Mrs Collins possesses a stalwart disposition, for anything less than a will of iron will surely melt beneath Lady Catherine’s scorching gaze.

The connexion between your aunt and the village of Lambton is astonishing. What a coincidence! Fate must indeed have a sense of humour, to entwine us so closely despite never having met. I hope to meet your aunt someday—or become reacquainted with her—should we have met before. Perhaps it will be when you accompany your relations on a tour of Pemberley.

Now comes the bit of your letter I ought to have addressed at the beginning. Please forgive me for being so remiss. How fares your sister’s health? Has she improved? Your concern for her well-being is clear, and I sincerely hope, for your sake and for her husband’s, that her strength returns with each passing day. Pray inform me of her condition when next you write.

Tell me more of your elder sister. Is she like you? If so, her husband must count himself fortunate indeed to have won such a wife.

I am pleased to learn that you delight in reading as much as I had supposed. Walking is another admirable pastime, and I hope you have been able to enjoy that whilst in Ramsgate. The town offers many fine prospects, and I would hate for you to miss them because of your prolonged confinement to the house.

It is late, and I must close, but before I do, I convinced my sister to sketch my likeness for you. It is a simple pencil drawing, but an accurate rendering. My hair is a dark brown, almost black, and my eyes are blue. Your imagination should now be satisfied.

I will await your next letter with anticipation.

Sincerely yours,

Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Elizabeth gazed at the sketch carefully positioned between the pages of the letter. It was wonderfully executed, capturing the striking image of a handsome man of some six-and-twenty years. His hair was slightly curled, and a soft smile graced his lips. His eyes seemed to twinkle with a hint of amusement. Miss Darcy had indeed proven herself talented in capturing such a likeness.

Elizabeth studied his handsome countenance, something about him striking her as vaguely familiar. However, she could not place where she might have encountered the gentleman before. “So, this is Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. He is far from the ogre I imagined, and his appearance is much preferable to that of Mr Collins!” She sighed as her heart gave a small flutter. “Yes, Lizzy,” she muttered to herself, “you are in real danger of losing your heart.”

Ignoring her dinner tray, Elizabeth retrieved a fresh sheet of paper and began to write a reply. Once finished, she plucked a sprig of lavender from the vase on her dressing table and tucked it between the folds of her letter before sealing it.

I shall ask Jane tomorrow if she is well enough to sketch my likeness. It will be nothing to compare to Miss Darcy’s work, but my sister’s talent is respectable. It would not do to let Mr Darcy imagine the worst about me! Smiling happily, she finally turned to her now cold dinner, eating what she could. A while later, Elizabeth slipped the letter into her writing case and climbed into bed before snuffing out her candle. That night, her dreams were filled with the face she now knew belonged to the very handsome Fitzwilliam Darcy.