Page 29

Friday, December 11, 1811

Longbourn

Darcy

Darcy and Bingley left their horses with the groom and had just reached the steps of Longbourn when the door opened abruptly and a gentleman stepped out to meet them.

Darcy’s expression softened at once.

“Mr. Gardiner! This is a pleasure.”

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,”

replied Mr. Gardiner genially, clasping his hand. His gaze shifted to Bingley, whose cheerful demeanour all but announced his identity. Introductions were exchanged with the usual courtesies, and Mr. Gardiner received Bingley with every sign of warmth. Bingley—already entirely at ease—followed his betrothed’s example and addressed the elder gentleman a.

“Uncle Gardiner,”

much to the latter’s amusement.

As Bingley stepped inside, Mr. Gardiner turned back to Darcy.

“Well, Mr. Darcy,”

said Mr. Gardiner, casting him a look not wholly serious.

“I find myself somewhat at a loss. Am I to suppose your affections are engaged to Lizzy—or to Mary?”

Darcy merely shook his head.

“It is a long story, Mr. Gardiner. Might I suggest a walk?”

Mr. Gardiner assented, and as they strolled, Darcy recounted the matter with all the composure he could muster, though the ridiculousness of it was not lost on him. When at last he had done, Mr. Gardiner was silent for a moment before his lips curved in dry amusement.

“So,”

he said at last.

“you suspect your cousin of forming an attachment to Mary—though he has not spoken of it, not even to you?”

“I do,”

said Darcy.

“You are betrothed to Elizabeth,”

said Mr. Gardiner, regarding him with a wry glance.

“and all that remains is my brother’s consent. Yet the matter cannot be made public until your aunt, the Countess, has seen fit to conclude whatever scheme she has devised.”

“Yes,”

said Darcy, with a sigh marked more by patience than resignation.

“Well, I must confess, I am most pleased. I always hoped that one of my nieces’ weddings might eclipse the excitement of my own.”

“Ah, yes,”

said Darcy, allowing himself a faint smile.

“Elizabeth has acquainted me with the particulars of your wedding—and the story behind the scar upon your brow.”

“Did she? Good. That spares me the repetition. It is no great secret, though not a tale I generally serve with the first course.”

Darcy glanced at the mark, still visible above the older man’s brow.

“Did it hurt?”

he asked, a little tentatively.

“It seems to have been a serious wound.”

Mr. Gardiner laughed.

“Did it hurt? It hurt like the very devil, Mr. Darcy—more than I was willing to confess at the time. It plagued me for days. But I bore it with heroic composure, and not without reward: my wife proved so attentive, I came to regard the scar as something of a domestic treasure. She fussed over it for months. I very nearly regretted its healing.”

He gave Darcy a knowing look.

“You will, I suspect, soon understand such things for yourself.”

Darcy, unaccustomed to such domestic familiarity, looked slightly discomposed, which only amused Mr. Gardiner the more.

“I have never had the pleasure of meeting your wife,”

said Darcy, trying to change the subject.

“She is here,”

said Mr. Gardiner with a smile.

“Though resting at present—we set off early, to be here by this hour. The children were quite beside themselves to see their cousins. But enough of them. Let us speak plainly: I cannot suppose my brother would withhold his blessing. And so, considering all that lies ahead, I believe you may as well call me Gardiner. We are, in truth, all but family already.”

Darcy paused, then allowed himself a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“I thank you, but I must respectfully decline. Elizabeth has made her regard for you plain, and I intend to follow her example in this matter, as in many others. If she calls you Uncle Gardiner, then so shall I. And I beg you, call me Darcy.”

Gardiner chuckled softly, clearly pleased.

“Well done, Darcy. You are clearly well trained.”

“I strive to be,”

Darcy replied earnestly.

“Then let us return to the parlour,”

said Mr. Gardiner, leading the way indoors.

“My sister was last observed instructing Mary in the finer points of captivating your affections. I daresay my niece is in need of rescue.”

“That is most unfortunate,”

Darcy replied, with genuine sympathy.

“Indeed. We must devise some delicate method of informing my sister of your engagement to Lizzy. Believe me, she is capable of discretion, with the right encouragement.”

Darcy gave a soft, low chuckle.

“Then I leave the matter in your hands.”

“Very wise indeed,”

Gardiner said, with mock solemnity.

“Now, come—my brother will be in his study. Let us go to him.”

Elizabeth

Elizabeth observed the ease of intercourse between her betrothed and her uncle with a satisfaction that verged on pride. There was a warmth in their manner—an unfeigned cordiality—that spoke of something more than civility or duty. It was evident their connection rested upon more than shared interests or the ties of family.

The moment Fitzwilliam entered the parlour, his eyes found hers. He crossed the room without pause, his expression softening by degrees as he approached, and with a brief, respectful bow, excused himself to wait upon her father in the study. Uncle Gardiner offered her a knowing smile before taking a seat beside his sister.

Elizabeth seated herself, her hands folded in her lap, her heart troubled by a still and anxious anticipation. The door to her father’s study remained shut. The minutes crept by—five, then ten—until, by the quarter-hour, her composure had begun to falter beneath the weight of uncertainty. Surely her father would not withhold his consent?

At length, the door was opened—but only Fitzwilliam appeared. Alone.

Alone?

He cast her a brief glance, his expression not easily read, then turned to her mother and uncle, addressing them in low, deliberate tones. Without another word, the three withdrew into the study, leaving Elizabeth upon her settee, surrounded by silence, suspense, and altogether too little tea.

Fitzwilliam and her uncle soon returned, having, it seemed, never entered the study at all, but merely conducted her mother to the door. He seated himself beside her with that solemn elegance she had learned to admire—though not always without vexation.

“Well, sir,”

said she, with a smile that belied her impatience.

“I find this a most unusual betrothal. The gentleman proposes, the father considers, and then the entire household enters a secret council—leaving the lady to contemplate the curtains.”

“Forgive me,”

he said.

“but there shall be no formal announcement today.”

Elizabeth blinked.

“No announcement? Then what, precisely, have we been doing?”

“We are engaged,”

he said, as though it were explanation enough.

“But privately. For a little while.”

“A little while,”

she echoed, and gave a laugh more astonished than amused.

“How very romantic. Shall I receive a clandestine bouquet of violets by the kitchen entrance? Must I meet you under the cover of night by the shrubbery?”

He smiled.

“Not quite. Your mother, your aunt, and Miss Bennet may be informed. Your younger sisters—if they may be convinced that secrecy is the latest fashion—may also be told. Mr. Collins, however, must remain uninformed.”

“Ah,”

said Elizabeth, comprehension dawning.

“Lady Catherine.”

“Indeed.”

“How long must this last? Are we to be married in secret?”

“A few days—a week, perhaps. The Countess has devised some scheme to quiet Aunt Catherine. I know not the particulars, and frankly, I am content to remain ignorant.”

Elizabeth gave him a look of mingled amusement and admiration.

“And my father has consented to this stratagem?”

“With some reluctance. He expressed disappointment that he had not been informed when Aunt Catherine last arrived. He did, however, request a full and honest account of my family’s sentiments, and of their likely behaviour toward you. I gave it to him unvarnished: Aunt Catherine alone opposes the match. The rest will support you.”

“And society?”

“Society, after making all the requisite fuss, will come round as it always does.”

Elizabeth laughed, then paused.

“And you are truly content to trust my mother with so delicate a secret?”

Darcy gave a rare, quiet chuckle.

“Your uncle assures me that your mother may be discreet, under the proper inducement.”

Elizabeth raised her brows.

“Inducement? Is that a polite term for bribery? Or will you promise her the honour of being mother-in-law to half of Derbyshire?”

“Nothing so mercenary,”

he said, with a faint dryness.

“Merely this: she shall be led to believe that she alone has been entrusted with the knowledge. In addition—she will be informed that my uncle, the Earl, would be most displeased were the news of our engagement to reach society before it reached him. Which, in truth, is entirely plausible. Any head of family would feel it an affront.”

Elizabeth could not help but smile.

“And Mama, of course, would sooner be struck dumb than offend an Earl.”

“Just so.”

She tilted her head, reflecting with visible amusement.

“It might very well succeed. Though it will be a trial to her—having secured such a prize and unable to parade it through Meryton. You are, after all, the very picture of her maternal ambition. Ten thousand a year, the grand estate of Pemberley.”

As if on cue, the door to the study swung open.

Mrs. Bennet appeared at the threshold in a state of great agitation. Her complexion was flushed with excitement, her eyes wild as they fixed upon Elizabeth. Her mouth opened once or twice, as though to speak, but produced only a series of breathless exclamations. She seemed upon the brink of either rapture or collapse. And then, with the gravity of one bound by some sacred obligation, she turned on her heel and climbed the stairs without a word.

“Well,”

said uncle Gardiner, with admirable composure.

“that went rather better than I feared. I shall ask Madeline to speak with her. There is no need for Fanny to take to her bed over such a secret.”

“Secret?”

inquired Lydia.

“Nothing at all, Lydia,”

said Uncle Gardiner swiftly, casting a glance toward Elizabeth and Darcy, both of whom had immediately—if silently—shelved any intention of sharing the matter with the younger Bennet sisters.

Lydia pouted and vanished in search of better prospects.

Not long after, Bingley proposed a turn in the garden. Darcy, rising, extended his arm toward Elizabeth. As they walked toward the garden, they glanced back to see Uncle Gardiner asking Mary to accompany him on a stroll.