Beginning, Section II, next Section

Chapter 6

Posted on Sunday, 31 October 1999

"Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls."
~John Donne

i.

Jessie was on her knees in the dirt and weeding a rose bed when she heard the voice call her name, echoing across the lawns.

"Jessie!"

Straightening her back and rocking back on her heels, she raised her arm to wipe a loose tendril of hair off her face, managing to smudge a line of dirt across her damp forehead. Looking around, she discovered the source of the call and forced a smile.

"Hello there, Brendan!" She replied, trying to massage some feeling into the stiff muscles of her back as he approached.

With his thick, sandy-blonde hair and laughing moss-green eyes, Brendan Atworth was the heart-throb of all the village girls, but he was quite oblivious to his popularity. Easy-going and affable to all, he derived an intense joy from every aspect of his simple life, and was working as an apprentice to the Lambton blacksmith.

"I was jus' on me way up t' th' Big House," he said, crouching easily beside her, and gestured to the package he had placed in the grass, "Delivery of irons an' all for th' kitchens. Still, always time for chat, eh?" He grinned the boyishly charming grin that won him admirers from all over the countryside, but though she tried, Jessie could not force her smile into anything more than a grimace.

Brendan noticed immediately, and his grin faded into a look of serious concern. "You all right, Miss Jessica?"

She bit her lip and nodded firmly. Brendan waited quietly to see if she would say anything more, but it was apparent that she did not want to talk - at least, not to him. He thought briefly of the rumours he had heard about Tom Evans' daughter, and wondered if there was perhaps some truth to them after all. Then he shook his head hastily and stood up.

"Is this barrow for the scrap heaps?" He asked, his cheery demeanour back in place.

Jessie looked at the small wooden barrow she had already piled high with dead branches and weeds. Her weary muscles ached at the thought of hauling the heavy mass all the way up the scrap heaps. She nodded silently.

"Well that's jus' on me way," he stood up again, "I'll dump i', an' you get ye'self home a snip early."

"Oh no, Brendan, I couldn't let you, it's too heavy and you've your own load, your own errand to - "

He cut her off with a wide grin, and shouldered his package easily, leaving one hand free to manoeuvre the barrow. "It'll be my pleasure, Miss Jessica," and he would listen to no more of Jessie's half-hearted protestations.

She watched him leave, relief mixed with a heavy twinge of guilt. She did like Brendan. He had only tried to be kind to her, and she had treated him coldly - all but refused to speak to him. It was just that...

Jessie sighed, and stood up slowly, wincing as she placed weight on her cramped muscles. She turned her head in the direction of the cottage, but she was reluctant to go home tonight. She turned instead to gaze longingly across the lakes, where she and James had strolled so many evenings, side by side.

But no more... He will not come tonight. Nor any night ever again, I suppose...

She considered taking the walk alone, but somehow the mere thought of wandering the circuit without James at her side caused her chest to constrict and her throat to choke up. She bit her lip again, and blinked hard. She hated tears. Tears were weak.

She could go and see Mary, but there was nothing she wanted to say. Though she and Mary remained close, James and Mary had found little in common as they grew up, and Jessie's continued friendship with the young Master had placed an unspoken strain on her relationship with Mary. Jessie couldn't quite fathom why this should be. She only wondered when it was that life had grown so damn complicated.

Well, there was nothing left but to return home. Home to a cool, strict grandmother and a furious drunken father. And next morning, awake to a life of labouring in the gardens. No more lessons. No more James.

Her soul ached with despair at the thought. Hadn't she come too far now to settle for such a life? Having been shown a glimpse what wonders lay behind the doors of knowledge, how could she be happy with a tiny provincial existence, deprived of books or learning or wonders of any kind?

And worst of all, how was she to go on when she was forbidden to...

"Jessie?"

She gasped, and spun around.

"James!" Jessie looked about in furtive panic, "What are you doing here? You know we aren't allowed to - "

"Yes, I know, and I don't care."

Jessie looked at his hardened expression, and was suddenly afraid not only for herself, but for him too. "James, you should care. You know your father forbade you from seeing me. If he knew you were disobeying him like this, the consequences would be..."

"What? What would they be? What could they be that would be worse that our being separated? Besides, he has no right to tell me who I may and may not befriend!"

"Doesn't he?" She asked sadly, and began to turn away.

James frowned and touched her shoulder, pulling her back. "What do you mean?"

Jessie's blue eyes darkened. "Did you ever consider that he might be right?" She asked softly.

"No! He's wrong, quite wrong!" His eyes narrowed. "Jessie, what are you trying to say?"

For a moment, Jessie would not look at him. Then she turned on him and asked calmly, "Look at me."

He looked. His expression did not change, and Jessie could see that her rough pinafore, dirt-smeared face and straggling hair were not making her point to him. She had to make him understand.

"See these hands?" She continued quietly, fanning her fingers before him, "They are a peasant girl's hands. Look at yours." She picked up his hand in hers and laid them palm to palm.

Jessie's nails were all broken short and her hands were grubby with dirt from working in the garden beds. Beside it, James' hand was strikingly white and clean and strong. A gentleman's hands.

For several moments, they both simply gazed at the tragic contrast.

Finally Jessie spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

"What am I, James? I can not figure it out any more. For six years now I've lived two lives - half the time, sharing your lessons up in the big house, learning to speak genteel, even drinking tea with Mrs Darcy... and the other half running errands and labouring beside my father. I go to the big house, and am regarded a servant. I go into the village, and they jeer at the way I talk. Where does that leave me, James? I do not fit in anywhere."

James tried to hold her and comfort her as he had before, but she stepped back quickly and looked away. He sighed.

"I don't know, Cub. I don't know what's to become of us. I only know that you're the best friend I ever had and ever will have, and I'm not prepared to give you up without a fight. Don't you feel that?"

Jessie quelled the bitter laugh that rose in her throat. I have fought, she wanted to say, I fought my father over this and I have the bruises to prove it... But she held her tongue. James would almost certainly over-react if he saw the marks on her back and arms, though they were not serious hurts. It was just unfortunate that Tom had been so drunk when the rumour reached him that his daughter was "gettin' i' on wi' th' young Master." He had stumbled back to the cottage as fast as his buckling knees would take him to teach the little slut a lesson. She had not been a willing pupil though, which had probably made it worse for her in the end...

At the same time, however, she was not impervious to what James was saying. There was a sharp pain in her heart every time she thought of their separation - no more walking at sunset, no more talking for hours, no more secret codes in lessons or giggling over long-established jokes which only they understood... Was it worth the wrath of their respective fathers to flaunt convention and carry on with this friendship regardless?

Looking into James' warm eyes now, Jessie tried to imagine being parted - never seeing him, except from a distance, and never speaking to him unless to curtsy and greet him briefly, then scurry on without another word... She was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling she did not understand at all, but it told her most definitely that such a life would be painfully empty for her.

"What do you suggest we do?" She heard herself inquiring, and clamped down on the voice of objection clamouring inside her.

James bit his lip briefly. "We must be clandestine, otherwise Father will find out. I presume there's a similar concern with you and Tom?"

Jessie nodded, but when he asked her what her father had said, she would not elaborate. James knew this was not the time to push her, and spoke quickly.

"Letters, what about letters? That way we could still share thoughts even though we won't be able to meet as often or as easily. But how would we exchange them?"

"Could we ask Mary?"

James shook his head emphatically. "No. I don't trust Mary."

Jessie was surprised. "Why ever not?"

He shrugged. "It's foolish, but I can not abide the way she won't meet my gaze."

"That's only because you're the young Master - "

"I know what I am!" He cut her off sharply, "But that's not who I am! And that's what's caused all my problems, isn't it!" He ran his hand through his curls in a gesture which, ironically, echoed the present Master of Pemberley exactly.

After a moment's pause, Jessie said softly, "Do you remember the place we first met?"

James gave her a bemused stare. "The oak tree," he replied at last, "By the pond." Suddenly a grin flickered across his face. "You bested me at pebble throwing, then told me I was ugly."

Jessie blushed faintly at the memory, and smiled with a hint of sadness. "Yes. Nothing's changed of course - I can still beat you at pebbles and you're still as ugly as sin. But that was not the point I intended to make. Do you remember that oak has a hollow in the trunk?" He nodded. "Well why not place our letters in there?"

James looked thoughtful, then pleased, then a grin spread over his face. "Jessie," he declared fondly, "You're a genius and I love you."

They made their arrangements swiftly, and parted with a brief embrace.

But as he left her to return to the big house, Jessie's smile slowly faded.

Because those beautiful words had been tossed at her unthinkingly, meaninglessly. She knew that he did not... could not... have meant what he said.

Chapter 6 Continued

Posted on Tuesday, 2 November 1999

ii.

18th October, 1833
Dear Cub,

I hope you are well. I did catch a glimpse of you yesterday, down by the Gamekeeper's cottage, but father was with me and you did not see us pass. How I hate not being allowed to converse as we used to! Do make sure you always write and tell me how you are, and what goes on in your life...

20th October, 1833
Dear James,

Do forgive my abominable handwriting in this letter, but half-way up an apple tree is a difficult place to form an elegant script! I have difficulty finding a time and a place where I can write without being observed. If Da or Gran were to discover these letters, I do not like to think what the consequences would be.

Life has suddenly grown more difficult than ever. I am sure it is wrong of me to resent my lot the way that I do. 'To wish for more is to be wickedly ungrateful for all that I have been blessed with', that's what Gran says. If she is right, then I am indeed wicked, for I can not abide the unrelenting drudgery of this life. Sometimes I wish I had never stumbled in upon your lesson all those years ago, never learned that there is more to life than labour, for now those doors are closed to me...

21st October 1833
Dear Cub,

...The book that I'm leaving for you along with this letter is the one I've been studying in my lessons. It is not fair that you should be forced to abandon your education completely - after all, you were better than me in most subjects! Don't wish your learning away - you were born for higher things than servitude.

Lessons are intolerably boring without you. If we are careful though, I'm sure I can still smuggle some texts to you. Don't let Tom catch you reading them...

22nd October 1833
Dear James,

The book of Sonnets is wonderful! What are you studying now? I suppose Mr. Taylor is thrilled to be rid of me at last. Never mind - he will never know which one of us put that mouse in his desk and I'll certainly not enlighten him.

I'm glad to hear you are missing me. If I were to follow the model supplied by Keats' ideal maiden in the book you have given me, I should deny that I am missing you too, but I think we would both see through that lie...

24th October 1833
Dearest Cub!

Wonderful news! I can scarcely believe it, I had to write to you the instant I was told, I know you would never forgive me if I did not! Are you quite prepared for this? Mother is with child! I am to have a baby brother - or sister, as the case may be...

iii.

Elizabeth's reaction when the first symptoms of pregnancy came upon her was one of flat disbelief. She had suffered far too many crushing disappointments to allow her body's hints to hold any real sway over her emotions. She was well into the second month of irregular cycles, morning nausea and unstable feelings before she even permitted the thought to take hold.

I'm probably mistaken, she told herself over and over, I shouldn't even think about it, I must put it out of my mind. The signs are -- but no. I'm thirty-six. I couldn't possibly be with child, not after all this time...

Three months came and went, and still the symptoms persisted, stronger than ever. Secretly, Elizabeth longed for Darcy to notice something. If only he would comment, ask, observe - give some substance to the speculations she refused to seriously consider...

More than anything, she feared voicing her own suspicions to him only to discover later that she must disappoint him once again.

Entering the fourth month, Elizabeth discovered one morning that her corsets could barely fasten. She dismissed her maid hurriedly. Once alone, she unclipped the undergarment to stare in silent wonder, first at it, then at her own thickening waistline in the mirror.

And gradually, her initial numbness was replaced by an oddly light-headed, reeling joy.

"Fitzwilliam," she whispered softly.

Turning on her heel she ran like a child and burst into her husband's chamber. "Fitzwilliam!" She cried, louder now.

He looked up from his dressing in alarm. "Good God, what is it?" He demanded, then saw the wide-eyed, glowing expression of his barely-dressed wife, and wasted no time in directing his valet out of the room.

The moment the door clicked closed behind the servant, the Mistress of Pemberley fairly launched herself into her husband's arms and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Though not exactly objecting to such treatment, Darcy still felt it warranted some kind of explanation. "What ever have I done to deserve such a warm 'Good Morning'?" He asked at length, only half-joking.

Elizabeth would have toyed with him, she really would. But how could something like this be concealed? She had waited twelve long years to see this day, and she was damned if she was going to wait even one moment more.

"A baby!" She sobbed in reply, realising belatedly that there were tears spilling from her eyes. "A baby, Fitzwilliam, it's a baby, a March baby, or maybe April, there's to be another! Here, put your hand here, can you feel it? Can you?"

Without being precisely sure what reaction she had expected, Lizzy was fairly certain that the one Fitzwilliam gave was not it. His hand rested a moment where she had placed it, upon her slightly swollen abdomen, then slipped away as he reeled backwards and sat down hard upon the foot of his bed.

"A bab - " He began, disbelieving, "A bab -- Are you -- After all this -- Do you -- " He seemed incapable of finishing his sentences. Elizabeth searched his face anxiously to discern his feelings, and felt a little of her own happiness give way to alarm as she found no trace of joy in his expression.

"Are you displeased?" She asked softly.

"No! No, I -- I mean, not at all. Of course not. It's just that..."

"Just that what?"

He looked up at her, and Lizzy recognised for the first time ever a look of genuine fear in his dark, expressive eyes. Her loving heart tightened as she knelt before him.

"What is it?" She whispered, taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. "Come, tell me..."

There was a moment's silence before he replied huskily, "What if it happened again?"

For a minute Elizabeth did not understand his cryptic remark. What if it happened again? What if what happened again?

And then she remembered.

"Oh no," she soothed quietly, earnestly, "No, you mustn't think that this will be anything like your Mother's... Like Georgiana's birth!"

He searched her eyes for reassurance, wanting, with an uncharacteristically child-like need, to believe that what she was saying was true. So far, he realised, he and Elizabeth's pattern of progeny had echoed his parents' exactly.

He was not by nature superstitious, but now he prayed to God that the similarities would end here. When the late Mrs. Anne Darcy had found herself with child toward the end of her child-bearing years, she too had been delighted, for she had always longed for more babies. Yet she never quite recovered from her little daughter's birth, and her death had rocked her tiny family to the core.

As he looked into his own dear wife's searching eyes now, he permitted himself a cautious kind of joy. Emotions conflicted within him: though he would never have mentioned it to Elizabeth, he had sometimes caught himself wishing they had been able to have more children, if not for his own sake then for Lizzy's. But the risks were so high! Lizzy was strong, stronger than his mother perhaps, but that didn't eliminate the danger...

A strange, intense half-smile moved over his face as he looked at her. Her complexion positively glowed with joy, just as it had when she had carried James.

Frowning slightly once again, he pulled his wife toward him and held her tightly.

"I love you, Lizzy," he murmured fiercely into her hair, "So just don't even think about leaving me now..."

Chapter 7

Posted on Thursday, 4 November 1999

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

i.

29th February 1834

Dear Jessie,

Lord, I'm frantic with worry! What happened in Lambton yesterday? Are you all right? I overheard Maggie the scullery maid saying that there was a fight, and then she mentioned your name. I tried to extract more from her, but she only gave me a strange, sly look and insisted that she knew no more. I was so eaten up with worry I went down to the Gardener's cottage, but you were not there and your father sent me away. What happened?

1st March 1834
Dear James,

You came down to the cottage?! What on earth were you thinking? How could you? Oh, I am sorry James, I know you were only concerned for me, but you must understand that my father is ... well, he's violently opposed to any contact between us.

Jessie stopped writing to arch her back. The bruise from Tom's heavy-handed thump was a dull, stiff ache that made sitting in one position for too long uncomfortable. She placed the tip of her goose-feather quill against the parchment once more.

I suppose he only means to protect me. That must be it.

However, I know that all you want right now is to have your concerns regarding the fight in the village alleviated. You really need not worry about me so. I am quite well now - only a little shaken, 'tis all.

You see, I was walking into Lambton on an errand for my grandmother, but before I could reach my destination I was stopped on the road by two boys. You would not know them, but they are cousins from a very poor farming family. Poverty and harsh living has made them hard and rough, and they take out their misery on those around them. I suppose I made a fine target for them - a lone girl, carrying a few coins in her fist, and with a snobbish accent too.

They started by calling me names, which I ignored. Then they began saying things... awful things... about you and me. I didn't understand much of what they said, so I ignored that too and tried to keep walking. That's when I heard them start on my mother. I was already furious and afraid, but I could not ignore that. How dare they try to smear her name? You will call me foolish, I know, when you I tell you that I tried to fight them, but I doubt that you will be surprised. I turned and swung my fist at the taller boy, and I think his eye shall bruise at least as black as my knuckles. But once I turned on them they gave up trying to rile me with words alone, and began to shove and pull me about. I fell on the road and they tried to take my money.

Do you know Brendan Atworth, James? He is the blacksmith's apprentice from the village - a blonde boy, tall, about six and ten years old. Well, he was my saviour that day. Those boys would have beaten me until I surrendered my few coppers, and I was already determined that they should have to kill me before I willingly handed them anything. I thank Providence, therefore, that Brendan should have been on the road that day. He dispatched with the boys easily and very kindly helped me home.

So you see there is no need to be concerned about me. It was not an experience I'd care to repeat, but I am no worse-for-wear having come through it.

Enough of that. Tell me now, how does Mrs. Darcy...

3rd March 1834
Dear Jessica,

I am relieved to hear you are well. I do happen to know Mr. Atworth by sight, and am thus qualified to express relief that you have such Apollonian guardian angels at your disposal.

I only hope there will not be too many more situations for which a knight in shining armour will be required, and that if there are - Jessie, I swear this to you - I will be at hand to perform the rescue.

I just feel so damned useless to you, shuttered away in this old mausoleum...

6 March 1834
Dear James...

Jessie paused, and bit the end of her quill, then placed it on the ground beside her and smiled dreamily.

I will be at hand to perform the rescue...

Ah, it was strange. Why should such a simple phrase cause her heart to beat faster and her cheeks to grow warm?

She picked up the quill once more and pressed the tip to the parchment. For the first time ever, words failed her. She smiled again.

"Jessie?"

The calling voice, echoing faintly through the peace of the twilit orchard, utterly shattered Jessie's dreamy speculation. Horrified at having been caught out when she had taken such pains to select a deserted location, she quickly crumpled the parchment in her fist and thrust it behind her as she scrambled to her feet. The quill she tossed to the ground and left the ink hidden in the grass at the base of the apple tree.

Mary approached through the lines of fruit trees, lifting her skirts and wading slightly awkwardly through the overgrown spring grasses.

"What're y'doin'?" She called curiously as she approached where Jessie stood, straight as rod and heart pounding in her ribcage.

"I was just - er - thinking - about - er - "

Mary narrowed her eyes. She knew what a poor liar Jessie was. At thirteen years of age, she had lost much of the simplicity and naiveté that had been a part of her personality seven years ago, even though it was outwardly still very much in evidence. Yet to shed her puppy-fat, her light blonde curls and chubby pink cheeks gave the impression of cherub-like sweetness. Mary hated it.

"What's tha' behind yer back, then?" She demanded suspiciously.

Jessie swallowed hard and took a nervous step back. "Nothing, nothing at all Mary. It's - er - a list I was making for Gran. Yes, a list."

For a moment, a look of surprise flickered across Mary's features. Then her cornflower-blue eyes began to glitter with anger and her hands coiled into fists. " 'Ow stupid d'ye think I am, Jess?" Her was tight, as though she was speaking through clenched teeth.

Jessie attempted to protest but was cut off. "It were always tha' way, you an' James takin' off together, havin' yer lessons together, you gettin' all fancy in yer ways up at th' big 'ouse... Not Mary though, never stupid, slow, low-mannered Mary!"

"Mary, I - " Jessie couldn't believe what she was hearing. How long had her friend felt this way?

"Nay, I'll not 'ear it! I'll not!" Jessie had never seen so much fury in a woman's face. "You may think yer above all o'us since you've bin favoured, but you mark my words," Mary's voice lowered to a vicious hiss, "You mark my words, time will see you brought lower than the dogs!"

And with that she was gone, and Jessie stood pale and alone in the deserted orchard as the shadows lengthened and the dark night closed in.

Chapter 7

Posted on Saturday, 6 November 1999

ii.

March, 1834.

Elizabeth eased herself awkwardly into her heavily cushioned chair. With a sigh of exasperation, she reached behind and threw three of the over-stuffed pillows into the grass. There, that was an improvement.

"Mrs. Darcy, ma'am, you know that Mr. Darcy said - "

Elizabeth waved the maid silent with an impatient gesture. "I know what Mr. Darcy said, but Mr. Darcy isn't here and Mr. Darcy isn't the one whose stuck waddling about the house all day with nothing to do but embroider baby socks."

Mrs. Darcy glared at the maid who had darted forward to arrange a blanket over her lap. "Oh for goodness sake," she snapped crabbily, "It's spring, it's a beautiful day, and I'm greater danger of heat-stroke than I am of a chill. For the last time, I'm not an invalid! I don't care what Mr. Darcy says, I'm am thoroughly tired of this. Back to the house all of you, and leave me in peace for a moment."

The three maids who had trailed her into the gardens like a comical procession of over-zealous nannies looked at each other in horror. For a moment Elizabeth's grumpiness fell away and she almost laughed at their stricken expressions. Her voice softened. "I know that you have instructions from Mr. Darcy to keep me confined to my quarters now that my time is so close, but I really don't think I could stand another moment cooped up in there. Now, I have everything I need on hand. If anyone tries to reprimand you for leaving, refer them to me because I am the Mistress and I'm giving you counter-orders. Then Mr. Darcy's only argument can be with me. You are all dismissed."

One by one, the maids all curtsied reluctantly and made their way back over the grounds toward the house. Elizabeth watched them go, then sat back and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Resting her hands on her swollen stomach, she closed her eyes and smiled slightly when she was greeted with a tiny kick. "You've nothing on your brother," she whispered, "He used to kick and pound until I couldn't get to sleep at nights. You are so quiet, little one. I almost wish you would kick a little more."

Obediently, there was another tiny thump, and Lizzy laughed softly. Her book slipped off her lap.

"Oh, bother," she resisted the urge to curse, somehow believing that the baby could hear her. She didn't want to move, and even if could she didn't like her chances of reaching the book. Suddenly she regretted sending the maids away.

Just as she was preparing to forfeit her reading material, someone rounded a hedge and came into view.

"Jessie!" Elizabeth's exclamation brought Jessie's head up with a snap.

Mrs. Darcy, seated comfortably in a garden chair with all the spring flowers blooming about her, made a beautiful picture, but Jessie's heart immediately began to pound. She had not had any contact with the Mistress since she had been informed by the butler, who had not bothered to conceal approval of the decision, that her lessons with the young Master were at an end, and that she and James were from now on forbidden to meet.

Jessie had no idea what Mrs. Darcy's role had been in the affair. Perhaps the Mistress had been offended by the ugly rumours about her son, and had blamed Jessie for causing them, or perhaps she had argued in Jessie's defence. Either way, she had no idea what to expect now, and her greeting of the Mistress she had always adored was noticeably wary.

"How do you do, Ma'am," she curtsied carefully.

Not for the first time, Elizabeth was struck by the natural ease with which Jessie had acquired and applied the graces of gentility. But the girl was not comfortable, that much was obvious, and Elizabeth felt a quick stab of guilty regret.

"Please, come and sit by me, keep me company," another thought occurred to her and she added hastily, "If you've the time, of course."

Now it was Jessie's turn to feel slightly guilty. Would Mrs. Darcy be so charming and polite if she knew the truth - that Jessie had disobeyed the strictest of orders and continued a relationship with James? Shaking the feeling away, she smiled and went to sit by the Mistress' feet in the grass.

And all of a sudden Elizabeth was at a loss. What could she say to the poor girl? She could not ask after her studies, because she had been denied them. She could not discuss her work in the gardens without sounding derogatory to this bright and charming girl whom she had taught to drink tea from fine china cups. She could not even inquire after her father for if the rumours about his drinking problem were true it would be indelicate.

The vague guilty feeling became a definite twinge. Whatever did this girl have to live for now? Elizabeth realised, looking down at the plainly featured, yet lively and bright young girl at her feet, how much she had actually missed the child. She remembered James' cold anger at being told he could not see his childhood friend any longer, and felt she almost understood. Jessie was special. She had been like a flame in their lives, shedding warm light wherever she went. A pure light you had to protect from cold winds, because you never wanted to see it dimmed or snatched away.

Jessie began to blush under the weight of Mrs. Darcy's reflective scrutiny. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, have I mud on my face again? It's from working in the gardens, you see, I find it difficult to - "

Elizabeth was quick to reassure her. "No dear, it's nothing like that. I apologise for staring so. I was just... thinking..."

About what? Jessie wondered frantically. Does she guess? Or perhaps she does believe those rumours. Perhaps she is going to reprimand me. Perhaps -

Forcing the fears aside, Jessie heard her own voice inquire evenly after the Mistress' health. Elizabeth smiled kindly, and Jessie's heart beat a little slower. Mrs. Darcy did not despise her then. Thank God.

"I'm very well, I thank you, Jessie. At least," and her smile grew broader, "As well as can be expected. It's rather uncomfortable to find oneself this size, as you yourself will one day discover."

Jessie blushed again. "Oh, I don't think so, Ma'am." She said, and Elizabeth was surprised to hear the shade of sadness that entered her voice.

"Why ever not?" She inquired, her smile having grown a little bemused.

Jessie shrugged awkwardly. "Who would I marry?" She asked, a slightly forced laugh behind her words.

Elizabeth frowned. "I'm sure there are plenty of young men in the village..." Her voice trailed off as Jessie shook her head.

"No ma'am. I don't think I could - I mean - Well, I'm different to them. And they can tell. I speak differently, I act differently, I even think differently. I do not have many friends there." Less than ever, she thought silently, Now that Mary refuses to speak with me...

But Mrs. Darcy did seem to understand. She laughed, and said, "Oh, I'm sure that will change as you get older. You wait and see."

Jessie smiled very slightly and did not argue. She wanted to ask after James, but did not dare to, in case the Mistress misinterpreted her interest. Having never know her mother, and received only the barest minimum of affection from her grandmother, Mrs. Darcy was the woman she loved best in the world. It was Elizabeth who had allowed her a glimpse of what life could be in the world of knowledge and learning, of refinement and beauty, and it was those memories that she lived for now. Those, and her time with James.

There was almost nothing Jessie would not do for her Mistress, and the concern that she might that lost her good favour during the business that had separated her from James was a fear which had kept her awake long into the nights.

If only there was more time... "I really must go now," Jessie said softly, and climbed reluctantly to her feet. She not wish to leave, but she had a string of chores to perform before evening and she really had wasted too much time already.

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," Elizabeth sighed with sincere regret, then smiled at her young friend. The dim smile that she received in response reinforced what she had noticed throughout the conversation - that Jessie was unhappy in her new life. Again, regrets and guilt assailed her.

Perhaps she had been wrong to defend the girl's friendship with James, when deep down she had known all along that they would some day have to end it. Perhaps it had been wrong to allow her to take lessons when an education could only ever be a source of frustration to a bright girl whose way of life had no place for scholarship. Perhaps it was wrong to have taught her to speak, to curtsy, to serve tea, when the only purpose it had served was to show her fine things just to snatch them away again, and to alienate her from her own people.

For goodness sake, Lizzy, you've acted like an irresponsible little girl with a living doll! You thought you were doing something good for her, but why couldn't you have shown some foresight? Why didn't you stop and consider what life would be like for your poor living doll when your game had to end? She watched as the girl began to move away, with her distinctive gait of quick, graceful steps - a trait that Tom had always hated because it reminded him so vividly of Alice.

If only there hadn't been that business with James, she thought, Perhaps I could have taken her in, found a place for her... Well, no point speculating there. James really was unseemly fond of her. It is not fair though...

Her gaze dropped down to the grass, and fell on her book. Bother! "Jessie! Excuse me, Jessie!" Elizabeth called after the retreating back, and Jessie returned at once. "I'm so sorry, could you pick up my book please, it's awfully hard to reach down..."

With another small smile, a sad shadow of the old grin that used to flash across her face so readily, Jessie bent over and collected the leather-bound novel from the grass by the Mistress' feet. As she reached down, a folded sheet slipped silently from the pocket of her apron and into Mrs. Darcy's lap. Jessie did not notice until she straightened up, but Elizabeth had already picked the letter up in surprise.

The moment Jessie saw it, her face began to burn and her chest constricted in terrible realisation. Elizabeth smiled to see her panicked expression, thinking she had discovered a love letter, and she teasingly began to unfold it, saying coyly, "I thought you told me you had no admirers in the village..."

Jessie gulped hard. "No, please ma'am, I - "

She sounded so stricken that Elizabeth had to laugh. "It's all right dear," she said, "You know I would not read your precious - "

Her words died in her throat as her eyes dropped back to the page to refold it. The script, though she had promised not to read the words, was screamingly familiar. She looked up at Jessie with shock written clearly across her features.

"This... This is James' hand..."

The girl drew a ragged breath, her eyes pools of torment. She nodded mutely, and then, as though her legs could not hold her, she sank down into the grass.

Chapter 7 Continued

Posted on Monday, 8 November 1999

iii.

For several long moments, all Elizabeth could do was stare. Swallowing hard, she finally forced herself to speak. "You - " the word cracked and she tried again, voice thick with sorrow, "You know what this means..." Unshed tears shimmered in her dark eyes. "Don't you."

At first there was no response, then, without lifting her head, Jessie nodded very very slightly.

"Oh Jessie..." Elizabeth's voice trembled, "Why...?" Why did you have to place me in this position? Why must I be the one to do this to you? Why did you have to disobey...?

Very slowly, Jessie began to raise her head. Suddenly Elizabeth was gripped with fear, afraid of the answers she might read in the girl's eyes.

Copper red hair slipped across Jessie's face, and then, with an effort that wrenched her soul, she forced her gaze to meet Mrs. Darcy's. Surprisingly enough her eyes were dry, but James, had he been there, could have told by the bruised darkness in their expressive depths that her grief had gone beyond tears.

"You do understand, don't you Jessie?" Elizabeth reasoned desperately, "You know why... Why I can't..." But she could not finish. She did not know how.

"Yes." Jessie's voice was unrecognisable. "Yes, I understand." Elizabeth stared. It would be many days before she would be able to define just what had changed. The realisation would see her sit bolt upright in bed with shock. It was that Jessie's throat was no longer producing the sounds of a little girl. In a few short moments, the heart-wrenching despair that only a woman could know had forced itself into Jessie's life and swept away the last remnants of childhood.

Looking down into the pale, strained and desperately dignified face of the creature crouched before her, Elizabeth knew instinctively that the charming child she had known was gone forever, and the woman who replaced her was a stranger.

"Please stand up, Jessie." Mrs. Darcy's voice was soft. She knew what had to be done, and she didn't want to do it as Mistress to servant girl. Not now, not any more. There were too many stupid class divisions ruining this life, she was damned if she was going to observe every one.

Jessie climbed slowly, wearily to her feet, and faced the Mistress with dull eyes. "What will you do with me?" She asked quietly, but in truth, her soul was so heavy and sick that she did not care.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "I have decided. You can not... can not remain here at Pemberley. And it will not be possible for you to return - at least, not for many years. I shall arrange a position for you in a girl's boarding school a long way from here. It will be a fine school, Jessie, I shall select it personally..." She hated the over-eager reassurance she could hear in her tone even as she spoke the words, "You may write to your father and grandmother, and we shall even arrange for them to visit you sometimes, if you wish. But you must not... That is..." Elizabeth gestured helplessly at the letter from James which she still held in one hand. "It is the best thing," she whispered, perhaps as much for herself as for Jessie, "The best thing for everyone. It won't be so bad in the end, you'll see. It seems awful now, but you're so very young... Some day you'll both forget."

Forget! The word rang hollow in Jessie's head. There was a cold, metallic taste in her mouth - it was her first taste of true bitterness. Her formerly untainted heart felt cold and heavy as a frozen stone within her, and suddenly the world that had always held something sweet for her was a terrifying grey void. There was nothing left to love.

"May we... May I at least say good-bye?"

The answer was expected, though gently phrased. As if that made a difference.

She forced herself to strand straight, hardening her heart. "I will go where you send me." She heard herself speak the words, but her voice sounded very far away. "Good-bye, Mrs. Darcy." She resisted a sudden urge to throw herself down and sob in the arms of the only mother she had really known, and walked away with her head high and her sobs unsounded.

Elizabeth wished she'd had the courage to take the girl in her arms and hug her tight, but now she was moving away... And now she was out of sight.

She dropped her face into her hands, and struggled not to cry with the force of her frustration and guilt. Damn society, damn custom, damn Fitzwilliam and his damnable pride! Damn breeding and class and snobbery - what had they to do with life?

And yet, what choices had she? When all was said and done, the girl was still the gardener's daughter, and not even Elizabeth's natural disregard for social convention when it came to love could overcome and accept a chasm so hopelessly wide. Even James must see...

Oh God, She thought suddenly, sick realisation striking her hard in the chest, How am I going to tell James?

Chapter 8: Seven Years Later

Posted on Friday, 12 November 1999

Oh pure and noble conscience, how bitter a sting to thee is a little fault!
~Dante

i.

August, 1840.

"We have good news for you, Jessica."

Mrs. Richards, a respectable old widow of fifty-two and the proprietor of the renowned Hertfordshire School for Young Ladies, shuffled some papers on her desk and peered rather uncertainly over crooked half-moon spectacles at the young woman sitting opposite her. For reasons she could not quite fathom, the girl's strange, silent presence had always disturbed her.

Look at her now, for instance. About to receive the news of a lifetime and yet she sat rigid and calm in her seat, hands crossed elegantly in her lap and beautiful features set in stone. She put one in mind of a diamond, Mrs. Richards speculated pensively. Cold, hard, and brilliantly beautiful - all sharp edges, like a shard of ice.

The plump schoolmistress cleared her throat, and decided to fall back upon formality. "You have been with us many years now, Jessica, and you have always done your benefactor proud through your dedication to scholarship and conducting yourself with decorum at all times."

In actual fact, both the descriptions were understatements. Mrs. Richards had never seen any young lady devote themselves to study with quite the same determination and resolution as Miss Jessica Evans. And as for conducting oneself with decorum - well! In all the seven years that Mrs. Richards had instructed the girl, she had not witnessed one transgression of etiquette, nor, for that matter, any overt display of emotion of any kind at all. Indeed, Miss Evans had turned out to be quite an unprecedented student in many respects.

Mrs. Richards could still picture her arriving at the gates of the Hertfordshire School for Young Ladies, all those years ago. The small, determinedly dignified little waif, bearing little trace of the elegant beauty that was very soon due to miraculously transform her features.

In a metamorphosis somewhat reminiscent of the ugly duckling fable, Jessica Evans' transition into womanhood had some how reproportioned her bearing, so that one morning teachers and students alike had awoken to find a swan in their midst. The 'Ice Princess' was the name by which the younger girls took to calling her, and made up stories about the Prince who would come and break through the apparently impenetrable barriers that had been put in place by the 'Silent Beauty'.

All this was a far cry indeed from that original morning, when the school's wrought iron gates had swung open for first time to admit the taut and lonely figure, awkwardly swathed in a bulk of practical winter garments - apparently someone had been determined she should not suffer in the cold evening air. Those clothes had been excessive and of good quality, and the girl's already impeccable speech and manners suggested that she had come from a background of some privilege. But if that were so, who were her parents, and why had they sent her away to a country school which, truth be known, could boast of little more than a local reputation as a good place for squire's daughters to gain a measure of deportment and scrape together an education?

Actually, Mrs. Richards and her few fellow teachers had spent many companionable winter evenings together before a comfortable fire trying to unravel the mystery that surrounded strange, silent, unreachable Jessica Evans.

Their most probable speculation was the 'illegitimacy' theory. The daughter of a well-to-do man, they thought, brought up in relative comfort until Papa found a proper wife who either would not tolerate or was not to know about the child born on the wrong side of the blanket. Simplest solution - pack her off to an out-of-the-way little boarding school for girls, pay the fees, and be done with the whole affair. That seemed to account for everything - the requested anonymity of the girl's benefactor; the apparent void of family and friends when it came to letter writing or outside contact of any kind; her cold, mistrustful demeanour, and the deep-rooted grief concealed beneath the icy facade which she never allowed any one to glimpse.

Except for that one isolated and unrepeated instance - Mrs. Richards' eyes misted slightly as she recalled the scene. Three years previously... or was it four? Jessica must have been around eighteen at the time - perhaps a little younger. Never mind, the age did not matter.

It had been a beautiful summer morning, and some of the youngest girls had started up a game in the gardens. Miss Evans had watched from some distance back - she never joined in games, she never had. It was some sort of throwing game, involving a target and small stones, the winner being the perpetrator of the most accurate shot.

Mrs. Richards, who had happened to approach from behind to stand nearby as the older girl looked on, was just able to catch the wistfully whispered words, "Yer not much of a shot..."

The words were spoken in rough accents which were far removed from her usual tones of meticulous refinement. Yet the brief syllables had been heavy with an unutterable sadness.

Holding back a sigh, Mrs. Richards resisted the temptation to use this, their very last interview, to probe for information about the sphinx-like woman's past. But she knew from long experience that Jessica Evans was as cold and closed up as a rosebud in the wintertime, especially when she suspected someone was trying to learn her secrets.

The mystery that surrounded the Silent Beauty would no doubt be left to develop into legend around the school. For now that she was to leave, she would take her secrets with her.

"I am pleased to be able to inform you that your efforts have been rewarded," Mrs. Richards tried to smile warmly, but the expression felt false on her lips in the presence of such unrelenting sobriety. Her smile dropped away once more and she cleared her throat before continuing.

"You have been offered a position as governess to a little girl of very fine family. It really is an overwhelming honour both for you, and for our humble little school - not that you haven't earned it of course, dear. Ahem. Yes. This is, as I mentioned, a family of the very highest calibre. I believe they reside in..." Mrs. Richards shuffled through a few more pages, and after a few seconds delay, apparently found what she was looking for.

"Ah, here it is. The family estate is in Derbyshire. The Darcys - "

Mrs. Richards' head jerked up sharply. Was that a tiny gasp she had heard? A gasp? From her unshakable, unexpressive and above all, impervious ice princess?

"Are you all right, dear? Have you heard of the Darcys, have you?" The school mistress' eyes were bright and much too eager as she delved enthusiastically for information.

Despite a momentary lapse, Jessica's expression remained as indecipherable as ever. "Yes Ma'am," she replied, with perfect composure, in even tones. "I have heard the name. They are indeed a grand family, and the honour is quite unanticipated."

Mrs. Richards shoulders slumped noticeably at the anti-climax. "Oh. Well then," she said briskly, disguising her disappointment admirably and getting to her feet to shake Jessica's hand, "I suppose you'll be wanting to start organising your things then, ready for the journey."

Jessica looked up in mild surprise. "I do not recall stating my acceptance of the post, Mrs. Richards," she reminded the woman calmly.

Mrs. Richards sat down again with a thump. "Not accept? Not accept? My dear child, what can you mean? These are the Derbyshire Darcys, you know, you can not seriously be considering refusal!" Her voice dropped a little lower into tones of emotional confidentiality, "Miss Evans, I would hate to see you pass up such a chance! You are the easily the brightest student this institution has ever seen, but we are a small school, and not widely recognised. This offer is like manna from heaven for you. You must keep in mind, dear, you have no better prospects - this is more than you could conceivably have hoped for!"

Jessica regarded the woman coolly throughout her impassioned speech. When the school mistress appeared to have finished, she waited a moment before inquiring, "Would you be so kind, Ma'am, as to give me a rational perspective on my prospects if I do not accept this position?"

Mrs. Richards leaned back, her brow furrowed. After thinking for a minute, she replied, "Miss Evans, to be perfectly honest with you, your most likely future would be here at this school, instructing the young ladies who pass through until your fingers are so stiff with age you can no longer hold the chalk and your eyes can no longer decipher the texts. It is not a future I would wish upon a spinster, let alone an intelligent young woman of one and twenty. I pray you will not betray yourself and your gifts and resign yourself to such a life!"

Jessica was silent for a long time, her eyes focused steadily on the wall behind Mrs. Richards' desk. At long last, her gaze moved back to meet that of her tensely expectant teacher. "Mrs. Richards," she said slowly, "I would like to thank you for everything you have provided these past years. I am much indebted to you. Would you be so kind as to perform one last service, and dispatch the missive to Mrs. Darcy informing her that I would be honoured..."

She took a deep breath.

"...Honoured to accept."

Chapter 8

Posted on Monday, 15 November 1999

ii.

"Is she here yet, Mama? Is she here?"

"No, my darling, not yet."

"Oh. When will she be here, Mama?"

"Soon, my love. Soon."

"When is 'soon'? Very soon?"

Elizabeth had to laugh. "I do not know, sweet heart. Maybe not until this evening. These things are difficult to judge. Come away from the window, Cathy dear, or you'll be making me nervous too!"

With obvious reluctance, little Catherine Jane Darcy tore herself away from the drawing room window and climbed into her mother's lap.

"Oof, you really are getting too big for this, missy," Elizabeth gently shifted her daughter into a more comfortable position. Sometimes she really considered it fortunate that Cathy had been born so tiny! At six-and-a-half years old, she was still very small for her age, but Mrs. Darcy was sure the world had never seen such a determined little battler. Even born a month too early, and subjected to countless physicians who stood over her cradle and shook their heads gloomily, Elizabeth's precious daughter had defied them all and clung on to life with both tiny hands.

And look at her now, Elizabeth thought proudly, hugging the girl to her and then letting her wriggle away again to return to the window. Named for her mother's two most beloved sisters, Cathy was bright and clever and beautiful... And with those dark curls and brown eyes she was going to be a true Darcy when she grew up, just like her brother!

The thought of James swiftly replaced Elizabeth's tender smile with a powerful surge of apprehension, for it reminded her whose arrival it was that Cathy anticipated so eagerly.

In a matter of hours, Jessie would be back at Pemberley, and maybe - just maybe - the guilt which Elizabeth had carried in her heart for almost seven years now might finally abate. For although she had been meticulous in her selection of the location for Jessie's exile, paid generous fees to the proprietress, and read annual progress reports with eager interest, Elizabeth had been unable to shake off the feeling that she had betrayed the little girl she had been so fond of. Betrayed and then abandoned her.

Of course, Jessie had never actually protested at being sent away. In fact, she had seemed to accept it as an inevitable and unarguable fact when she had realised that she and James were to be separated. But Pemberley had been her home, Elizabeth's conscience wailed incessantly, the only home she had ever known! She had been forced to leave everything and everyone that she loved far behind, just because she was born in a peasant farmer's cottage and had dared to befriend a nobleman's son.

It was hideously unfair, and Elizabeth was only too aware that she was the one responsible for the whole horrible affair. After all, she had been the one to defend - even encourage the friendship in the first place. She had been the thoughtless fool who removed the girl from her natural niche in life, and remolded her into a lady-servant hybrid who belonged nowhere. And when the children grew up and the inevitable occurred, it was Elizabeth who had hastily and selfishly decided that the only solution was to drive the poor innocent from her home and family. Out of sight, out mind. Lord, if only it had worked that way.

Well, the past was done with, but this was her chance to redeem herself. Jessie would be one and twenty by now, and if the reports Mrs. Darcy had received from the Hertfordshire School for Young Ladies could be believed, she had proven to be every inch the sharp-minded scholar and impeccably mannered young woman that Elizabeth had perceived at fourteen.

Little Cathy, meanwhile, was nearing seven, and had long ago outgrown the challenges of the nursery. What she required, in Elizabeth's opinion, was a good governess. A woman who could be trusted. Intelligent and patient, not too old, and well trained in all the social graces. The obvious choice, based on these criteria, was a certain coppery redhead still languishing in exile on the other side of the country.

So the offer had been made, and now 'the governess' was on her way. Elizabeth twisted her handkerchief in a vaguely nervous gesture. Honestly, it was quite ridiculous to feel this way. Jessie Evans was a darling girl, Cathy was sure to adore her.

Not even Fitzwilliam had objected when she informed him of her plans to request Jessie Evans as Cathy's governess. Not a word had ever reached him about the letters which had passed between his son and the gardener's daughter long after he had ordered them to cease all contact. As far as he knew, all that business had come to an end with his decree, and Jessie was no more than a favourite of his wife's whom she had chosen to favour with patronage and a proper education. He had therefore yielded quite readily, trusting Elizabeth's judgement in her choice of the girl as governess for their precious daughter.

And it was not as though James would be a problem. It had been years since Elizabeth had even heard her son mention Jessie's name, and she secretly hoped that he had, as she had predicted, forgotten the whole affair. Besides, he was seldom to be found around the estate these days. In pursuit of his studies, he spent most of his time at Oxford and in the company of his friends as they immersed themselves in all the entertainment that the London Season had to offer.

Even so, Elizabeth still had to repress a shudder when she recalled his reaction the day that she had taken him aside to explain that Jessie was gone now, and gone forever. She had tried to explain to him the circumstances: how she had been talking to Jessie in the gardens, and accidentally discovered the letter he had written her. How it had been wrong of them to disobey their fathers so deceitfully, how they had abused their trust and could therefore not be trusted any more. How Jessie had been sent away. And how, although it seemed difficult now, in the end it would all be for the best...

Oh Lord, the look he had given her then.

"Where is she?" He had demanded furiously, eyes flashing dangerously, "Where did you send her?"

Elizabeth, stunned by the force of his reaction, had refused to tell him. She honestly feared he might try and go after her. She tried again to justify the situation to him, but he cut her short with hateful scorn twisting his expression, and refused to listen. "How could you do it, Mother?" His voice was unrecognisable in his anger, "I can not believe... How could you do it to her? How could you do it to me? You!?" And with that he had stormed from the house, and disappeared without a trace for several hours.

For almost a year, Elizabeth had been tormented by his sullen silences and unaccounted absences. Fitzwilliam, although displeased, put it down to a youthful phase, perhaps connected to the birth of his attention-monopolising sibling. But Elizabeth knew better, and was so wracked with silent guilt and regret over the way she had handled things that she was sometimes tempted to order Jessie's return to Pemberley, if it would only win back her son's trust and smiles. In her darkest moments, she had feared that she had driven him away forever...

But no. In the end, it seemed that time had indeed been the salve that healed the wounds to their relationship. James had long since recovered from his melancholy to become more outgoing and charming than ever, the memories of his childhood friend left in the past where they belonged.

With his mother's vivacity and his father's handsome appearance, he was intensely popular with all who knew him, peers and servants alike. Elizabeth could hardly think of him without experiencing a swell of love and pride so intense it was almost painful.

Her pensive reflections were jolted back to the present with Cathy's squeal of excitement and the rattle of coach wheels on the gravel drive.

Jessie had returned.

Chapter 8 Continued

Posted on Thursday, 18 November 1999

iii.

Staring blankly out the window the carriage, Jessie watched the scenery gliding past. She had almost forgotten what a great estate Pemberley was. The green woods and groves and gardens were apparently endless, but she was mildly surprised to discover that many of the landmarks they passed were still powerfully familiar to her, as though she had never been gone. How strange, she pondered, that such uselessly trivial pieces of her past had remained with her for so long.

The coach rattled and changed direction slightly. Peering from the window, Jessica noticed they were veering off the main drive, and frowned. She tapped the roof firmly. Behind her head a small hatch slipped open, and she caught the driver's muffled, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Might I inquire where we are headed?" She asked icily, "I believe I gave directions to be taken to Pemberley Manor."

"Oh. Terribly sorry, Miss Evans. I jus' thought you'd be wantin' to see yer Da and Grandma first, see. Should I turn the horses?"

Jessica was silent for a moment. She had not even considered calling upon her relations. It was a slip on her behalf. It would be expected that she should greet them upon her arrival, even if she hadn't seen or heard for them once in seven years. She sat back in her seat.

"No, drive on," she called to the coachman, "I shall call on them, but I would ask you to stay nearby with the coach. I shall not be long."

A few minutes later she was descending from the coach and walking the same worn path up to the door of the old cottage that she had walked a thousand times in another era, as another person. The same gardens, the same little house, the same row of gardening implements lined up by the door. How little things had changed here, she thought blandly to herself as she looked around, and yet how very different they were to her.

In swift movements born from years of practice, she straightened her hair and smoothed her dress before reaching up to knock on the knotted gray wood of the cottage door. Her white glove came away slightly marred, and she frowned at the mark.

The door was opened a crack.

"Oo's there?" Demanded a sharp voice, harsh with age. Slowly, the door opened the rest of the way.

Jessica regarded her grandmother dispassionately. Older, she observed impartially, and obviously blinder, too.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans," Jessica greeted the old woman with cool civility, "I do not imagine you would remember me."

There was a pause, as Ma Evans leaned close and peered myopically into Jessica's face. Jessica resisted the urge to pull back.

"It canna be Jessie, can it?" She whispered at last, "Not Jessie tha' went off all those years ago?"

"Yes," Jessica replied bluntly, "I am 'Jessie that went off all those years ago.' Seven, to be precise. Is my father here?"

"By God, 'ow ye've changed..."

"Yes, one would hope so. Is Tom here, Mrs. Evans? I feel I should greet him before I go on to the manor."

Ma Evans' milky eyes narrowed. "What's yer business up there? Yer 'ome now, an' this is where y'belong."

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. You see, I have been appointed as governess to the young Miss Darcy. I understand there are rooms prepared for my residency at Pemberley. I will not be troubling you and my father for board. I had intended to call upon you both upon my return, however I gather that Mr. Evans is not available at present. If I may - "

Jessica's sentence was cut off by a small scream. Without warning, someone caught her from behind and held her tightly.

Her nostrils filled with the stench of dirt and sweat and stale alcohol as she struggled against her assailant. Pushing hard against solid flesh, she managed to break free, and she backed away, breathing heavily.

Tom stumbled a little to regain his balance after her shove, then righted himself. He was calling to her, saying something she hadn't been able to catch with the first few repetitions, but now the words reached her clearly.

"Alice... Alice...Donne do it, Alice, donne go t' th' big house..."

"I am not Alice," she informed him coldly, and had she been capable of such emotions, the sight of him would have elicited both pity and disgust. Deep creases ravaged his prematurely lined face, his eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were almost as caked with dirt as the garden beds he worked in. He looked old and pathetic and very, very drunk.

"I am not Alice, my name is Jessica. I am your daughter."

"Daughter..." He mumbled, echoing her, then peered closely at her face with his red-rimmed eyes, much in the way Ma Evans had done before him. Again, Jessica endured the inspection impassively.

"Daughter..." He repeated again, then guffawed drunkenly, "I donne 'ave a daughter!"

"You do, Tom. I am sorry to be the bearer of such unwelcome tidings, since it is obvious you have managed to erase my memory over the past seven years. I'm afraid I have returned." She turned to her grandmother. "How long has he been like this?"

The old woman shrugged. "It comes an' goes," she replied shortly.

Jessica raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. "And what do the Darcys have to say about their gardener's habits?"

"Nothin' at all. I used t' fear each day that we'd be given th' order t' move on...but th' order never came an' I canna worry no more about i'. This is one of 'is worse spells," she added.

"I should hope so."

"I'm not surprised 'e mistook y'fer Alice, tho'. I 'ad t' look again meself."

"That is ridiculous. My mother was beautiful."

Ma Evans looked strangely at her granddaughter, but said nothing.

"You should put him to bed," Jessica continued, gesturing disdainfully at Tom, who was still staring at her through drunkenly narrowed eyes. "Do you need my help?"

"Nay, child, I've done i' meself fer years now. I'll take 'im inside." She reached out and grasped Tom around the shoulders, but he pulled away from her and stumbled toward Jessie once more.

"I rem'ber you now..." he growled threateningly, "I rem'ber the brat tha' killed my Alice...You! You was never s'posed t' be born at all!"

Jessica blinked slowly under the forceful attack, as remote and imperturbable as a shard of ice.

Ma Evans tugged again at his arm. "Come inside, Thomas. Yer drunk. Yer don't know what yer sayin'."

Still, Tom would not be deterred. He jabbed the air clumsily with the forefinger of his free hand. "Yer think yer so high'n mighty, eh? Just you wait...you wait until it happens t'you..." He paused and blinked rapidly. His eyes grew glassy, and when he spoke again, his tone had changed. It was softer, sadder, broken.

"I won't be 'round this time, Alice," he whispered, "What're yer goin' t' do if you don't 'ave me? Who'll be there t'save you this time? Please don't let i' happen again, Alice. I canna...I jus' canna...not again..."

"Tom," Ma Evans' voice was strained as she tried to call his mind back from wherever it had wandered to, "Tom, it's Jessie! Alice is dead, Tom, it's Jessie yer talkin' to. Th' babe."

"Th' babe...th' babe..." His face was a picture of confusion for a moment, then all at once he seemed to recall. "Th' babe! Aye, Alice's babe...the murdering brat!" He was at last allowing himself to be dragged toward the cottage, but his voice only got louder as he shouted his parting abuse at the elegant figure standing unresponsive by the doorstep. "You'll be sorry, brat! You'll be sorry you killed Alice, you'll be sorry you ever came back!" And with that the door slammed shut and the clearing was silent once more.

For a moment, Jessica stood unmoving, staring blankly at the closed door, waiting for the echoes of the slam to die away in her head.

"Thank you, father," she whispered at last. "It certainly is good to be home."

Chapter 9

Posted on Saturday, 27 November 1999

i.

Our memory is always at fault, never our judgement.

~American proverb

Elizabeth led the way up the staircase and toward the prepared governess' quarters in something of a daze. Almost like an automaton, she moved swiftly through the hallways and reached the door to Miss Evans' room without really remembering how she got there.

"These will be your living quarters," she said, as she twisted the handle and pushed open the door, "Jenny has had them done up especially for you, and I do hope you like them." She stood aside and smiled a little too brightly as she gestured for Miss Evans to enter the room before her.

Miss Evans! She thought, still in shock as the graceful form slipped by her. I just can't think of this woman as Jessie. I can scarcely credit it! She is so...

Elizabeth watched as the tall, copper-haired beauty moved to the centre of the room, hardly able to keep from staring. She had barely been able to look away from the moment the butler announced her arrival, and Jessie - that is, Miss Evans - had entered the drawing room. She was only grateful she had managed to maintain enough control to keep her jaw from dropping.

Even clad in her unfashionable, pale gray travelling gown, Jessica managed to exude an air of understated elegance and aloof refinement, born of something more than just a good training in lady-like deportment. Her alabaster skin was complemented perfectly by glossy red-brown hair, simply braided. Small, finely chiseled features, wide, lushly lashed blue eyes and impossibly high cheek-bones gave her an air of aristocratic delicacy that was more than a little disconcerting when one had to keep reminding oneself her lineage consisted of generations of peasant farmers.

Sunlight streamed through the parted drapes of the large window, filling the simple bedchamber with warm yellow light... Yet the warmth of the scene could not seem to penetrate the aura of cold reserve that surrounded the exquisite young woman. She was there, but she was a separate entity to everything that went on around her. Elizabeth watched as Miss Evans looked, and saw, and processed, but could tell she did not...feel.

One could see it by watching her eyes - blue and brilliantly sharp, but void, like cold stars in empty space.

Jessica turned, and caught the wondering stare upon her once more. Her reaction was naturally everything courteous and reserved. "Is there a problem, Ma'am?" She inquired politely, her expression blank.

Elizabeth shook her head quite rapidly. "Oh no, of course not. It's just that - " she smiled weakly, "Well, you've changed so much, dear."

Jessica did not smile. "Yes," she agreed solemnly, "I have changed. A great deal."

Elizabeth was at a loss. More than twenty years as Mistress of Pemberley had left her more than capable of dealing with almost any social situation, but these circumstances were straining even her considerable reserves of composure.

There was the beauty, of course. That had been entirely unexpected. She had anticipated that seven years would have changed the girl, naturally, but in her mind the only image she had been able to create was that of an older, taller Jessie. A smiling, bright-eyed woman, all copper-red curls and boundless enthusiasm.

It was a wishful ideal, Elizabeth realised, and one which she had drawn from her memories of the happy times. The old Jessie. But gazing across the room at Miss Evans now, she knew she really should have expected this.

She had always tried so hard to shrug off the memory of the way the light in the girl's wide blue eyes had flickered and dimmed in that awful moment when she realised that she was to be sent away. Away from Pemberley, and away from...

Well, denial had gotten her no where, for now the truth was here before her, inescapable. With considerable mental effort, Elizabeth collected her thoughts and reigned in her contrary emotions. Think only on the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure, she reminded herself firmly, It's the present that's important. The present and the future. And right now, the kindest action I can take is to leave the poor girl in peace to settle in. As for the future...I can't about it now. For today, the future can take care of itself.

And with that, Elizabeth smiled as kindly as she could and excused herself from the room.

Jessica watched her go. As the door clicked quietly shut behind Mrs. Darcy, she was concerned and slightly confused to realise that the sound of the soft click lingered in her mind, and echoed the ceaseless vibration of the slamming door of the gardener's cottage in her head.

Chapter 9

Posted on Saturday, 27 November 1999

ii.

"Well? 'Ave you 'eard th' latest?"

Brendan Atworth smiled without turning around. He knew immediately who his visitor had to be, and called out a brief warning that he would be a few minutes yet. He brought his mallet down on a stiffening horseshoe with a swift succession of particularly loud 'clangs'. Satisfied, he took up his tongs and dunked the hot metal arc into the wooden bucket of blackened water, causing it to hiss and steam furiously.

Finally, he straightened up and turned, wiping his hands on the soot-blackened leather of his heavy work apron as he walked to the entrance of the forge to greet his friend.

"Hello there, Peter," he said amiably, "What gossip are you passin' 'round this time, you old biddy you?"

Peter McDougal, a heavily freckled young man with flaming red hair and pale blue eyes to match, grinned as he feigned affront. "Gossip? I don't gossip, friend, all I does is...pass on facts tha' may be of interest t' others around me."

Brendan smiled too, and began to pull the loop of his apron over his head so that he could move a little more freely. "Well?" He inquired with feigned weariness, now freed of his encumbrance and resting his brawny forearms comfortably on the wooden barrier that fenced in the front of the Smithy. "What's this 'latest' yer so eager t' tell?"

"Yer never all tha' terribly interested in gossip, are ye Brendan?" Peter observed dryly.

Brendan acquiesced with a tilt of his head. "I confess I've never found much in other people's private affairs tha' interests me," he replied easily.

Peter's expression grew teasing. "I'm willin' t'bet ye'll be bitin' back them words when ye 'ere this little tid-bit - an' ye know I'm not a gamblin' man."

Rolling his eyes, Brendan had to laugh at that last statement. Young McDougal's predilection for waging bets on everything under the sun was infamous all about the town. "We'll see about that, you lyin' blackguard. Now spill yer news an' be done wi' it."

With a coy sideways glance, Peter inspected his fingernails with an overstated air of casualness. "Perhaps yer right, Brendan. Perhaps ye wouldn't be interested in th' least if I was t' tell ye tha' a certain Jessie Evans is back at Pemberley..." Peter grinned in triumph as his friend jerked upright as though he had been stung, lazy green eyes wide with surprise.

"Not...little Jessie Evans with the red hair...Gardener's daughter at the big house...It's not that Jessie Evans ye mean?"

"Aye, the very one," Peter gloated happily over the reaction he had obtained, "I knew this were one piece o' gossip ye would 'ave an interest in!" His tone lowered as he added confidentially, "I'd watch me step if I were you though. There'll be girls all over th' countryside turnin' grass green with envy if you finally single one out fer yer attention. 'S bad enough when yer charmin' the skirts off all of 'em equally!"

Brendan frowned and pretended to cuff his friend. "Don't play th' fool, Peter, you know it aren't true."

"Oh no? What about Mary Hutchins then?"

"The Game Keeper's daughter?"

"Aye, the sweet little blonde lass," Peter's friendly voice took on the slightest edge of bitterness, "You know she 'as eyes only fer you. Will no' give any other man th' time o' day."

Even though he did not notice the slight change in Peter's tone, Brendan looked uncomfortable. "I never..." He frowned. "I mean, she's a lovely girl an' all but I never pretended to 'ave feelin's for 'er..."

Peter shrugged. "I'm only tryin' to warn you," he said airily, "You've carried a torch fer this Jessie lass fer so many years now, an' besides, I didna tell you all th' gossip that's goin' aroun'."

"Well?"

"They say tha' she's beautiful."

Brendan smiled and shrugged. "So? She always had a pleasin' look..."

"Says you. But I'm not talkin' 'bout a 'pleasin' look'. I'm talkin' really beautiful. Like a princess, say those that've seen 'er. The old women say even lovelier than 'er mother, and if the stories 'bout Alice Evans can be believed, that's some compliment!"

"Aye, whatever...but now she's back at Pemberely, ye say?" Brendan asked, with such guileless eagerness in his open face that Peter laughed and he flushed slightly.

"Ah, Brendan, yer goin' to break a lot a'hearts ye know!"

"Don't be stupid, Peter," Brendan frowned and began to re-tie his leather apron to return to work, "I only plan t' call on the lass an' welcome 'er home. We was good friends in our day, Jessie Evans an' I. There's no 'arm t'be 'ad in callin' on 'er. No 'arm at all."

Chapter 9

Posted on Sunday, 5 December 1999

iii.

"So now she's back!"

Mrs. Hutchins all but spat, scrubbing at the rough-surfaced wooden table with unwarranted ferocity. Mary winced at her mother's tone, and went on kneading her dough with aching arms.

"It's a sight t' be seen, all right. Y' should 'ave been there. All airs an' graces an' fancy ways. Thinks she's right a lady. Ha! You were 'igher born than she ever was!"

"Yes, Ma." Mary's voice was weary.

She had listened to this tirade, or variations of it, nearly every day for the past fourteen years. It would begin with an attack on Jessie - her manners, her family, her upbringing, her virtue. But about halfway through it would swing, and become an attack on Mary. 'Mary had let Jessie steal everything that could have been hers. Why was it that the guttersnipe Jessie was the privileged one, the one with a proper education and now a pampered governess at the big house, while Mary was still scrubbing floors and stoking fires downstairs? It was because Mary was lazy, Mary was stupid, Mary was coarse. She had been given the best years of her parents' lives and she had not managed to show anything for it. She was useless, a failure. She would be servant forever, while the little hussy of a drunkard's daughter raked in the spoils!'

Mrs. Hutchins paused to douse her scrubbing brush in a bucket of grubby suds, then attacked again with renewed vigour. "Waltzin' back after all these years like she owned th' place," she muttered, "Given th' governess quarters. All hoity toity and superior. Bah! What, does she think we don't know th' real reason they sent 'er packin' in the first place? 'Oo does she think she's foolin', that's what I wanna know!"

She fixed Mary with a glittering stare. "You saw 'em yerself, if I remember rightly. Down by the lake when they was not even five and ten. Shameless!"

Mary shrugged miserably. Only the tiniest prickle of guilt remained now to remind her of that day. She had only seen the pair embrace, but when she had recounted the scene to her mother, she had not actually considered what her childish tattle might result in.

For Ruth Hutchins had seized upon the wisp of gossip and fanned it into a veritable wildfire of lewd conjecture. Mary was truly astonished by speed and embellishments that the stories acquired as they circulated frantically around the town and the estate.

Yet when Jessie and Master Darcy were forcibly separately and forbidden to meet, Mary's feelings of guilt were somewhat half-hearted. Now, she thought, now at last she and Jessie were even again - now her mother could not berate her for being inferior to her friend. Without Jessie's lessons and controversial friendship to distort things, it would be just like the old days, before the young Master ever entered the picture.

But things had not worked out quite like that. When she had come across Jessie in the orchard that cool spring evening, Mary had guessed almost immediately what was going on. Jessie was still writing to James. She was still the favourite with the young Master of Pemberley, she was still an entity apart from the ordinary village girls, and she always would be.

And all of Mary's hopes for the future seemed to crumble. Now she knew that she had been a fool - she would never escape her mother's wrath, never be anything more than a failure in her parents' eyes. All because Jessie Evans had decided she would climb a step above everyone else - a step that Mary could never hope match. She would be the failure, the lowly servant, forever.

And with that realisation had come an uncontainable torrent of bitterness and ire, all directed at Jessie, the unconscious perpetrator of all her misery.

Mary had never spoken to Jessie since that day, but all of her silent predictions regarding the future of abusive comparisons that most certainly awaited her had proved miserably accurate. Not long after that evening in the orchard, Jessie was sent away to school, and Mary was left behind to endure.

The years were long and Mary's mother worked her hard. "That'll teach you," she used to say, "You couldn't be a lady, fine. So be a servant. Be a servant and like it!"

Mary needed someone to blame, and that someone wasn't hard to choose.

The years wore on. Mary finally managed to gain a minor promotion at the big house that meant she could live in the servant's quarters there, and escape the Game Keeper's cottage. Away from her mother, some of her bitterness abated, especially since she never expected to have to contend with Jessie Evans again.

But working on the same estate, the occasional confrontations with her mother were inevitable. And now that Jessica was back as the young Miss Darcy's elegant governess, Mrs. Hutchins was more eaten up with frustrated ire than ever, and Mary's heart was sinking fast as she listened silently to the familiar recital of the old tirade.

Mrs. Hutchins could sense that her daughter's reaction lacked a certain bite. Narrowing her eyes, she remarked snidely, "She's quite an eyecatcher these days, ye know. Not my taste at all, o' course, but I 'ear she's got 'er eye on young Brendan Atworth, Lord 'elp th' lad."

In actual fact, the rumours were reporting the opposite: it was Brendan who was said to have an interest in the new governess, not the other way around. But that would not have served Mrs. Hutchin's purpose nearly so well.

Mary's hands froze at her work, and her mother watched the colour drain from her pink cheeks with smug satisfaction. That would show the girl. She'd been sweet on the charming blacksmith lad since she was ten.

After a long pause, Mary swallowed hard and began to pound the dough once more. "So?" She said, only the slightest waver detectable in her voice, "Brendan can walk out wi' whoever 'e chooses."

Mrs. Hutchins humphed disdainfully. "Well, I s'pose I shouldn't be surprised. Ye always did let tha' Evans girl walk in take off wi' what shoulda been your's. I jus' thought ye woulda learned a lesson by now." She dropped her scrubbing brush in the bucket and walked to the door.

Before leaving, she turned and snatched a parting glance over her shoulder.

Mary was staring sightlessly down at the tabletop her mother had just cleaned, but her fists were pounding at the sticky white dough with more force than ever.

Mrs. Hutchins gave a hard little smile of approval, and left the kitchen.

Continued In Next Section