Order Restored #2
She woke early the next morning, her mind keeping time without her leave.
The light lay pale across the curtains, and for a moment she listened to the stillness of Pemberley with an odd tenderness, as one might listen to rain after a storm has passed.
They were to leave after breakfast. The thought ought to have pleased her, for the cottage waited, and home, such as it could be made.
Yet she felt a reluctance she would not name.
She dressed with care, and when she went down, carried that restraint with her like a pinned shawl.
Breakfast passed with a composure that felt practised.
Georgiana spoke a little more than usual, meaning, perhaps, to make the meal bright by force of will, and Jane answered her with the gentleness that never failed.
Mary was attentive to the servants and to the small arrangements of the table, as though order itself were a courtesy.
Elizabeth found herself watching hands more than faces: a cup offered, a plate shifted, the silent understanding of a household that knew what was ending.
When they rose at last, she felt the air change, the room itself seeming to have been holding its breath.
In the hall, cloaks were brought and parcels gathered.
Georgiana embraced Jane with sincere affection, and then Mary, awkwardly at first, but with a firmness that made Mary’s eyes soften.
Mr Bingley followed them to the steps as though he could not help it.
He took Jane’s hand and held it a moment longer than politeness required.
“I am sorry to lose you,” he said, the words plain and unguarded. “I hope we shall see you all again very soon. It has been so very agreeable, having you here.”
His gaze moved to Elizabeth with the same honest warmth. “Pemberley has felt quite altered,” he added, smiling as though he could not say less. “In the best way.”
Mr Bingley released Jane’s hand at last, though he looked as though he would rather have walked beside the carriage all the way down the drive.
Elizabeth found her eyes caught by Mr Darcy then, almost in spite of herself.
He had remained a little apart, distance seeming, in his case, a sort of propriety.
“I hope,” he said, after a moment, his voice very steady, “that you will not think your welcome ended with your stay.”
It was not warmth, exactly, but it was something she felt all the same. Elizabeth inclined her head, because she could not trust her voice to do more.
They were helped into the carriage one after another, skirts gathered, Pudding in her basket stowed, the footman shutting the door with a careful hand. Through the glass Elizabeth saw Georgiana lingering on the steps, her hands clasped together for want of knowing what else to do.
“You will come next week,” she said quickly, speaking before courage could fail. “For the music evening. You promised, and I shall hold you to it.”
Jane smiled at once, warm and certain. Mary’s reply was quieter, but no less sincere. Elizabeth found herself nodding too, surprised by how easily she could picture it, and how much she wanted it to be true.
As the carriage rolled forward and the great doors fell behind them, Jane drew a slow breath and let it out again, as though she had been standing too long in a crowded room. Mary rested her head against the squab, her fingers loosening their careful hold upon her reticule.
Elizabeth kept her eyes upon the curve of the drive, until the lake was hidden by trees. Only then did she exhale.
“It has been kinder than I deserved,” she said softly.
Jane’s hand found hers in the space between them, and held.
They were at the cottage before the sun had reached its height, yet the hours that followed vanished as completely as though they had travelled fifty miles.
Trunks were carried in and set down in the wrong rooms; Mary discovered that the kitchen drawers had been put back in a different order, and Jane calmly began to make sense of it.
Pudding was underfoot from the first, winding between ankles and disappearing into every room as though she must assure herself that the house had returned to its proper state.
When Elizabeth opened the pantry she slipped in ahead of her, sat squarely on the threshold, and blinked up as though to ask what, precisely, had taken them so long.
Susan was already there, sleeves rolled and hair pinned back with a look of determined purpose.
She curtsied, flushed with exertion rather than ceremony, and then caught herself and stepped aside as another trunk was carried through the passage.
Pudding wove between the men without the least fear, tail held high, and Susan clicked her tongue in a vain attempt to send her away.
Before Elizabeth could ask what had been done and what remained, wheels sounded on the lane.
A second carriage drew up. Mr Harding handed Mrs Bennet down with careful politeness, and Mrs Harding followed, smiling with the calm determination of one who meant the moment to be cheerful whether it wished to be or not.
Mrs Bennet swept her gaze over the cottage door and the open windows, and then straightened as though the place had been restored by her own merit.
“Well,” she declared, “I hope we shall be comfortable at last. I am quite worn out with being in other people’s way.”
Kitty peered past her, disappointed at the quiet. Lydia made directly for the parlour, expecting, it seemed, entertainment to have been laid out with the furniture.
Jane stepped forward at once to thank their guests, and Mary’s hand went to her list again, order being, perhaps, the only defence.
Mrs Harding drew Mrs Bennet towards the parlour with practised ease, patting her arm as they walked and speaking of how pleasant it would be to sit at last in quiet, and how the light in that room was always kind at this hour.
Susan appeared with a tray before any of them had time to wonder how it would be managed, and began laying cups as though she had done it in that house all her life.
Mr Harding waited until they were out of hearing, then followed Elizabeth into the kitchen, closing the door with a gentleness that made the gesture feel deliberate rather than secret.
“You have done very well,” he said, and the words startled her more than praise ought.
He glanced about the kitchen with a landlord’s knowledge and a neighbour’s concern, not inspecting so much as taking comfort that it was sound again.
“I know it has been a great deal,” he continued. “More than any family should have to bear, and in so short a span. If there is the least trouble with the chimney, or the roof, or anything at all, you will send to me at once. Do you understand? You shall not be left to manage it alone.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “You have already done so much.”
Mr Harding lifted a hand, forbidding, it seemed, gratitude from becoming embarrassment. “It is what neighbours are for.”
Elizabeth could only nod. When Mr Harding opened the kitchen door again, the murmur of voices met her at once, Mrs Bennet’s above the rest, as steady in complaint as in triumph.
The scent of tea drifted in, and somewhere in the passage Pudding gave a small, satisfied sound and settled as though she had already chosen her place.
Elizabeth laid her hand upon the edge of the table, feeling the solidness of it beneath her fingers. Whatever came next, they were no longer adrift.
They were home.