Page 100 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

“Excellent idea,” said her uncle. “Mary shall come to town and be shocked in the most improving manner, for there shall be nary an extract to be found.”

“You will have to send Jane and me back first, Aunt,” Elizabeth said. “At the moment Mary is the only sensible one left at Longbourn.”

“Your parents,” her aunt said, her voice rather arch, “seem to be getting on very well on their own.”

Mr. Gardiner choked a little on his tea. He stood and tossed his napkin on the table. “I am off, my dears.”

Elizabeth folded the letter with care. Mary’s news was extraordinary. But even if her mother was with child, it was too early to know whether anything would come of it. Jane gave her a little nod, obviously having performed the same calculations, and just like that, Elizabeth knew there would be no conversation on the matter until there was more certainty about it.

Soon, her uncle had gone, the children were at their lessons, and the sitting room had settled into its morning quiet. Jane sat by the window reading the first volume of Tom Jones, which Mr. Aldridge had left for their uncle on his second visit and which their uncle had left on the sitting room table ever since.

“You will ruin your character,” Elizabeth said, waggling her eyebrows at her sister. “Mrs. More would have a great deal to say about that book.”

“Then it is fortunate Mary sent only the one extract.” Jane turned a page. “It is not so wicked as I was promised. It is mostly kind, underneath. I think the author likes people rather more than he trusts them.”

Elizabeth, who had already read the entire story, shook her head. There were times when Jane had a way of seeing clear through to the heart of a matter, and Elizabeth admired her for it. “You should tell Mr. Aldridge you think so. He told me that he is scolded for Fielding at least once a fortnight. I am sure he will appreciate an ally.”

“You may tell him yourself. He said he would be back before the month’s end.” Jane found her place again. “It is already the nineteenth.”

“So it is,” said Elizabeth. She found it interesting that Jane was watching the calendar.

Mr. Darcy visiting tomorrow, and alone, was what concerned her most, though, for Elizabeth did not know what she wanted him to say. She wanted him to prove her wrong but feared that he would not. And how could she ask for an explanation of what she had heard, without revealing how she had heard it?

Elizabeth had always known her own mind. This irresolution, therefore, was galling to her. She tried to put it out of her mind and work on her letter for Mary.

She worked for an hour.

Dear Mary, the letter said. The weather continues cold.

The second post brought nothing, but a footman delivered a note from Upper Brook Street. Miss Darcy wrote to thank Elizabeth for the pleasure of the morning at the Institution, confessed that upon reflection she had come round to her cousin’s opinion of the Night-Blowing Cereus, and hoped Miss Elizabeth might one day be persuaded to attempt duets with her. There was not one word in it about Thursday. Either her brother had said nothing of his call, or Miss Darcy had been asked not to mention it.

She read the note twice. That was the trouble with the Darcy family. She had come to London armed against one proud man and had been instead thrown into the company of a shy girl who played splendidly but did not believe it, a lady who noticed everything and matched everyone, and a gentleman who seemed less a proud, haughty man than an affectionate and protective son and brother. She genuinely liked them all, and losing their friendship would hurt.

But she must face the eventuality. Whoever married Mr. Darcy would gain Lady Anne and Miss Darcy in the bargain. Miss Finch had already pronounced Miss Darcy’s playing the best she had heard this season, and she had made Mr. Darcy laugh. Lady Anne obviously approved of her.

They would all do very well together.

Elizabeth put the note in her workbasket where she would not see it. Then she took it out again and set it on the table, because hiding it was ridiculous. She would answer it tomorrow. After.

She gave up on Mary’s letter entirely and went to the front room, where her exhibition catalogue was resting on the small table. She had meant to note the descriptions of the pictures she liked best but had marked nothing, in the end. The pencil had been in her hand the whole morning. She remembered the art very clearly—the Derbyshire view, the bluebells, the half moment when she had turned to Mr. Darcy before she recalled why she should not. Yet the catalogue was perfectly clean.

She touched it, straightened it, then left it where it lay.

In the afternoon, Jane took the children to choose new copybooks at the stationer’s. Afterward, they would visit the toy shop near St. Paul’s, where they would be allowed to spend sixpence each if they all behaved.

“Behaving,” Jane told their youngest cousin, “means that you cannot press your nose to the glass.”

It was an expedition requiring two footmen and a lengthy set of rules, and one that Elizabeth would normally have joined quite happily. But today, she pleaded a headache.

The house went quiet after they all left, and Elizabeth sat with her aunt over a basket of hemming.

Her aunt sewed. She did not ask why Elizabeth’s needle never moved. She did not ask about the gallery, or the sonata evening, or Thursday. Twice Elizabeth drew breath to begin a sentence, and twice she let it out again. Any confession seemed likely to begin with a complaint, and she had no right to one.

Her aunt cut her thread and reached for the next hem. “Whatever it is you are fretting over, you may confide in me whenever you choose,” she said.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. If only she could articulate what was bothering her without sounding foolish.

Jane returned at five with the children, the copybooks, and a full report of the expedition. It had been a success, though success, in this case, had apparently required two warnings, turning back around for one misplaced glove, and a rather detailed discussion over whether a wooden horse could be considered useful if it made its owner happy.