“Mama, Lydia,” Elizabeth began, “you must be cautious. A pretty face and a sad story are not sufficient grounds upon which to hang one’s judgment.”
“But Lizzy,” Jane added gently, “we cannot say for certain that Mr. Wickham’s account is false. It may be a misunderstanding.”
Mary, setting aside her book, turned to them with a more serious air. “Jane, a misunderstanding does not breed such vehement opposition. And I would remind you both that virtue is seldom loud in its own defense. Mr. Wickham’s eagerness to speak ill of another—particularly one so respected—is cause enough for suspicion.”
“He only told us what we asked,” Lydia pouted. “And besides, he is dreadfully handsome. It would be a shame not to dance with him again!”
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “And what will you do, Lydia, when he turns his charms upon another lady? When he is no longer interested in telling you his woes but seeking advantage elsewhere?”
“He would not!”
“He would,” Mary said bluntly. “And has.”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth said with a touch more strategy, “it does not signify. For you must know that he is not a man of fortune, and the pay of a lieutenant is hardly enough to support himself, let alone a wife. If he seeks a marriage of wealth, he will need to look beyond Hertfordshire.”
Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Marriage? Who said anything about marriage?”
Their mother, however, seemed to miss the nuance entirely. “Well, I say if the man has charm, it is more than most can boast! And there is no harm in a little attention. Why, if Lizzy had not been so high and mighty with Mr. Collins—”
“Mama,” Elizabeth interrupted firmly. “Mr. Wickham is not the man you suppose him to be.”
Mrs. Bennet looked affronted, but said no more. Jane’s brows were drawn with concern, and even Lydia now seemed mildly unsettled. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her thoughts heavy. Finally Mrs. Bennet, Lydia and Jane left the room.
It was then that Mary, her voice low and contemplative, asked, “And what of Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “He has gone north. For what reason, I cannot say. But I trust he will think of me. As I do of him. We know him not to be the villian.”
Mary did not press her further. The two sisters sat in silence for a time, each turning over her thoughts. Outside, the grey sky hung low, matching the heaviness in Elizabeth’s chest. She would not give in to despair. Not now. Not when she still had time.
She rose and crossed to the window, her fingers grazing the cold glass. North. Somewhere in that direction, Fitzwilliam Darcy rode alone, his thoughts as tumultuous as her own.
She would not doubt him. Not today. Not ever.
Chapter 25
On the Monday before Christmas, the family at Longbourn was enlivened by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, come to pass the holidays as was their custom. Mrs. Bennet received her brother and his wife with warmth and volubility, delighted to turn her thoughts, however temporarily, away from the vexations of Mr. Bingley's sudden departure and the mortifying engagement of Mr. Collins to Charlotte Lucas.
Mr. Gardiner, as always, brought with him a quiet intelligence and gentlemanlike ease, which softened the tempers of all but Mrs. Bennet, who, though fond of her brother, was never long removed from the concerns of her own household. The Netherfield ladies, had they seen him, might have been astonished to find so amiable and elegant a man in trade, whose manners were polished and whose countenance reflected good sense and goodwill in equal measure.
Mrs. Gardiner, several years younger than her husband’s sister and far more composed, was beloved by her nieces for her kindness and understanding. There had long existed a peculiar intimacy between herself and the eldest Miss Bennets, and even Mary found herself at ease in her company, though she was not given to forming close attachments.
As always, the first order of business upon Mrs. Gardiner’s arrival was the distribution of small gifts and trifles from town—ribbons, new lace, and, to Kitty and Lydia’s delight, the most recent chatterings of fashion. Once that excitement waned, it was Mrs. Gardiner’s turn to sit and endure the deluge of her sister-in-law’s grievances.
“Oh, sister, you cannot know what a season of disappointments this has been!” cried Mrs. Bennet, wringing her hands as she recounted in detail every slight, real and imagined. “We were so near to having two of the girls married, so near! And now—nothing! Jane would have had Mr. Bingley, I am sure of it, if only that proud Mr. Darcy had not taken him away. And Lizzy—well, she might have been Mrs. Collins by now, had she not been so perverse.”
Elizabeth, seated nearby with her embroidery untouched in her lap, maintained an air of composure. Her mother’s complaints struck no new chord, but the sting of hearing them again, uttered with such unthinking cruelty, was a wound not yet dulled.
Mrs. Gardiner, calm and smiling, murmured vague replies of sympathy, having already been made aware of much of this history through Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence. But she noted something now that piqued her attention—Elizabeth’s letters, which had once been so lively and frequent, had grown shorter, more reserved, particularly after her accident.
Later, when the general tumult of arrivals had passed and the younger girls were engaged elsewhere, Mrs. Gardiner took the opportunity to seek Elizabeth’s company in the sitting room. The two sat near the fire, their tea cups steaming gently before them, as snow fell in light flakes beyond the frosted windows.
“My dear Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner began in a tone of quiet intimacy, “I hope you will not think me intrusive, but I cannot help but remark on the change in your letters of late. Since your fall, they have had a different tone—more circumspect, and, if I may be forgiven, rather guarded.”
Elizabeth set down her cup and offered a faint smile. “I have had much to consider, Aunt. Perhaps my thoughts were too scattered to be neatly arranged on paper.”
Mrs. Gardiner nodded, her gaze kind but sharp. “I do not doubt it. Still, I had grown used to your particular wit and candour, and I have missed them. I confess, too, I was surprised that your letters contained so little mention of Mr. Darcy, especially given what I had heard.”
Elizabeth’s heart skipped at the sound of his name. “And what have you heard?” she asked carefully.
