She graced me with one of the sweetest looks I have yet earned from her. “I knew you would give me the freedom to decide.”
“Have you come to trust me?”
“I believe I have and to a degree that may shock you, sir.”
“Tell me.”
“I made a promise to Lydia that you would buy her a horse.”
“Did you? But that is not a terrible idea if I can find a brute of a filly who will not mind her fidgets and flatly refuse to gallop, even under the insistence of a whip.”
“I knew I could count on you to select the perfect mount for her. But it must also be white, so it will best show off the riding costume you will inevitably buy for her. But before you decide these are paltry matters and my trust in you is not as robust as you would wish, you must know that is not the end of it.”
“No?”
“I believe such a gift must be funded rather lavishly, for the stables at home will need to be enlarged, and Lydia must be taught to ride and have a groom besides.”
I pretended to be fretful. “My word. We shall likely have to retrench in consequence!”
She grinned beatifically in reply and said, “You may discharge your Frenchchef de cuisine,and I shall cook us pots and pots of soup.”
“Oh dear.”
“Oh dear, indeed.”
“Now, do be serious. I wish to hear your preferences. Are we to wed at Saint George’s or Saint Paul’s?” I asked with a wink.
“I regret to inform you, sir, I shall be married at home, and if your storied relations choose to come to Meryton, we shall suffer a staggering degree of mortification and for such a prolonged period that we may fall ill from it. But,” she said airily, “I refuse to feel the least bit sorry for you since you have gone against my advice by refusing to forget me. You have forced this upon yourself, sir.”
“If I am not mistaken, I have been made to feel sorry more than once for making the mistake of offering for you. What was that little shrug you gave me when your mother would speak so outrageously to me this morning? Or just now when you would not offer up even a word to help along a most awkward meal?”
She laughed and said, “If you thought to marry me to spare yourself the duty of speaking in company, you are in for a grave disappointment. I shall be as mute as a clam at our wedding breakfast, I promise you!”
“Good God, are you in earnest? Well, I had better be philosophical about it if that is how you mean to have your revenge.”
“I am curious,” she said sweetly, affecting wide-eyed innocence. “What will be your guiding principle on the occasion of introducing your relations to mine?”
“I shall endure it much as my sister must endure her presentation. I have often noticed that a wedding is the least romantic occasion in the world.”
She swiftly turned to me and laughed. “Have you? I have remarked much the same! You would not believe the accounts I heard of Mr. Collins’s marriage to my poor friend Charlotte Lucas. I considered myself lucky indeed to have been on my knees sweeping ashes out of the hearth at Auntie’s house when the dreaded event took place.”
“I shall be sure to introduce you to the Countess of Matlock as the charwoman at the Frye House in Lambton,” I said, bringing her hand to my lips.
In all, my horses were afforded a two-and-a-half-hour rest while Elizabeth and I walked the length of Watford, a market town consisting of one long street. We wandered through Saint Mary’s Church without seeing it at all, for we never ceased our conversation, quenching a long-standing thirst for such a liberty. We commiserated on the practical, spoke of Seneca and of Mrs. Burke and, briefly, of our deeper feelings. These would be aired in fleeting phrases, in looks and in gestures, and in times of quiet reflection over months and years rather than laid out in totality on the high road at Watford. Thus, our existence as undeclared lovers was quickly transcended, and with every step and every word, we settled more deeply into comfortable, unrestrained intimacy.
As we neared the Ram’s Head where stood Keller looking irritably up the road in search of us, I stopped and faced Elizabeth.
“I must ask, though I am loathe to—”
“Ask me anything, and freely, sir.”
“Bingley—how may I make amends to your sister? Should I invite him to Brighton? I know you suspect me of influencing him, and—”
“Do not confess, I beg of you, for we shall fall into an unhappy subject for which I have no inclination whilst partaking of such a lovely view,” she said with a twinkle, sweeping her hand past the doorway to the saddlery. Besides, I have long since forgiven you.”
“I do not know why. I do not deserve it.”
“Perhaps you do not, but I have only to reflect on the difference between my relationship with your sister and that of Jane with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst to think more kindly on your intervention. That said, the choice must be Jane’s, I think, and I shall enquire as to her preference.”
