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Mary had dutifully waited upstairs, sitting on her hands, until Mrs Bennet’s peremptory summons. As their sister left the room, Lydia and Kitty clutched each other in mirth.

Mary descended the stairs in her pink satin slippers, being careful not to tread on the back hem of her delicate gown. For upon rising that morning, she had dressed in the pink ball gown in expectation of Mr Elliot’s visit, only to be told by her mother that Mr Gardiner had been too hasty in giving the curate leave to apply to her.

Lydia had begun teasing Mary mercilessly as soon as she was apprised of what was afoot, and when Kitty spotted the curate walking through the gate, both the younger Bennets had burst into a cacophony of giggling excitement until silenced by their mother. Mrs Bennet had smoothed her curls in the sitting room mirror before descending in state to meet Mr Elliot, shooting a warning glance at her youngest daughters as she departed.

Now, as she reached the parlour, Mary hesitated on the threshold, unsure whether Mr Elliot or her mother had prevailed, before she was bid to enter by Mrs Bennet in the sweetest voice.

“Look, dear child! Mr Elliot has something to say to you!”

A shriek of laughter burst from the stairs where Lydia and Kitty crouched to view the spectacle. Mrs Bennet frowned, but the curate did not seem to notice. He had never seen Mary in her pink ball gown before and was lost in admiration. After carefully closing the door behind her, Mary smiled shyly at the curate and walked into the room.

Getting down on one knee, Mr Elliot trotted out his little speech explaining his circumstances and bestowed the ring on his love, after which Mrs Bennet called for tea.

Chapter 17: Farewell my rose

The Gardiners arrived back in Gracechurch Street well after dark on Saturday. Between pacifying grumpy children and preparing for Mr Thorne’s visit the next day, Mr Gardiner was unable to pen his note to Mr Darcy until his niece had departed for the Garths’ in the carriage on Sunday. Many a hot-pressed sheet was crumpled and tossed aside. Some of these were later retrieved, and eventually Edward felt he had achieved an appropriate balance of deference and steadfastness that he thought might achieve a result.

The letter was sent off the next morning to Mayfair along with Mr Bennet’s books. While John Coachman supervised the unloading of the books at Hatchard’s in Piccadilly, Mick walked the short distance to Grosvenor Square to deliver the letter. But upon arriving at the Darcy Townhouse, he was told that the master had gone to the Continent and was not expected back for six weeks.

As Darcy stood on the packet bound for Maassluis, watching his native land recede, he felt he should be happy. The sun shone on his face. It was perfect sailing weather with a strong favourable wind. The ship gently rose and fell as it cleaved its way through the slow, heavy swell.

Nonetheless, he could not help feeling that he had forgotten something. His departure for Vienna had been rushed. He had spent the last few days in The City with Charles, ensuring everything was up to date and in order with his affairs, but he could not be sanguine about his friend’s business. With riots outside his manufactories in the north, it seemed a singularly bad time for Charles to be going on a jaunt to the Continent.

“Missing the motherland already, Darcy?” joked Bingley as he came up to stand behind his friend in the stern. “Ah! This salt air is so invigorating!”

“I am wishing I had told my uncle he could do what he liked with the townhouses.”

“Come now, where is your sense of adventure? Do not tell me you would rather be warming your stockings by the fire at home!”

“Then I will not tell you,” said Darcy, turning to face his friend. “Surely you should have gone north to deal with the unrest at the mills in Yorkshire, Charles?”

“Nonsense, my stewards and the sheriff can deal with that! Caroline is right—a tour to the Continent is part of every gentleman’s education. Your father went, and if he was here, he would be telling you exactly the same thing.”

Darcy leant back against the rail, watching the Dutch sailors call to each other as they reefed a sail.

He sighed. “Where are Hurst and the ladies?”

“Below decks. Hurst is sleeping off the potations he imbibed in the carriage on the way to Gravesend. He’s a terribly bad traveller. Of course, Caroline is the one claiming to be ill. If she was really sick, she would not be able to complain. Then I’d believe her.”

Bingley sank down onto the deck and put his back against the rail.

“Come now,” he said, patting the deck beside him. “It’s less windy down here and we can enjoy the sun. Did the captain say how long the voyage might take?”

Darcy sat down on the deck, hoping the tarred seams would not mark his greatcoat. “If the wind keeps up, he says as little as three days.”

“Well! It’s good to have an English captain! All these other fellows seem to be foreigners.”

“They’re Dutch.”

“Really?” said Bingley. “Can you understand what they are saying?”

“A little—their dialect is hard to follow. Mostly they are swearing at each other.”

“Oh! Well, I guess that’s an advantage of not having English navvies on board! These foreigners won’t soil the ladies’ ears!”

“I suppose not,” conceded Darcy.

The friends talked desultorily of politics until the sun, their busy schedule over the past few days, and the less frequent oaths of the sailors now the ship was fully out to sea had its inevitable effect—they companionably fell into a comfortable midday snooze.