“… friend of yours. He said he would escort…”
“Mr Gardiner? Can you hear me?”
“… Darcy? Are you there?”
“Yes, I am here. Where are Mrs Bennet and her daughters now?”
The line cleared for a moment. “… due… New York tomorrow. Your friend… would see them on their way.”
“Bingley is in London. Did he send someone to New York?”
It sounded like Mr Gardiner was standing out in the wind. “… friend of yours… sailing for London on …day. … got… money you sent… passage.”
“A friend of mine? Mr Gardiner, what day are they sailing?”
“… Friday.… eager to see her girls! I could not have stopped her for… keep a tight watch on Lydia, though. … Lizzy with you?”
Darcy closed his eyes. How could Mr Gardiner not have heard? “Where is Mrs Bennet staying in New York? How can I find her?”
“… I think Fifth Avenue. Or… Victoria… depending on vacancy.”
“Thank you. I will take a train to New York myself to meet them.”
“… very kind of you! Sir, is it possible… speak to Lizzy? Is she well? … old uncle misses her!”
He cleared his throat. “Ah. Mr Gardiner, did Bingley not write of the present circumstances? Elizabeth is not with me.”
Poor though the connection was, the disappointment in Gardiner’s voice nearly matched Darcy’s own.“I see. No… no letter from Bingley.”
“Well, then who wrote to you? Which friend of mine is escorting Mrs Bennet?”
“… fine fellow. Very gracious… great favourite with the ladies.”
“Mr Gardiner? The line broke up. What did you say his name was?”
“George …ham.”
Darcy dropped the earpiece.
Newport
Thedayhadstartedpromisingly enough.
Elizabeth returned from her morning walk early, and in a more nostalgic mood than usual. Having little else to do for an hour, and not hearing Richard moving about in his own room, she went to the hotel office and sat down with a pen and a piece of paper. Oh, how she ached to write to Jane! Perhaps it would not be so terribly alarming if she wrote as Mrs Williams.
Still, caution stayed her hand. Richard had been adamant that no word of their whereabouts should cross the ocean, even though they were safely out of reach of His Majesty’s Army. Elizabeth crumpled the page upon which she had written her sister’s name and set her chin on her fist as her pen traced wistful letters in the air.
Shecouldwrite to Georgiana. Perhaps she was in Boston by now, and it should not be difficult to find the address for the Conservatory. The office would be able to give her the letter.
Meditatively, Elizabeth eased her pen across the page, savouring each stroke as a lifeline. Even if Georgiana should never get the letter—and she refused to consider that possibility—the simple act of writing tosomeonewas a balm to her unmoored spirits. If someone she cared about could know she was safe, and an approximation of where she was, then perhaps she was not yet so lost as she felt.
Richard was in one of his fouler moods when she saw him later. Some days, that was simply the way of it—he was short with everyone, impatient with her and with himself, and surly when he ought to have been gracious. Perhaps it should not have surprised her, for had she not suffered her own emotional pinwheel? And his demons must have been far darker, but it concerned her every time she saw him thus. He was not entirely the master of himself on such days. He usually held his reserve with her, but with the guests, it was another matter. The previous week, he might have got himself fired over a simple misunderstanding if she had not intervened.
Today’s worry was written in every line of his face. Perhaps he had not slept again, or the nightmares were particularly bad. Whatever the cause, he only heaved a weary growl when she offered him a cup of coffee. Naturally, she felt compelled to lighten his manner.
“A fine morning today, did you see the sunrise?” she attempted. “There was a dove cooing just outside my window. I think it had a nest.” “Mrs Annesley sent up a note thanking you for helping her husband yesterday. She said they have never had such a pleasant stay at any hotel.” “Oh, your new suit coat arrived. I thought it a bit narrow in the shoulder, but if you try it on, I will ask for the appropriate alterations.”
Every ploy, he deflected with a one-word answer or a grunt, and her natural stubbornness urged her to rise to the challenge until she was chattering like Lydia. Nothing was too trivial if it could make him smile or even respond for an instant. She did not dare bring up any subject of import, thinking anything of the kind might worsen his mood, and before long she was sounding childish and simple, even to her own ears. Finally, his irritation made a swift transferral to herself.
