My sister, Maria, is marrying for love.
The letter was waiting for me at the post office, along with another, written in an unfamiliar scrawl, for Mrs. Fitzgibbon from her own sister. I sit reading Maria’s in a field just outside the village, Louisa crouched beside me. In one fist she holds the bread I brought with me to keep her satiated on our walk.
I have read the letter over twice, and still I cannot entirely believe its contents. When last Maria wrote, only a month past, she bemoaned Meryton’s scarcity of eligible men. And now . . .
I should be filled with joy. I read her words yet again, look at Louisa, pick her up, and press her against my belly. She wriggles, the bread trapped between us.
“Shall we go visit our friend?” I say.
MRS. FITZGIBBON IS kneeling among her vegetables. Louisa squirms fiercely in my arms; I put her down and she stumble-runs across the field, her white bonnet, just a little too big, slipping down over one eye, the leading ribbons I sewed to the shoulders of her dress sailing behind her.
“Oh, my sweet lamb!” Mrs. Fitzgibbon cries, and holds her arms wide. Louisa rushes into her embrace. “Just look at you!” She leans her head back to look up at me. “Walking, the clever girl! When did this start?”
“Only days ago; she seems to have a particular talent for it.” I reach into my reticule and hold out her letter. “I am sorry for the early hour, but this was waiting for you at the post office. I thought you would be eager to read it.”
Mrs. Fitzgibbon stares at the letter as if she has never seen such a thing before. When she reaches for it, her hand trembles. “From Sarah,” she says, so softly, running her thumb over the paper. With great economy, her sister has cross-written her letter in a very small, cramped hand, lines running from side to side as well as up and down the page. “Oh, Mrs. Collins—”
She gently moves Louisa aside and rises. Her joints creak. Then, “I’ll just be a moment,” and she vanishes into the cottage. When she reappears, she is dragging two chairs from her kitchen.
“Let’s sit out here,” she says. I take one of the chairs from her hastily. “It’s so nice and cool.”
The air still feels close and thick, but there is a blanket of clouds spread across the sky; what little light that filters through is feeble. Without the sun’s full weight, the day does feel almost cool.
Still . . . “Louisa and I should leave you to your letter, Mrs. Fitzgibbon. I know how much you have longed for word from your sister.”
But Mrs. Fitzgibbon shakes her head. “It can wait. It will give me something to look forward to, and right now, I’ve the pleasure of your company.” She ducks back into the cottage before I can respond and returns with something cupped in one hand.
“A sweetie,” she says, and holds out her hand, palm up, to show me the lump of sugar. I nod, and her smile becomes a grin; she hands the sugar to Louisa, who takes it, sticks it in her mouth, and sucks.
“You will spoil her,” I say, but I cannot help the way my mouth tugs up at the corners.
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon sits in the second chair and lets out a sigh. “Children need spoiling, and mine never lived long enough for me to spoil them. Though perhaps it was for the best, after all.” She glances at me and lowers her voice, as if to keep Louisa from hearing. “Mr. Fitzgibbon liked his drink, and when he was in his cups he was a handy man with his fists. I don’t know but that it would have broken my heart to have my children used as he used me.”
I cannot imagine being treated so roughly that having my children perish in infancy would be preferable to their enduring the same. I look at Louisa, sucking on her sugar lump, and I think of her brother, whose life I have always thought I would have given anything to extend, and shudder.
Mrs. Fitzgibbon seems to sense my mood. “Well, and it was long ago, now,” she says. “In the end, he was too ill to work—not that he ever did much of that anyway—or even to drink.” She watches my hand as it traces the edge of my letter.
“News from home?” she says leadingly.
I look at Louisa, who rocks back on her bottom as she enjoys her treat. “From my sister,” I say. “She is engaged.”
“Oh, how lovely.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon tilts her head. “Is it not?”
I can feel the doubtful expression upon my face and struggle to smooth it out. “Of course it is. She is marrying for love.”
The old woman settles back with a snort. “Well, I married for love,” she says, and then looks sorry for the words. She glances sideways at me. “Good fortune to your sister,” she adds, with a skeptical sort of sincerity.
“I HAVE SOME news.”
William looks up from his plate. Dinner tonight is cottage pie, his favorite dish. Mrs. Baxter looked at me askance when I requested the change to the menu—“It is so hot, Mrs. Collins; are you sure you would not prefer something less rich?”—but I insisted.
“What is it, my dear?” he says.
“I have had a letter from Maria. She—she is engaged.”
“Engaged!” William says, and actually sets down his fork. “What is the gentleman’s name?”
“Mr. Cowper. George Cowper.”
“I hope he is worthy of her?”
I know what William is not saying, and bite the inside of my cheek.
“He is an apothecary,” I say at last.
“An—oh, my dear. That is not—her ladyship will not—” William brings his hands to his chest, pressing against the front of his waistcoat, his face full of dismay.
“The match may not be grand,” I say quickly, “but Maria seems very happy. She writes that she hopes we will be able to attend the wedding.”
William shakes his head slowly. “Lady Catherine may not be able to spare me.”
This is nonsense. I toy with my fork. “They are to be married in September, just after the harvest,” I say. “Maria understands that your duties must keep you in Kent until then, at least—”
“I am expected at the ball,” William says. “Her ladyship depends upon me.”
“I know that,” I say evenly. The harvest ball at Rosings Park is always the event of the season in Hunsford. “That is why they are delaying the wedding until autumn. It is very important to Maria that I—that we—be there.”
William’s distress is still obvious, but he appears to be attempting to moderate it for my sake. He takes a bite of pie and chews loudly.
“Well,” he says at last, tone doubtful, “it is not as though her intended is a common laborer, is it? It must be a relief to your parents to have her . . . settled.”
It is as close to tactful as William is capable of being. Almost, I could love him for it.
THE DRAWING ROOM at Rosings is very dark, all the heavy curtains drawn. Miss de Bourgh must be suffering from one of her headaches. I am put in mind of Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s shadowy cottage and wonder what she would think to see these great big windows, all covered up.
Miss de Bourgh reclines upon a chaise longue with a handkerchief covering her eyes. Mrs. Jenkinson sits beside her, her hands idle, for it is too dim for reading or sewing. I wonder, as William and I approach Lady Catherine and make our bows, how long she has been sitting so. Lady Catherine pulls her eyes away from her daughter to acknowledge our greetings, her mouth a puckered line.
We are here by her invitation, but the circumstances are hardly conducive to a lively visit. Almost, I offer apologies for disturbing them, but tuck my tongue against the roof of my mouth; presumably, Lady Catherine would have informed us had she wished to rescind the offer of tea. William sits very still beside me, fingers laced together in his lap and feet carefully still upon the floor. Silence descends, broken only by the maid’s entering with tea and cake.
“Your husband informs me that your younger sister is engaged to be married.” Lady Catherine’s words are a hiss, almost too low for me to catch. She stirs sugar into her tea and looks at me expectantly. William’s eyes dart between us.
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” I say.
“It is a pity she did not make a better match. I cannot imagine what she was thinking of—what your father was thinking of to allow it. Miss Lucas struck me as a very sensible girl when she visited here.” Lady Catherine takes a bite of cake, chews with soft smacks of her lips. I hold my peace; I know enough to know that she is not yet ready for my response.
“She is a gentlewoman,” she says. “Even though your father has little in the way of property or fortune, she is a gentlewoman, and as such she has obligations to her family! Why, how will your brothers’ marriages be affected by this alliance? How will your own daughter’s?” She shakes her head. “Your poor mother—how I pity her.”
I duck my head at the mention of Louisa; William’s head bobs. “Mrs. Collins and I are unable to account for this, Your Ladyship, I assure you—”
“Lower your voice, if you please, Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine snaps, and William claps a palm to his mouth. Her ladyship’s gaze slides toward Miss de Bourgh, who has not moved at all. After a little silence, she sighs and looks at me.
“Mr. Collins says you wish to attend the wedding.”
I swallow. “I do, ma’am. Maria is my only sister; it would feel . . . wrong not to attend her wedding.”
“Sentiment,” Lady Catherine says with a sniff, and I cannot disagree.