Elizabeth was silent for a moment. “Here,” she said at last, “I have felt regarded. Not merely because I am useful, or because I am sensible, but for myself. At home, I am necessary. That is not the same thing. My mother arranges. My father withdraws. Janeshines. I manage. It has always seemed understood that I would remain.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I believe it has.”
“And though I am very happy, though I would not retract a word of this morning, I cannot forget that I am not yet fully my own.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached for her hand. “You have only just turned twenty.”
“I know.”
For a few moments neither spoke.
“For an instant,” Elizabeth said, “I wondered whether we might simply remain here. Or go somewhere beyond everyone's reach. Somewhere that does not require permission.”
“To Scotland?”
Elizabeth coloured, but did not deny it.
“He mentioned it once. In jest. Or half in jest.”
“And what did you think?”
Mrs. Gardiner's hand remained in hers.
“I thought that if I followed him anywhere, I would not feel diminished.”
Mrs. Gardiner pressed her fingers gently. “Then I am very glad you need not choose between affection and duty.”
Just then the door opened and the gentlemen returned.
Elizabeth turned at once, and whatever concern had occupied her seemed lighter than before.
“For a moment,” she said, “I was tempted to ask whether the tide runs as swiftly north as it does toward London.”
Chapter Twenty
The journey to London passed in a brightness that seemed almost borrowed from the sea they had left behind. The road was long, yet none felt it tedious. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner spoke often of their children; of Grace’s impatience, of Bethany’s ribbons, of Eddie’s wooden ships and little Freddie’s delight in anything that rolled across the floor. Elizabeth listened with a tenderness sharpened by absence, and Mr. Darcy, riding sometimes beside their carriage and sometimes within it, joined easily in their anticipations, asking questions with a warmth that made the children seem already half known to him.
For some miles the conversation was cheerful; then, as the road stretched open and quiet, it turned more deliberate.
“You must not go to Longbourn alone,” said Mr. Gardiner. “Whatever reception awaits you there, it shall not be faced unsupported.”
“My father may not readily approve an extension of my stay,” said Elizabeth. “Though there is nothing pressing that requires my return, he is not fond of arrangements made beyond his knowledge. And there is in me an uneasiness that the request might be denied simply because it is mine.”
“Then we shall not present it as a request,” said Mr. Gardiner. “You are assisting your aunt; that is reason enough. If more is required, I shall supply it.”
“She shall not return without me,” said Darcy. “If she goes to Longbourn, it shall be when I may properly attend her.”
Elizabeth felt the firmness of that promise more keenly than any earlier declaration. It was not defiance; it was protection.
“Very well,” said Mr. Gardiner. “Then we shall contrive matters so that Hertfordshire receives you both together.Yet until Mr. Bennet's consent is secured, there is, in the strictest sense, no engagement to proclaim. It would be prudent to plan for all outcomes. Discretion, for the present, may prove the wiser course.”
“I shall not speak of it generally,” said Darcy. “My cousin must know, for I keep nothing from him; but beyond that, I would not have Miss Bennet's circumstances made subject to discussion. The explanation would require particulars better left unexamined.”
By the time they reached the Ashfords' house, the children had already been watching for them. The carriage had scarcely stopped before the door opened and Grace came flying down the steps. Bethany followed close behind; Eddie lingered only until Mr. Gardiner lifted him from the ground; and Freddie, determined not to be overlooked, fastened himself at once upon his father's coat.Elizabeth was drawn into the welcome almost as quickly. Mrs. Gardiner endured a moment of composure before laughter and tears overcame it together.
Lady Ashford received them with equal warmth, though of a quieter kind. She stood aside at first, content to watch the joyful confusion, before drawing Mrs. Gardiner away for a few moments' conversation. “Ashford's mother will never forgive me if I do not secure you for tomorrow evening,” she said with affectionate resignation. “Richard is on leave, Henry is free of Parliament for once, and for the first time in months the whole of the Fitzwilliam household is assembled under one roof. I called on your mother yesterday; she unfortunately will not be able to come, being confined at home with a summer cold. She was greatly disappointed to miss it. Lady Matlock declares the rest of us must make up the deficiency.”
Mrs. Gardiner's expression softened. “Poor Mama. I had hoped she would be there.”
