Page 41 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

“I can promise only to be civil.”

“Let us settle upon charming civility and then we shall both be satisfied.”

Elizabeth sat quietly for a moment and then said, “Aunt, you and Uncle have a wager riding upon my marriage prospects. Are you certain your judgement today has not been corrupted by self-interest?”

Aunt Gardiner laughed softly. “On the contrary my dear, I am certain that it has. Ring for tea, if you would, for I have done a great deal of talking this morning.”

The bell rang downstairs, and Martha came up with the post. There were three letters. One was marked from Liverpool for Uncle Gardiner, another was for Aunt Gardiner from one of her sisters in Lambton, and the last was for Elizabeth.

“Oh, a letter from Mary,” she said, pleased.

“Martha, take Mr. Gardiner’s into the study, I expect he is wanting it. And we are finished here. When Mr. Bingley arrives, you may show him in.”

Elizabeth took her letter to the window seat and broke the seal.

Dear Lizzy,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and not so improved by London society that this intelligence from home has lost all power to interest you. I write, as instructed, to observe and report upon the state of Longbourn.

I have been speaking a little each day with Kitty on her own, encouraging her away from town and the militia. To my surprise, she has listened. She and Lydia still go, of course, but she is at least listening.

We had a quiet Christmas, if by quiet one understands that we have grown inured to Mamma’s lamenting. The Lucases dined with us, and Lady Lucas was in excellent spirits, being in that enviable condition of a mother who has disposed of a daughter to advantage and may now insist upon being congratulated for it. She spoke a great deal of Hunsford, of Lady Catherine’s condescension, and of Charlotte’s future consequence. At last, she observed that her daughter would one day be mistress of Longbourn. Mamma changed colour. Papa took more wine.

But then a rather odd thing happened. Charlotte explained to her mother that Mr. Collins is not the heir apparent, only the heir presumptive. Lady Lucas refused to grasp the distinction, Sir William plainly did not understand it at all, and Papa and Mamma exchanged a look across the table such as I have never seen between them. I could not determine whether it expressed fellow-feeling, legal speculation, or some sentiment upon which modesty forbids me to enlarge.

Papa afterwards asked Charlotte whether she meant to improve her husband’s understanding by degrees or all at once. Charlotte replied that sudden alterations in gentlemen were seldom lasting.

Papa has been in excellent spirits ever since.

Mamma has several times proposed sending one of us to London to discover what progress has been made. Lydia has begged to be the one. I have diverted my mother with music and set our younger sisters to distract her with lace. The results have been only partially successful.

Papa has sat with us every day since Christmas. Whether this is due to my vigilance, Charlotte’s delicate correction on the line of inheritance, or some private calculation of Papa’s that filial duty forbids me to examine, I cannot determine.

Elizabeth laughed aloud. Her aunt glanced up.

“Dear me, is Mary writing something amusing? That is new.”

“She is very droll, Aunt. I always suspected as much, but she seems to feel free to express it now.”

She read on. There was a paragraph about Mrs. Hill being unwell with a cough but having recovered. There was a careful sentence concerning Mr. Collins, of whom Mary spoke with such tactful neutrality that Elizabeth was certain her sister had passed an unhappy half hour composing it. And then she concluded.

I hope, Lizzy, that you are not greatly missing us. No, that is not entirely true. I hope that you are missing us a little, for we are all missing you and Jane very much.

Your affectionate sister,

Mary

Elizabeth folded the letter and remained at the window for some time. She had come to London at the end of November in a state of perfectly composed gladness. Longbourn and her mother’s lamentations were behind her. A winter in London stretched ahead—a season in the house of her most sensible relations, which she had happily anticipated.

She thought of Mary, sitting in the morning room at Longbourn and reading sermons to a mother who refused to be improved, of Papa sitting with them, eschewing his book room for a period every day since Christmas, of Kitty and Lydia admiring militia officers but being discouraged from speaking with them.

Wheels sounded in the street below.

Her aunt looked up from her letter. Elizabeth looked down from the window, though her angle permitted her to see nothing but a flash of carriage panel and the grey flank of a horse.

“That will be Mr. Bingley,” Aunt Gardiner said, folding her letter with great composure.

Perversely, Elizabeth found herself thinking not of Mr. Bingley’s open countenance, but of Mr. Darcy’s guarded one.