“As he always has.” The answer was swift and unembellished.
“I’m sorry...” Elizabeth held up a hand. “‘Wickie?’ Is that short for his proper name?”
Mr Gardiner’s mouth curved faintly. “No, Lizzy. A local nickname for the man who tends the wick. You will find such names adhere more firmly than baptismal ones in coastalplaces.”
“All anyone calls him,” Mrs Hargreaves agreed. “Saves time. Now, you’ll be wantin’ supper, I s’pose. You’ll put the horses up at Robson’s?”
Mr Gardiner nodded, though his attention had already begun to drift beyond the doorway. The wind had altered again—not stronger, but heavier. He stepped outside and looked southward along the track they had climbed.
Elizabeth and Mrs Hargreaves followed him outside.
“How far to the village?” he asked without turning. “I have not taken that way in more than twenty years.”
“A mile and a half,” Mrs Hargreaves replied. “Two if you take the lower way.”
He shaded his eyes from the wind, following the faint path that curved down the northwestern side of the slope. It was narrower than the approach from the southeast and looked as though it would be less forgiving in wet weather.
“And Robson’s yard has room?”
“Aye. He’ll stable the team well enough.”
He turned to the driver. “How long would that track take us?”
The man shifted on the box. “Narrow, sir. Soft if the rain comes in. We’d lose the light before we cleared it.”
Gardiner looked south along the broader rise they had climbed. “And if we turn back now?”
“Good road once we’re off the hill,” the driver answered. “We could make the inn by dusk.”
Gardiner hesitated only a moment, then addressed Mrs Hargreaves. “You will be well enough provisioned for the night? I had purposed to stay, but with the weather coming, perhaps I had better not.”
She lifted her chin. “I’ll see to Miss Bennet myself.”
He studied her face, found nothing uncertain there, and gave a brief nod. “Very well.”
He returned to Elizabeth, brushing the dust from his gloves as though the decision were no more complicated than that. “If I take the south track now, we spare the horses a second climb and reach proper shelter before dark.”
“And you will come again soon,” she said.
“Once the weather clears,” he replied. “And I am sure your aunt and Kitty will wish to come.”
The driver shifted upon his box and called down respectfully, “Sir, the clouds are building from the west. If we mean to make the inn before dark...”
Gardiner gave a brief nod. “Yes, I will come in a moment.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Walk with me.”
They moved a short distance from the cottage, beyond Mrs Hargreaves’s hearing but not so far as to invite remark. The wind plastered her cloak against her skirts, and he held his hat firmly in place.
“You know what I must say,” he began.
She smiled faintly. “You have said it before.”
His gaze lingered on her face, searching for something he had searched for many times these past days. “You are not obliged to bury yourself here because the world has wounded you.”
She did not flinch at the word. “I am not burying myself.”
“You have lost your father. Your home. Your sister.” He did not soften the catalogue. “It would be natural to seek a corner of the earth where nothing more may be taken.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved slightly. “Uncle, if I wished to hide, I should have done so in Hertfordshire. There were ample hedgerows for the purpose.”
