Sir Geoffrey turned to Mr. Gardiner, barely looking him in the eye. “Mr. Gardiner. A pleasure. I believe we share a mutual acquaintance in Mr. Hartwell of the Exchange?”
“We do,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Hartwell mentioned your family’s interest in the canal ventures. Sit down, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Only for a moment. I brought a small token,” Sir Geoffrey said, presenting the parcel. “A new volume of verse from Hatchard’s. I recalled that you admire poetry, Miss Bennet.”
“We spoke for approximately thirty seconds in Hyde Park, Sir Geoffrey. I cannot recall discussing poetry.”
“Lady Prideaux mentioned it.”
“Ah, I see, then Lady Prideaux is remarkably well-informed about everyone’s preferences.”
Mr. Gardiner cleared his throat. “That is a generous thought, Sir Geoffrey, but I am sure you are aware that my niece cannot accept a personal gift from a gentleman to whom she is not closely connected. I must ask you to keep the volume for yourself, or perhaps donate it to a lending library where it may be enjoyed more widely.”
The correction was delivered with the gentle, implacable courtesy, but Sir Geoffrey, even though smiling, seemed affronted.
“I assure you, Mr. Gardiner, I meant no disrespect. Your niece is rumored to be a woman of great intelligence with literary merit. I had hoped to request the supper dance at Lady Harewood’s ball next week.”
“Sir Geoffrey.” Mr. Gardiner rose, signaling his dismissal. “I must ask you to keep the volume for yourself. As for the ball, I believe Miss Bennet’s dances are arranged by her guardian, Mr. Darcy, who serves as deputy to Lady Sophia Mottistone. You may apply to him.”
“Darcy?” Sir Geoffrey’s voice held incredulity. “I find it hard to believe that an unattached young man would serve as Miss Bennet’s guardian when she has an uncle in town.”
“Be that as it may, you do not have my permission to address my niece.”
“Of course,” he said. “Forgive me. I intended no impropriety.”
He abandoned the bookshop parcel on the side table and departed without further ceremony. The front door closed behind him with a thud.
Elizabeth eyed the parcel. The ribbon looked ridiculous now—like a party hat at a funeral.
“Well,” Mr. Gardiner said mildly. “That was educational.”
“He did not ask what she wanted to read,” Alice observed from the piano bench. “He decided for her. That is not kind.”
“Alice, the book was meant as a gift,” Mrs. Gardiner said.
“That is not kind either. Books should be chosen by the person reading them.”
Mary’s laugh—full, unguarded, delighted—rang across the parlor, and Alice looked pleased with herself in the specific wayof a child who had made a grownup laugh and understood it as a compliment.
“This is what concerns me, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “These men are not seeing you as anything but a number on a ledger.”
“Aunt.” Elizabeth set down her cup and grinned, although she hoped it didn’t appear as painful as her heart inside. “I see through every one of them. Every charmer, every braggart, and every man who believes his title entitles him to a place on my dance card. Not a single one of these gentlemen would have paid me the slightest attention when I was a country miss with mud on my hems. Except Mr. Darcy and he?—”
She stopped, and Mrs. Gardiner raised one eyebrow. “What about Mr. Darcy? This trustee of yours who vets callers and fills your dance card?”
Elizabeth swallowed the tight lump in her throat.
“He is only doing it under the orders of Lady Sophia. He would like nothing better than to return to Pemberley and forget about me. Although he is too honorable to say so when his godmother requests that he be her deputy for my Season.”
“I see.” The other eyebrow rose, the one that told her aunt that Elizabeth was dissembling.
“Jane, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said, rising. “Perhaps you and Mary might take the children to the kitchen. Cook has promised to teach Rose the proper way to frost a cake, and I believe Thomas requires supervision before he removes any additional shoes.”
Jane understood immediately, gathering Mary and the children to the kitchen for the promised cake. Her uncle returned to his study, and Elizabeth found herself alone with her aunt.
“Come,” Mrs. Gardiner said, taking Elizabeth’s hand. “Walk with me in the garden. The roses need looking at, and you need to breathe air that is not heavy with unspoken things.”
She stepped out with her aunt’s hand over hers, walking arm in arm, blinking back the tears that threatened, her heart rent in pieces, and it was all her doing. The only sound was their boots crunching the gravel over the narrow path between two buildings.
