"That is a technicality," Elizabeth dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Mr Darcy was there. Standing there. Clutching a parcel and looking... looking..."
"Guilty?" Mrs Gardiner suggested from her armchair, where she was calmly sorting embroidery silks.
"Arrogant," Elizabeth corrected. "Disdainful. As if he could not believe we had the audacity to breathe the same oxygen as him outside of Hertfordshire."
"I thought he looked terrified," Jane said softly. A small, dreamy smile played about her lips—an expression that had been notably absent for the past month. "He looked like a schoolboy caught skipping lessons."
Elizabeth stopped pacing to stare at her sister. "Jane, are you feverish? You are defending the man who—I am convinced—is responsible for Charles Bingley's departure."
"We do not know that for certain," Mrs Gardiner interjected, her tone mild but firm. "You have strong suspicions, Lizzy, but no proof. Mr Darcy is proud, certainly. But is he malicious? I saw a man today who was startled, yes, but not necessarily villainous."
"He looked at you as if you were a ghost," Jane added. "And his cousin, Lord Keathley... he was very agreeable, was he not?"
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "He is a rake, Jane. A charming, well-dressed rake who probably flirts with every woman who stumbles in his vicinity. Do not let his title dazzle you."
"I am not dazzled," Jane protested, though the flush on her cheeks suggested otherwise. "I merely said he was agreeable. And he saved me from a nasty fall. It would be uncharitable to dislike him simply because he is related to Mr Darcy."
"I have enough uncharitability for the entire family," Elizabeth muttered, resuming her pacing. "And that sister!'Georgiana.'The girl Caroline Bingley claims isdestined for her brother. She looked... well, she looked perfectly nice, which makes it all the more irritating. I wanted to hate her."
"She seemed sweet," Mrs Gardiner noted. "And very eager to make your acquaintance. That does not speak of a family determined to shun you."
"It speaks of a family who cannot control their members," Elizabeth countered. "Darcy looked ready to bolt. The Viscount looked ready to propose to Jane on the spot. And the girl looked like she wanted a friend. It was absurd."
"It was interesting," Mrs Gardiner corrected. "And I suspect we have not heard the last of them."
"Heaven forbid," Elizabeth groaned. "I came to London to help Jane forget Mr Bingley, not to be besieged by Mr Darcy and his motley collection of aristocratic relatives."
Just then, the door burst open and the three Gardiner children—Henry, Alice, and Ruth—tumbled in, having escaped the nursery. The heavy atmosphere of the room shattered instantly as Ruth made a beeline for Jane's lap and Henry demanded to know if Elizabeth had brought him a book about pirates.
As Elizabeth laughed and swung her young cousin into the air, she missed the look Jane exchanged with Mrs Gardiner. It was not the look of a heartbroken woman pining for a lost love. It was the look of a woman who was wondering if Viscounts liked needlepoint, and if she should wear her blue ribbon tomorrow.
The next morning brought a pale, watery sunshine to Cheapside, and with it, a sense of impending doom that Elizabeth could not quite shake.
She tried to distract herself. She helped Alice with her reading. She wrote a letter to Charlotte Collins, omitting the Hatchards incident, lest Mr Collins write a sermon on the dangers of bookshops. She tried to convince herself that yesterday had been a singular cosmic accident.
Then, at precisely eleven o'clock, the world tilted on its axis.
"Ma'am," the Gardiners' maid, Sarah, appeared at the drawing room door. Her eyes were wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron nervously. "There is... there is a carriage outside. A very large carriage. With a crest."
Elizabeth froze. Mrs Gardiner, who was arranging winter flowers in a vase, paused.
"A crest, Sarah?"
"Yes, ma'am. And four people. Three gentlemen and a young lady. They are asking for Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth."
"Show them up, Sarah," Mrs Gardiner said calmly, though she shot a quick, assessing glance at her nieces. "And bring the good tea service. The one we use for the bishop."
Elizabeth stood up, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "He wouldn't," she whispered. "He absolutely wouldn't. Not here. Not in Cheapside."
"Apparently, he would," Jane whispered back. She had gone pale, then pink, and was frantically smoothing her skirts. "Oh, Lizzy. My hair."
"Your hair is perfect. It is Mr Darcy who should be worried about his appearance, specifically the expression of disdain I expect to see on his face."
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs—too many for a normal morning call.
The door opened, and Sarah announced, in a voice that squeaked slightly: "Lord Keathley, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy, and Miss Darcy."
They filed in like a regiment invading a library.
