Mrs. Gardiner tilted her head slightly. “And after Charlotte wedding, will you come to us then?”
Elizabeth smiled again, the expression tinged with sadness and hope. “Yes,” she said simply. “When I can, I will.”
The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did notonce sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one.
Mrs. Gardiner, rendered observant by Elizabeth’s subtle reserve and Mary’s marked attention toward Mr. Wickham, soon grew suspicious. Unlike her sister, she was not inclined to take such things at face value, and the careful scrutiny she applied to every glance and tone did not long go unrewarded. She observed that Wickham, though still all charm and affability in company, was now far more guarded in Elizabeth’s presence than he had been at first.
Her suspicions were deepened when, in one of their conversations, Mr. Wickham happened to mention the part of Derbyshire in which Pemberley was situated. It was done so casually, so innocuously, that most would not have remarked upon it. He spoke of the countryside, of shared acquaintances from the region, and gave the impression of one recently and pleasantly engaged there. Mrs. Gardiner, having spent a considerable time in that very neighbourhood before her marriage, was intrigued. Wickham, seizing upon the opportunity, began to name places and persons with the ease of a man well acquainted. And yet, Elizabeth noticed, he was careful—almost too careful—not to speak of Pemberley itself, nor of its master or his sister.
Elizabeth, seated nearby, could no longer keep silence. She interjected with quiet composure, “I had thought, Mr. Wickham, that you had not returned to that part of Derbyshire since the elder Mr. Darcy’s passing.”
There was a pause, a slight twitch at the corner of Wickham’s mouth that quickly vanished. “Indeed, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied smoothly, “I have seldom had cause to revisit. My affairs have taken me elsewhere. But it is remarkable how memory can serve, and how deeply rooted are the images of youth.”
“Quite,” she said, her voice measured. “And yet, the mind does have a curious habit of remembering only what it finds most useful.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked from one to the other, the ease with which Elizabeth challenged him—gently, but unmistakably—did not escape her notice. Nor did Mr. Wickham’s somewhat forced smile as he turned the conversation toward a recent assembly.
Afterward, as Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner were walking together in the garden, the latter could not help but speak. “Lizzy, I do not mean to pry, but you seemed to take quite a particular tone with Mr. Wickham. Is there something I ought to understand?”
Elizabeth gave a small laugh, though not entirely mirthful. “Only that Mr. Wickham is rather practiced in the art of narrative. I find it prudent to test the boundaries of his recollections.”
Mrs. Gardiner studied her with affection and something like concern. “Your letters have changed of late. You write less and say little, and I cannot help but think there is more behind your manner than meets the eye.”
Elizabeth looked away. “There may be, but nothing I can explain—at least, not yet.”
Mary, who joined them soon after, remarked with quiet satisfaction that Mr. Wickham had appeared somewhat unsettled that evening. “One might think,” she said, “that the truth pressed too near the surface.”
Elizabeth agreed silently, and though their task was far from complete, they both felt some satisfaction that Wickham was beginning to tread with greater care.
What remained now was the greater difficulty—ensuring Lydia did not fall prey to his charm. But that was a battle yet to be waged.
Chapter 26
The morning was crisp and bright, with a faint promise of spring hidden beneath the brittle chill of winter air. Elizabeth had at first hesitated to suggest a walk, uncertain of her aunt's readiness for such exertion, but Mrs. Gardiner agreed with cheerful alacrity, and the two soon found themselves strolling beyond the gardens of Longbourn, the gravel path crunching beneath their boots.
For some time they walked in companionable silence, speaking only of the weather, the state of the hedgerows, and the happy riot of snowdrops peeking through the earth. Elizabeth had not intended to speak—indeed, she had rehearsed several times in her mind the wisdom of keeping her thoughts to herself—but at length, feeling the moment suitable and her aunt’s countenance particularly kind, she broached the subject with as much delicacy as she could muster.
"My dear aunt," she began, her voice quiet and hesitant, "you must forgive me if I speak too plainly, but I find myself in want of a favour—one which I hope you may grant, though I am quite aware it is not a small request."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her with affectionate curiosity. "My dear Lizzy, I hope you know there is very little you might ask that I would not cheerfully consider. Pray, what is it?"
Elizabeth hesitated once more, but then resolved to proceed. "It concerns my younger sisters—and the frequency with which the officers of the militia have been calling at Longbourn. I fear, Aunt, that so much attention from such lively and, perhaps, imprudent young men may not be wholly wise. Lydia and Kitty are at that age where admiration is everything, and I am not easy in my mind that all such admiration is innocent."
Mrs. Gardiner’s brow lifted slightly, though her tone remained gentle. "Indeed, my dear, you speak with more gravity than I might expect from a young lady not yet one-and-twenty. I daresay you are too anxious on their account. Youth must have its amusements, and I should not wish to see them stifled too soon."
Elizabeth flushed a little, feeling both the truth and the sting of the reproof. "Perhaps I am too anxious. But I cannot help observing their giddiness—Lydia in particular. She speaks of nothing but red coats, and has no higher ambition than to be admired by every officer in the regiment. I do not think it harmless, Aunt."
Mrs. Gardiner was silent for a moment, watching a crow alight upon a bare branch. Then she turned back to Elizabeth with a thoughtful expression. "You are not wrong to be cautious. But have you spoken of these concerns to your mother?"
Elizabeth gave a short laugh, more weary than mirthful. "Mama? She sees no fault in Lydia or Kitty. She encourages them, and would sooner call me jealous of their popularity than believe me serious in my concern. That is why I ask you, dear Aunt. She values your opinion, and perhaps from you, she might receive it better."
Mrs. Gardiner frowned slightly, then nodded. "I shall speak to her, Lizzy, though I must warn you—if her mind is set, my words may have little effect. Still, I shall try."
Elizabeth let out a breath she had not known she was holding. "Thank you. That is more than I could hope for."
They walked a little farther in silence, the gravel crunching again underfoot. At last, Elizabeth added, with more hesitation, "There is one officer in particular of whom I am even less easy—Mr. Wickham."
Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes narrowed with interest. "Ah, yes, I have heard his name often. Lydia speaks of him almost as frequently as she breathes. He seems to be quite the favourite."
