Jane’s large blue eyes plainly revealed that she did not believe Elizabeth. “Oh, Lizzy. I wish there were something I could do.”
“There is nothing that needs doing,” Elizabeth said firmly. She laid her hairbrush on the dressing table. “You need worry only about yourself and your own prospects. You’re the most beautiful of us and have by far the sweetest disposition. It is you who ought to set about securing Lord Northover’s affections. I am sure that he will have but little interest in me.”
“You must tell me if Mr. Darcy distresses you,” Jane said, ignoring the reference to Lord Northover. “Really, Lizzy, you must. I will intervene, or speak to Lady Catherine on your behalf.”
The thought of Jane interceding with either Mr. Darcy or Lady Catherine almost caused Elizabeth to laugh, though she suppressed the urge. Instead, she said seriously, “I shall do that, Jane. Thank you.”
Alone in her bed, the room lit only by the fire in the hearth, Elizabeth, though exhausted, found sleep impossible.
Despite her efforts, and her assurances to Jane that she was untroubled by Lady Catherine’s news, her thoughts kept straying back to Mr. Darcy. Why was he coming? Did he even know she was at Rosings?
Lady Catherine had not told him, of that Elizabeth was sure.
In her mind’s eye she saw him: aloof, implacable, proud, his dark eyes flashing with superiority. It was a pity that so handsome a man should be so spoiled by family pride that it rendered him intolerable.
She had been right to reject his proposal of marriage, of that there could be no doubt. She would not trade her happiness for material advantage—however grand Pemberley might be! She would not take the path of Charlotte Lucas and marry a man whom she did not love simply because it was prudent.
And if Mr. Darcy chose to pursue her further, what of it? It would not surprise Elizabeth if he did, though not from affection for her but rather because he was used to having his way. But the choice was hers, and she was determined to make it based not upon wealth, or a fine appearance, but rather on the sounder principles of good character and a disposition in harmony with her own.
If only Mr. Darcy were more like her brother-in-law! If he had half the charm of Capt. Wickham, and that gentleman’s good heart and good nature, it would be a different matter entirely.
She would, she decided, take Lady Catherine’s advice insofar as being open to meeting suitors who were more agreeable, or at least less offensive, than Mr. Darcy.
The gentleman arriving tomorrow, the aristocratic Lord Northover, for example. Lady Catherine had said that he was of a noble lineage, but he could hardly have more pride or superiority then Mr. Darcy, and indeed, he might be quite agreeable. She ought not to judge all fortunate gentlemen by the shortcomings of one.
And if his Lordship did not like her, then perhaps he would find Jane more to his taste. It would be so good for Jane to meet a man who could make her forget Charles Bingley.
The fire in the hearth had died so low that the room was barely lit by it. The couple in the French tapestry on the wall were as ghosts, the bright colors of the silk being now mere shades of gray.
Tomorrow would be, Elizabeth decided, a day of fresh beginnings. She would make an effort to ensure that she and her sisters enjoyed every advantage which Rosings offered and make the most of the opportunity to improve their social and financial position.
If only Mr. Darcy were not coming...
Chapter 7, Lord Northover and Mr. Pettigrew
December 20, 1812
“The first of the eligible young gentlemen?” Jane asked. She was looking out the window of the second-floor parlor adjacent to their rooms.
“The first of the rich gentlemen, to be sure,” Elizabeth replied, grasping her sister’s arm and leaning against her.
A tall, custard-colored carriage drawn by a team of dapple grays rolled briskly up the lane to the manor house. They watched as its top-hatted driver reigned it to a stop before the entrance.
“I wish I could see them better,” Kitty said. She had joined them and was on tiptoe, her hands pressing against the window pane. “Do you know them, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth did not. “No,” she said, and although she could not see the gentlemen’s faces well, she could see that they were both young and finely dressed. “I do not know them, but I believe that one of them may be Lord Northover, whom I am informed is the master of a great estate.”
They had just lunched and were at their leisure as Lady Catherine had not called for them to attend upon her, perhaps being occupied with the arrangements for the Christmas festivities.
“Who did you say that was, Lizzy?” Mrs. Bennet inquired. “Lord somebody? And there are two gentlemen. Who is the other?”
We should all assemble downstairs to greet them, in a line, Elizabeth thought, but she said, “I’m sure I do not know.”
“Well, they are both very fine looking. They are just the sort of gentleman I was hoping to see,” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together excitedly. “Soon the place will be thick with them!”
“Do you know Lady Catherine’s nephew, Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Pettigrew said. “I only met him once. Nice fellow for, you know . . . the son of an Earl.”
Elizabeth only smiled. They were in the drawing room, her sisters, Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne, and Mr. Pettigrew. Mary was playing the pianoforte, and Kitty was talking with Anne.