“You may,” said Madeline. “Tell me only this. This morning, when you spoke, was he respectful, and were you at ease?”
“He was entirely respectful. I was at ease in a manner that surprised me. He spoke with real feeling for his cousin and of his family. It seemed as though we understood one another.”
Madeline considered her for a moment.
“Very well. I am satisfied. Your uncle meant only to show Mr. Darcy the harbour this afternoon. I think I shall tell him that we ought to invite our guest to dinner tonight, if he is not engaged. If he is, then tea tomorrow will do very well. If Mr. Darcy is wise, he will keep early hours upon the shore and proper hours in the parlour, and we shall all be content.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You are very good to me.”
Madeline resumed her sewing. “I am only glad that you chose to speak.”
After a few stitches she added, as though the thought had just occurred to her,
“If you wish to write before luncheon, you should do so.”
Elizabeth considered, then shook her head. “I ought to answer their letters, yet I do not know what to say.”
“Then do not write until you do,” said Madeline.
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps that is what troubles me. I cannot decide whether I have too much to say or too little.”
Madeline looked at her over her work. “There is no haste.”
“Thank you, Aunt, for not being hard on me, and for your advice.” Elizabeth rose and kissed her cheek. “I will rest a little.”
Mr. Gardiner had set his letters in order and laid aside the sand when Madeline tapped and entered his study. The sea shone pale through the window; the house was very still.
“How does our girl?” he asked, rising.
Madeline crossed to the desk and moved a stack of papers aside before taking the chair he offered.
“Composed. She spoke by little degrees. Their walks have coincided more than once. James kept near. All proper. She was at ease, and he was entirely respectful.”
He nodded. “James told me much the same when he brought the post. Quiet meetings. Nothing amiss.”
Madeline folded her hands in her lap. “You know her habit. When something pleases her, she will not name it.”
“A lesson learned where talk seldom brought comfort,” he replied. “We must not sharpen it by clumsy caution. Kindness and order will do more than warnings.”
“Just so. There is another point. If this attachment should ripen, Longbourn would not receive it as we might hope.”
Mr. Gardiner leaned back in his chair. “My sister loves a triumph. For a rich suitor she would ring the bells. Yet I confess I do not think she would rejoice if the bride were Lizzy.”
Madeline was silent a moment. “It is unjust, but I fear you are right. Fanny loves her daughters in her own way, yet she has never understood this one as she ought.”
“As for Thomas,” said Mr. Gardiner, “he would laugh, call it surprising, and retire to his library. Yet he would miss her more than he knows. Lizzy keeps his books, manages his accounts, and spares him a hundred inconveniences.”
“There is no profit in blaming them,” said Madeline. “We only note what is likely. If the matter goes forward, we must stand in the place they will not fill.”
“We will,” he replied. “We shall give Mr. Darcy plain terms. If he means honourably, he will be glad of them.”
“He must understand. Calls are welcome, yet always within our sight. Morning visits when I am at home. A turn upon the pier when you are with them. The lending library on Tuesdays. No evening rambles.”
Mr. Gardiner smiled. “A formidable list.”
“A sensible one.”
“I shall not dispute it. If Mr. Darcy is free, invite him to dinner. If not, to tea tomorrow. No display; only the same welcome we have always shown him. I find him steady. Hisregard for Colonel Fitzwilliam speaks well for him. If he asks my leave to pay Lizzy marked attentions, I shall not be backward.”
