Elizabeth smiled, her composure restored. “Not in the least. The air will do us good.” She glanced at Darcy, whose lips twitched into the hint of a smile.
They left the cool hush of the gallery for the bustle of the street, the sunlight sharp and golden after the filtered light of the gallery. Berkeley Square was alive with the season’s pleasures: carriages rattled over the flagstones, ladies in bonnets of the newest fashion promenaded beneath the budding trees, and the scent of spring mingled with the sweetness drifting from Gunters’ famous shop.
Inside, the little parlour was crowded with families and officers on leave, their laughter rising above the delicate clink of porcelain. Georgiana pressed close to the window, gazing at the display of ices in every shade—rose, lemon, pistachio, and chocolate.
“Which shall we have?” she asked, turning imploringly to Elizabeth. “I am partial to lemon,” Elizabeth replied, “but you must choose for us all, Georgiana.”
When the ices arrived, Elizabeth found the tartness of her lemon ice oddly bracing. She glanced at Darcy, who was watching her with a quiet intensity, his own dish untouched.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, then faltered, as if uncertain how much to risk in such a public place. He lowered his voice. “You have given me much to think on. I hope… I hope you will allow me, in time, to prove that I am not quite the man you believed me to be in Salamanca.”
Elizabeth, surprised by the tone of his words, met his gaze. “I think I must learn for myself who you are, Mr. Darcy. Yet, I cannot say I do not enjoy your presence. As I once related—was it close to Oviedo?—the thoughts do not press me in your company. If it were mine to propose, I would always keep you near, sir.”
Georgiana laughed. “As long as we are friends, Elizabeth, I’m sure William will lurk somewhere nearby. He is the best of brothers.” She paused, thoughtful, and said rather wistfully, “Perhaps, one day, I shall have a sister as well. What think you, William, will you get me a sister? For you are so very generous—and it is not so much to ask.”
* * *
Chapter 18
Gracechurch Street
The morning had been one of those rare London gifts: the sky a pale blue, and the park all bustle and brightness. Her young cousins had wearied themselves at last in a contest of who could leap the furthest across the grass, and, gratefully, Elizabeth ushered them back to her aunt and uncle’s house. She was greeted by the murmur of conversation from the parlour and a hush that fell abruptly as she entered.
Her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, was seated by the window, a newspaper open in her lap; her uncle stood nearby, his brow furrowed. Both looked up as Elizabeth entered, and Mrs. Gardiner, with a glance at her husband, gave a little sigh of relief, as though Elizabeth’s presence alone might bring comfort or explanation.
“My dear Lizzy,” said Mr. Gardiner, his tone most grave, “you are returned at last. I hope the children have not overtired you?”
Elizabeth smiled, shaking her head. “No more than usual. All is well. But you look as if the world is ending, Uncle. Is there news from Longbourn?”
“Not from Longbourn,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but there is—oh, Lizzy, there is something in the paper, and it is so very strange—I do not know what to make of it.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded. She crossed the room and sat beside her aunt, taking her hand. “What has happened? You look quite pained.”
“It is this article,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, holding out the Morning Post, “from their correspondent in Spain. It concerns—well, it concerns a Miss E.B. of Hertfordshire, and I cannot help but believe—”
“Read it to her, my dear,” said Mr. Gardiner, who had been pacing the carpet in agitation.
Mrs. Gardiner complied, her voice trembling as she began: “From our own correspondent, Mr. Williams, writing from Madrid—’Rumours have reached our camp of the most astonishing nature, concerning the recent events at León. It is alleged that a certain Miss E.B., a young lady of Hertfordshire, England, did, while in company with her sister Miss L.B., assist the French in abducting a Miss G.D. from Brighton, subsequently taking her forcibly to Asturias. Subsequently, Miss E.B. is said to have entered the French camp at León, where her charms proved irresistible to a Colonel Dumoustier, whom she seduced, and to whom she is believed to have betrayed the movements of the British army. Fortunately, disaster was averted only by the superior skill of Lord Wellington, whose victory at Salamanca has saved the campaign from ruin. Meanwhile, Miss L.B. is well known for her fraternisation with foreign persons of dubious loyalty, and is reputed to be the mistress of Don M., a supposed partisan, who is widely suspected of being an afrancesado—in the pay of the enemy.’”
Mrs. Gardiner’s voice faltered at the close of this recital, and Elizabeth, who had listened at first with incredulity, now sat in stunned silence, her colour gone and her hands cold. She tried to speak, but for a moment she could not.
“As you know, Miss G.D.,” she managed at length, her voice unsteady, “must be meant for Georgiana Darcy, surely! And Miss L.B.—oh, Lydia!”
“My dear Lizzy,” said her uncle, hastening to her side, “you must not distress yourself. Of course, we know of the abduction—you were a victim, not the perpetrator. But I cannot believe that knowledge of that is known in Spain, certainly it was not widely spread. For Lord Wellington agreed to keep it close—to protect Lydia, Miss Darcy, and your reputations. Commodore Collier, a very decent man, refused to include your names in his dispatch to the Admiralty. But the other? It is the wildest fabrication—I am sure of it. But we could not help but be alarmed, seeing your initials and those of Lydia so cruelly misused.”
Her aunt pressed her hand. “I do not know, dearest. It is the most shocking invention. But the world is full of mischief-makers—and newspapers must have their stories.”
Elizabeth tried to recover her composure, but she found herself shaken in a way she had not expected. It was one thing to be the subject of local gossip, another entirely to find herself the object of such accusations in a London paper. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door, the familiar step in the hall. In another moment, the servant entered to announce, “Mr. Darcy, ma’am.”
Elizabeth started; Mrs. Gardiner rose to greet him. Darcy took in Elizabeth’s pale face, the countenances of her aunt and uncle, usually so welcoming, now strained and serious.
“Good God! What is the matter?” he cried, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “My apologies, I have come with my sister, who awaits in the carriage, for our engagement at the gallery. Miss Bennet, are you quite well?”
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between the desire to conceal her distress and the impossibility of doing so. “We have just read something in the paper, Mr. Darcy, that has—well, it has distressed us all.”
Darcy stepped forward, his expression grave. “May I ask what it is?”
There was a short silence. Mr. Gardiner, seeing the impossibility of concealment, produced the Morning Post and handed it to Darcy, whose brow darkened as he read.
