The Way Back #2
A few times Georgiana joined her, eager to show her favourite corners: a shaded walk that kept its cool even at noon, and the rose garden her mother had once tended, where the bushes were trained and cherished with such care that one almost expected the hand which planted them to return.
At last she led Elizabeth down to a bend in the river where the water ran quick over stones, making a clear, busy sound that seemed to rinse the mind.
There they would stand a moment and watch the stream break and gather again, while small birds darted along the edge and dipped into the shallows, quick as thoughts, and the air was full of water, leaf, and birdsong.
Elizabeth smiled, thinking how Kitty would have loved the place, and how quickly she would have begged for paper and pencil to catch the bend of the river and the fall of water over the stones.
Kitty’s drawings were seldom accurate, but she had an eye for whatever was pretty; and this, Elizabeth thought, would have pleased her beyond measure.
“It is so pretty here,” Georgiana said, lowering her voice, as though the water might overhear.
“It is,” Elizabeth agreed. “Kitty would be enchanted.”
Georgiana smiled at once. “She would insist on sitting directly upon those stones, no matter how damp they were.”
“And then complain of her shoes,” Elizabeth returned. “But she would want her pencil besides.”
“To draw it?” Georgiana asked.
“To attempt it,” Elizabeth said, amused. “The paper would be full of rocks and water, whether they resembled the truth or not.”
They had turned back towards the higher ground when Mr Darcy came upon them, not with the look of a man who had sought them, but with the easy appearance of one whose steps had simply taken the same direction.
“Georgiana,” he said, and then, after the briefest pause, “Miss Elizabeth.”
His sister brightened. “We were at the river. Elizabeth says Kitty would have drawn it.”
“A sensible employment,” he returned, his tone mild.
Elizabeth smiled. “Kitty draws whatever she finds pretty, whether she can manage it or not.”
Mr Darcy’s gaze rested a moment on the water below. “If she liked that,” he said, “there is another place she would like better.”
Georgiana looked delighted at once. “Oh. You mean the beeches?”
He nodded and, without hurry, led them a little off the path to a stand of trees where the ground dipped and the view opened cleanly between the trunks, the light falling in bands upon the grass.
“I had forgotten it,” Georgiana said.
“I had not,” he replied quietly.
“It is not the beeches,” he added, when Georgiana looked up in expectation. “Though we may go there another day. I meant the orangery.”
Georgiana’s pleasure was immediate. “Oh. May we?”
“If you wish it.”
He led them along a gravel walk that ran beside a low wall, until a long front of glass came into view.
Even before they reached it, the air seemed warmer.
Within, the green was deeper, the leaves broader and glossier than any out of doors, and the scent was faintly sweet, as though summer had been kept there on purpose.
The glass shut out the wind entirely. The air within was warm and still, scented with leaf and blossom, and the gravel path ran between tubs set in careful ranks.
Orange trees stood with their dark, shining leaves and pale flowers, some already bearing small green fruit.
Georgiana moved ahead at once, delighted, touching nothing and yet eager to look at everything.
“My mother used to bring her paints here,” she said after a moment, with a glance towards one of the brighter windows. “She would sit for an hour, and say it was the only place in winter where one might pretend it was June.”
Mr Darcy’s gaze followed hers. “She did.”
Elizabeth paused beside a pot where the blossoms lay against the leaves like stars. “It is easy to understand why,” she said quietly.
Georgiana’s smile returned. “The lemons are there,” she added, recovering her cheer. “Come. I must show you.”
On Sunday they went to church, as was expected.
The morning was clear, the air cool, and the carriage carried them through lanes greener than Hertfordshire, and quieter.
Mr Bingley was plainly in high spirits, but he kept his voice lower than usual, unwilling, perhaps, to disturb Jane’s composure; and whenever he spoke, it seemed always to fall towards her, seeking her smile before he offered it to anyone else.
Mary appeared entirely equal to the occasion, and Elizabeth, for once, was glad of her steadiness.
They had scarcely reached the churchyard gate before Elizabeth heard a familiar voice.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr Ashton stood a little apart from the gathering parishioners, hat in hand, his smile easy, giving no sign that his presence might be remarked upon at all.
“Mr Ashton,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “How is your mother? I have been thinking of her, and hoping she has not been the worse for the season.”
“She is much as she always is,” he answered, his expression softening. “Not strong, but not cast down. She sent you her regards, and would have me say she was glad to hear the cottage improves.”
Elizabeth’s face warmed at the remembrance. “You will tell her I am obliged to her, and very glad she is comfortably settled.”
“I shall,” he said, then glanced towards the church door. “If we do not go in, we shall be late.”
A stir at the lych-gate drew Elizabeth’s eye.
Mrs Bennet came into view in full haste, Lydia and Kitty close behind her, their ribbons fluttering and their voices audible even over the bell.
With them were the Hardings, looking composed despite being made conspicuous by the party they escorted.
Mrs Bennet, catching sight of Elizabeth at once, lifted both hands as though to declare herself vindicated by the sight of her, and hurried forward with all the air of one who had not been late at all.
Lydia scarcely waited. “Lizzy, you should have seen Mr Harding’s mare,” she cried, catching at Elizabeth’s sleeve. “I vow she is ten times more entertaining than any company. She has spirit enough to make a dull morning lively, and yet she is so mannerly that one feels quite secure.”
Kitty laughed under her breath. “Lydia, you will never be quiet.”
“I will be quiet when I am dead,” Lydia returned, and squeezed Elizabeth’s arm as though it were all the proof required.
Mrs Bennet’s eyes had already fixed upon the party nearer the door. Before Elizabeth could step away, her mother caught her arm and drew her a little aside, lowering her voice only by effort.
“Lizzy,” she said, breathless with curiosity, “who is that gentleman with Jane? Do not tell me I am to be introduced to him without warning. He is very well-looking, I assure you, and he stands as though he belongs there.”
“Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth answered quietly.
“Very well,” Mrs Bennet said, as though she were doing them a favour; and then, as they moved towards the church door, she tightened her hold upon Elizabeth’s arm.
“Mr Bingley,” she whispered, “is he a man of fortune?”
“Mama,” Elizabeth returned in the same low tone, “this is neither the place nor the subject.”
“But one must know,” Mrs Bennet insisted. “Is he in trade? Has he an estate? What is he worth?”
Elizabeth kept her face composed. “He is a gentleman of very good income, and very much in Mr Darcy’s confidence. That is all you need to know today.”
Inside, the cool dimness received them at once, and the voices of the parish softened into the accustomed hush.
Mrs Bennet rustled and settled, still whispering questions until Elizabeth’s look silenced her at last. Jane took her place with quiet composure; Mr Bingley sat behind with an attention that was not loud, but constant.
His sisters, however, were seated with an air of perfect propriety, as though they had never found a country church inconvenient in their lives.
Miss Bingley’s devotion was exact; she rose and sat with a precision that seemed meant to be observed, her eyes moving now and then, not to the prayers, but to the congregation.
Mrs Hurst looked less engaged, her attention wandering whenever she supposed it safe, and returning only when her sister’s movement obliged her to remember where she was.
To Elizabeth, it had the appearance of performance in one and endurance in the other.
When they came out again, the little knot of parishioners gathered with the natural desire to speak to the master of Pemberley, and to be seen speaking with him. Mr Darcy acknowledged them with quiet courtesy, neither inviting familiarity nor discouraging it.
Mrs Harding caught Elizabeth’s arm before she could move towards Jane. “Come with me a moment, my dear,” she said, her tone gentle but leaving no room for refusal. “You have had a great deal to bear, and I will not have you hurried from one duty to the next without drawing breath.”
Elizabeth’s smile softened. “I am very well, ma’am.”
“I know you will say so,” Mrs Harding returned quietly, and tightened her hand for an instant. “But I should like to hear it from your own mouth, and not as an answer offered for everyone else’s comfort.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, though she kept her face composed. “You are very kind,” she said.
Mrs Harding gave a small nod, kindness seeming to her simply what was owed. “And you are not to be ashamed of accepting it. There is no merit in refusing help when it is honestly offered.”
Mr Ashton, who had fallen into step beside them, looked down with a civility that gave Elizabeth space. “Mrs Harding speaks with more sense than most of us manage,” he said quietly.
“Do not flatter me, Matthew,” Mrs Harding returned, and then her attention went back to Elizabeth. “Have you slept? Have you eaten? You will not live on duty alone, however much you might wish it.”
Elizabeth managed a breath and a smile. “Yes, ma’am. I have done all three.”