She had not been particularly mournful at leaving Longbourn. Her mother had spent the last fortnight alternating between sighing over some syrupy poetry that Jane had received from a now-absent suitor, and lamenting Elizabeth’s apparent allergy to all things demure and practical. Charlotte Lucas had taken to hinting—rather archly—about the virtues of a stable income over romantic nonsense, and Lydia’s laughter had grown especially high-pitched now that she had discovered which hats made the shop boys blush. When the Gardiners’ invitation arrived, Elizabeth had packed her valise before the ink dried.
It was not that shedislikedhome. It was simply that she had begun to imagine something beyond it.
The carriage crested the hill and began to descend toward the town. Lambton was nestled in the valley, neat and inviting, its cottages painted white and grey with tidy stone chimneys and flowering window boxes. Beyond it, the land rolled upward again toward Matlock and Bakewell, and somewhere further still—though Elizabeth cared little about the famous gardens her aunt loved to gush over—the infamous Pemberley of her aunt’s fondest boasts lay tucked behind the hills.
“You will like Mrs. Hartley,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “She and I were at school together, and she is twice as sensible now as she was then. Her husband is the vicar of St. Thomas’s, and they keep a lovely garden. If I remember rightly, she plays the harp.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who was clearly suppressing a smile.
“I make no promises about the harp,” she said.
Mr. Gardiner leaned forward. “I know you girls were hoping for a tour of the mountains, but first, we have an invitation to a garden party in two days’ time. At Lady Chiswell’s estate, near Matlock. Mrs. Hartley arranged the introductions. Apparently it is in aid of the London Foundling Hospital.”
“Oh, that sounds delightful,” said Jane.
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Delightful? I expect it will be a riot of bonnets and matchmaking.”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner cheerfully. “That is what makes it delightful.”
Mary made a vague noise of disapproval, and Elizabeth bit her lip to avoid laughing.
“It will be good for you,” her aunt added. “New faces. Fresh air. A change of scenery does wonders for one’s perspective.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze back to the window. The houses were closer now. A shop sign swung gently in the breeze, its paint faded but the lettering still proud.
New faces. Fresh air.
She was not looking for love. She was not looking for anything at all.
But it would be good, just for a while, to not be known quite so well.
The knock was fartoo cheerful.
Darcy, seated with his boots off and a Latin grammar open in his lap, considered ignoring it. Mrs. Reynolds would answer in due course, and whomever it was could be politely turned away with the usual excuse: “Mr. Darcy is not receiving visitors at present.”
But then the door opened anyway, and he realized—too late—that the usual excuse would not be sufficient.
“Gad’s teeth,” said the figure silhouetted in the doorway, “you are still reading that abominable book.”
Darcy did not rise. “It is not abominable. It is precise.”
“Yes, well, so is gout.” Major Fitzwilliam crossed the study as if he owned it, pulled Darcy’s grammar from his hands, and dropped it on the side table with all the reverence of a stable boy chucking a saddle. “Where are your shoes?”
“Where they belong.”
“Now you sound exactly like Seneca. Egad, you are worse than I feared.”
Darcy sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Why are you here, Richard?”
“Why, to see you, cousin. To admire your fine taste in solitude. To breathe deeply of the morbid air that must surely be thick with your melancholy. And—incidentally—to drag your hideous carcass to a social function.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I am not—”
“You are.” Fitzwilliam dropped into the chair opposite, draping one leg over the arm with military slouch. “You have been buried here for half a year. You have frightened off a full third the staff, scared away every neighboring hostess, and even poor Bingley thinks you are about to turn into a ghost and start haunting the east wing.”
