Page 19 of A Quiet Affection

Elizabeth hated the way that at most times she was cossetted and treated as a cripple. She hated the way that the servants and Miss Wilson watched her to ensure she never did anything dangerous or daring. She hated the way that she had to act in an appropriate way lest Mr. Darcy remind her that she was a burden on Jane who should have died.

Died. Died. Died.

Jane should have been the one to die.

In any case, sneaking out late at night allowed her to explore the whole of Pemberley house and gave her a chance to entertain herself as she wished without knowing that everything she did was watched by people she could not see.

By the time Christmas passed, Elizabeth knew the whole of the halls quite well. Though, unfortunately, certain attics required tall ladders to access.

A blind person might make an excellent spy. While one cannot give a detailed description of a physical space, and there is always that chance that they will trip over something or knock it astray if it had been left out of place by a careless servant. However, this is offset by a significant advantage: A person with exquisitely sensitive hearing is peculiarly able to move in such a way that they make little noise. Further, this hearing allows them to know a great many things about the world that others might be surprised at.

This night when Elizabeth softly creeped past Jane’s door to go towards the library, she heard a keening, heartbroken sob from her sister. For half a minute Elizabeth listened, and then a pain felt in her guts made her hurry on.

As Elizabeth took one soft step after another through the cold halls of Pemberley, following the memorized patterns, but still letting her foot down cautiously with each step, she felt as though she wished to vomit. She tried to not think about it. That shamed feeling was returning, and now it was no simple task to convince herself to not feel it.

What if Jane truly wished to heal the breach because they were sisters, and because she was not lying about how she loved her?

The library.

The smell of the books always reminded Elizabeth of Papa. She entered the great room and softly closed the door. Elizabeth lightly ran her hands over the leather covers of the books on the nearest shelf. Papa stood before her in her mind’s eye. She took out a book at random, and felt the smooth paper, and the smell of an old book, ink, dust, and paper.

Papa.

She missed him so terribly.

She missed Jane as well.

And she resented that. She did not need her sister’s affection. She didn’t need her support. She could manage for herself. She was not a useless burden, and she deserved the portion of the fortune she’d received, and she was fortunate that she had survived.

Jane could despise her and…and she’d hurt her sister deeply.

Elizabeth sat in a great armchair, her feet not able to touch the ground and as much as she wished that the sense of shame would go away, it did not.

When Elizabeth returned to her room, she paused by Jane’s door, wondering if she would hear continued crying.

There was no sound.

It was impossible to sleep. Elizabeth knew that she should apologize to Jane, but she did not wish to. She climbed out of bed once more after a half hour and went to the writing frame.

Georgiana woke up from the bed on the other side of the nursery. There was a rustle, and her bare feet slapped onto the floor. “Lizzy, what are you about?”

“I wish to write a letter.”

“To Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes.”

The girl yawned. “Send him my greetings also. It is so funny that it makes no difference to you that it is dark.”

“It is a little different, but I can write equally well,” Elizabeth said laughingly, but quietly to not risk waking Miss Wilson in the adjoining room. Elizabeth wondered at herself when she turned back to the letter and dipped the quill in the ink. To speak laughingly was such a habit with her. It seemed that no matter how miserable she was, she would still try to be amused.

The letter that followed was an incoherent jumble of thoughts, feelings, and her anger, all of it turning around the central point that Elizabeth had been justified in being upset with Jane—why had Jane never written a letter to her after the fire? Why had Jane barely spoken to her after Elizabeth arrived at Pemberley? And why was Jane secretly, Elizabeth had no doubt, dreaming of that fortune which could have been hers, if only the beam that crushed Lydia had been a little wider?

Yet that clearly was not what Jane was thinking. If Jane thought that, why would she have sought Elizabeth at all? Why would she sob alone at night?

And why, when Elizabeth imagined approaching Jane to apologize, did she feel sick inside and angry at the thought that sheshoulddo it.

This was the last thing Elizabeth wrote:She is not blind. She is not mutilated. She wasn’t there when they all died. If I wish to be angry at her, that is my right. I do not need to apologize.