Pride and Prejudice, Emma, and Persuasion, combined in a Little Women story. 19th century New England, as Alcott had it.
Disclaimer: names that you recognize from Jane Austen's masterpieces are NOT mine. And lots and lots of the writing is not mine, either. More lines than I care to admit are stolen shamelessly from Louisa May Alcott. Much of the plot is borrowed from her lovely story, too. To surmise, anything that you recognize is NOT MINE.
The March Girls, Chapter Six
Mr Bingley was much upset by the visit, but George soon calmed him, and he slowly came to terms with the realization that Charlie and the March girls' friendship was everything that was innocent and pure. He allowed Charlie to associate with them, and the boy happily acted on it, developing his acquaintance with their neighbours – especially Emma and Elizabeth. He was shy of Jane, unable to forget his disappointment, and Anne was generally too bashful herself for them to get on as swimmingly as he did with the two middle sisters.
As for Emma, she was eager to find out what her sister thought of Charlie. "Well, Jane, how did you find Charlie?" Emma had asked her older sister excitedly.
"He's a nice boy," said Jane. "Very well-behaved."
Emma frowned. Not exactly the romantic declaration she had been hoping for.
But she was happy enough with the way things were progressing (despite Jane's obstinate refusal to see Charlie in a romantic light, which Emma considered highly insensible on her part), which was more than can be said for a certain Mr Darcy.
As Charlie made more and more frequent trips over to the Marches', where there was in abundance the friendly feeling and affection which he could not find at home, his tutor complained that his mind was always over at the house next door, and never attended to his studies anymore. Mr Darcy, in a fit of desperation, turned to Mr Bingley and asked him to exert his authority as guardian; the old gentleman complied, and the visits between Charlie and the Marches ceased for a time.
Elizabeth, happening to know of this from Charlie, via the top window of the mansion, was all righteous indignation. She marched over next door one afternoon, demanding to have an audience with Mr Bingley, in high dudgeon. The maid who'd opened the door replied that Mr Bingley was not at home; and then Elizabeth flew into such a fury, that poor Florence was quite bewildered.
"Little girl, do calm down," she said. This, of course, only added to Elizabeth's ire, and with one last glare at the hapless maid stalked in directly.
She wandered through the house in a huff. She had been here before, and looked in all the places where she thought she might find Mr Bingley; until after having searched half a dozen rooms she began to re-evaluate the veracity of the maid's assertion that he was not at home. Sighing, she retraced her steps, with the noble intention of retreating gracefully, but unfortunately on her way back was distracted by her single favourite room: the library.
She stood at the doorway, undecided as to whether she should enter or not, when she thought, "Deuce take it, what's the harm?" (The first part of which I am sure would have made Jane suffer an apoplectic fit, had she heard) and walked in the library with decisive steps.
She was just wrapped up in a simply delicious novel, and was just at the zenith, when her solitude was disrupted by a tall man in black, who strode in without ceremony. She raised her head in annoyance, and shut her book, standing up with an imperial air.
"What the devil?" said Mr Darcy (who else could it be?) starting in surprise.
"So you are Charlie's tutor," said Elizabeth disdainfully. "Dear me, you are so vulgar, I would never have guessed." And she wrinkled her nose, completely disregarding the fact that she had uttered, "deuce take it" not that long ago.
Mr Darcy stared and coloured, shocked at the girl's impertinence and (wholly uncalled for) patronizing tone.
"See here, little girl," began Mr Darcy, with an impatient gesture.
"I am not a little girl! My name is Lizzy March, if you please," said Elizabeth, raising her voice and shaking the book at him belligerently.
"Well, Miss March," he said, glaring at her, thinking that she was a little touched in the head, as well as extremely rude. "If I may ask what you are doing at the Bingley residence, uninvited and certainly unwelcome – "
"I was here to see Mr Bingley. And if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have needed to see him anyway!"
"Is that so?"
"Yes! It was because of you that he wouldn't let Charlie come and play," said Elizabeth, only realizing how childish the words sounded after they left her mouth.
Darcy was silent for a while; then he raised a brow and smiled indulgently. "I'm sure he would care to hear your opinion on the matter very much. However, it is really no concern of yours, and Charles has more important things to do than associating with little girls. He has lessons to learn." He said all this with an excessively patronizing tone, as if to a small child; this offended Elizabeth beyond measure, for she considered herself far past being a small child, at the mature age of thirteen.
To put it simply, she was furious.
Words apparently failed her. She stood fuming silently for some time, shooting daggers with her eyes at the unwitting Darcy. After that brief intermission, she straightened herself calmly and lifted a hand – the hand holding the book – and slowly brought it back.
You may imagine what then proceeded.
And as Elizabeth exited the mansion, leaving behind an astounded Darcy, she reflected regretfully that it had only hit him on the shoulder.
Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth got a scolding from Hannah and Mrs March when they found out; Jane held a hand to her head she listened, looking at her with big, disapproving eyes. Elizabeth initially refused to see the error of her ways, until Mrs March reminded her of her Christmas resolutions, so soon broken. She bade her gently think of Father, and how disappointed he should be; at which Elizabeth retorted that it was a very sad ploy, but her lip quivered nonetheless. She signed an apologetic note the next day, which she had composed with her mother's help.
When Mr Bingley learned of the fiasco, he was mostly amused, and looked on Lizzy March with a singular sort of respect – the child had to have some gumption, after all, if she could defy Mr Darcy, let alone throw something at him. That young man was much too stiff by half. And contrary to what everyone expected, he revived the connection between the two neighbouring houses, allowing Charlie once more to visit as he chose.
But understanding that all play and no work was unacceptable, after a stern lecture each from Mrs March and his grandfather, Charlie did not visit nearly as much as he did originally, instead returning to his studies with renewed readiness to focus, for Mrs March's gentle chastisement was fresh in his conscience.
Otherwise, Elizabeth's little scene at the mansion did not succeed in achieving anything except establishing a fierce contention between Charlie's tutor and herself. She viewed him as arrogant, disagreeable and insensitive, and felt towards him all that a rebellious child would feel towards an unreasonable adult. He saw her as an insolent little girl, full of vulgar, rough, boyish ways that did not at all sit well with him. He thought how appalled he should be if his sister Georgiana displayed such devastating conduct – throw a book at him, indeed! – shocking behaviour – and consequently thought very lowly of Mrs March's parenting skills.
He made the mistake of voicing this thought aloud on one occasion, which magnified Elizabeth's ire even further. But she kept silent, wisely aware that any impulsive action now would only affirm his absurd claim. And with this final stroke, all hope of reconciliation was lost.
"Terrible day, so cold and harsh! Almost didn't make it. We're home, Hannah, Annie!" yelled Elizabeth, shutting the door behind her as she followed Jane and Emma inside. The three youthful faces were flushed from the harsh winter wind, and all three girls hastily shed their coats, making their way to the living room, where they could warm their hands by the fireplace.
"Hello, sweeties," said Hannah, bustling in cheerfully. "How was your day? Annie's not home, she went out to buy fish for dinner, the little darling."
"I hope she'll be careful," said Jane, peering anxiously out the window at the swirling snow and dark clouds.
"Christopher Columbus, Annie shouldn't be out in such weather," exclaimed Elizabeth, cuddling near the window with Jane. "It looks to be getting worse too."
"Well, there's no use fretting over it," said Emma. "It's not as if we can do anything." Although her tone was nonchalant, she also looked in concern out the window.
The girls all took up their knitting then, occasionally throwing a perplexed glance at the window, noting the darkness and howling wind with growing alarm. The hour ticked by, with no sign of Anne's bobbing brown hood and basket outside on the path, and even Hannah lost her cheer and joined the sisters in
their worry. Soon it was five, and impossibly black outside; when Mrs March arrived, the only light emanated from the sparse street lamps.
"Marmee," they all cried simultaneously, flocking to her.
Mrs March shed her coat and scarves, glancing at her children. "Where's Annie?"
"Oh," said Jane tearfully. "She went to buy fish for dinner, only never came home."
"They won't let me go to search for her! Marmee, you must let me do something!" said Elizabeth frantically, near hysterics.
Emma only took her mother's hand, glancing at the window again and shivering close to her mother's side.
"We're so worried," she whispered.
Mrs March had grown decidedly paler, but her voice was calm as she spoke, though it shook slightly. "Heavens, God help her," she murmured. "Girls, you will stay home, don't dare step outside. I will search for Annie."
"But Marmee!" said Elizabeth. Mrs March held up a hand and looked at her sternly. Elizabeth only sniffed, and turned away.
Her mother sighed. "Patience, child."
"Come, Lizzy," said Jane softly, laying a hand on her little sister's shoulder. We will wait, and pray; you will only be an impediment if you go." And with a gentle but firm hand she led her to the living room.
"You will find her, Marmee?" said Emma, a desperate note in her voice, as she watched Mrs March don the coat she had just shed. Hannah then came with a small lantern, handing it to Mrs March silently.
"I hope so," Mrs March only said.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am," said Hannah, dabbing at her eyes. "I shouldn't have asked her to run the errand, to buy that cursed fish. I – I only thought to treat you all with a bit of a different dish, you've all been working so hard like, and Miss Lizzy was behaving so nicely after that rebuke. Oh, ma'am..." she faltered, burying her face in her hand.
Mrs March patted the kind, loyal servant's arm reassuringly. "It's alright, Hannah." And then she turned to open the door, and strode out, the lantern in her hand shining like a beacon in the darkness.
Elizabeth listlessly pressed the piano keys, staring dully at the fire. The discordant notes rang jarringly, and Emma snapped from where she sat peeling potatoes for dinner, "Lizzy, it's not helping. Will you have a care and be silent, if you will be useless?"
Elizabeth's hand fell from the keyboard, and she lowered her head. "I don't know what to do," she said, her shoulders slouched and a quiet fear borne partly of helplessness evident in her voice.
"Well, you can at least help me peel these things," said Emma sharply, turning her full attention on the potatoes. Jane, who was slicing the peeled vegetables, said softly, "Emma."
Emma bit her lip, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. "I'm sorry, Lizzy," she whispered.
Elizabeth only nodded, mechanically taking a potato and slowly unravelling the outer layer. She stared at it intently, fascinated by the way the light played on the white flesh; it seemed blinding nearly, but she could not tear her eyes away. It was too painful to look elsewhere. She would either encounter Emma's stone countenance, Jane's tear filled eyes, Hannah's panicked face, or the window, which offered a full view of the unrelenting wind and snow, and seemed to flaunt the empty lane that led to the house.
By and by the potatoes were peeled and sliced, and in the pot and cooking on the stove. Jane and Emma couldn't bear to do nothing, so washed their hands and took up their knitting. They chattered, more for the sake of filling the empty room with sounds than for conversation. Elizabeth leaned against the old piano. She had not said a word since her plaintive, "I don't know what to do," and her silence was now unnerving. But Jane and Emma talked on, in a vain attempt to distract their minds from the crisis at hand.
The doll still sat on the piano, where Anne had left it. Slowly, as if in a daze, Elizabeth reached out and took poor infirm Betsy from her panoramic place on the instrument. Elizabeth stroked one yellowed cheek with surprising gentleness, and once bent down to kiss the cap that Anne had sewed on Betsy's head with such painstaking care. She sighed shakily, and slowly sank to the floor, closing her eyes.
"Lizzy," said Jane, setting her knitting aside and bending down towards her. "Come, Lizzy, have faith. Annie will be alright."
"I always laughed at her," said Elizabeth, speaking slowly, and surprising them all. "I always laughed at her for loving a doll so much. She took her on walks, you know, and sang to it; I always hear her singing to Betsy at night."
Emma entreated her to stop, but she went on. "And then once I said, in jest, that I was jealous, for she never sang to me, especially, and dear Annie looked so chastised and earnest when she said she would gladly sing for me all the time if I so wished, that – oh, dear, dear Annie," Elizabeth said the last brokenly, with a little sob.
"Lizzy, Lizzy," said Jane, holding her close. "All will be fine. You'll see."
Elizabeth laid her head on Jane's shoulder, nodding into it. Snuffles, who had hitherto been resting at Emma's feet, mewed pitifully. Emma picked him up, rubbing his ears comfortingly, as if in reassurance that soon his gentle mistress will be home. She sighed, and looked to the window for the thousandth time that evening; but this time her eyes brightened, and she jumped up, dislodging Snuffles.
"See the moving light! It's Mother, it must be!" she cried, running out the room. Jane and Elizabeth were quick to follow. Hannah also bustled after them, thanking her stars over and over again under her breath.
They opened the front door with expectant faces; their eyes widened when they perceived the picture that greeted them. Elizabeth's hand slipped from Jane's, and she bounded to the figures with a cry.
Mrs March looked terribly tired and worn, her cloak wet and wrinkled, and the lantern in her hand significantly dimmer than it was when she first set out. But she was not the only one present on the doorstep; there was partly hidden behind her a gangly boy, thin and scared-looking. And nestled now in Elizabeth's arms, was the frighteningly still body of Anne, which seemed so chillingly cold and impossibly small.