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Lizzy found herself trembling. Had she really refused the opportunity to marry Fitzwilliam Darcy, the dearest wish of her heart, the man she yearned for more than anything in the world?
Yes, it seemed she had.
Fool!her heart declared. There would be plenty of time to convince him of my merit once I was Mrs Darcy!
However, the greater share of her mind knew she had done right. She loved him. She truly did. But since the day she was born, she had been judged not ‘good enough’ to be treated as her sisters. One could grow accustomed to it, but it was a wound that never healed. Loving him as she did, she could imagine how it would be—apologising for the rest of her life for not being wealthy enough or wellborn enough to please the difficult family whose opinions he so valued. And what if they did use her inferiority against him? What if her father openly disowned her out of spite, just to embarrass them? What if the earl used their union as proof of insanity?
All terrible possibilities.
Although she would not exactly call his recent declaration a true proposal, she had easily seen that he’d had no doubt of a favourable response, his countenance expressing real security; he had been quite certain of her affections, as well he might be. Her refusal had shocked and humiliated him. Would he hate her now?
Better that he hate you now, than after you are inextricably wed. He has judged and found you unworthy, just as your father did. Imagine watching his resentment grow with every passing year!
A tear fell then another, but forcibly, she quelled them; Mr Darcy must not see her heart breaking. It took her some time to gain control, however, so by the time she was ready to ask for assistance in hiring a carriage, she discovered that Mr Frost had driven Mr Darcy out, taking James as well. She could ask Mrs Davis to see to it—but it would be thought exceedingly odd.
“Mrs Bingley.” Mrs Davis interrupted her morose thoughts, tapping at the door as she entered. “There is a gentleman here to see Mr Bingley.” She handed over his card.
‘Mr Edward Gardiner’ it read. Just her luck that one of Mr Darcy’s most trusted men of business should arrive while he was nowhere to be found. And of course, Mr Darcy had written him an explanation of the ruse of his own identity but had never mentioned hers—only Saxelby knew of her connexion. What a pickle!
Still, Mr Gardiner had been one of only two of his entire acquaintance with whom Mr Darcy had trusted his exact whereabouts; not even Mr Bingley or Georgiana possessed such information. It meant that he expected the men to stand against earls, should they be so confronted. It meant absolute fidelity. Could she hope that his loyalty would extend to her? It seemed she had little choice but to find out.
“Show him in, Mrs Davis,” she replied.
Mr Gardiner was a handsome, sandy-haired man with laugh lines at his eyes, and much younger than she had pictured. His personal prosperity was obvious, as was his good nature. “Mrs Bingley,” he said once the housekeeper departed to bring the tea Lizzy requested, his brows raised. “I had no idea of a Mrs Bingley,” he said politely, “but perhaps congratulations are in order? I have been telling our mutual friend for some time that he ought to take my own example of matrimony. As a groom with a decade of marital bliss and four children under his belt, I feel well qualified to offer the advice.”
Were it not for his name, she might not have noticed it—but of course, he did share the same name as her absent uncle. It was too preposterous a thought, and too large a coincidence to be believable, but there was a certain something in his appearance that seemed vaguely…familiar. His eyes are the same colour and shape as Mama’s, she noted, though his were warmed by those crinkled edges.
“I wonder,” she said tentatively, “if you might bear some connexion to the Bennets of Longbourn. It is a small estate in Hertfordshire, near—”
“I know exactly where Longbourn is situated,” he said, interrupting her with a strange intensity.
“I have a relation by your name,” Lizzy continued, more cautiously still. “But of course, it is a common one. And the direction I was given for him is in Cheapside. Corner of Dean’s Court and George Street at Folter Lane.”
“This is remarkable,” he said, his brow furrowing, “I have not lived there for some three years, at least. Can you be…? You cannot possibly be one of Frances’s girls, can you?”
“Yes, sir,” Lizzy replied, uncertain of how to proceed, wishing with all her heart that Mr Darcy was at her side to provide explanations. How would this man take the news that she, probably his niece, was posing as a wife to one of his important clients? Did she dare even reveal it?
He was already shaking his head in astonishment. “But this is incredible. Absolutely incredible. Only one of Frances’s girls had hair of such distinctive colour. You would not be little Lizzy, would you?”
This reminder of her hated hair had the effect of summoning her pride. “Little no longer, sir, as you can see. Would you care to take a seat? Mr, er, Bingley is not at home, but we expect him anytime now.”
He still shook his head with some astonishment and remained standing. “What a surprise you are! And such a great beauty! ’Tis no wonder Mr Bingley has tied the knot without warning. You must tell me, though, all about your mother and sisters and how they do.”
His reference to her beauty she assumed to be a flattery; she required none and ignored it. But his enquiry regarding her family seemed even more false, since he had never bothered to know them. “They were well, last I knew. Could it be that you take an interest?”
He showed, briefly, some affront, but then he let out a sigh. “You would have been too young to remember me, I suppose, although I had hopes. You were only six years and such a darling thing, for all your mama worshipped Janey’s golden curls. Lydia was not even walking! But I did wish you might remember. I was a great favourite of yours once, you see.”
“A favourite?” Lizzy asked with some astonishment. “But…that cannot be. I remember other details from my earliest years. Why can I not remember you?”
He sighed again, and a sorrow unusual to his obvious good humour showed in his face. He finally sat heavily in the velvet armchair, remaining silent as Mrs Davis entered with a tea tray. Lizzy dismissed the housekeeper and used the excuse of pouring to gain control of her own disquiet.
“I lived nearby and was a constant visitor, although your father was none too fond of me. I ignored him, for the most part, and he ignored me, for the most part,” Mr Gardiner explained quietly. “It was fine until you were old enough to talk. Such a sharp little sparrow you were, cleverer than any of your sisters, and practically doing somersaults to get your papa’s attention.”
She coloured a little at this.
“It wasn’t fair, how he treated you. And I tell you this because you are a woman grown now and deserve to know—Frances was devoted to Bennet once. I can believe he lost her affection afterwards, but he still had it when you were planted. She oughtn’t to have kept any foolish letters from foolish admirers, but she did enjoy being flattered—she was silly, almost childlike about such things. Anyone could see there was only Bennet for her, but he was a jealous old gudgeon from the day he met her, and probably still is.”
She could not recall this man; yet knowing that he was aware of the family secrets, but clearly believed her to be legitimate, had wonderful effect—a wound within healed just a little. She nodded.
