Chapter Four Invading Cheapside
If pacing were a recognised profession, Elizabeth Bennet would be a wealthy woman. As it was, she was merely wearing a track into her aunt's carpet while radiating righteous indignation.
It was the evening of the twentieth. Outside, the London fog was settling against the windowpanes. Inside, the Gardiner drawing room was a sanctuary of warmth and light, currently being disrupted by Elizabeth's furious energy.
"He is haunting me," she declared, pivoting sharply by the fireplace. "There is no other explanation. London is a city of a million souls, Aunt. A million! And yet, I cannot walk into a bookshop without tripping over the Master of Pemberley."
Jane, who was seated on the sofa with a piece of needlepoint she hadn't actually stitched in ten minutes, looked up. "I was the one who tripped, Lizzy. And it was not over Mr Darcy. It was into the arms of the Viscount."
"That is a technicality," Elizabeth dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Mr Darcy was there. Standing there. Clutching a parcel and looking... looking..."
"Guilty?" Mrs Gardiner suggested from her armchair, where she was calmly sorting embroidery silks.
"Arrogant," Elizabeth corrected. "Disdainful. As if he could not believe we had the audacity to breathe the same oxygen as him outside of Hertfordshire."
"I thought he looked terrified," Jane said softly. A small, dreamy smile played about her lips—an expression that had been notably absent for the past month. "He looked like a schoolboy caught skipping lessons."
Elizabeth stopped pacing to stare at her sister. "Jane, are you feverish? You are defending the man who—I am convinced—is responsible for Charles Bingley's departure."
"We do not know that for certain," Mrs Gardiner interjected, her tone mild but firm. "You have strong suspicions, Lizzy, but no proof. Mr Darcy is proud, certainly. But is he malicious? I saw a man today who was startled, yes, but not necessarily villainous."
"He looked at you as if you were a ghost," Jane added. "And his cousin, Lord Keathley... he was very agreeable, was he not?"
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "He is a rake, Jane. A charming, well-dressed rake who probably flirts with every woman who stumbles in his vicinity. Do not let his title dazzle you."
"I am not dazzled," Jane protested, though the flush on her cheeks suggested otherwise. "I merely said he was agreeable. And he saved me from a nasty fall. It would be uncharitable to dislike him simply because he is related to Mr Darcy."
"I have enough uncharitability for the entire family," Elizabeth muttered, resuming her pacing. "And that sister! 'Georgiana.' The girl Caroline Bingley claims is destined for her brother. She looked... well, she looked perfectly nice, which makes it all the more irritating. I wanted to hate her."
"She seemed sweet," Mrs Gardiner noted. "And very eager to make your acquaintance. That does not speak of a family determined to shun you."
"It speaks of a family who cannot control their members," Elizabeth countered. "Darcy looked ready to bolt. The Viscount looked ready to propose to Jane on the spot. And the girl looked like she wanted a friend. It was absurd."
"It was interesting," Mrs Gardiner corrected. "And I suspect we have not heard the last of them."
"Heaven forbid," Elizabeth groaned. "I came to London to help Jane forget Mr Bingley, not to be besieged by Mr Darcy and his motley collection of aristocratic relatives."
Just then, the door burst open and the three Gardiner children—Henry, Alice, and Ruth—tumbled in, having escaped the nursery. The heavy atmosphere of the room shattered instantly as Ruth made a beeline for Jane's lap and Henry demanded to know if Elizabeth had brought him a book about pirates.
As Elizabeth laughed and swung her young cousin into the air, she missed the look Jane exchanged with Mrs Gardiner.
It was not the look of a heartbroken woman pining for a lost love.
It was the look of a woman who was wondering if Viscounts liked needlepoint, and if she should wear her blue ribbon tomorrow.
The next morning brought a pale, watery sunshine to Cheapside, and with it, a sense of impending doom that Elizabeth could not quite shake.
She tried to distract herself. She helped Alice with her reading. She wrote a letter to Charlotte Collins, omitting the Hatchards incident, lest Mr Collins write a sermon on the dangers of bookshops. She tried to convince herself that yesterday had been a singular cosmic accident.
Then, at precisely eleven o'clock, the world tilted on its axis.
"Ma'am," the Gardiners' maid, Sarah, appeared at the drawing room door. Her eyes were wide, and she was wiping her hands on her apron nervously. "There is... there is a carriage outside. A very large carriage. With a crest."
Elizabeth froze. Mrs Gardiner, who was arranging winter flowers in a vase, paused.
"A crest, Sarah?"
"Yes, ma'am. And four people. Three gentlemen and a young lady. They are asking for Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth."
"Show them up, Sarah," Mrs Gardiner said calmly, though she shot a quick, assessing glance at her nieces. "And bring the good tea service. The one we use for the bishop."
Elizabeth stood up, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "He wouldn't," she whispered. "He absolutely wouldn't. Not here. Not in Cheapside."
"Apparently, he would," Jane whispered back. She had gone pale, then pink, and was frantically smoothing her skirts. "Oh, Lizzy. My hair."
"Your hair is perfect. It is Mr Darcy who should be worried about his appearance, specifically the expression of disdain I expect to see on his face."
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs—too many for a normal morning call.
The door opened, and Sarah announced, in a voice that squeaked slightly: "Lord Keathley, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy, and Miss Darcy."
They filed in like a regiment invading a library.
First came the Viscount, Robert Fitzwilliam. He was resplendent in a bottle-green coat that cost more than the Gardiners' entire house, carrying a cane and wearing a smile that could charm the paint off the walls. His eyes found Jane instantly, and stayed there.
Next was a stranger—a man in a red military coat, tall and jovial, with a face that looked ready to laugh at a moment's notice. This must be the Colonel.
Then Miss Darcy, looking terrified but resolute in a pale blue walking dress, clutching her muff as if it contained state secrets.
And finally, bringing up the rear like a prisoner of war, was Mr Darcy.
He looked miserable. He looked stiff. He looked around the modest, comfortable drawing room not with disdain, but with the desperate air of a man who expects a trapdoor to open beneath his feet.
"Mrs Gardiner," the Viscount stepped forward, bowing over her hand with easy grace. "Forgive the intrusion. We warned you yesterday that we were charmed, but I fear we failed to warn you that we are also impatient."
"Lord Keathley," Mrs Gardiner replied, curtsying with a dignity that matched his own. "You are welcome. Please, allow me to introduce my nieces properly."
Introductions were made. The Colonel—Richard Fitzwilliam—bowed to Elizabeth with a twinkle in his eye.
"So this is the famous Miss Elizabeth," he said, his voice low. "Robert has described you vividly. I am delighted to see he did not exaggerate about the eyes."
"And I am delighted to see that the Fitzwilliam family travels in a pack, Colonel," Elizabeth replied sweetly. "Is it for safety, or simply intimidation?"
He laughed, a loud, booming sound. "A bit of both, Miss Elizabeth. A bit of both."
Meanwhile, the Viscount had gravitated towards Jane like a moth to a very beautiful flame.
"Miss Bennet," he said, ignoring the chair offered to him in favour of standing near her sofa. "I trust you have recovered from the hazards of Piccadilly? I spent a sleepless night worrying that the pavement might have done you lasting damage."
"I am quite well, my Lord," Jane said, blushing. "You are too solicitous."
"Not at all," he declared. "I am merely observant."
Elizabeth watched them, narrowing her eyes. The Viscount was flirting. Aggressively. And he was doing it with a complete lack of regard for the fact that Jane was supposedly heartbroken over his cousin's friend. In fact, he seemed to be actively trying to make her forget Mr Bingley existed.
Interesting, Elizabeth thought. Very interesting.
The seating arrangements settled into a tense geometry. Lord Keathley and Jane were an island of flirtation on the sofa. The Colonel had pulled a chair close to Elizabeth, clearly intending to be entertained. Miss Darcy sat near Mrs Gardiner, looking shy.
And Mr Darcy sat on a chair by the window, as far from everyone as physically possible without leaving the room. He was staring at the carpet pattern with intense fascination.
"So," the Colonel said, accepting a cup of tea from Mrs Gardiner. "We find ourselves in Gracechurch Street. I must confess, Mrs Gardiner, your home is far more inviting than I had been led to believe."
"By whom?" Elizabeth asked sharply. "By those who believe elegance cannot exist east of Temple Bar?"
"Precisely," he grinned. "My mother, the Countess, thinks City is inhabited entirely by chimney sweeps and fog."
"My Aunt," Mr Darcy spoke up suddenly, his voice rusty, "has strong opinions on many subjects. They are not always accurate."
Everyone looked at him. He flushed.
"Indeed," Mrs Gardiner smiled, turning her attention to the silent giant in the corner.
"It is often the case with those who have not travelled.
Derbyshire, for instance, is often misunderstood by Londoners as being wild and uncivilized, yet I have always found it to be the most beautiful county in England. "
Mr Darcy's head snapped up. "You know Derbyshire, ma'am?"
"I was born there," Mrs Gardiner said quietly. "In Lambton. My father was a solicitor there for thirty years. I grew up running over the hills that border Pemberley."