It ought not have done. Elizabeth knew her father too well to expect anything else. Yet some small, foolish part of her had still hoped that this, at least, might matter enough.
She walked to Meryton herself.
Mrs. Philips received the news with all the anguish Elizabeth expected. Her aunt cried out, pressed both hands to her breast, and collapsed into a chair before being helped upstairs, where she took to her bed with cries nearly indistinguishable from those Mrs. Bennet had given upon hearing the same intelligence. Elizabeth could not blame either sister for their grief. Mr. Gardiner was their only brother, and Mrs. Gardiner had always been dearly loved. Still, each wail seemed to strike against Elizabeth’s already fraying nerves until she could scarcely breathe.
Mr. Philips did not speak until his wife had been settled with hartshorn, a maid, and every assurance that Elizabeth would send word when able. Then he came downstairs, removed his spectacles, and held out his hand.
“May I see the letter?”
Elizabeth gave it to him.
He read it slowly, his brow drawing lower with every line. When he finished, he did not immediately return it. Instead, he looked at Elizabeth with an expression that made her feel, for a moment, very young indeed.
“What were they thinking, sending this to you at your age?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “They were thinking correctly.”
His mouth tightened, but not with anger at her. “Perhaps. But correctly is not always kindly.”
“The children are alone.”
“Not alone, by the sound of it.”
“With servants who are frightened and leaving.”
“Aye.” He folded the letter carefully. “And so you mean to go.”
“I must.”
“Of course you must,” he said at once, surprising her. “But you will not go alone. I shall accompany you.”
She had been so prepared to argue that the words robbed her of reply.
Mr. Philips softened slightly. “I was Edward Gardiner’s brother by marriage and his attorney when he required one. Those children are family. You may be the one your aunt trusted, Lizzy, but you are not the only person with a duty.”
Now, as the carriage jolted slowly along Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth looked at him again and was almost overcome by gratitude she could not safely express. She feared if she began thanking him, she would begin crying, and if she began crying, she might never stop.
London bore the marks of the disaster everywhere.
The rains had ended, and much of the floodwater had drained away, but the city had not yet recovered. Mud clung thickly in corners and along curbs. Several shopfronts showed staining halfway up their doors. Men stood outside with brooms, buckets, and shovels, pushing filthy water and ruined goods into the street. The smell was dreadful—damp wood, river muck, smoke, rot, and too many people pressed too closely into distress. More than once, the carriage had to slow for a cart loaded with ruined furniture, soaked barrels, or bundles of spoiled cloth.
Elizabeth thought of Uncle Gardiner’s warehouses and felt ill.
At last, the carriage stopped.
She looked out and saw the Gardiners’ house.
For a moment she could not move.
It looked almost the same.
That was the cruelest part.
The door, the windows, the familiar steps—everything stood in its proper place, as though Aunt Gardiner might open the door at any moment with a smile and say the children had been dreadful terrors from confinement and would Lizzy please come help distract them?
Mr. Philips descended first, then handed Elizabeth down. The pavement beneath her feet was still gritty with dried mud, and a dark line stained the lower bricks of every house. She swallowed hard and followed him up the steps.
He knocked.
