Page 27 of Near Pemberley

Mr. Gardiner, less delicate perhaps but equally affectionate, added with cheerful openness, “And if I may speak plainly, Lizzy, I suspect the gentleman admires you very much indeed.”

Elizabeth could not maintain composure in the conversation much longer. “You both imagine far too much,” she said, attempting lightness though her voice betrayed some agitation. “Mr. Darcy is merely anxious to repair an acquaintance formerly conducted with less ease.”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

Yet her manner plainly suggested she was not convinced.

Elizabeth felt herself incapable of continuing the subject safely. She therefore enquired whether her uncle truly intended to attempt fishing the following morning, and by this means the conversation gradually altered; though not, she suspected, because either of her relations had entirely relinquished their conclusions.

Later, when she had retired for the night and found herself at last alone, all the composure she had maintained throughout the evening deserted her entirely.

The room was quiet. Beyond the window, Lambton had already begun to sink into stillness; the last sounds from below stairs faded gradually, until nothing remained but the distant murmur of voices somewhere in the inn and the occasional passing of wheels upon the street.

Elizabeth sat beside the candle for some time without undressing.

Her aunt’s words returned to her repeatedly.

He appeared particularly desirous of your good opinion.

Was it possible?

Elizabeth, who had formerly prided herself upon discerning everybody else’s feelings with tolerable accuracy, found her own increasingly beyond interpretation.

She had asked herself the question before, though never so directly. Until now, she had resisted it almost instinctively, partly from pride, partly from caution, and partly because the alternative appeared too dangerous to entertain.

For if Mr. Darcy still felt for her anything resembling his former attachment, every gesture, every word would have more meaning… she did not know how she ought to behave.

And if he did not…

That thought, she discovered unwillingly, was no longer entirely comfortable either.

She rose at last and moved slowly towards the window.

Tomorrow they would go to Pemberley.

Tomorrow she would see him again – not unexpectedly upon a street, not amidst accidental meetings and hurried conversation, but in his own home, among those who knew and loved him best.

The idea filled her with an agitation she could neither master nor wholly regret.

She thought of Georgiana – of her sweetness, her timidity, the quiet affection with which she looked towards her brother, and the gentle confidence with which she had spoken of him. There had been nothing artful in Miss Darcy’s manner, nothing proud, nothing resembling the character Wickham had once so readily attributed both to brother and sister alike.

A particular afternoon in Meryton returned unexpectedly to her memory.

She saw again the easy confidence with which Wickham had walked beside her, sometime before Christmas, speaking of old grievances he appeared almost unwilling to reveal. At the time, his reluctance had seemed honourable. She remembered thinking that no man could invent such a story with such openness.

Now the recollection embarrassed her.

The openness had been too convenient. The reluctance too perfectly timed. What she had once mistaken for sincerity seemed increasingly like practice. Nor had she been singular in receiving his confidence. Before many weeks had passed, the story seemed known throughout Meryton.

And Elizabeth, remembering now the warmth with which she had formerly listened to those accusations, felt a painful shame steal over her once more.

How willingly she had believed him.

Not merely because his story had been plausible, nor because Mr. Darcy’s reserve had encouraged unfavourable judgement, but because Wickham’s account had flattered her vanity while seeming to justify her prejudice. She had been pleased to find Mr. Darcy condemned by another and pleased to think herself discerning for having disliked him early. And in that satisfaction, she had accepted as truth assertions which ought to have been examined far more carefully than she had ever troubled herself to do.

For Wickham had not merely attempted to injure Darcy in her esteem; he had spoken lightly – almost cruelly – of Georgiana too. And she, who now could not imagine Miss Darcy speaking ill of anyone, had listened without sufficient indignation merely because her resentment towards the brother disposed her to think ill of all connected with him.

Worse still, she remembered now – with a degree of mortification almost intolerable – how very near she herself had once come to admiring him beyond prudence.