“You are severe upon my sex!” her husband complained.
“Probably, but of Mr Bingley I say only what is true. It was easy for him to be in love with Jane when she was there in front of him, but away from her, his head was quickly turned. It always goes off the same.” She gave Elizabeth a peculiar look and added, “Usually.”
It was too much; Elizabeth announced her intention to dress for dinner and hurried from the room.
* * *
Mrs Gardiner was sufficiently distracted by her friends’ company throughout Mrs Whitaker’s soiree that Elizabeth dared to hope all curiosity had been forgotten. Her heart sank when, after retiring for the night, her bedroom door opened, and the light of a candle emerged around it.
“May I come in?” Mrs Gardiner enquired.
With her own candle still burning, Elizabeth could hardly pretend to be asleep. She pulled her knees up to make room at the foot of the bed for her aunt, who began far more seriously than she had anticipated.
“Lizzy, is there anything amiss between you and Mr Darcy? Anything about which I ought to know?”
“No, I assure you. There is nothing for you to worry about.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Still, it is evident that you are better acquainted with him than you previously let on. Just as it is evident that you esteem him.”
“What makes you say that?” Elizabeth said—too quickly. It made her aunt smile pityingly.
“You did well at saying as little as possible at dinner, I grant you. But you rather gave yourself away when you spoke up to defend him—vehemently, I might add—against Mr Wickham.”
“And rightly so! Mr Heyworth was implying that Mr Darcy treated Mr Wickham poorly when it was entirely the other way around.”
“Yes, yes, so you informed me yesterday. But you never said whence this new intelligence originated. You certainly could not have inferred so much from that one trifling remark of Mr Darcy’s housekeeper, surely?”
“No, of course not! I have it on much better authority.”
“Whose authority could possibly be better than Mr Wickham’s?”
“Mr Darcy’s.” Elizabeth clamped her mouth closed in exasperation when she saw the triumph flashing in her aunt’s countenance.
“And pray, what business had Mr Darcy in telling you about Mr Wickham?”
Elizabeth had neither the courage nor the inclination to explain that Mr Darcy had divulged his history with Mr Wickham in a bid to defend his character after she hurled a litany of unfounded charges at him, accusing him of defying his father’s will, and of casting off his childhood friend. She was ashamed enough already; she had no desire to witness her aunt’s disappointment also. In the end, however, she was not required to confess anything. Her aunt guessed.
“It is because he did not wish you to think ill of him, is it not? Because he is in love with you. Now do not attempt to deny it—any fool could see he was overflowing with admiration this morning.”
Elizabeth did as she was bid and refrained from denying it. Her heart was racing to hear it said aloud by another person.
“You do not seem pleased by it though. I got the impression today that you had come to like him more. Was I wrong?”
“No, I do not dislike him. I do not know what I feel for him, but it is not dislike. Would that I did know, for the last thing I wish to do is hurt him again.”
There was a pause, then Mrs Gardiner said, cautiously, “Again?”
Elizabeth held her breath for a moment while she contemplated her options, then blew it out in surrender. With her forehead resting on her knees, as though that would shield her from judgment, she whispered, “Mr Darcy proposed to me in Kent.” She looked up when she heard her aunt gasp. “I refused him. I refused him in the most hurtful, petulant way imaginable. Pray do not ask me for the particulars. It is enough to know that he and I parted on exceedingly bad terms.”
Mrs Gardiner was fixed in disbelief. “Why did you not tell us? We would never have gone to Pemberley if we had known this. What must he have thought to discover us there?”
“I did not know how to tell you. Then, when everybody we asked told us he would not be there, I thought I would not have to.”
Her aunt looked supremely displeased with this answer. “That was selfish, Lizzy. Your uncle and I have worked incredibly hard to establish a good reputation for ourselves. You might have undone all that in one morning if Mr Darcy had been less forgiving.”
The accusation cut all the deeper for the truth of it. Elizabeth had never once considered the consequences to her aunt and uncle of being discovered at Pemberley—only her own discomfort in going there. Then, though it was her aunt’s wounded gaze that held hers, it was her own voice she could hear as she recalled viciously deriding Mr Darcy for his ‘selfish disdain for the feelings of others’. And whereas he had subsequently been proved innocent of any such defect, she had betrayed an even greater want of consideration.
“You are right,” she whispered. “I am sorry.”
