She was not Jane. She would not pine for months over a lost love. Yet Jane, perhaps, had not suffered in vain.
“Let us wait and see if he comes,” Mrs Gardiner said softly, as they approached Longbourn. “We must not fill Jane with false hopes, only to deepen her distress.”
They resolved to speak freely of their visit to Pemberley and its guests, but not to mention Elizabeth’s private conversation with Mr Bingley.
∞∞∞
Their reception at Longbourn was so warm that Elizabeth forgot, for a little while, the weight she bore. It was a comfort to be once more among those who loved her.
I care not for Mr Darcy’s judgement of my family,she thought.They are kind, they are dear to me, and I shall always love them.
Even Mary was happy to see them.
A day before their departure, Georgiana had given Elizabeth a package of books. “Only novels written by ladies,” she said and smiled. In the face of Mary’s smile, Elizabeth offered her the volumes. If the sky had opened and angels from Heaven appeared, Mary would have been less surprised. For once, the taciturn girl was all smiles, and at dinner, she sat beside Elizabeth.
Though the hour was early, the meal extended well into the evening, such was the interest in the tales their guests had brought.
Elizabeth was asked more than once to describe Pemberley, and the Gardiners, pleased by the family’s curiosity, frequently added their own observations.
“You should have seen, brother,” said Mr Gardiner, “the size of the fish in Mr Darcy’s pond. We cast our lines for scarcely an hour, and I daresay we could have fed the entire household from our catch.”
When Elizabeth recounted the matter of the gowns, her younger sisters—Mary excepted—were insatiable in their questions. Bonnet by bonnet, pelisse by pelisse, they required every detail. Mary’s interest was finally won when Elizabeth described the library.
“And imagine,” said Elizabeth, “that Colonel Fitzwilliam is nearly betrothed. We heard the news from his mother, Lady Matlock.”
As ever, Mrs Gardiner marvelled at how even the faintest hint of a wedding, however distant, might excite conversation. It seemed not the persons, but the prospect of marriage itself, that stirred such attention.
“And who is the fortunate lady?” asked Mrs Bennet, already imagining the whole story.
“Do you remember a lady with red hair whom we encountered at Netherfield last November?”
Elizabeth glanced briefly at Jane, for the name ‘Netherfield’ had long been avoided in her presence. Nor had the name ‘Charles’ been spoken with freedom, though there were many in the neighbourhood who bore it. But Elizabeth, hoping that Mr Bingley might soon return, decided the time had come to acknowledge Netherfield Park once more.
“Yes!” cried Lydia. “Her name was Miss Emmeline Henry. She was among the most elegant ladies I have ever seen.” She turned to Kitty, who nodded in agreement.
“Red hair?” asked Mrs Bennet. “Are you quite certain it was not altered, as some ladies do now?”
“No, Mama,” Jane replied. All eyes turned to her. To speak of a guest from that house marked progress. “I observed her hair closely. It was her own. Not the auburn of our countrywomen, nor the fiery red of Scotland, but a lighter, golden hue—quite rare.”
Both Kitty and Lydia concurred, while Mrs Bennet became thoughtful.
“I know that colour. It is rare indeed. Do you remember, brother,” she said, “the Barrington family who once lived nearby? They had a daughter named Sophia, of an age with me.”
Mr Gardiner, being younger, could not recall.
“Mrs Phillips remembers her well,” Mrs Bennet continued, as the gentlemen began to retire, leaving the ladies to pursue a conversation that held little interest for them.
“But how is it we saw nothing of the lady at the Netherfield ball?” asked Mrs Bennet.
“She had some family matter to attend,” Jane replied once more. “She departed before the event. Her stay was brief.”
“Something peculiar occurred…” Mrs Bennet paused, caught in thought.
“What?” asked Lydia, ever impatient.
“Let me recollect myself, child!” her mother answered sharply. “It was the end of November. We had some days of unseasonable warmth. While seated with your Aunt Phillips, we observed, from the parlour window, a lady in a barouche who bore such a resemblance to Sophia Barrington that we were quite struck. It lasted but a moment, yet both of us exclaimedat once. Of course, it could not have been—but the likeness reminded us of former days.”
Elizabeth, who would usually dismiss such meandering recollections, found herself listening with interest. Miss Emmeline Henry had left a strong impression upon her. She had seldom admired a young woman more.
