Page 223

The next morning Elizabeth finished her letter to Mary at the little desk in her room. She had begun it twice since the birth, each time supposing that so much news ought to make writing easy. There had been more interruption in happiness than she expected.

She read it through before folding the sheet.

Pemberley, November 17, 1813

My dear Mary,

You will have heard that Jane has given us a nephew. He is to be Charles Bingley, though his father has not yet decided how to prevent answering whenever anybody speaks to the child. Jane is recovering, and I have been expressly forbidden to make all my conversation an inquiry after her comfort.

Your book arrived safely with Papa. I shall not return it until I have read the passage you marked, but I hope you will forgive me for having found a new relation more immediately interesting. He possesses very few accomplishments as yet, and is praised extravagantly for all of them.

Kitty will wish for a description of him, but Mama has already claimed the right to decide whom he resembles. Tell Lydia that I shall accept no comparison between her nephew and any officer until the child can hold up his own head. Mama considers him handsome already; Papa reserves his opinion until he hears whether the young gentleman means to sleep at reasonable hours.

I miss you all. There are things I begin to tell you before remembering that you are not sitting beside me. You must write and tell me what has happened at home, including the matters you suppose too small to be worth a letter. Those are very often the things I wish most to hear.

Your affectionate sister,

Elizabeth

She put it with the outgoing post before she could begin another page.

When she came downstairs, Mr. Darcy rose from the bench in the hall. Sir rose with him, plainly gratified to find that somebody had at last understood the purpose of waiting there.

“Jane has ordered me to bring back news of something beyond her room,” Elizabeth said.

“Then we had better go far enough to find it.”

He took her cloak from the servant and helped her put it on. His fingers rested for an instant at her shoulder after the fastening was secure. Elizabeth looked up at him, and was glad that Jane had already heard the truth. She should have found it difficult to deny anything with that touch still upon her mind.

Sir had already reached the door.

“I fear he has decided,” Darcy said.

“Then we must be very firm. I will not have us governed entirely by his wishes.”

She took Darcy’s arm. They followed the dog into the cold, clear morning, and spent the first part of their walk disputing which of them was most likely to give way.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

DARCY HAD TAKEN Georgiana’s miniature out of its case and could not decide where to put it.

On Thursday morning he had brought it to the library to ask Reynolds about a shelf in the nursery. It still stood upon his desk.

Georgiana had been twelve when it was painted. The artist had given her a composure which she had maintained only by being forbidden to laugh, and Darcy remembered her relief when the last sitting ended better than he remembered the man who painted her.

Elizabeth came in carrying the book she had borrowed the day before.

“I meant to leave this here until after breakfast. Is there a place where Papa will not find it? He is collecting books for his journey.”

“Not in this room.”

“Then I must abandon the attempt.”

She put the book upon the desk and saw the miniature.

“Your sister?”

“Yes.”