Chapter One: Love's Forms

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

—W. Wordsworth "We Are Seven"

Sixteen years later

Netherfield Park had the advantage of being situated on a hill, so that the view offered from its windows was always one of grassy terrain sloping downwards; so that not only the nearby groves and gardens could be clearly seen, but also the small wood a mile off, the winding road that cut through the countryside, and the other distant hills that faded into the powdery blue sky. If one were to peer through one of these windows, they would have seen a young lady with dark eyes that sparkled in the sunlight and raven curls that were piled atop her head in a careless but appealing fashion. She could be seen gazing through this scratched latticed window, studying the trees barely clinging to their leaves of red and orange; watching as a breeze carried them away, and they fell to their deathbeds amongst their withered and browned kinsmen. She had seen twenty such autumns, and was subsequently not sympathetic to the trees' plight; but rather enjoyed indulging her eyes by seeking out a maple with the most vibrant colors, storing its likeness in her mind.

She turned around to see a quaint paneled parlor, with plush sofas and draperies of a rich golden hue. Leaning his left arm on a tasseled pillow was a man of eight-and-twenty with a tall, masculine stature and vibrant sea-green eyes that smoothly moved across a many-leafed letter held before him. Conscious of being observed, he lowered the unfolded sheets before him, distracting his attention from the neatly-written calligraphy of a young lady's hand, and instead looked at a young lady. This is not to say that the letter was in any way deficient as far as letters go; but who can prefer mere words on a page to a beautiful youth whose eyes sparkle with delight as they behold you, and whom you love and covet above anybody else in the world?

"Whose letter are you reading?" asked she, approaching the reader with the train of her dress gliding silently behind. He smiled.

"Mine, I imagine." She seated herself next to him on the sofa, smiling archly.

"You willfully misunderstand me. I meant, who is it that wrote you the letter?"

"And I thought it was your defect to willfully misunderstand others. And the letter, Elizabeth, is from my cousin Rosaline." He folded the letter and balanced it atop the tasseled pillow. Elizabeth looked at him with piqued curiosity.

"Why have I never heard anything of her before?" She thought it was strange how little she really knew about her fiancé, though what she did know, she loved. In fact, she was certain that no one could be more in love than she was; she completely adored Darcy, and this was very distinguishable in her features. Her complexion glowed, her eyes glittered with unusual luster, her movements and expressions were animated and vivacious.

"Because she has been studying on the Continent these ten years; though in her letter she communicates that she shall be back in England by Christmas, so you will meet her yet. She is Colonel Fitzwilliam's sister, you know."

"Actually, I didn't know. I am sure she must be charming, considering that she corresponds with you."

Darcy was not going to argue with this, though he could think of many people whom he corresponded with who were anything but charming. His cousin, however, he could only recall with fond memories—her sweet disposition, and always compliant and affable; he had never, when they knew each other as children, heard a harsh word from her, or witnessed her doing anything uncouth or otherwise objectionable. His platonic love for her had never wavered; and he could still remember her kind eyes, which were the color of the sky on a clear day; her rosy cheeks that became her, her flouncing blonde curls. She was, in his mind, the very personification of charming: and he would not be sorry to see her again after ten years' absence.

"Not as charming as you, love," was his reply, his attention now on Elizabeth. He wrapt his hands around hers, pressing her palms with his thumbs and playfully swinging them back and forth. She smiled—a smile which was something like Rosaline's—a smile that could be seen in her eyes and felt in her presence. It was not a smile which she bestowed upon those who were foolish; not a smile which exhibited her delight in folly: it was one of complete adoration, of loving and being loved.

"Well, I should hope not. If you thought your cousin more charming than me, I should be very cross indeed."

He folded her in his arms and pressed his lips against her brow affectionately. Elizabeth looked up at him, resting her cheek on his breast, and said:

"We have been sitting for half an hour in Mr. Bingley's parlor, but have seen nothing of Mr. Bingley. Shall we go and reprimand him for neglecting us?"

"If that gives you pleasure. I myself would rather go and get lost in the woods."

"If we keep 'getting lost' in the woods, as you put it, every day, either no one shall believe us, or they shall think us very stupid. Mr. Bingley is not such a bad fellow that I would want to run away from him."

Darcy was content in recognizing that his future wife was, once decided on a point, very headstrong about it. So they stood up from the sofa, taking the other's hand, and exited the paneled parlor in favor of one of Netherfield's broad corridors with the intention of finding Mr. Bingley.

----

A little pond abutted the parsonage house of Kympton, the sun's rays glittering and dancing upon the water. Its murky waters were chilly in the October air, but still were a pair of small feet immersed in its depths. They sloshed in a rhythmical back-and-forth pattern; kicking, kicking, kicking. The feet belonged to a young girl sitting on a grassy bank, her slippers and stockings lying beside her amongst the clovers, the hem of her muslin dress occasionally skimming the pond's surface. She studied the water intently, her hazel eyes fixed on the ripples that emanated out when she sloshed about. Yellow curls hung freely down her shoulders, swaying as she tilted her head closer to the water. A breeze wafted through and she shivered, realizing it was cold, but too much pleased with wading in the pond to want to move. A scarlet leaf from the maple tree twirled as it fell into the pond, the only indication of its touching the water a gentle plop; and then it glided serenely along the surface, away from the girl and her wading.

"Edith! Get your things back on and come inside or you shall catch cold!"

The girl looked up at the sound of the housekeeper's stern tone, her almond-shaped eyes looking up and down the plainly dressed woman with a sad, pitiful glance. Mrs. Edwin, however, had a will of iron, and would not be swayed by such glances. She regretfully picked her feet up out of the water, taking up her stockings and slippers in her hands, and trudged up the slope to the house, looking as downcast as she could manage. Mrs. Edwin thought Edith's tendencies to try to make one feel guilty were one of her greatest defects. She pitied the girl, as everybody did; but no sweetness ever betrayed her, no compassion was discernible in her expressions. She was a firm advocate of "tough love", and believed that by being hard with her master's ward, Edith would be all the better for it. Edith, on the other hand, was a child, and thought as a child: she thought the housekeeper unpleasant and mean, and much preferred one of the other maids, Alice, who would dote on her and let her get away with things Mrs. Edwin would have found intolerable.

"Well, Mrs. Edwin," said Edith forlornly as she stepped through the threshold, "here I am." She then went off into the wainscoted sitting-room, where a warm fire burned in the hearth and the simple charm of the furnishings the young girl found particularly pleasing. She was not ungrateful for having been taken in by a kind man such as the parson, but she did not think this reason to not give the housekeeper a hard time. She flung her shoes and stockings onto the sofa, then sitting beside them with her legs curled beneath her.

Mrs. Edwin silently followed her, the same scornful expression set on her stony face. She crossed her arms as she stood before the girl, blocking her view of the fireplace, which Edith had been carefully examining. Edith looked up.

"Master will be home shortly, and I do not want him to find you as the mess you are now. Look at your dress—careless!—the hem is absolutely filthy. And your stockings grass-stained and your slippers muddy! Go on to your chambers and Alice will dress you. You are not fit to be seen, miss."

Edith huffed a small sigh, but acquiesced. She quietly exited into the hall and ascended the small stairway which led to the second floor, meeting good-natured Alice along the way. They entered her boudoir together, Edith sitting atop her bed and swinging her legs much in the same way she had earlier at the pond, and Alice choosing for her a powdery pink frock to dress her in. Alice was a pretty young woman of one-and-twenty, with pale pinkish skin and bright red hair that naturally curled in the most becoming shapes. She had a faint freckle about her cheeks, but one's attention was distracted from this defect by her luminescent green eyes. Even in her plain servant's clothing she was still admired as a beauty, the xenophobes point out her clearly Irish heritage if they will. Alice had a great affection for children, and especially Edith, an orphan like herself. She felt that it was owed to her young mistress to be spoiled and indulged, since her birth was unknown. Her principles were exactly the opposite of Mrs. Edwin's, which didn't make her the greatest of companions with Alice: but somehow these extremely different ways of treating the young girl balanced out rather nicely.

Alice dressed Edith, then combing her thick flowing hair with a gentleness which was a relief to Edith, whose head was particularly delicate; and then plaiting it so that she looked much more the dignified young lady rather than the wild pond-wading thing she had appeared before.

"There," said Alice with satisfaction, her taut lips curving into her peculiar smile; "you look very well, miss."

"I hope that Mrs. Edwin thinks so," replied Edith innocently, turning her head as she peered into the looking-glass in order to admire the maid's handiwork. "She said I looked quite unfit to be seen before. She is always so cross with me. I have told her that Simon does not mind if I have a hair askew, but I do not think she can help but be severe." Edith affectionately called her guardian by his Christian name, and though Mrs. Edwin always insisted that she pay her respects to civility and call him 'Mr. Mulligan', this only encouraged Edith to call him otherwise, as she delighted in vexing the old housekeeper so long as it did not affect her chances of eating the pastry tarts her guardian brought from the village. And Mr. Mulligan himself liked being called 'Simon', as there was nobody else in the world who could address him as such.

"Mrs. Edwin forgets her place," said Alice, petting Edith's hair affectionately, and then pushing the chair to the young girl's vanity back when Edith leapt to her feet.

"I dare say she thinks she can do as she pleases, since she is older than me and I have no parents." Alice frowned.

"I cannot conceive a servant treating you in that manner. I have told her so, but she is a queer old woman." Then, going over the window at a sound suspiciously like a carriage coming up the drive: "Oh! Master is come home, miss; let us go down and meet him."

Edith eagerly went to the threshold of the house to greet Mr. Mulligan. He was but a young man, only twenty-five, but passionately idealistic. Though he had no great fortune, Kympton was a very nice parsonage, and he could only in good conscience enjoy its comforts unless he shared them. He had been raised primarily by his mother, his father dying of a fever when he was very young, and subsequently had what some people may call a woman's tenderness; but he was not embarrassed of it, so no one else thought it was embarrassing. Mr. Mulligan had only buried his dear mother the year previous; but he was not one to mope of the past, and did not yearn for her presence now. In fact, he was blessed with one of the most fortunate traits a human can possess, of being sensible. It is true that he held to his beliefs with fervor, but this does not follow that he was eccentric in choosing his beliefs, or tried to impose them upon others. He gave sermons that did not attempt to persuade his audience to share his own personal beliefs; it was rather his goal to only make people better, not to make them like him.

He welcomed Edith's kisses on the cheek, kneeling and giving her a quick squeeze by way of a hug. Edith really loved Mr. Mulligan, and her countenance reflected in it; she became much more animated in his presence, always eager to listen to him and be the perfectly enthusiastic little girl that she could be when she willed it. In turn, Mr. Mulligan thought Edith the sweetest child in the world, and was grateful to Providence for blessing him with such a charge. Mrs. Edwin, who observed it all from the hall, was not so pleased. She felt that this was rather a façade that Edith put on for her master, observing that she could be quite bratty at other times. She felt that there was some mean deception on the part of the little girl, for she knew that Edith spoke ill of her to the other servants and even to Mr. Mulligan, simply because Edith did not like her; simply because she did not understand her ways of discipline.

"Simon, I found this by the pond to-day," said Edith merrily, producing a small bouquet of wildflowers from the end table beside her.

"Thank you! You are a good girl," praised Mr. Mulligan warmly, looking over the bouquet of brightly-colored flowers, touched that Edith had thought of him in his absence.

Edith raised her eyes to Mrs. Edwin's only once as they quitted the room so that they might dine, with a challenging, playful glance. Mrs. Edwin shook her shoulders, like a fine old raven ruffling its feathers; she felt certain that behind that girl's innocent appearance, there was something of a rebel.