Page 28

On the Monday before Christmas, the family at Longbourn was enlivened by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, come to pass the holidays as was their custom.

Mrs. Bennet received her brother and his wife with warmth and volubility, delighted to turn her thoughts, however temporarily, away from the vexations of Mr. Bingley's sudden departure and the mortifying engagement of Mr. Collins to Charlotte Lucas .

Mr. Gardiner, as always, brought with him a quiet intelligence and gentlemanlike ease, which softened the tempers of all but Mrs. Bennet, who, though fond of her brother, was never long removed from the concerns of her own household.

The Netherfield ladies, had they seen him, might have been astonished to find so amiable and elegant a man in trade, whose manners were polished and whose countenance reflected good sense and goodwill in equal measure.

Mrs. Gardiner, several years younger than her husband’s sister and far more composed, was beloved by her nieces for her kindness and understanding.

There had long existed a peculiar intimacy between herself and the eldest Miss Bennets, and even Mary found herself at ease in her company, though she was not given to forming close attachments.

As always, the first order of business upon Mrs. Gardiner’s arrival was the distribution of small gifts and trifles from town—ribbons, new lace, and, to Kitty and Lydia’s delight, the most recent chatterings of fashion.

Once that excitement waned, it was Mrs. Gardiner’s turn to sit and endure the deluge of her sister-in-law’s grievances.

“Oh, sister, you cannot know what a season of disappointments this has been!” cried Mrs. Bennet, wringing her hands as she recounted in detail every slight, real and imagined.

“We were so near to having two of the girls married, so near! And now—nothing! Jane would have had Mr. Bingley, I am sure of it, if only that proud Mr. Darcy had not taken him away. And Lizzy—well, she might have been Mrs. Collins by now, had she not been so perverse.”

Elizabeth, seated nearby with her embroidery untouched in her lap, maintained an air of composure. Her mother’s complaints struck no new chord, but the sting of hearing them again, uttered with such unthinking cruelty, was a wound not yet dulled.

Mrs. Gardiner, calm and smiling, murmured vague replies of sympathy, having already been made aware of much of this history through Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence.

But she noted something now that piqued her attention—Elizabeth’s letters, which had once been so lively and frequent, had grown shorter, more reserved, particularly after her accident.

Later, when the general tumult of arrivals had passed and the younger girls were engaged elsewhere, Mrs. Gardiner took the opportunity to seek Elizabeth’s company in the sitting room.

The two sat near the fire, their tea cups steaming gently before them, as snow fell in light flakes beyond the frosted windows.

“My dear Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner began in a tone of quiet intimacy, “I hope you will not think me intrusive, but I cannot help but remark on the change in your letters of late. Since your fall, they have had a different tone—more circumspect, and, if I may be forgiven, rather guarded. ”

Elizabeth set down her cup and offered a faint smile. “I have had much to consider, Aunt. Perhaps my thoughts were too scattered to be neatly arranged on paper.”

Mrs. Gardiner nodded, her gaze kind but sharp. “I do not doubt it. Still, I had grown used to your particular wit and candour, and I have missed them. I confess, too, I was surprised that your letters contained so little mention of Mr. Darcy, especially given what I had heard.”

Elizabeth’s heart skipped at the sound of his name. “And what have you heard?” she asked carefully.

“Oh, you know how gossip travels—especially when the subject is as grand and proud as Mr. Darcy. I have heard he is wealthy, reserved, and not particularly beloved here. And then there was that unfortunate remark at the Meryton assembly. Mrs. Philips, I believe, relayed the tale with much relish.”

Elizabeth laughed, though the sound rang hollow. “Yes, I believe every ear in Hertfordshire has been subjected to the tale of Mr. Darcy’s infamous declaration. It was most unflattering.”

“And yet,” Mrs. Gardiner said, watching her closely, “you have not written of him. Not really. And now I find you so still when his name is mentioned.”

Elizabeth took up her needlework, though she did not begin to stitch. “What would you have me say? That he is proud, and disagreeable, and uninterested in pleasing? That is what I thought of him—once.”

“But not now?”

“I do not know,” Elizabeth admitted. “He confounds me. I thought I had come to know him, but perhaps I have misunderstood.”

Mrs. Gardiner tilted her head. “And what is your heart’s inclination, Lizzy?”

“I… I do not know that either,” she said with a soft sigh. “He is not what I once believed, but I am not so certain of what he is.”

Mrs. Gardiner let the silence stretch between them before saying gently, “I should trust your judgment in this more than most. But take care, my dear. Confusion is rarely the friend of a contented heart.”

Elizabeth smiled ruefully. “I shall try to remember that.”

Mrs. Gardiner reached for her hand. “I am here if you wish to speak. Of him, or of anything. And I promise no idle gossip will spring from me. ”

Elizabeth gave her aunt’s hand a grateful squeeze but said nothing more. Her mind was a tangle of memories and impressions—his voice, his eyes upon her during their dance, the way he had followed her into the garden, and the look in his face when she said she could not explain her knowledge.

She would not speak yet. Not until she was certain. Not until she could believe the path ahead was meant to be followed.

Mrs. Gardiner, though puzzled, let the matter rest, and changed the subject to Mr. Bingley.

Elizabeth’s response was more measured than it might have been in her last life.

Gone was the flash of fervent indignation that had once accompanied her defence of Jane’s affections.

She did not, this time, rail against the injustice of his departure or accuse his sisters of artifice with quite the same passion.

She simply stated, with a gentle firmness, that Jane’s spirits would be best restored by a change of scene.

“I do believe,” she said, after a moment’s reflection, “that time and distance may prove our best allies in this. Jane’s affections are not worn on her sleeve, but I have seen them clearly enough to know they are sincere.

She will not recover her composure while the spectre of Netherfield remains so near and yet so empty. ”

Mrs. Gardiner studied her niece with quiet curiosity.

Elizabeth’s tone was thoughtful, almost wistful, and her eyes seemed to focus on something far removed from the little sitting room at Longbourn.

There was a kind of maturity in her speech that had deepened since her injury—a gravity that had not always marked her liveliest expressions.

“You speak wisely, Lizzy,” her aunt said. “But are you not also weary? This whole matter appears to have affected you more than you allow. Would you not accompany us to London?”

Elizabeth looked at her with a soft smile. “Oh, I should like that very well, but I must remain here, for now. Charlotte’s wedding draws near, and I have obligations to attend it. It would not be... proper to absent myself at such a time.”

Mrs. Gardiner gave her a look of affectionate teasing. “Proper, my dear? When did you grow so exacting? You have always had a fine mind for decorum when it suited you.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Perhaps I am changing. Or perhaps I have seen the consequences of too little propriety and wish to err on the side of caution for a time.”

There was a pause then, and Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the window, where the bare branches of the trees swayed against the grey December sky.

The weather had not turned to snow, though the air bore the chill of it.

She thought of another day, not long ago and yet so distant in memory, when she and Fitzwilliam had stood before the nursery, the soft summer light of June warming the room.

James had been nestled in her arms, just six weeks old—plump and strong, his eyes growing ever more alert, his tiny hands stretching with curiosity.

James. Her sweet boy.

She still had hope of her life. The memory of that last morning—Fitzwilliam’s arm around her, their son between them—was vivid and achingly dear. How could she not yearn to return? The ache in her heart, in her very bones, was constant.

But she could not dwell. Not yet.

She returned her thoughts to the present and to Jane, whose love story—quiet and gentle—deserved its chance to bloom once more.

Jane and Charles had been exceedingly happy after their marriage, particularly in their new home at Croftwood Hall in Chesterfield, not twenty-five miles from Pemberley.

Fitzwilliam had enjoyed their presence, and often remarked on how soothing it was to spend time with people so unassuming, so free from pretense.

Their daughter, little Clara, was the image of her mother—fair-haired, serene, and sweet-tempered. Elizabeth smiled faintly at the thought. Jane’s life had taken such a lovely shape, and it pained her to think it might not again, should this second chance be lost.

“Aunt,” she said, more earnestly now, “when you return to town, will you take Jane with you? I believe it would do her a world of good, and it may be just the remedy she needs to lift her spirits.”

Mrs. Gardiner did not hesitate. “Of course I will. I had hoped to invite you both. But if you must stay behind, I shall still be glad for Jane’s company. I have missed her gentleness.”

Elizabeth nodded, touched by her aunt’s kindness. “Thank you. She will be grateful, I am sure. I shall persuade her.”

Mrs. Gardiner tilted her head slightly. “And after Charlotte wedding, will you come to us then?”

Elizabeth smiled again, the expression tinged with sadness and hope. “Yes,” she said simply. “When I can, I will.”

The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement.

Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner.

When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one.

Mrs. Gardiner, rendered observant by Elizabeth’s subtle reserve and Mary’s marked attention toward Mr. Wickham, soon grew suspicious.

Unlike her sister, she was not inclined to take such things at face value, and the careful scrutiny she applied to every glance and tone did not long go unrewarded.

She observed that Wickham, though still all charm and affability in company, was now far more guarded in Elizabeth’s presence than he had been at first.

Her suspicions were deepened when, in one of their conversations, Mr. Wickham happened to mention the part of Derbyshire in which Pemberley was situated.

It was done so casually, so innocuously, that most would not have remarked upon it.

He spoke of the countryside, of shared acquaintances from the region, and gave the impression of one recently and pleasantly engaged there.

Mrs. Gardiner, having spent a considerable time in that very neighbourhood before her marriage, was intrigued.

Wickham, seizing upon the opportunity, began to name places and persons with the ease of a man well acquainted.

And yet, Elizabeth noticed, he was careful—almost too careful—not to speak of Pemberley itself, nor of its master or his sister.

Elizabeth, seated nearby, could no longer keep silence. She interjected with quiet composure, “I had thought, Mr. Wickham, that you had not returned to that part of Derbyshire since the elder Mr. Darcy’s passing.”

There was a pause, a slight twitch at the corner of Wickham’s mouth that quickly vanished.

“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied smoothly, “I have seldom had cause to revisit. My affairs have taken me elsewhere. But it is remarkable how memory can serve, and how deeply rooted are the images of youth.”

“Quite,” she said, her voice measured. “And yet, the mind does have a curious habit of remembering only what it finds most useful.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked from one to the other, the ease with which Elizabeth challenged him—gently, but unmistakably—did not escape her notice. Nor did Mr. Wickham’s somewhat forced smile as he turned the conversation toward a recent assembly.

Afterward, as Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner were walking together in the garden, the latter could not help but speak. “Lizzy, I do not mean to pry, but you seemed to take quite a particular tone with Mr. Wickham. Is there something I ought to understand?”

Elizabeth gave a small laugh, though not entirely mirthful. “Only that Mr. Wickham is rather practiced in the art of narrative. I find it prudent to test the boundaries of his recollections. ”

Mrs. Gardiner studied her with affection and something like concern. “Your letters have changed of late. You write less and say little, and I cannot help but think there is more behind your manner than meets the eye.”

Elizabeth looked away. “There may be, but nothing I can explain—at least, not yet.”

Mary, who joined them soon after, remarked with quiet satisfaction that Mr. Wickham had appeared somewhat unsettled that evening. “One might think,” she said, “that the truth pressed too near the surface.”

Elizabeth agreed silently, and though their task was far from complete, they both felt some satisfaction that Wickham was beginning to tread with greater care.

What remained now was the greater difficulty—ensuring Lydia did not fall prey to his charm. But that was a battle yet to be waged.