Mr. Bingley stayed another half hour, speaking with Mr. Gardiner about business matters and the state of the roads to Hertfordshire. Jane sat quietly, her happiness evident in the softness of her expression, the way her eyes kept drifting to Mr. Bingley's face.
When he finally rose to take his leave, he bowed to each of them in turn. But when he reached Elizabeth, he paused.
"Miss Elizabeth, Darcy asked me to tell you specifically—" He hesitated, then continued. "He asked me to tell you that he hopes you are well. And that he regrets he will not see you before you leave Bath."
The words were simple enough, but something in the way Bingley spoke them made Elizabeth's throat tighten.
"Please tell Mr. Darcy that I hope his friend recovers," she said. "And that I—that we are grateful for his kindness during our stay."
It was inadequate. Entirely inadequate. But what else could she say with everyone watching?
After Mr. Bingley left, the room fell into silence. Jane excused herself to write a letter, leaving Elizabeth alone with her aunt and uncle.
"Well," Mr. Gardiner said, returning to his newspaper. "It seems young Bingley intends to make his intentions known sooner rather than later."
"Indeed," Mrs. Gardiner agreed. She glanced at Elizabeth. "And it seems Mr. Darcy had particular reason to regret his absence today."
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm again. "He was being courteous, that is all."
"Was he?" Mrs. Gardiner's tone was mild. "I thought his message rather more pointed than simple courtesy required."
"Aunt—"
"I make no judgments, Lizzy. I merely observe." Mrs. Gardiner picked up her embroidery. "Though I will say, it is unfortunate you will not have the opportunity to speak with him before we leave. I had the impression you might have wished to."
Elizabeth's hands twisted in her lap. Her aunt was right, of course. She had spent half the night rehearsing what she might say to him, how she might begin to apologize for her terrible accusations, how she might convey that she understood now—truly understood—who he was.
And now she would have no chance at all.
"Perhaps it is for the best," she said quietly. "I hardly know what I would say to him."
"The truth, I imagine," Mrs. Gardiner said. "That usually suffices."
But what was the truth? That she had been spectacularly wrong about him? That she was ashamed of her prejudice? That reading his letter had kept her awake until dawn, that every page had struck her like a blow, that by the time she reached the end she had been weeping openly?
That she regretted rejecting his proposal, and that what she felt for him now was unlike anything she had ever known before?
"You will see him again," Mrs. Gardiner said gently, as though reading her thoughts. "Mr. Bingley will be at Netherfield. I imagine Mr. Darcy will visit his friend there."
"Perhaps." Elizabeth did not sound convinced. "Or perhaps he will choose to avoid Hertfordshire entirely. I gave him little enough reason to wish to return."
"You may have given him more reason than you think."
Elizabeth looked at her aunt questioningly, but Mrs. Gardiner said nothing more, only returned her attention to her embroidery with a small, knowing smile.
How her aunt could read so much in her acquaintance with Mr. Darcy thus far, Elizabeth could not say; yet somehow shewas certain Mrs. Gardiner perceived more than she chose to reveal. Perhaps that was why she had never mentioned her familiarity with the Darcy family, nor spoken at length of Mr. Wickham when Elizabeth had confided in her—save to listen, and to observe.
Elizabeth managed a small smile. Her aunt was, after all, the wisest and most considerate woman she knew. Her mother loved her daughters in her own fashion, but it was Aunt Gardiner who best understood how to guide them.
***
That evening, Elizabeth stood at the window of the bedchamber she shared with Jane, looking out at the darkening Bath streets.
Tomorrow they would leave. Return to the familiar rhythms of Hertfordshire, to her mother's exclamations and Mary's sermons and Kitty and Lydia's silliness. Everything would be as it was before.
Except it would not be. Because she was not the same person who had left Longbourn three weeks ago.
That Elizabeth had been certain of her judgments. Sure of her ability to read character. Confident that she could see through pretense to the truth beneath.
