to the conclusion that letting her stay is the only way of preventing her from getting into even worse trouble than she's likely to get into here. If only it weren't for--" she stopped abruptly.
However she feels, Elizabeth looks just as lovely as ever. Her face fairly glows. And her dark eyes have always been bright with laughter, but all these last months there has been a kind of deep, quiet happiness to them, as well, even when the baby has made her uncomfortable or ill.
This morning she was wearing a morning dress of peach- and white-striped percale, with a lace cap perched on her dark curls. But she looked tired, I realised all at once, with faint bruise-like shadows under her eyes. And when she fell silent, she looked, not back at Kitty and the boys out in the garden, but down at her own two hands, resting in her lap.
I hesitated another moment--and added a few more streaks of white paint to the skull-and-crossbones design I was painting onto the black background of the boys' flag--then asked her, "Elizabeth, is there something ... something wrong? Besides Kitty, I mean?"
I thought perhaps that she'd be worrying about the birth. Because women do die in child-bed.
I hate writing that--I hate even thinking that. But that is how my own mother died. And the baby--the baby that would have been my younger brother--died, as well.
I can't imagine Pemberley without Elizabeth here, for all she has only been married to my brother these two years.
I thought Elizabeth might have been about to say something--to ask me something, perhaps--because she looked over at me and drew in her breath. But then she seemed to change her mind. She shook her head and said, instead, "Nothing--except perhaps that I'm beginning to feel as though this child has decided never to be born at all." She smiled. There was just a faint edge of strain in the smile, I thought. And then she said, "I had a letter from Darcy this morning. I know he's to arrive this afternoon with Edward--but he must have posted the letter when he was still in town. He wrote that he happened to run across Caroline while in London. And since she was at a loose end for the holiday season, he's invited her here."
"Caroline? Caroline Bingley ?" I looked at Elizabeth in disbelief. Because after what happened last spring, I should have thought Pemberley the last place on earth Caroline would wish to be.
Elizabeth got awkwardly to her feet, and seemed very focused on rearranging a vase of flowers as she nodded. "Yes. She's not coming with Darcy and Edward. Apparently she had some engagements in town. But Darcy says she'll be here in a few days' time."
And then she came over to the table I was working on and hugged me and said, "And you are now officially released from listening to my moaning--you can go and sit by the window and watch the approach to the house for signs of Edward's arrival--as I know you must have been longing to do all morning long."
Later ...
I only have a moment to write this; the gong for dinner will be rung soon, and then I'll have to go downstairs. But Edward has finally arrived. And everything is all right, it really is.
I hadn't even realised I was going to write that until I saw the words forming on the page; it doesn't at first glance seem to make any sense. But as silly as it sounds, I was nervous of meeting Edward again.
I've known Edward all my life, of course. But somehow now that we are engaged to be married, it seems as though he is someone else entirely to me. Which in a way he is, really: a lover, not just a friend.
I should be grateful, I know, that Napoleon was defeated last year and exiled to the Isle of Elba--which means that the seemingly endless war between our two nations is finally, finally at an end.
But Edward is still a colonel in the army, and his regiment has been posted to Ireland these last months. Which I should be grateful for, too--grateful that Edward is with the cavalry and not the infantry. Because so many
However she feels, Elizabeth looks just as lovely as ever. Her face fairly glows. And her dark eyes have always been bright with laughter, but all these last months there has been a kind of deep, quiet happiness to them, as well, even when the baby has made her uncomfortable or ill.
This morning she was wearing a morning dress of peach- and white-striped percale, with a lace cap perched on her dark curls. But she looked tired, I realised all at once, with faint bruise-like shadows under her eyes. And when she fell silent, she looked, not back at Kitty and the boys out in the garden, but down at her own two hands, resting in her lap.
I hesitated another moment--and added a few more streaks of white paint to the skull-and-crossbones design I was painting onto the black background of the boys' flag--then asked her, "Elizabeth, is there something ... something wrong? Besides Kitty, I mean?"
I thought perhaps that she'd be worrying about the birth. Because women do die in child-bed.
I hate writing that--I hate even thinking that. But that is how my own mother died. And the baby--the baby that would have been my younger brother--died, as well.
I can't imagine Pemberley without Elizabeth here, for all she has only been married to my brother these two years.
I thought Elizabeth might have been about to say something--to ask me something, perhaps--because she looked over at me and drew in her breath. But then she seemed to change her mind. She shook her head and said, instead, "Nothing--except perhaps that I'm beginning to feel as though this child has decided never to be born at all." She smiled. There was just a faint edge of strain in the smile, I thought. And then she said, "I had a letter from Darcy this morning. I know he's to arrive this afternoon with Edward--but he must have posted the letter when he was still in town. He wrote that he happened to run across Caroline while in London. And since she was at a loose end for the holiday season, he's invited her here."
"Caroline? Caroline Bingley ?" I looked at Elizabeth in disbelief. Because after what happened last spring, I should have thought Pemberley the last place on earth Caroline would wish to be.
Elizabeth got awkwardly to her feet, and seemed very focused on rearranging a vase of flowers as she nodded. "Yes. She's not coming with Darcy and Edward. Apparently she had some engagements in town. But Darcy says she'll be here in a few days' time."
And then she came over to the table I was working on and hugged me and said, "And you are now officially released from listening to my moaning--you can go and sit by the window and watch the approach to the house for signs of Edward's arrival--as I know you must have been longing to do all morning long."
Later ...
I only have a moment to write this; the gong for dinner will be rung soon, and then I'll have to go downstairs. But Edward has finally arrived. And everything is all right, it really is.
I hadn't even realised I was going to write that until I saw the words forming on the page; it doesn't at first glance seem to make any sense. But as silly as it sounds, I was nervous of meeting Edward again.
I've known Edward all my life, of course. But somehow now that we are engaged to be married, it seems as though he is someone else entirely to me. Which in a way he is, really: a lover, not just a friend.
I should be grateful, I know, that Napoleon was defeated last year and exiled to the Isle of Elba--which means that the seemingly endless war between our two nations is finally, finally at an end.
But Edward is still a colonel in the army, and his regiment has been posted to Ireland these last months. Which I should be grateful for, too--grateful that Edward is with the cavalry and not the infantry. Because so many
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