Watching his niece unfold her napkin, Mr. Gardiner said, “You look as if the sea has claimed you for its own, Lizzy. Was the walk a long one?”
“Not so very long, sir,” she replied, helping herself to raspberries. “Yet the air was fresh, and I lost count of the time.”
Madeline reached across to adjust the dish. “Your uncle was just about to tell us of the conversation that followed our withdrawal last night. I suppose it was of business. Yet he has worn an air of curiosity ever since, as though it contained something more.”
Elizabeth looked quickly to her uncle. “Was it of the investment?”
“It was,” Mr. Gardiner said, buttering his toast with deliberate care, “yet not of the sort I anticipated. Uncle Henry himself gave me to understand that Mr. Darcy would lend his name if the scheme were found prudent. I had expected, therefore, only a courteous confirmation of what had already been arranged. But when I confessed that our subscription was not yet complete, he replied, very quietly, that it was not necessarily so. He offered the assurance that no want of capital need hinder us, should he determine to stand by it. There was no flourish, no boast, only the plain words of a man who believed what he said.”
Elizabeth looked up quickly. “Could he afford such a thing?”
Madeline set down her cup. “He would never speak lightly in such matters.”
Mr. Gardiner helped himself to another piece of toast. “He was restrained before the others, and wisely so. A gentleman does not declare his purse among gentlemen still strangers to him. That is why I was glad your aunt extended the invitation to tea. In daylight, with only our papers between us, we may hear his meaning more plainly. He is not a man to waste words, but what he does speak deserves attention.”
After breakfast Mr. Gardiner excused himself with a cheerful word, carrying his papers into the small room he used as an office. The ladies passed together into the parlour, where the windows looked upon the garden and the air was fragrant with lavender. Madeline settled her workbasket at her side, and Elizabeth took her seat near the light, her own work folded upon her lap.
Her uncle’s words lingered, as steady as the voice in which he had spoken them. Mr. Darcy would not allow the venture tofalter. It was said without parade, without hesitation, yet with an assurance that admitted no doubt.
Her mind moved backwards through every hour since first she had seen him. In the theatre, his figure had appeared dark against the gilded light, grave and apart, his countenance reserved even when the play commanded laughter. Upon the sands, he had seemed almost another man. He had crossed the shore to return her bonnet, his eyes touched with a gentleness that spoke of sorrow and solitude. In the parlour he had been all severity, guarded and exact, as if every word were measured lest it escape too freely. At dinner, she had watched him sit among her uncle’s company with perfect composure, asking little, saying less, yet directing every subject by the precision of his inquiries. And now, to hear that he had quietly pledged more than the others dared to expect, was to add another likeness altogether.
She could not reconcile them. The solemn figure at the theatre, the stranger by the sea, the guarded guest of the parlour, the grave observer at dinner, and the gentleman who had pledged his fortune without ostentation. Which was the true Mr. Darcy? Or were all of them true, joined in a character she could not yet comprehend?
Her needle rested idle against the cloth; she had not drawn a single stitch. Madeline's attention settled upon her. “You are very thoughtful this morning, Lizzy. May I ask where your mind is wandering?”
Elizabeth coloured and bent again to her work, drawing her needle carefully through the cloth. “I was only recalling our company last night.”
Madeline selected another length of thread. “And what did you make of them?”
“I thought them all agreeable.” Elizabeth examined her stitches before continuing. “Captain Mountjoy was lively, and Mr. Hargrave very steady. My uncle seemed pleased with both.”
Madeline returned her needle to the linen. “Mountjoy is indeed lively, and one cannot help but be entertained by him. Yet I thought, as he spoke, how very much the sea has coloured all his ideas. It seems to sit with him at every table, as naturally as if he were still upon deck.”
Elizabeth's needle paused above her work. “Do you think him inconstant, ma'am?”
“Not in honour.” Madeline drew her thread through the cloth and examined the stitch before continuing. “But in inclination. A man so long at sea will always look toward it again. Some wives might find the tide a rival; others might delight in its adventure.” She glanced at her niece. “Mr. Hargrave, by contrast, is constancy itself. He spoke little, but one felt his words would bear the weight of his character. I liked him very well.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes to her work, though for several moments she added nothing to it. “Yes. He spoke of his wife with a respect that pleased me.”
Madeline's lips curved as she set another careful stitch. “A respect that shows good sense in both parties, I think. And what of my cousin?”
Elizabeth drew her needle through the cloth and then stopped. “Mr. Darcy was...” She hesitated. “He was reserved.”
“That he was,” Madeline allowed. “And yet I could not help but think his reserve was not indifference. He listens more than he speaks, but when he speaks, it is with precision. Your uncle says his few questions touched more nearly upon the heart of the matter than all the Captain's eagerness.”
Elizabeth's attention wandered from her stitches. “Yes. He asked little, yet I found myself listening more closely to him than to the others.” Realising what she had admitted, she bent at once to her work. “Perhaps because he said so little, I was curious when he did speak.”
Her aunt watched her a moment before returning to her own sewing. “Curiosity is no bad guide, if it is joined to caution.”
For a time neither spoke. The sea sounded faintly beyond the open window, and the clock upon the mantel marked the passing minutes. Elizabeth lowered her eyes to her work, but more than once found she had drawn her thread astray.
At length Madeline laid aside her sewing. “Lizzy,” she said, “there is something I would ask you, if you will indulge me. I do not wish to press you, but last night, when your uncle made the introduction, my cousin regarded you with a suddenness that did not escape my notice. And you, though you were prepared to meet him, appeared surprised. Pray tell me honestly, had you ever encountered Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy before your arrival at Brinmouth?”
Elizabeth's needle paused. “I saw him at the theatre,” she said after a moment. “Only across the house, and I did not know his name. That was all.”
Madeline considered this while winding a length of thread about her finger. “I see. Well, the theatre casts many illusions. It is easy to mistake a look when half the world is in shadow. Think no more of it.”
Elizabeth nodded and returned to her work. The thread had knotted somewhere beneath the cloth, and she spent some time quietly working it loose.
