Elizabeth did not smile. "Yes, he is charming—so very charming. Too charming, I sometimes think."
"Come now, Lizzy," her aunt said with a teasing tone. "You sound positively cynical. Are you saying this from observation, or—" she paused, a twinkle in her eye, "—from experience?"
Elizabeth shook her head, her lips tightening. "No, I assure you, it is not personal disappointment. But there is something in his behaviour that troubles me. I..." she paused, uncertain, then continued cautiously, "I fear he is not quite so deserving as he appears."
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a penetrating look. "That is a strong charge, Lizzy. One does not make such judgments lightly. Has he given you cause for suspicion?"
Elizabeth bit her lip, realising she had said more than she meant. "Only impressions. Nothing I can prove, and I should not wish to repeat idle gossip. It is enough that I do not trust him—not wholly—and I do not think him a proper companion for young, impressionable girls."
Mrs. Gardiner was silent again. Her eyes were thoughtful, her expression unreadable. "Well," she said at last, "I thank you for your confidence, my dear. I will do what I can. I cannot promise to change your mother’s mind, but I will speak. As for Mr. Wickham—I shall reserve judgment, but I will observe."
Elizabeth was grateful beyond expression. "Thank you."
"And now," her aunt added with a wry smile, "let us talk of something less weighty. If I spend all morning thinking of wayward officers and wilful young ladies, I shall return to Gracechurch Street quite in despair for the youth of the country."
Elizabeth laughed then, and gladly allowed the conversation to drift to lighter matters, though her heart was no less burdened for the exchange. She had planted a seed, and with any fortune, it would take root. But still, the future was uncertain, and she could only hope that her efforts would be enough.
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; staying at Lucas Lodge this time, as befitted the soon-to-be son-in-law. His marriage was now fast approaching, and Elizabeth found herself in anticipation of the invitation that she knew Charlotte would soon issue. Despite her foreknowledge of these events, there lingered an odd unease in her breast, as if the passing days were laced with doubt.
She was, in her heart, uncertain whether her recent reserve had estranged her friend. When at last they had a moment alone in the parlour at Longbourn, she tried with more warmth than she quite felt to revive the familiarity between them.
"You must know, Charlotte," she began, affecting lightness, "how greatly I look forward to seeing you again. I hope we shall meet often in Hertfordshire."
Charlotte hesitated, adjusting the folds of her gloves before replying, "It is not likely that I shall be much in Hertfordshire after the wedding."
Elizabeth's heart gave a small pang at the formality of the statement. Was this her way of parting? But before she could dwell further, Charlotte added, "My father and Maria are to come to me in March."
There was a pause. Elizabeth’s lips parted to speak but no words came. Just as she was about to turn away, Charlotte, with the faintest colouring to her cheek, continued, "And I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome to me as either of them."
Relief softened Elizabeth's countenance, and her smile held greater sincerity. "Indeed I will. You may depend upon me."
Charlotte, who had grown more subdued in her affections, offered a look of real warmth. The restraint that had lingered between them eased, if only a little, and for the first time in many weeks, Elizabeth felt a familiar comfort in her friend’s presence.
For all her awareness of the folly of Mr. Collins and the indelicacy of his patroness, she would not deny Charlotte the solace of a friend.
The wedding soon took place: the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the subject as usual. Lady Lucas bore the triumph of her daughter's advancement with pride thinly veiled in humility, and Mrs. Bennet, though no friend to Charlotte’s new station, made civil professions that pleased no one and satisfied herself.
Elizabeth soon heard from her friend, and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as the events permitted. That it should be equally unreserved was, however, impossible. Charlotte’s first letters were received with a good deal of indifference. Elizabeth, who knew too well the content even before unfolding the pages, could not summon much enthusiasm for tales of parsonage furniture, poultry, or the supposed condescension of Lady Catherine.
"Lady Catherine is affable to me when I speak only when spoken to," Charlotte wrote with a dry wit Elizabeth had once cherished. "Mr. Collins has taken great pains to ensure our chimney-piece is exactly to her ladyship’s taste."
Though Elizabeth chuckled, it was more from affection than amusement.
In parallel, Jane continued to write. She had yet to call on Miss Bingley, though she indicated she would. Elizabeth, remembering too well the insincerity that marked Miss Bingley's behaviour at Netherfield, warned Jane gently to expect little warmth.
"You give her too much credit, dearest," Elizabeth had said when they last discussed it. "Miss Bingley’s kindness is as changeable as the fashion."
But Jane, ever hopeful, replied in her next letter that she had gone at last. "She was polite, though hurried, and professed herself delighted to see me. Yet there was little invitation in her manner, and I am left unsure whether I shall visit again."
Elizabeth read that letter with a sigh, knowing how the scene had played out even before it reached the page. Her sister’s steadfast belief in the goodness of others was touching, but Elizabeth could not share it. The Bingley sisters had not changed, and Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam, as she called him in her heart—was far away.
Still, she told herself, his going north might not be a mark of defeat. He needed time. If anything, she should have faith in the strength of their affection, the connection they had forged so strongly and so silently.
Yet each morning she awoke in the same room of her youth, and each evening closed the day without his voice or his counsel. There was determination in her breast to set things right—not only with him, but with her family, her sisters, her future.
And so, with her mind fixed on spring and the invitation to Hunsford, she began to gather her strength for what was to come.
Chapter 27
