Chapter 1 #2
“No, my dear. I meant to ask if you would both accompany me as far as the Allenbys. You remember Mrs. Allenby, do you not, Elizabeth?—Louisa Meredith, that was? Your aunt’s old school friend.
They have taken a small house near Towcester for the winter.
She wrote again last week, begging for a visit when the, ah…
when the weather allows.” He softened his voice on the last words, and Elizabeth’s heart swelled with gratitude for the tact.
Mrs. Gardiner’s fingers worried at the corner of her handkerchief and then stilled. “Louisa is very kind. I had thought to answer that we would wait for spring.”
“Spring will not object to being cheated of us,” Mr. Gardiner said. “And the Allenbys are quiet souls. If it is too much—why, I can leave you to their good care and go on to Northampton alone. We will consult the weather and your comfort.”
Elizabeth watched her aunt’s face, the way a shadow of reluctance crossed it and then retreated before something thoughtful.
It was not fear; merely a weighing of what would soothe and what would tire.
“I should like you to go,” Elizabeth said softly, directed to the whole room and to one woman in particular.
“A new fire to sit by may be as good as a new book, and we have already read this one.”
Mr. Gardiner’s eyes warmed. “Then I shall write to the Allenbys by the morning’s post.” He set his tea on the mantelshelf and drew a folded letter from his pocket.
“We have a note from Longbourn as well. Your mother sends a great many exclamation points and the news—if news it is—that Netherfield may not be so empty as all that.”
Elizabeth’s needle paused. She kept her tone even. “Empty houses seldom remain so.”
“So I told her,” he returned, cheerful but kind. “But your mother has decided that a gentleman who does not live in a house may still be said to haunt it. I had begged for your sister to come to us, but your mother insists Jane must remain at home, in case a spectre is susceptible to hot suppers.”
Elizabeth could not help laughing, and her aunt’s answering smile came quicker for it. “Poor Jane,” she said, easing the thread through. “When she marries, it shall not be to a ghost.”
“No,” Mrs. Gardiner agreed, gently resolute. “Jane will not live on a ‘perhaps.’ She is too sensible for that.”
The name and all that hung about it passed through the air like the faintest draught and was gone. The stitch Elizabeth had made was true; the next went in more easily. She was pleased with the steadiness of her hand. Steadiness was a virtue of its own.
“Will the northern roads bear us, do you think?” she asked, to turn the talk forward. “You know them best.”
“If the frost is hard, they may help us along,” Mr. Gardiner said. “If it is thaw and ruts, we must say our prayers. But Towcester is a town built for travellers; it does not like to be defeated. And from there to the Allenbys is short enough even for a sulky road.”
Elizabeth tied off her thread and bit it clean. “And you would go on to Northampton,” she repeated, tasting the syllables. “A good deal farther on bad roads, is it not?”
“Not so far as to be unreasonable,” he said. His look flickered between them. “I have not promised anything. I only mention it because their latest invitation reached me to-day, and it would be discourteous to ignore it entirely.”
Mrs. Gardiner smoothed her skirt. “Old friends are not strangers,” she said, after a moment. “And I should like to see Louisa.”
“Just so, my dear.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts ran ahead in a quiet line: the bustle of an inn yard, a smaller hearth with old friends, the safe industry of a kitchen where one may be useful without being noticed.
She did not hunger after gaiety; she had no appetite for it.
But to sit where her aunt might be cheered and her uncle amused—yes. She could like that very well.
She folded the finished handkerchief and placed it with its fellows. “We shall be governed by the weather,” she decided aloud, and felt the room agree. “And by the Allenbys.”
Mr. Gardiner came to stand behind his wife’s chair, his hand resting for a moment on the worn wood. “Very good. Then tomorrow I will send a note to the Allenbys and another to Northampton, with my compliments and a polite uncertainty.”
“An uncertainty dressed as civility,” Mrs. Gardiner said, the corner of her mouth lifting.
“It is the only coat uncertainty wears in December,” he answered.
When the little bustle of letters and lists subsided, the room took up its earlier peace.
Elizabeth threaded a fresh needle, pleased with the quiet weight of purpose that came simply from being useful in the right place.
She did not look outward for happiness; she did not expect it to seek her out.
But she felt, not for the first time, that there were kinds of contentment which did not require a future to be bright in order to be good to-day.
Her aunt’s book had wandered back to her lap. “Why, Lizzy, I declare you have been practicing. You mend very neatly,” Mrs. Gardiner observed. “I shall have nothing left to do.”
“Then I will begin on Mr. Gardiner’s shirts,” Elizabeth said. “He is forever injuring a cuff out of pure industry.”
“Industry is my only vice,” her uncle protested. “I wear it threadbare.”
“You are safe with us,” Elizabeth returned. “We have a whole basket of virtue to keep you decent.”
After a time, the lamplight grew softer, and the sounds beyond the windows dimmed to a hush that was not quite silence.
Elizabeth rose to draw the curtain fully and caught a glimpse of the street: wet stones, a trace of white on the step where a late flurry had found a corner to linger.
She rested her fingertips against the glass.
The cold made a small ring about them and then faded.
“Snow?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.
“A little,” Elizabeth said. “Only enough to make the lamps look friendly.”
She let the curtain fall and returned to her chair.
The orange on the hob had warmed; the cloves had given up their sweetness to the air.
If the roads held, they would go north—first to a modest hearth, and perhaps beyond.
If they did not, she would remain where she was needed, which was no poor fate.
She threaded the needle once more and bent to her work with the sort of hope that belongs to hands—quiet, steady, and very nearly content.