“Please tell me she began packing.”
“Oh, indeed. She selected her green taffeta, ordered Kitty to press gloves, and wrote a letter to Aunt Philips to say she was off to see Lydia married—‘in the modern way,’ shecalled it. Wickham was visibly horrified. I have never seen a man re-evaluate his choices so swiftly.”
Mrs. Gardiner was now laughing outright. “He fled, didn’t he?”
“Vanished before supper. Left a note claiming urgent business in the north and, naturally, unpaid bills behind him. The innkeeper is still cursing his name.”
“And Lydia?”
“Declared she had changed her mind,” Elizabeth said with a smirk. “Told everyone she had refused him, that he had wept at her feet, and that she would never love again—until she found someone taller with a carriage.”
"Oh, Lizzy," her aunt said between giggles, "you must write this all down one day. It would make a most delightful tale."
Elizabeth laughed, feeling the warm humour of the story take the edge off what might have been calamity. "Perhaps I shall. But only once it is far enough in the past to be viewed with proper amusement."
Their laughter joined that of the children playing in the next room, and for the moment, the troubles of the past month seemed less burdensome.
It was then that Mrs. Gardiner, smiling still, laid aside her sewing and turned to Elizabeth with a familiar sparkle in her eye. "Now, Lizzy, we must speak of our plans. Your uncle and I are resolved to take our tour to the North come summer—Derbyshire, Cumberland, perhaps even a glimpse of the Lakes if the weather proves fair. What say you to joining us?"
Elizabeth's heart gave a small flutter. She had known this question would come—had indeed looked forward to it—and yet the weight of all it implied caught her unprepared. She smiled warmly and said, "I should like it of all things. It would be delightful to explore the North in your company."
Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased. "Then it is settled. We shall write to your father."
Elizabeth inclined her head, her smile unwavering, but her thoughts ran far afield. To her aunt, she showed only glad anticipation for hills and rivers and ancient market towns. But inwardly, she was not quite so certain. Would the journey north be necessary at all? Might things change before the summer came? If Fitzwilliam—Mr. Darcy—should speak at Hunsford, if he should look upon her with the same feeling she had glimpsed once or twice before, would she have the strength to say no?
The thought was both frightening and thrilling. Yet for now, she could not let such hopes sway her outward manner. "I am quite beside myself with anticipation," she said,feigning gaiety. "To think of all the romantic vistas and rustic cottages! I only hope I can bear to leave them behind."
Mrs. Gardiner laughed again, unaware of the quiet storm beneath her niece’s composed exterior. And Elizabeth, with a glance toward the window and the pale March sky beyond, wondered if the summer would bring clearer skies in more ways than one.
Chapter 28
Every object in the next day's journey to Hunsford was the same as she recalled—every hedgerow, every stretch of road, and every gentle rise of the countryside seemed to whisper of another life, a former time. Yet this time, it felt more like a reflection than a reality. The knowledge that she would be staying at the parsonage as a guest, and not as a guest of Rosings, amused her now more than it vexed her. Mr. Collins's enthusiastic greeting upon their arrival had not changed in the least, nor had his thinly veiled pride in the parsonage he had once imagined she might preside over. It was all exactly as she remembered.
What did differ, however, was Elizabeth's reaction. She could hardly keep from smiling when Mr. Collins, with all his accustomed gravity, ushered them into his abode with sweeping declarations of its superiority, as though it were a manor house. The parsonage, with its modest proportions and overly elaborate compliments to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would not have sufficed for even the humblest of cottages on the Pemberley estate. The notion nearly made her laugh aloud, and only her firm sense of decorum prevented it.
Charlotte, ever practical and composed, had clearly done much to order the household in her own quiet, effective manner. The sitting room was brighter, the furniture better arranged, and the sense of peace more tangible. Elizabeth noted these things with appreciation, and some guilt. For though she came with genuine warmth, she was also here for another reason altogether—a reason that brought with it the faintest pang of regret for using Charlotte’s hospitality as the stage for her reunion with Fitzwilliam.
Still, she was determined to maintain their friendship and not allow her deeper purposes to interfere with their companionship. Charlotte's manner, though warm, had an edge of reservation, and Elizabeth could not fault her for it. Theirs was an old intimacy, altered now by the strangeness of circumstance and the burden of unspoken thoughts.
That evening, over tea, Mr. Collins launched into his habitual praises. "Yes, Miss Elizabeth," he began, with an air of grave importance, "you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt notbut you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her Ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say, one of her Ladyship’s carriages, for she has several."
"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed," added Charlotte with a measured tone, "and a most attentive neighbour."
Elizabeth, unable to restrain herself, gave a small laugh. "Indeed," she said lightly, "I imagine sitting in Lady Catherine’s best carriage must be quite the honour—an experience not soon forgotten."
Mr. Collins’s countenance brightened with the animation of one accustomed to dispensing second-hand grandeur. “Oh, my dear cousin, though I must clarify—her Ladyship’s more elegant equipages are, naturally, reserved for occasions of true consequence. It was, I believe, her third-best barouche which was most graciously offered for our use that day. But rest assured, even the humblest of her vehicles surpasses in taste and workmanship any conveyance you—or I, for that matter—could ever hope to command by our own modest means.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, her smile sharpening. “How fortunate we are, then, to be so repeatedly reminded of our inferiority. It is not every day one has the privilege of feeling so thoroughly insignificant—nor of being lent the precise barouche best suited to it.”
Mr. Collins blinked, evidently attempting to decide whether her tone bespoke gratitude or further admiration. Before he could settle the matter—
Charlotte gave her a quick look, her brow furrowing just slightly, but Mr. Collins, beaming with approval at what he perceived to be admiration, missed any irony. "Ah, yes! That is precisely the sort of condescension which marks her Ladyship’s character."
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Charlotte, who smiled faintly. It was the smile of one who understood exactly how far her husband had wandered in his praise, but who also knew the futility of curbing him. Inwardly, Elizabeth could not help but reflect, with a flicker of amusement, that the honour was indeed hers—though not in the way any of them would yet understand.
Later, when they were alone in Charlotte’s private parlour, the two friends took a few moments to speak more freely.
"Tell me, Eliza," said Charlotte, taking her usual chair by the hearth, "how does Hertfordshire fare without me?"
