Page 4 of Near Pemberley

Elizabeth paused. For an instant, the answer did not come. Her resolution, which had seemed so fixed while opposition was distant, faltered beneath kindness.

“I am.”

There was a pause, not of displeasure, but of quiet consideration.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Gardiner at last. “We shall not press you. Your uncle and I may go alone.”

Elizabeth inclined her head in gratitude, though she felt little ease from the concession.

The matter appeared settled, yet when her aunt turned away, she remained where she was, her hand resting lightly upon the back of a chair.

She told herself she was relieved.

She had avoided the risk, the embarrassment, the possible mortification of a meeting she could not command herself to face. She had acted prudently. She had preserved herself from every appearance of seeking him.

And still, as the silence returned, another feeling intruded, less welcome and more difficult to name.

She would not see him.

The certainty of it brought her less relief than she had expected. It settled upon her as a disappointment, though she would have been hard-pressed to say what hope had been disappointed.

She moved at last, slowly, towards the window.

It was a foolish thought, and she tried to dismiss it.

Yet she could not help wondering whether, had she gone, she might have found him altered. Or whether she herself had already changed without fully knowing it.

Or whether some moments, once declined, might not be so easily recovered.

Chapter II

The next day, Elizabeth did not at first intend to be long from the inn.

She had gone out with no fixed purpose, only a wish for quiet, and the morning was so mild, the air so soft upon the hills, that she had continued almost without noticing how far she had come. The lanes were pleasant, the hedgerows thick with summer growth, and the motion itself afforded her some relief, though her thoughts remained unsettled.

More than once, however, they returned to the same point.

Her aunt and uncle would now be at Pemberley.

She did not dwell upon it. She had chosen not to go. The reasons for that choice had been sufficient and must remain so.

Not of him, she told herself, but of the place. Whether it was indeed as fine as described. Whether the grounds justified such praise. Whether the house looked as she had imagined it – or whether, like its master, it might prove less easily judged at a distance.

She checked the thought, almost with impatience, and turned her attention resolutely to the path before her.

By the time she returned to Lambton, the sun stood higher than she had expected. The inn appeared quiet. No carriage stood before it, and within, everything seemed as they had left it.

“They are not yet come back, ma’am,” said the maid, when Elizabeth inquired. “They have been gone a good while. There is much to see, I am told.”

Elizabeth thanked her and went upstairs.

For a moment, she stood in the middle of the room, uncertain whether to sit or walk again. She moved to the table with her sewing box and took out Jane’s letter from some weeks ago.

The contents were affectionate and calm, filled with those small domestic details which, from Jane, always carried a particular charm. Nothing was amiss. Nothing to alarm. Her mother was in spirits, her father as usual, her sisters much the same. The cousins made up most of her days, as keeping them from creating havoc was almost an occupation in itself. Elizabeth could almost hear their noise while she read.

She smiled once or twice, and when she had finished, she remained a moment with the letter in her hand, her thoughts softened.

There was always comfort in Jane.