Page 30

smiled. He had long since learned that Gardiner did nothing without intention. Over five years of correspondence, negotiation, and the occasional dispute, had come to admire the quiet precision with which Gardiner managed affairs.

And now, watching him draw Mary gently aside, it required little imagination to divine the topic of their discussion. It could be none other than Richard.

“I see you understand my uncle better than I had supposed,”

said Elizabeth, casting him a sidelong look.

“I believe I do, Elizabeth,”

he replied with a nod.

“Though our acquaintance began strictly on matters of business, somewhere along the way we grew closer than I had expected.”

“I felt it,”

said Elizabeth.

“I observed it in the way you spoke together. I have great admiration for him, and I am certain you will think highly of my aunt in due time.”

“I hope to, indeed,”

said he.

“I have yet to meet her, but I trust she will have come down by the time we return to the parlour.”

Their conversation turned to gentler, more domestic topics—the future, the shape of their life to come, Pemberley and its many responsibilities, the prospects of quiet country contentment. spoke with soft earnestness of Georgiana and her delicate sensibilities, of Mrs. Reynolds and the comforts of a long-established household. He even, after a moment’s hesitation, touched upon the loss of his parents—matters not easily spoken of, but offered now with the trust that had begun to flourish between them.

By the time they returned to the parlour, the hour had advanced, and the light was mellowing into the long shadows of evening.

entered first and was surprised to find the scene altered. Four children—of varying ages—were scattered across the floor, attended by a small kingdom of wooden soldiers and mismatched dolls. Amidst them, seated with a grace that seemed perfectly at home among the chaos, was a lady of elegant appearance, some years his senior, her expression softened with amusement and fondness as she watched the children at play.

At the sound of footsteps, she turned—and , upon seeing her face, stopped short.

“What is it, Fitzwilliam?”

Elizabeth asked, puzzled by his sudden stillness.

He turned to her, eyes wide with surprise.

“Good heavens! Was your aunt’s maiden name Miss Madeline Chambers?”

“Yes,”

she replied slowly. “Why?”

“Is she from Derbyshire?”

Elizabeth looked at him, startled.

“Good heavens—she is! From Lambton, as it happens. It is in Derbyshire—I never thought of it before!”

“No,”

he said, already striding forward.

“You never did.”

Much to Elizabeth’s astonishment, her betrothed approached her aunt with a look of warm recognition.

“Mrs. Gardiner,”

said he.

“I daresay we need no introduction.”

The lady looked up—and laughed softly.

“Certainly not, Mr. . Though many years have passed, I still remember you coming into my father’s shop with your father to select books. There was another boy with you, most of the time—your cousin, perhaps?”

“Indeed,”

said , bowing.

“That would have been Richard—Colonel Fitzwilliam. You shall see him very soon—he is in town at present.”

Elizabeth, observing the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, gave a helpless little smile.

“I have only just heard the news,”

said Mrs. Gardiner gently, drawing Elizabeth to her side and kissing her cheek with affection.

“You have my warmest wishes—both of you.”

“I thank you, madam,”

said , with warmth.

They took their seats, and the conversation soon turned to shared recollections of Derbyshire—old names, familiar places, and stories once heard and fondly recalled. Elizabeth listened, her eyes alight, and the look so moved him that he could not help but smile.

The evening passed gently, and when at length it was time for the gentlemen to depart, lingered a moment longer near Elizabeth, who had quietly accompanied them to the door.

She glanced up at him with a look of fond amusement.

“Am I alone in suspecting there is more to your civility toward my aunt than you would have us believe?”

laughed—laughed so openly and unguardedly that several heads turned in surprise.

“Indeed, dearest,”

he whispered, once he had composed himself.

“You are not mistaken. Your aunt, you see, presents something of a problem.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.

“But,”

he added with a smile.

“she may well prove to be the solution. I am not yet prepared to disclose more just yet—but I promise you, you shall soon know it.”

Monday, December 14, 1811

Longbourn