“I shall give you ten minutes,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “No more, or we shall miss our appointment with Madame Charpentier.”
The sun had dipped below the rooftops by the time they returned to Gracechurch Street, and the parlour lamps had already been lit. A light supper had been laid in the small dining room. Cold beef, cheese, stewed fruit, and a pot of strong teasuited them all very well after the day's exertions. The children had long since gone to bed, and the household had settled into its evening hush.
Mrs. Gardiner passed Elizabeth a dish of gooseberries and regarded her with evident satisfaction.
"I believe the day was a success."
"I believe," said Elizabeth, "that I have somehow acquired half a wardrobe without ever intending to do so."
"That was because you made the mistake of expressing an opinion."
Mr. Gardiner laughed.
"Your aunt has been trying to discover your preferences for years. Once she found them, you were lost."
Elizabeth shook her head, though she could not help smiling.
Her uncle poured himself another cup of tea.
"Well, you shall have occasion to make use of it all. Four gentlemen are expected to join me during our stay. I have letters from Mr. John Hargrave and Sir Thomas Ellison confirming their interest. Captain Montjoy wrote last week to say he intends to attend as well. He left the service with considerable prize money but has not, I think, entirely reconciled himself to retirement. Uncle Henry also mentioned that Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy may wish to speak with me while we are there."
Mrs. Gardiner looked up. "Darcy is coming to Brinmouth?" She set down her cup and let her gaze settle just beyond the candle flame. "Dear sweet boy. I have not seen him since he was thirteen."
“You were close?”
“Very much so. His mother, Lady Anne, was my godmother. She stood as my sponsor at birth and treated me as one of her own from my earliest years. I spent many days at Pemberley as a girl, often during holidays. She would take me into the music room and sit beside me at the pianoforte, or walk with me through the gardens, asking questions about my lessons. Her kindness was never condescending. I admired her greatly.”
"You have never mentioned any of this before."
"There was little occasion to do so."
"You were truly that close?"
"I remember him when he scarcely spoke to anyone. There was a summer when he followed me about the house in silence. Once, when I was playing scales, he climbed onto the bench beside me and sat there without saying a word. The next day, he did it again. After a week, he said Maddie. Just once. After that, he always found me, wherever I was. We hardly spoke, but there was no need. He was a thoughtful little boy. Earnest, and very quiet."
"You speak of him almost as a younger brother."
"Perhaps that is not so far from the truth. We were related, though the connection was never a simple one. My father was Aunt Anne's cousin, but they were raised almost as brother and sister. When his parents died, my father was brought up at Matlock House by the Earl of Matlock. He grew up alongside Henry and Anne Fitzwilliam, and remained close to them all his life. Through Anne's influence he later received the living at Lambton, and so we found ourselves often at Pemberley."
"If you were all so close, what happened?"
Mrs. Gardiner lowered her eyes to her plate. “The year I turned eighteen, the scarlet fever swept through England. Ourswas not exempt. My father was the first to pass. In the fear that followed, it suited Aunt Anne’s husband to believe the illness had entered his household by my father’s hand. As a clergyman, he had ministered where he was most needed, and Aunt Anne, from kindness and duty, had often accompanied him.”
For a moment she fell silent. Mr. Gardiner reached across the table and closed his hand over hers. She returned the pressure briefly before drawing a steadying breath.
“Aunt Anne was taken ill soon after. The child followed her within days. Baby Georgiana did not survive it. When Aunt Anne herself died not long after, grief settled into certainty, and certainty into blame. He could not bear that so much should be taken from him at once, and so he fixed upon a cause. My father's name answered the need.”
“His grief turned outward. Before I fully understood what was happening, we were urged to remove ourselves to London.”
“I was grateful, at least, that my father had left provision enough that we were not wholly unprotected, and that he had placed trust in your uncle long before. Old Mr. Darcy's anger did not soften with time. Communication was cut off entirely, and without ceremony.”
“For a time, I believed the same fate might follow elsewhere. Uncle Henry was an Earl, and I had chosen to marry a man in trade. It would not have surprised me had the connection been allowed to lapse. But Aunt Deborah would not permit it. She loved my mother, and she was resolute in that regard.”
“I know Uncle Henry, Aunt Deborah, and especially their son Richard were all hurt by Mr. Darcy's decision. Yet I do not think old Mr. Darcy fully considered the consequences, for Richard and Will were sent to the same schools, and it was there that their acquaintance was renewed.”
“When old Mr. Darcy died, not long after Will came of age, Uncle Henry and Aunt Deborah received him readily. He was very young to bear such losses.”
“But I was a woman with two small children, and I doubt I had much place in the life of a newly bereaved bachelor. We moved in different circles by then. I suppose, if I were to write, he would answer. He hears of me from time to time, and I of him. But for the most part, our lives have altered beyond easy return.”
