had seen Elizabeth’s keepsakes many times: a smooth rock painted blue with white clouds, a gift from their eldest sister, Jane, on Elizabeth’s fifth birthday; a monogrammed handkerchief from Grandmother Bennet; a book of prayers inscribed “To My Lizzy,” from their father; and a pair of white lace gloves Elizabeth had worn to her first adult party.
Mr. Darcy’s spoke of his life: a drawing in crayon signed by Georgiana Darcy; a diamond stick pin with a bent tip, likely belonging to his father or another close relative; a newspaper notice of his mother’s passing; and, surprisingly, a miniature—a portrait of her own husband—of Mr. Wickham as a young man. Impulsively, Lydia retrieved it from the bottom of the box. Dusting it off against her dress, she stared at a man she did not know—a boy, really—with innocence and hope clearly evident in his eyes. She had never met this young gentleman, who had the whole world before him. The Wickham she knew was really two men. One was completely
charming to everyone he met. His appearance was greatly in his favor ; he had all the best part of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address—a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness but at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming. The other George Wickham was a frightening force—one that hid the hostility he felt—masked his voice’s harshness—ruled with fear. He was a careful schemer, handsome and charming.
Lydia returned the other items to the box and replaced it in the wardrobe, but she kept the small portrait of her husband to set beside her bed.“I would have liked to have known this young man. We could love each other until death do us part.” She patted the frame, treating the miniature as a symbol of their renewed relationship. Feeling much more content, she turned for the door. They would take the afternoon meal soon, and Mr. Darcy preferred his guests to be prompt.
Lydia stepped into the hall, only to find Cathleen Donnel also exiting her assigned room. The sleeping quarters followed a T-shaped hallway.The main guest chambers were situated in the vertical line of the T.The Darcys took the left branch of the horizontal line of the T, and their aristocratic guests took the right. Lydia’s room lay where the lines intersected—the perpendicular point—and Miss Donnel’s, the farthest away from her room, at the far end of the vertical line of the T. Lydia idly wondered about the arrangement. Should not Miss Donnel be closer to her cousin?
Cathleen did not speak, but Lydia nodded her head in the direction of the approaching woman and stopped to wait for her. They could enter the dining room together.
At that moment, Anne de Bourgh turned the corner, entering the main hall from the right. Lydia paused long enough to offer the woman a curtsy. “Miss de Bourgh!” Lydia gushed. “Is it not uncanny that we meet at Pemberley? I have heard so much of you and of Lady Catherine from my cousin Mr. Collins.”
“Mr. Collins is a ninny,” Anne grumbled as she approached. If the girl wanted to offer her some civility, mentioning her mother’s
clergyman did not play well. In Anne’s opinion, Mr. Collins was nothing more than a walking mouthpiece. He spoke only of what he thought his patroness Lady Catherine might approve. It was not beneath the man to gossip and to fawn over Lady Catherine to stay in Her Ladyship’s good graces.
“Of . . . of course, Mr. . . . Mr. Collins, can be somewhat pretentious,” Lydia stammered.
“That would be an understatement,” Anne insisted.
Both women moved toward the main staircase. Miss Donnel reached it before they did.As the three women prepared to descend the stairs—catching up their skirts to steady their steps—Mrs.Williams opened her door to follow. Both Anne and Lydia paused—mere seconds to observe Mrs. Williams. But Cathleen did not do so; she began her descent.
The next twenty seconds seemed to both speed by in pure
Mr. Darcy’s spoke of his life: a drawing in crayon signed by Georgiana Darcy; a diamond stick pin with a bent tip, likely belonging to his father or another close relative; a newspaper notice of his mother’s passing; and, surprisingly, a miniature—a portrait of her own husband—of Mr. Wickham as a young man. Impulsively, Lydia retrieved it from the bottom of the box. Dusting it off against her dress, she stared at a man she did not know—a boy, really—with innocence and hope clearly evident in his eyes. She had never met this young gentleman, who had the whole world before him. The Wickham she knew was really two men. One was completely
charming to everyone he met. His appearance was greatly in his favor ; he had all the best part of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address—a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness but at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming. The other George Wickham was a frightening force—one that hid the hostility he felt—masked his voice’s harshness—ruled with fear. He was a careful schemer, handsome and charming.
Lydia returned the other items to the box and replaced it in the wardrobe, but she kept the small portrait of her husband to set beside her bed.“I would have liked to have known this young man. We could love each other until death do us part.” She patted the frame, treating the miniature as a symbol of their renewed relationship. Feeling much more content, she turned for the door. They would take the afternoon meal soon, and Mr. Darcy preferred his guests to be prompt.
Lydia stepped into the hall, only to find Cathleen Donnel also exiting her assigned room. The sleeping quarters followed a T-shaped hallway.The main guest chambers were situated in the vertical line of the T.The Darcys took the left branch of the horizontal line of the T, and their aristocratic guests took the right. Lydia’s room lay where the lines intersected—the perpendicular point—and Miss Donnel’s, the farthest away from her room, at the far end of the vertical line of the T. Lydia idly wondered about the arrangement. Should not Miss Donnel be closer to her cousin?
Cathleen did not speak, but Lydia nodded her head in the direction of the approaching woman and stopped to wait for her. They could enter the dining room together.
At that moment, Anne de Bourgh turned the corner, entering the main hall from the right. Lydia paused long enough to offer the woman a curtsy. “Miss de Bourgh!” Lydia gushed. “Is it not uncanny that we meet at Pemberley? I have heard so much of you and of Lady Catherine from my cousin Mr. Collins.”
“Mr. Collins is a ninny,” Anne grumbled as she approached. If the girl wanted to offer her some civility, mentioning her mother’s
clergyman did not play well. In Anne’s opinion, Mr. Collins was nothing more than a walking mouthpiece. He spoke only of what he thought his patroness Lady Catherine might approve. It was not beneath the man to gossip and to fawn over Lady Catherine to stay in Her Ladyship’s good graces.
“Of . . . of course, Mr. . . . Mr. Collins, can be somewhat pretentious,” Lydia stammered.
“That would be an understatement,” Anne insisted.
Both women moved toward the main staircase. Miss Donnel reached it before they did.As the three women prepared to descend the stairs—catching up their skirts to steady their steps—Mrs.Williams opened her door to follow. Both Anne and Lydia paused—mere seconds to observe Mrs. Williams. But Cathleen did not do so; she began her descent.
The next twenty seconds seemed to both speed by in pure
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