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CHAPTER SEVEN

T o Elizabeth’s pleasure, her aunt and uncle Gardiner came to stay with their four young children for a fortnight on their way north to Derbyshire from London.

Her aunt was graceful and calm, and thought before she spoke—all qualities to which Elizabeth aspired.

The visit required extra mattresses be brought into the girls’ rooms, as Longbourn had not enough space for each to be accommodated separately.

It was not an imposition, however, as the Gardiner girls enjoyed sleeping with their cousins and the Bennet girls enjoyed the change.

The littlest, two boys, hung on Jane’s skirts, for she was so good with children, but they were relegated to the nursery, as was customary.

Elizabeth feared the visit would mean no callers or calling, but Mrs Bennet extended invitations that stretched the capacity of the parlour, irritating only Mr Bennet and Mr Darcy. The rest seemed content with the commotion.

Seeing Mr Darcy’s apparent distress, Elizabeth suggested he accompany her on a walk in the garden, and he agreed with relief replacing the distress he had shown.

Once they stepped into the bright sunlight, Elizabeth asked, “Do you not enjoy children?”

A pointed question from a young lady. Or perhaps it was a natural question given his clear discomfort in the parlour with the boisterous young Bennets and the four little Gardiners.

“In fact, I do,” he answered. “However, I find too much commotion sets me on edge. It is why I do not enjoy balls, either.”

“I find satisfaction in both solitude and a crowd. I do not find myself lonely when alone in the woods, though I admit that at times in a crowd, I can feel quite lonely indeed.”

“Exactly!”

Elizabeth loved this garden, though not as much as the woods. She would have preferred to show him the old growth trees and the stream that ran a bit outside Longbourn’s gates, but it was proper to stay within sight of her family.

She said, “I find myself searching for joy and often wonder when to accept dissatisfaction as a part of life and when to fight against it.”

“Precisely.”

“Much is expected of us,” she said, running her fingertips across the tops of the hedges absently.

“Rules to follow, spoken and unspoken, and while we must accept discomfort and frustration as a natural course of life, it seems more people would be less cruel and bitter if they allowed themselves more joy.”

“And what are your sources of joy?”

“Walks, the woods, good books, time spent with my sisters?—”

“Not playing the pianoforte?” He gave her a teasing grin.

She laughed. “That is a source of frustration, which leads to bitterness.”

“If you practised more?—”

“It would become more natural for me, though the practice itself is a chore, and interferes with my pursuit of joy. Quite a conundrum.”

He smiled at her, and it was an easy smile that reminded Elizabeth that her first impression of him did not seem to be faithful.

“Mr Darcy, I must turn your own question back to you: What are your sources of joy?”

He snapped a deadened leaf off a hedge and rubbed it between his fingers. “My sister, friends like Bingley, my library, new friends, possibilities?—”

Just as Elizabeth was drawn into his gaze, Lydia came running to meet them. “Lizzy, come quick! Mr Denny and Mr Wickham have just arrived!”

Mr Darcy froze, and Elizabeth glanced at him curiously.

He did not meet her gaze, mumbling something about ‘had Bingley known’ before turning quickly and walking off.

It appeared to be his usual manner of behaving when things grew distasteful to him…

but why? She knew he was capable of conversing amiably.

But not when Mr Wickham was about. What history was between them? Surely it was serious.

“Come inside, Lizzy!” Lydia insisted.

She could not stop Mr Darcy, and even if she could, it was not the right thing to do. She walked towards the open parlour door, the jovial chatter enveloping her even before she entered.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr Wickham said, “I have just met all of your charming relations.”

She forgot about Mr Darcy just then, caught in Mr Wickham’s web of charm, but as she approached, she noticed Mr Bingley bowing to Jane and then excusing himself from the gathering, a reminder of what had just transpired, and she wondered what might be between the men.

Elizabeth sat near Mr Wickham for hours, talking as if no one else was present, even though the house was full.

They laughed and teased, and Elizabeth found that with each sentence uttered they seemed to have more in common.

He seemed unconcerned with her family’s foibles or rollick.

In fact, he remarked at how amused he was by them.

She learnt a little of his past, surprised to find that his father had been the steward at Pemberley, under Mr Darcy’s father.

“I thought perhaps you knew the current Mr Darcy better than it seemed,” she remarked lightly.

“I did once. Not anymore,” said Mr Wickham, then eased into asking about her interest in travel.

The subject was put aside, but not forgotten until late that night when, after their bedside candles had been snuffed, Elizabeth whispered to Jane about the coincidence of the men knowing one another, and of Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley’s disappearance.

Jane pointed at their young cousins, then to her own closed lips, and the subject was at an end.

The next morning, Elizabeth found herself alone with Aunt Gardiner at the breakfast table, for the others were yet to rise, which made her happy until her aunt began to speak.

“Lizzy, before we leave this afternoon, I need to discuss a difficult but important matter.” Aunt Gardiner lifted her teacup to her lips, giving Elizabeth time to worry. “I know your mother is keen on your marrying, but pray do not grow too attached to Mr Wickham.”

Her aunt had only spent one afternoon and evening with the man, and Elizabeth could not understand how she might have formed such an opinion of him. “Why do you say so? He seems very amiable to me.”

When her aunt set down her cup, eyebrows knit, but said nothing more, Elizabeth said, “He is respectable. And fun. And handsome, and kind, and thoughtful. He is—he is, in fact, all I have wanted in a man.” She sat back, amazed at the words that had come forth from her lips.

Aunt Gardiner blinked a few times, and it seemed to Elizabeth she was holding back a sigh. “I know you feel that way now, but I am older than you and therefore more experienced. There is something in Mr Wickham I do not trust.”

“You have only just met him, and I dare say you do not know him.”

“I know his type.”

“And what is that?”

“He is a taker, Lizzy. He makes you feel special, but he is…like a fox looking for prey.”

“I am no rabbit, Aunt.”

“In many ways, no, but you are an innocent.”

Elizabeth reached for her own cup, stirring the sugar that had already dissolved to give herself something to do.

Mr Darcy did not like Mr Wickham, but that was a personal matter the source of which neither had disclosed.

She had always trusted Aunt Gardiner, but though her aunt was sensible, she was not infallible.

And what did she know of Mr Wickham after so brief a time?

Ah, Mr Wickham. He had eyes that drew her in and a laugh that brought all around him joy.

He had the entire parlour laughing until they gasped for air while sharing a story of a new recruit lost in the woods calling for assistance.

Her mother had blushed at his compliments about the offerings at the tea table and with his profound thanks at the invitation.

Lydia had complained that Elizabeth had met him first, certain that if she had, they would be married already.

Elizabeth and Mr Wickham had many of the same interests, they both loved to laugh, he had a good position in a profession that could support them both, and he respected her.

When he took her hand to kiss it upon his bow goodbye, her body tingled entirely, and she knew no woman had ever felt such a thrill. What more could she ask for?

“Aunt, I believe…I believe I might be falling in love with him. Certainly if he made me an offer, I would be inclined to accept it.”

Aunt Gardiner set down her tea, shaking her head. “It would be a grave mistake, Lizzy. Consider my words carefully.”

Two days later at the Philipses’, Mr Wickham took advantage of what he believed was a private audience to speak the words Elizabeth had imagined hearing.

They were alas not alone, as Aunt Philips’s shriek of delight from the hall revealed, but it did not signify.

Elizabeth’s mind was flooded with images of Mr Darcy’s fury and Aunt Gardiner’s concern, but looking at Mr Wickham, who held her fingers tenderly, face full of innocent hope, all doubt was chased away, and she nodded her assent.

Mr Denny and the Philipses entered the parlour and cheered.

Many congratulations poured forth, along with happy chatter and plan-making, and Elizabeth relished the general mood of felicitation. Nothing could be ill. Or could it?

Doubt began to creep in at the edges of her consciousness as she sipped from a glass of wine, and she asked if she and Mr Wickham might be allowed a moment in the hall alone. Her uncle agreed, announcing that she must still be reeling from the shock of it all.

Elizabeth nodded but smiled broadly, aware that the smile felt more forced than she would desire. Once alone, she said to Mr Wickham, “I-I did not expect a proposal so soon.”

“Why wait when we know we are a perfect match for one another?”