“Oh, you know how gossip travels—especially when the subject is as grand and proud as Mr. Darcy. I have heard he is wealthy, reserved, and not particularly beloved here. And then there was that unfortunate remark at the Meryton assembly. Mrs. Philips, I believe, relayed the tale with much relish.”
Elizabeth laughed, though the sound rang hollow. “Yes, I believe every ear in Hertfordshire has been subjected to the tale of Mr. Darcy’s infamous declaration. It was most unflattering.”
“And yet,” Mrs. Gardiner said, watching her closely, “you have not written of him. Not really. And now I find you so still when his name is mentioned.”
Elizabeth took up her needlework, though she did not begin to stitch. “What would you have me say? That he is proud, and disagreeable, and uninterested in pleasing? That is what I thought of him—once.”
“But not now?”
“I do not know,” Elizabeth admitted. “He confounds me. I thought I had come to know him, but perhaps I have misunderstood.”
Mrs. Gardiner tilted her head. “And what is your heart’s inclination, Lizzy?”
“I… I do not know that either,” she said with a soft sigh. “He is not what I once believed, but I am not so certain of what he is.”
Mrs. Gardiner let the silence stretch between them before saying gently, “I should trust your judgment in this more than most. But take care, my dear. Confusion is rarely the friend of a contented heart.”
Elizabeth smiled ruefully. “I shall try to remember that.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached for her hand. “I am here if you wish to speak. Of him, or of anything. And I promise no idle gossip will spring from me.”
Elizabeth gave her aunt’s hand a grateful squeeze but said nothing more. Her mind was a tangle of memories and impressions—his voice, his eyes upon her during their dance, the way he had followed her into the garden, and the look in his face when she said she could not explain her knowledge.
She would not speak yet. Not until she was certain. Not until she could believe the path ahead was meant to be followed.
Mrs. Gardiner, though puzzled, let the matter rest, and changed the subject to Mr. Bingley.
Elizabeth’s response was more measured than it might have been in her last life. Gone was the flash of fervent indignation that had once accompanied her defence of Jane’s affections. She did not, this time, rail against the injustice of his departure or accuse his sisters of artifice with quite the same passion. She simply stated, with a gentle firmness, that Jane’s spirits would be best restored by a change of scene.
“I do believe,” she said, after a moment’s reflection, “that time and distance may prove our best allies in this. Jane’s affections are not worn on her sleeve, but I have seen them clearly enough to know they are sincere. She will not recover her composure while the spectre of Netherfield remains so near and yet so empty.”
Mrs. Gardiner studied her niece with quiet curiosity. Elizabeth’s tone was thoughtful, almost wistful, and her eyes seemed to focus on something far removed from the little sitting room at Longbourn. There was a kind of maturity in her speech that had deepened since her injury—a gravity that had not always marked her liveliest expressions.
“You speak wisely, Lizzy,” her aunt said. “But are you not also weary? This whole matter appears to have affected you more than you allow. Would you not accompany us to London?”
Elizabeth looked at her with a soft smile. “Oh, I should like that very well, but I must remain here, for now. Charlotte’s wedding draws near, and I have obligations to attend it. It would not be... proper to absent myself at such a time.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a look of affectionate teasing. “Proper, my dear? When did you grow so exacting? You have always had a fine mind for decorum when it suited you.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Perhaps I am changing. Or perhaps I have seen the consequences of too little propriety and wish to err on the side of caution for a time.”
There was a pause then, and Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the window, where the bare branches of the trees swayed against the grey December sky. The weather had not turned to snow, though the air bore the chill of it. She thought of another day, not longago and yet so distant in memory, when she and Fitzwilliam had stood before the nursery, the soft summer light of June warming the room. James had been nestled in her arms, just six weeks old—plump and strong, his eyes growing ever more alert, his tiny hands stretching with curiosity.
James. Her sweet boy.
She still had hope of her life. The memory of that last morning—Fitzwilliam’s arm around her, their son between them—was vivid and achingly dear. How could she not yearn to return? The ache in her heart, in her very bones, was constant.
But she could not dwell. Not yet.
She returned her thoughts to the present and to Jane, whose love story—quiet and gentle—deserved its chance to bloom once more. Jane and Charles had been exceedingly happy after their marriage, particularly in their new home at Croftwood Hall in Chesterfield, not twenty-five miles from Pemberley. Fitzwilliam had enjoyed their presence, and often remarked on how soothing it was to spend time with people so unassuming, so free from pretense.
Their daughter, little Clara, was the image of her mother—fair-haired, serene, and sweet-tempered. Elizabeth smiled faintly at the thought. Jane’s life had taken such a lovely shape, and it pained her to think it might not again, should this second chance be lost.
“Aunt,” she said, more earnestly now, “when you return to town, will you take Jane with you? I believe it would do her a world of good, and it may be just the remedy she needs to lift her spirits.”
Mrs. Gardiner did not hesitate. “Of course I will. I had hoped to invite you both. But if you must stay behind, I shall still be glad for Jane’s company. I have missed her gentleness.”
Elizabeth nodded, touched by her aunt’s kindness. “Thank you. She will be grateful, I am sure. I shall persuade her.”
