Page 39 of A Question of Character

Darcy raised his brows at Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet has made a habit of revealing my secrets.”

“They were excellent secrets,” Elizabeth said, stepping into the carriage. “Too good to waste.”

The door closed, and the carriage moved away.

Georgiana waved until it turned the corner. Then she leaned against Darcy’s arm, all youth and excitement.

“Ramsgate, Fitzwilliam,” she said. “I am so excited!”

Darcy placed his hand briefly over hers.

“Yes. Ramsgate.”

But his eyes stayed on the corner long after the carriage had vanished.

six

Promises of Return

During the fortnight that followed, Elizabeth came to know a new species of London pleasure: the pleasure of expecting Mr. Darcy and being rewarded for it.

He was not always with them. That would have been improper, and Mr. Darcy, even when most inclined to forget himself, never forgot propriety long enough to make her do so. But he appeared with sufficient frequency to make absence noticeable. One morning, they met at the British Museum, where Mr. Gardiner admired coins, Darcy discussed Roman roads with more interest than Elizabeth had suspected any gentleman could possess, and Georgiana stood with her hands folded before a case of antiquities, whispering to Elizabeth that she preferred objects whose former owners had not been dead quite so long. Another evening, they attended Vauxhall with Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. Gardiner, Georgiana, as she had begged Elizabeth to call her, and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had arrived in town for several days and declared himself morally obligated to prevent Darcy from behaving too solemnly beneath colored lamps. Elizabeth had been pleased to meet more of Darcy’s family.

Darcy had not behaved solemnly. Not completely.

He had walked beside Elizabeth through the illuminated grove, his height and gravity drawing the eyes of several ladies who must have known him, or wished to know him, or wished to be seen wishing it. He did not notice them. Or, if he did, he gave no sign of it beyond the occasional contraction of his brow when some gentleman laughed too loudly or some party of young men jostled too near. Elizabeth had teased him for policing the whole of Vauxhall with his countenance.

“I have no authority here,” he had replied.

“No, but you look as if you expect to be obeyed.”

“That is different.”

“Very different. One is arrogance, and the other is merely hope.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam had laughed so violently that Georgiana had covered her face with both hands and declared she could not be seen with either of them.

There had been walks in Hyde Park, too, and one rainy afternoon spent almost wholly indoors at Gracechurch Street, where Darcy allowed the youngest Gardiner boy to explain a battle between two wooden soldiers, a chipped teacup, and a dragon made from folded paper. The dragon had won, though only after Darcy suggested that its wings would be of little use if the infantry seized the hill first. Elizabeth, watching from across the room while hemming one of her aunt’s handkerchiefs very badly, had pricked her finger and said nothing about it.

By the middle of May, the approaching journey to Ireland had become an object every person mentioned and no one quite liked. Mrs. Gardiner spoke sensibly of trunks, shawls, traveling cloaks, and the advantage of bringing fewer books than Elizabeth believed necessary. Mr. Gardiner spent more time at the warehouse and less in his own parlor, though he always had some cheerful report meant to persuade his wife that the business would not overtake the pleasure. Georgiana made Elizabeth promise to write. Darcy said little of the matter, which, from Darcy, meant a great deal.

On a bright afternoon, when a warm wind moved the curtains in Mrs. Gardiner’s front parlor and the sounds of Gracechurch Street entered whenever a carriage passed too near the open window, Darcy called alone.

Mrs. Gardiner was at home, though presently occupied with a letter from Hertfordshire and a dispute over whether a particular ribbon ought to be packed or left behind. Mr. Gardiner had been detained at the warehouse. The children were in the nursery. Elizabeth sat near the small table with a basket of mending, though she had made no greater progress than three uneven stitches and one knot she did not wish her aunt to discover.

Darcy had been speaking of Mr. Bingley, whose name Elizabeth had heard several times but whose person remained unknown to her.

“He returns from the North just after you leave town,” Darcy said, accepting tea from Mrs. Gardiner before taking the chair she indicated. “He has been visiting relations near Durham, though I believe the sisters remained in London for the season.”

“His sisters did not accompany him?” Mrs. Gardiner asked from her desk.

“No. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst prefer town when town is available.”

“That sounds very reasonable of them,” Elizabeth said, drawing her needle through the linen and discovering she had not improved the handkerchief. “Or very fashionable.”

“Both, perhaps.”

“And is Mr. Bingley fashionable?”