CHAPTER 1

Elizabeth

Traveling to Lambton, a village in Derbyshire, with her aunt and uncle Gardiner just prior to her twentieth birthday, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was enjoying a walk along a grassy country lane to the smithy when she saw a figure in the distance, huddled beneath the shade of an oak tree. Elizabeth's walking companions did not seem to notice it, but Elizabeth could not tear her eyes away from the pathetic figure, whom she now saw to be a young lady, perhaps no older than her own sister Lydia, with face buried in her hands and shoulders trembling. The sight, on such a fine, bright day as this, was alarming to Elizabeth, and she felt that something ought to be done—but she knew not what would be best. Should she approach the young lady? Should she attempt to relieve her feelings and offer her assistance? Would it be better if she allowed her some semblance of privacy?

Elizabeth's sense of compassion won out before long, and she made up her mind before the party reached the smithy, where her Aunt Gardiner hoped to call on an old family friend.

"I wonder," Elizabeth said to her aunt, "would you be so kind as to go along without me?"

Her aunt and uncle looked at her in surprise, and Elizabeth continued, "I want to run along to the green. I think I see a young lady beneath that tree all alone, and I wonder if she might need help."

At this comment, both aunt and uncle turned toward the tree in question—a very fine, tall oak with broad, green leaves and handsome branches. "Oh! Yes, certainly," Aunt Gardiner said. "Good heavens! I wonder what can be the matter with her."

Elizabeth said, "I do not know. A young lady of that age may be troubled by many things—but I cannot bear the thought of walking past and doing nothing for her. She ought not to be sitting so, alone and unprotected in the middle of town."

"No, certainly not," her uncle Gardiner said. "Shall we join you?"

While it was hardly proper to go on alone in a strange town, Elizabeth felt assured of her own safety by the relative privacy of the lane where they now walked and the close proximity of the tree to the smithy, where her aunt and uncle would be near enough to come and assist at a moment's notice. Therefore, she said, "Oh! No, that might frighten her."

Elizabeth was already turning toward the green, where she was ready to walk in a moment—for now that her mind was made up to do something, she was eager to act as soon as may be. She could not imagine what sort of circumstance would cause a young lady to come all alone to a place where anybody might see her, exposing herself to any manner of misconstruction and evil. Elizabeth longed to give her the same kind of advice she was continually giving to her own younger sisters—though she hoped it might be better received by this stranger than it ever was by her sister Lydia, who was the type of girl who never listened to anybody.

"Very well," Uncle Gardiner said. "Of course, should something truly be the matter, you will come to us?"

"Yes, yes," Elizabeth said, now rather impatient to be gone, for they were close enough to the girl now that Elizabeth could hear her crying. Then, having a thought occur to her that discretion might be wise, she added, "But if I do not come to you, perhaps it would be better to mention nothing about it to Mrs. Clayton. I do not know who the young lady is, but I should hate for an unkind report to spread because of me."

Mrs. Clayton was the blacksmith's wife whom Mrs. Gardiner had known growing up—for she was born in Lambton and had lived there before marrying her husband, Elizabeth's uncle Gardiner, who lived in London and was very successful in trade. The Gardiners agreed to this and went along their way, and Elizabeth hurried over the green.

The sight of two gentlewomen, evidently respectable and dressed in gowns, going about on the green lawn beside the smithy must have been a shocking sight to anybody who happened to witness it, and it was good fortune alone that seemed to ensure nobody did. When Elizabeth neared where the young lady sat, she slowed down, not wishing to alarm her. The girl—for she truly looked barely of age—was clearly a gentleman's daughter, at least. She wore a green dress with lace sleeves, and though its folds were now smeared with dirt, Elizabeth could plainly see that it was a fine garment, and probably one of many—for were it not, she imagined, the girl would have been loath to stain it. On her wrists were golden bracelets, each fitted with little gems, and she wore a golden chain around her neck with a locket attached. She was crying in earnest, but she did not seem to be injured in any way; rather, she seemed to be excessively sad, as though nothing in the world could be enough to cheer her. Elizabeth's heart broke for the pathetic little figure before her, and her imagination was tempted to all kinds of theories about her distress—but it would not be fair to speculate, and neither would it give any information that could be of use, and therefore she put the thought out of her head. When Elizabeth was near enough to be seen and heard, but not so near that she might cause undue distress, she spoke.

"Excuse me, Miss," Elizabeth said softly, ducking beneath the branches of the tree. The girl did not answer—nor did she even look up. She continued crying, face buried in her hands. Elizabeth glanced back toward the smithy. Her aunt and uncle had disappeared inside already—though Elizabeth thought she could see the shape of her uncle's silhouette in the window. Nobody was walking on the lane nearby, and nobody else was on the green; they were alone. Doing her best to preserve her own gown from the unfortunate fate of the girl's, Elizabeth knelt carefully beside her and began again.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Again, the girl did not respond. It was as though she had not even heard her.

"Are you quite alone?" Elizabeth asked. "Can I call anybody for you? Miss?" Elizabeth looked around again, wondering that nobody else had come by and seen the young lady in her distress, and wondering more that nobody seemed to be looking for her. It was not a common sight to see a young lady of this age walking totally alone, and the thought of protection sprang into Elizabeth's mind. Though the girl was not answering her, and though she seemed to want nothing to do with her, Elizabeth could not leave her now, no matter how unwanted her intrusion might have been.

"My name is Elizabeth Bennet," Elizabeth said. "I am traveling through the county with my uncle and aunt, and we were walking when we happened to see you here. I do not know anybody here whom they have not introduced to me, and I daresay nobody knows me." She paused to see if the girl would respond. It seemed the crying was slowing, but no other change presented itself. "You have nothing to fear," she added gently. "I have asked my aunt and uncle not to mention that we have seen you, and certainly nobody shall hear any ill of you from me."

Evidently this was the wrong thing to say, for the girl began to cry again, earnestly. Elizabeth was so alarmed that she nearly reached out to touch her shoulder, only stopping herself when she remembered that this was not one of her younger sisters at all. Instead she said, "Good heavens! Have I offended you? It was the last thing I intended."

Finally, the young lady looked up, but she still did not speak. She only shook her head for a moment, then she squeezed her eyes closed and buried her face in her hands once more.

"Very well," Elizabeth said slowly. "I am relieved to know that I have not offended, but…it does seem that someone, or something, has offended you, very much. Is there truly nothing I can do for you?"

Though she did not look up, the girl shook her head again.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Elizabeth glanced back toward the smithy, which had a pleasant looking storefront before the shop in back, where her aunt and uncle were now probably enjoying a reunion with old friends. In the distance back toward the church, Elizabeth could just make out some people walking. A carriage had gone the other direction down the lane not a long time before, but this little corner of the world remained unvisited and unnoticed. Perhaps that was why the girl had chosen this spot to cry—though, if this were truly an unpopular place, that would be surprising to Elizabeth, for the little lane had great beauty, and the tree on the green was very fine.

Finally, Elizabeth said, "I am sorry that you are so distressed. When I was a young girl and I was upset, there is a garden behind our house where I always liked to go to be alone and cry—but I daresay your choice of tree is much better than mine. There is a lime tree in our yard, but it hardly gives any shade at all."

The girl looked up at Elizabeth, sniffling a little, but still said nothing.

"Rather undignified, is it not?" Elizabeth added with a smile. "You have chosen a fine tree, quite ideal for the task. My tree did nothing but occasionally drop a lime on my head."

This made the girl laugh, a startled little sound that encouraged Elizabeth to go on. She looked up at the branches and leaves, then back at the girl. "Do you come here very often?"

The girl shook her head, and in a motion so swift Elizabeth might have missed it, she wiped the tears from her face and fixed her eyes on Elizabeth. What an incredibly shy creature she was! But that she had stopped crying was encouraging, and more so that she seemed open to interacting with Elizabeth—though how to move from this meaningless interchange to more material matters remained a mystery. Elizabeth judged it best that she speak of other things for a while. Perhaps if she put her young acquaintance at ease, she would become brave enough to speak, and hopefully she would reveal something that could put Elizabeth in the way of being of real use to her.

"I think you are close in age to one of my sisters," Elizabeth said. "My youngest sister, Lydia, has only just turned fifteen. But after that, she is probably not very similar to you, I'm afraid, for she is hardly ever quiet. She is…" Elizabeth shook her head, smiling, "incredibly noisy."

Again, the girl laughed a little, and Elizabeth went on, "Everything makes her laugh, and nothing in the whole world can entice her to sit down and be serious. She is good natured, to be sure, but…" Elizabeth paused. She did not want to say anything truly disparaging about her sister, for though she was certainly a silly and often ridiculous girl, Elizabeth did love her. Changing course suddenly, she asked, "Do you have any sisters?"

The girl shook her head, and then said in a voice so soft that Elizabeth had to strain to hear, "A brother."

"Oh! A brother," Elizabeth said. "I know nothing about brothers, for I have none. I confess I envy you, for I always wanted to have a brother."

The young lady smiled in return, and she seemed almost as though she wished to say something more, but just lacked the courage. Her smile was enough to convince Elizabeth to go on in this manner.

"If you will believe it," Elizabeth said, "I am one of five sisters. Five! It is such a crowd of young ladies in my house, always running about and talking about young men and parties, neighbors and carriages, gowns, ribbons, lace, and bonnets—I find I can hardly escape any of it. I often pity my poor father, for he has no son to teach to hunt or fish, and he must settle for watching us do needlework, reading to those of us who will be still and quiet enough to listen, and scolding those who will not!"

All tears were gone now, and the girl had a look about her of gentle amusement, as though she wished to be cheered up and was quite ready to accept any effort on that part from Elizabeth—though she was still not quite brave enough to speak for herself.

"But I suppose there are advantages to having sisters," Elizabeth went on. "My eldest sister, Jane, is my dearest friend in the world. I feel so fortunate that I have her to talk to, and I miss her a great deal—for we have been traveling these five weeks. I shall be very glad tomorrow when we begin our return journey and I am able at last to sleep in my own bed." Looking at the girl, Elizabeth added, "Do you live in Lambton?"

The girl shook her head.

"Are you visiting, as well?"

"No," she said softly.

"I suppose you must live in another part of Derbyshire, then?" Elizabeth asked, hoping that her tone was not too interrogative—for she only wanted to encourage the girl to say something—anything.

She nodded her head in affirmation.

"I hope it is not very far from here," Elizabeth said, "for I do not see a horse or a carriage. I daresay you must have walked."

"Yes," the girl said, and then she surprised Elizabeth by saying more. "I mean, yes, I walked."

"But it is not far?" Elizabeth pressed.

"No."

That was good news. If this poor, miserable creature would have to walk again all the way home, it was best that it not be a far walk. Moreover, Elizabeth felt compelled to join her on said walk—for it would be impossible to let her make the journey alone. If she did this, her aunt and uncle must also join them, and her aunt in particular was not a great walker.

While Elizabeth reflected on these things, the girl began to stand up. Elizabeth did likewise, careful to conceal her legs as she lifted her skirt off the grass—and pleased to find that no stains marred her own clothing. But the young lady had no similar luck. Her dress, as they both now plainly saw, was badly streaked with dirt. In her distress, she must have fallen directly to her knees, for the smudges were heavy and thick.

The young lady examined her own dress for a time, seeming to grow more and more dismayed as she perceived its state, then looked up once more to Elizabeth—this time with a pleading expression on her face. Elizabeth imagined it was only now that she realized how her clothing—and her actions—had exposed her.

"It—is not so bad," Elizabeth said, but she could not muster much certainty as she said it. "I daresay in a dress this color, dirt does not stand out so much as it might it a dress that is pink, perhaps, or yellow. In pink, you should never hide it from anybody."

"I should go home," the girl answered softly, and she began to look about her as though she was unsure how she would be able to get there.

"Yes, good," Elizabeth said, "that is just what I thought. My aunt and uncle are just inside the smithy now, but we have a carriage. May we be of assistance to you? We can walk with you, as well, if you prefer it."

This act of kindness seemed to overwhelm the girl, and her eyes welled up with tears once more.

"Now, do not make yourself uneasy," Elizabeth said kindly. "If you are able to return home by carriage, you can conceal from everybody that your dress had been dirty, and I daresay you shall be home so soon that your absence shall hardly be noticed."

These words gave such comfort that the girl became eager for this idea to come to fruition.

"I should like that very much," she said, and her tone in saying it was so much louder and clearer than it had been in any other sentence she had previously uttered that Elizabeth was convinced of her seriousness. Moreover, the girl began to be restless and would not be calm until Elizabeth went inside to speak with her aunt and uncle, which Elizabeth made directly to do. She spotted her uncle right away, for he was in the front of the shop, looking at some of the metal wares.

"Lizzie," he said, looking up when she approached him. "You are smiling, I see. I assume that means all is well?"

"I am pleased to find you so soon," Elizabeth corrected, "but I cannot say all is well—though all is not, perhaps, as bad as I might have feared at first."

Mr. Gardiner looked at her curiously. "Can I assist you?"

"Yes," she answered emphatically. "That is just what I hoped you would do." She explained the state of the girl's dress and the need for a carriage to convey her to her home, not two miles off, but evidently a rather dirty walk, should she attempt to make it again.

A gallant and generous man, her uncle quickly agreed to such an important use for their carriage. "Yes, she must not walk," he said. "I am glad you offered the carriage. It is just what I would wish you to do. I will be off in an instant to the inn to have it called—and a servant, too, who can escort her. Where is the girl now?"

"Just outside. I should not have left her there alone, except that she is so very shy, I fear she would not be equal to meeting you and my aunt just now. She hardly said three words together to me, though she seems to trust me enough."

"Curious," Mr. Gardiner said. "I wonder who she is."

"Her clothes are fine," Elizabeth answered. "I can see she is a young lady of some consequence—but I do not know who. I shall rejoin her, after you have gone to call the carriage, and perhaps then she will tell me her name."

Mr. Gardiner was gone as soon as his wife could be informed of the plan, and Elizabeth returned to find the girl still standing on the green, staring toward the tree.

Elizabeth came beside her and touched her arm. She was nervous that she would startle her new friend, who did not seem to be paying much attention to anything. But she did not jump or start; she simply looked toward Elizabeth with all the expectation and trust of a child.

Elizabeth was pleased to be able to say, "My uncle is walking down to call the carriage now. I daresay he shall return with it in little more than a half an hour."

This news made the girl smile—but only a moment later, she raised her eyes and saw something across the green that made her gasp. Elizabeth turned and looked over her shoulder, squinting into the sunlight to see what it was. She moved under the shade of the oak tree to get a better look, and from that vantage point she spied a man approaching on horseback. Elizabeth turned back toward the girl, who was standing quite near to her, having followed her back under the tree.

"Do you know who that man is?" Elizabeth asked.

In a wavering voice, she answered, "I think it is my brother."