Page 71 of A Question of Character

Georgiana crept from her bedchamber long after the house had gone silent. She needed to write George a note. Her maid had carried the last two without question, persuaded that she was assisting a young lady cruelly separated from the gentleman she loved. Georgiana supplied the girl with a few coins for the post and enclosed, with each letter, a fresh outer wrapper addressed in her own hand. Mr. Wycombe used those wrappers for his replies, allowing them to pass among Georgiana’s ordinary correspondence without attracting Mrs. Annesley’s notice.

Fitzwilliam cared for her, but he could not understand what would make her happy.

With her brother’s edicts in mind, Georgiana was quick to craft a plan to continue her romance with the man her brother so disapproved of. She scrawled the instructions quickly, with the wavering light of a candle to illuminate the paper. As she sanded and sealed the missive, she saw an unfinished letter tucked under a sheaf of clean paper. She pulled it forward.

Quickly, she scanned the words, recognizing her brother’s hand. The name at the top caused her to pause, and her brow furrowed. Had her brother so misunderstood?

All was not lost after all. If he could be but made to understand… Here was an opportunity. And she intended to take it.

nine

Home Again

Elizabeth arrived at Longbourn on an August afternoon that smelled of warm grass, dust, and ripening apples.

The carriage moved through the familiar lane with a rattle of wheels over dry ruts, and the house came into view much as it always had: its windows bright beneath the late summer sun, its shrubbery a little untidy where Mrs. Bennet had once declared it charming, its front steps bearing the scuffs and ordinary wear of home. After London, after Ireland, after weeks spent in unfamiliar rooms, crowded inns, wild coasts, damp roads, cheerful discomforts, and her aunt’s unfailing good humor in the face of every inconvenience, Longbourn ought to have appeared small.

It did not.

It appeared beloved.

Elizabeth pressed one gloved hand to the carriage window as though the touch could hasten their arrival. Beside her, Mrs. Gardiner smiled over the sleeping form of her youngest child, who had collapsed against her lap with one fist still closed around a ribbon purchased in Dublin. Mr. Gardiner sat opposite, reading a letter from his clerk with an expression of mingled patience and resignation.

“I believe,” he said, folding the paper, “that Thompson has contrived to conduct business in my absence with more order than I manage in my presence.”

“That is a dangerous discovery,” Mrs. Gardiner replied.

“It is good I own the business. Let us hope Thompson never received a better offer of employment. He would make another too prosperous, and I should be left to the wolves.”

Elizabeth laughed, though her attention had already gone beyond the carriage.

Longbourn. Jane. Her father’s library. The old path beyond the paddock.

Mary’s music, Kitty’s complaints, Lydia’s noise, her mother’s schemes. All the domestic disorder she had written of with amusement and missed with unexpected force. Ireland had been beautiful. She had found things worth writing about, two disagreeable inns, one excellent inn with a landlady who deserved a fortune, roads that tested every wheel and temper, and more shades of green than even Mr. Darcy’s devotion to Derbyshire could have prepared her to admire.

Mr. Darcy.

She sat back before Mrs. Gardiner could observe the direction of her thoughts.

His name had followed her through the summer in the most inconvenient fashion. It had occurred to her beside the sea, while examining ruins, in the middle of a very poor dinner, and once while watching her uncle bargain with a man over shipping terms in such language of mutual respect and exact calculation that she had longed to hear Mr. Darcy’s opinion of it. Georgiana’s letters had come twice, bright with descriptions of Ramsgate, music, shells, and walks by the water. Mr. Darcy appeared in them by accident. My brother says I must not bring crabs into the house. Brother has gone to Kent for Mr. Bingley. Fitzwilliam returned earlier than expected. After that, the next letter had been shorter, less lively, and Elizabeth, reading it in a room overlooking a gray Irish morning, had wondered whether the sea had ceased to be quite so enchanting.

No explanation had followed. She had no right to expect one.

Still, in September, or perhaps earlier if business allowed, Mr. Darcy had said he wished to call at Longbourn. She had answered yes. More than yes, if honesty were required. She had told him she should be happy to see him, and she had remembered his face afterward with a frequency that would have exposed her to merciless teasing had Jane been present to witness it.

They were not returning in September after all. Mr. Gardiner’s business had concluded more quickly than expected, and Mrs. Gardiner, missing her children and declaring that Ireland had had enough of them for one year, decided they would return through London and send Elizabeth home in August. There had been no time to write to everyone properly. Jane knew the day. Perhaps Mr. Darcy did not. Maybe he would come. Maybe he would not.

The carriage stopped before the house before Elizabeth had properly arranged her thoughts. The front door opened, and Hill came out with such visible pleasure that Elizabeth’s first step from the carriage was nearly into an embrace.

“Miss Lizzy! Oh, how pleased Miss Bennet will be. She has been watching for you this half hour.”

Jane appeared a moment later, hastening down the steps with more eagerness than elegance, and Elizabeth ran to meet her.

“My dearest Jane.”

“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane held her close, and for several seconds there was no need for speech. “You are thinner.”

“I am not.”