Chapter 7
By the time the carriage reached Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth had been staring at the same water-stained gloves in her lap for nearly half an hour without truly seeing them.
Across from her, Mr. Philips sat with his hat braced upon one knee, his expression grave and uncommonly subdued.
He had spoken very little since they entered London, but Elizabeth was grateful for the silence.
Had he attempted comfort, she feared she might lose what little command she had managed to retain since leaving Longbourn.
It had been three days since the express arrived.
Three days since Elizabeth had broken the seal and found her aunt’s household in ruins.
Her first instinct had been to go to her father.
Surely even Papa would see that this could not wait.
Surely the death of his wife's brother, the orphaning of three young children, and a London household left without master or mistress would rouse him to something more than weary amusement.
She had found him, as always, in his library.
Mr. Bennet had listened while she stood before his desk, the letter clutched so tightly in her hand that the paper wrinkled beneath her fingers. At first, he appeared shocked. His book lowered. His face grew still. For one fleeting moment, Elizabeth believed grief or duty might overcome indolence.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
“My dear Lizzy,” he said, rubbing a hand over his brow, “I should be of no earthly use in London. You had much better find an attorney to assist with the matter. There will be accounts, wills, business papers, and all manner of things I neither understand nor wish to understand.”
Elizabeth stared at him.
“They are orphaned children, Papa.”
“Yes, yes, very sad indeed. Your aunt was a sensible woman, and Gardiner a good man. Very unfortunate.” He sighed and glanced toward the letter.
“But I cannot imagine what I would accomplish by going, aside from standing about uselessly in a flooded city. Speak to Philips. He is an attorney. This is far more in his line than mine.”
The dismissal hurt.
It ought not have done. Elizabeth knew her father too well to expect anything else. Yet some small, foolish part of her had still hoped that this, at least, might matter enough.
She walked to Meryton herself.
Mrs. Philips received the news with all the anguish Elizabeth expected.
Her aunt cried out, pressed both hands to her breast, and collapsed into a chair before being helped upstairs, where she took to her bed with cries nearly indistinguishable from those Mrs. Bennet had given upon hearing the same intelligence.
Elizabeth could not blame either sister for their grief.
Mr. Gardiner was their only brother, and Mrs. Gardiner had always been dearly loved.
Still, each wail seemed to strike against Elizabeth’s already fraying nerves until she could scarcely breathe.
Mr. Philips did not speak until his wife had been settled with hartshorn, a maid, and every assurance that Elizabeth would send word when able. Then he came downstairs, removed his spectacles, and held out his hand.
“May I see the letter?”
Elizabeth gave it to him.
He read it slowly, his brow drawing lower with every line. When he finished, he did not immediately return it. Instead, he looked at Elizabeth with an expression that made her feel, for a moment, very young indeed.
“What were they thinking, sending this to you at your age?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “They were thinking correctly.”
His mouth tightened, but not with anger at her. “Perhaps. But correctly is not always kindly.”
“The children are alone.”
“Not alone, by the sound of it.”
“With servants who are frightened and leaving.”
“Aye.” He folded the letter carefully. “And so you mean to go.”
“I must.”
“Of course you must,” he said at once, surprising her. “But you will not go alone. I shall accompany you.”
She had been so prepared to argue that the words robbed her of reply.
Mr. Philips softened slightly. “I was Edward Gardiner’s brother by marriage and his attorney when he required one. Those children are family. You may be the one your aunt trusted, Lizzy, but you are not the only person with a duty.”
Now, as the carriage jolted slowly along Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth looked at him again and was almost overcome by gratitude she could not safely express. She feared if she began thanking him, she would begin crying, and if she began crying, she might never stop.
London bore the marks of the disaster everywhere.
The rains had ended, and much of the floodwater had drained away, but the city had not yet recovered.
Mud clung thickly in corners and along curbs.
Several shopfronts showed staining halfway up their doors.
Men stood outside with brooms, buckets, and shovels, pushing filthy water and ruined goods into the street.
The smell was dreadful—damp wood, river muck, smoke, rot, and too many people pressed too closely into distress.
More than once, the carriage had to slow for a cart loaded with ruined furniture, soaked barrels, or bundles of spoiled cloth.
Elizabeth thought of Uncle Gardiner’s warehouses and felt ill.
At last, the carriage stopped.
She looked out and saw the Gardiners’ house.
For a moment she could not move.
It looked almost the same.
That was the cruelest part.
The door, the windows, the familiar steps—everything stood in its proper place, as though Aunt Gardiner might open the door at any moment with a smile and say the children had been dreadful terrors from confinement and would Lizzy please come help distract them?
Mr. Philips descended first, then handed Elizabeth down. The pavement beneath her feet was still gritty with dried mud, and a dark line stained the lower bricks of every house. She swallowed hard and followed him up the steps.
He knocked.
No one came.
He knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat faster. She had just lifted her hand to knock herself when the sound of bolts finally came from within. The door opened only a little at first, as though the person behind it feared who might be waiting.
Then it swung wide.
The woman in the doorway was much younger than Elizabeth expected—perhaps only two and twenty—her cap sat slightly askew, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her face looked as though sleep had become a memory rather than a habit.
“Miss Elizabeth?” the young woman breathed.
The relief in her voice nearly undid Elizabeth. “Yes. I came as soon as I could. You are Mrs. Thompson?”
Mrs. Thompson pressed a hand to her mouth. “Yes. Thank God you are here.”
Before anything more could be said, a cry sounded from somewhere within the house.
“Cousin Lizzy!”
Then another.
“Lizzy!”
The next moment, three children came tumbling into the hall.
Edward, the eldest, tried bravely to look composed and failed before reaching her.
Sophie was already sobbing, one ribbon hanging loose from her hair, while little Thomas clutched a wooden horse in one hand and dragged a blanket behind him with the other.
They fell upon Elizabeth all at once, and she sank to the floor beneath the force of them, gathering as many small bodies as she could into her arms.
“Oh, my darlings,” she whispered.
Edward buried his face against her shoulder.
Sophie wrapped both arms around Elizabeth’s waist and cried as though she had been holding back tears for days.
Thomas climbed half into her lap, the wooden horse digging painfully into Elizabeth’s side, and wailed for his mama with a heartbreak so complete that Elizabeth had to close her eyes.
For several minutes, she could do nothing but hold them.
Above her, Mr. Philips spoke quietly with Mrs. Thompson. Elizabeth heard fragments through the children’s cries.
“How many remain?”
“Cook, two maids, John the footman, and myself, sir. The nursemaid left the second morning after Mrs. Gardiner passed. She said she had family in Southwark and would not stay where there might be no wages. I could not stop her.”
“And the others?”
“Gone.” Mrs. Thompson’s voice shook with fatigue. “Some frightened by sickness. Some by the flooding. Some by rumors that the business was ruined and no one would ever be paid. I have done what I could, but the children—”
“You have done very well,” Mr. Philips said firmly.
Mrs. Thompson gave a small, broken sound that was not quite a sob. “I shall have rooms prepared for you directly.”
Elizabeth lifted her head. “No. Please do not trouble yourself. I shall stay in the nursery with the children tonight.”
Mrs. Thompson looked as though she might protest, then lacked the strength.
Mr. Philips added, “And I require nothing more than linens and a mattress. Do not turn the house upside down on my account.”
The housekeeper’s shoulders lowered in weary gratitude. “Thank you, sir. I shall see what there is for supper. The children have not yet dined.”
“Whatever is already prepared will do,” Elizabeth said at once.
“Indeed,” Mr. Philips agreed. “We are not guests tonight, Mrs. Thompson. We are family.”
The housekeeper nodded, her mouth trembling, then turned toward the back of the house.
Elizabeth met Mr. Philips’s eyes over the children’s heads.
For the first time since receiving the letter, she saw the full weight of what waited before them reflected in another face: the dead to mourn, the children to soothe, the household to stabilize, the business to understand, and whatever legal tangles followed to unravel.
She could not do it all. Not at once. Not alone.
“I shall look through the rooms and begin a list of what must be done,” Mr. Philips said gently. “You see to the children.”
Elizabeth nodded, though her throat felt too tight for speech.
When he moved away, the children clung more tightly, as though every departure now felt like abandonment. Elizabeth drew in a slow breath and made herself loosen her arms enough to look at them.