Page 9 of Near Pemberley

“Yes,” she said at last, with a faint effort at composure, “it is just as well.”

It was what she had chosen.

Yet the relief which should have followed did not come.

Instead, there arose a sense of something forfeited – something she had not known she valued until it was no longer within her reach.

He did not know, she repeated inwardly.

He had been near. He had spoken to her aunt and uncle. He had shown them civility – more than civility. He had been easy in his manner, attentive, even desirous of pleasing.

And she, who had once thought such effort impossible to him, was now left to wonder for whom such effort had been made.

The thought was mortifying. Or in reality, it was worse than that. It was simply painful.

Mrs. Gardiner, observing her silence, said kindly, “I hope we did right in not naming you afterwards. Since you had expressly wished to avoid the visit, I thought you might not thank us for introducing your name without permission.”

“You did quite right,” Elizabeth answered at once. “Perfectly right.”

Her voice was steady. “I would not have had you do otherwise.”

Mr. Gardiner regarded her with mild curiosity but said nothing.

Then, after a pause:

“Though I confess I still regret not asking more about the fishing.”

“Edward!” said Mrs. Gardiner.

“My dear, I am perfectly serious.”

Mrs. Gardiner turned back to her niece and rested her eyes on her a moment longer.

Elizabeth forced herself to take up her fork, though she had no appetite.

“Indeed,” she added, with a faint attempt at liveliness, “I should have been very much obliged to Mrs. Reynolds had I known how well she served me.”

The jest was poor. Her aunt smiled, but not as though deceived.

“Then we are forgiven,” said Mr. Gardiner, willing to accept the lighter tone.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

And yet there was something to regret.

Not in them. Not in their discretion. But in the moment itself.

A chance interrupted by a housekeeper’s innocent zeal for duty.

It was absurd that so small an accident should matter. Had her uncle spoken, what then? Mr. Darcy might have thought no more of it. He might even have suspected her of contrivance, which was precisely what she had dreaded.

Yet another possibility continued to trouble her.

He might have wished to know. He might – perhaps – have come.

She checked herself at once, almost with indignation.

That way lay vanity, folly, and mortification enough for any woman of sense. Had she not refused him? Had she not given him every reason to avoid her? What right had she to imagine that her presence in Lambton could be anything to him now?