“Shall I send word to Darcy? He is at the moment, transferring your Consols to your mother and sisters, making them even more of a target.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I mean to give them the Consols. I trust my uncle will not allow them to be touched.
“But Darcy should be informed of this new complication, and your mother’s plans to visit.”
“Not yet. Let me think. I do not wish for Darcy to be involved in my family’s affairs.”
Lady Sophia raised an eyebrow. “I do believe he is concerned enough to help.”
“He is only the trustee because you wished it to be so,” Elizabeth replied. “He does not concern himself with other matters. You heard what he said. That a lady’s misery cannot be laid at the gentleman’s door.”
Lady Sophia’s expression softened, almost pitying. She nodded once, as if conceding that Elizabeth had exiled herself—perhaps she was the Mortimer Delvile after all.
Raising her book, she said, “Very well, my dear. Go to Cheapside. Harris shall have the carriage brought round for you at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
The permission was given, and the subject closed with the smooth finality of a falling latch.
Elizabeth turned and climbed the stairs to her room, leaving the gaiety and absurdity of the Season and suitors behind. The house was quiet now; the music room doors had closed, and the Handel duet was a thing of the past. She stood by her bedchamber window and pressed her palms to her face, discovering with a quiet, sudden tremor that the room felt too cold.
Through the shared wall, she heard nothing. Number 34 was silent. Darcy was at his club, or at his solicitor’s, or attending to the hundred obligations of a man with ten thousand a year, a sister to launch, and a woman next door whose problems kept multiplying.
She had told Darcy she wanted a trustee who kept his distance—a gentleman who would never again trouble her with an affection she had so imprudently rejected. She had gotten exactly what she asked for. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, Nettle barked once and was quiet.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE WISDOM OF CHEAPSIDE
The Gardiner childrenmet them at the door as though Elizabeth, Jane, and Mary had arrived bearing treasure instead of a terrier and a basket of shortbread from Lady Sophia’s cook. Samuel seized the basket with both hands and ran for the kitchen. Rose took Nettle by the collar and ran for the garden. Alice, who was eight and operated above such frenzies, waited in the hallway and offered Mary her hand instead of a curtsy.
“I have been practicing my perspective drawings,” she informed Mary. “I drew the piano from four angles.”
“Which angle is best?”
“The one from underneath. Nobody draws pianos from underneath.”
“That is because nobody lies on the floor beneath a piano.”
“I do,” Alice said, leading Mary toward the parlor.
Elizabeth was glad of it, exchanging a glance with Jane, who had spent the days since the promenade avoiding company by claiming a headache. Bingley had been turned away, and Elizabeth could not imagine what, if anything, was going on. Darcy was supposed to speak to Bingley, but he had also promised not to persuade, and he seemed to be keeping his distance.
So much for her triumphant London debut. She’d managed to turn it into a muddle worthy of Meryton in less than two months.
Two-year-old Thomas was glad for Jane’s attention, and he greeted her with grubby hands around her skirts, lifting them to examine her shoes. Jane picked him up with the familiarity of having spent the winter in London with them, her face relaxing as she buried her nose in the boy’s hair.
“Come,” Mrs. Gardiner said, appearing from the kitchen with flour on her wrists. “Come in, all of you, and tell me everything, and I mean everything, Lizzy, not the curated version you have been putting in your letters, which were charming and told me absolutely nothing.”
The drawing room was cluttered with more furniture than space, and wooden blocks littered the rug. Aunt Gardiner moved aside a pile of books, making room for them, and Elizabeth felt the weight of Mayfair fall away as she sank onto a too-soft sofa.
The room welcomed them with the rich, honest scent of sugar and citrus rising from the kitchen, mingled with toasted bohea and the comforting musk of old books. Jane sat with Thomas on her lap, playing patty-cake, and Mary was ensconced with Alice in front of the writing desk, where a half-mended basket held pencils and charcoal.
“I hardly know where to begin,” Elizabeth said, accepting tea in a sturdy English teacup. “The Season is a spectacle, both absurd and magnificent. I am exhausted, but enjoying every minute. Did I tell you we have a new friend, Miss Allegra Courtenay? And the promenade on Sunday was bustling. I can barely catch my breath. We got new dresses, Mary played at a musicale, and there’s a grand ball coming up at the Harewoods.”
“It sounds exhausting just hearing you describe it,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “Tell me about the gentlemen callers. I hear you are quite an item.”
“More like a spectacle.” She traded glances with Jane. “I do believe half of the callers only wish to gawk at the unknown country girl whom Lady Sophia Mottistone chose for what everyone believes are mysterious and therefore, scandalous reasons. Lady Sophia is not saying, except she has a network of correspondents in Hertfordshire who have apparently provided her with my character references.”
“I take it she is delighted with you.” Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “And is she introducing you to all manner of gentlemen? Being that she’s your sponsor for the Season?”
