6. Promises of Return #3
“You rescue servants from broken dishes. You negotiate peace between dragons and wooden soldiers. You untangle hopeless knots in handkerchiefs. You admire gingerbread.”
Mrs. Gardiner coughed suspiciously into her handkerchief.
“I fear your reputation has suffered beyond repair, Mr. Darcy.”
He allowed the severe expression to dissolve.
“I was beginning to suspect as much.”
“I shall never again believe that face.”
“That places me at a considerable disadvantage.”
“You ought to have thought of that before allowing me to know you.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered upon her with unmistakable warmth.
“I have never been more grateful for an acquaintance than the one I formed with your aunt and uncle.”
Mrs. Gardiner pretended to occupy herself arranging the tea things.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes briefly to the saucer she held.
“You surprise me every day.”
“How so?”
“I confess that when Aunt first spoke of your friendship, I imagined you an exception.”
“To what?”
“To gentlemen of your standing.”
He frowned slightly.
“You expected me to disdain connections in trade.”
“I did.”
“I hope I have disappointed you.”
“Entirely.”
“My father would have been displeased had I done otherwise.”
Elizabeth waited.
He continued after a moment.
“Mr. Bingley’s fortune was made in trade.”
She shook her head. “I did not know that.”
“His father intended to purchase an estate but died before accomplishing it. Bingley hopes to do so one day.”
“That explains a great deal.”
“What does it explain?”
“You esteem him.”
“I do.”
“Without reservation?”
Darcy looked into his cup.
“With fewer reservations than I ought to possess.”
Elizabeth watched him carefully.
“You are thinking of your childhood friend again.”
He inclined his head once.
“How a man is raised,” he said, “does not always determine how he behaves.”
“No.”
“One gentleman born to every advantage may squander every principle. Another may acquire both fortune and consequence honestly and prove worthy of each.”
“I believe my father would agree with you.”
“I suspect your father is a sensible man.”
“He is. Though he would be amused to discover you have praised him without meeting him.”
“I hope one day to remedy that omission.”
The words escaped him so naturally that neither of them spoke for several seconds.
Mrs. Gardiner looked toward the clock.
“I had promised Mrs. Philips an answer before supper,” she said, rising once more. “Elizabeth, would you excuse me?”
Elizabeth suspected there was no answer required before supper.
“Certainly, Aunt.”
Mrs. Gardiner disappeared with suspicious efficiency.
The room seemed unexpectedly silent after the door closed.
Neither hurried to fill the silence.
Outside, the cries of the street drifted through the open window, mingling with the distant clatter of carriage wheels.
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap.
“Our faults make a melancholy catalogue.”
“They could be worse.”
“Oh?”
“You might have confessed to enjoying poor poetry.”
“I do enjoy poor poetry.”
He stared.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Occasionally. It makes good poetry seem all the better afterward.”
“That is a dangerous philosophy.”
“So you have said.”
He smiled despite himself.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck the quarter hour.
Elizabeth rose reluctantly.
“I believe I ought to leave you before Aunt discovers another errand requiring her absence.”
Darcy stood immediately.
“I cannot object to the wisdom of the decision.”
She gathered her gloves from the table and drew them on one finger at a time.
“The next fortnight will pass very quickly.”
“It will.”
“You must not neglect Georgiana after I am gone.”
“I shall endeavor not to.”
“She is counting the days until Ramsgate.”
“She reminds me of it daily.”
“I hope she has an excellent summer.”
“So do I.”
Elizabeth moved toward the door.
Darcy accompanied her into the hall, where the footman had already brought her bonnet.
He accepted it from the servant before Elizabeth could.
“May I?”
She bowed her head slightly.
With great care he placed the bonnet over her curls and tied the ribbons beneath her chin. His fingers lingered as long as necessity required before he stepped back.
“There.”
“I thank you.”
The front door stood open beyond them. Her carriage waited at the curb.
She held out her hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Darcy.”
Instead of merely bowing, he took her gloved hand with deliberation.
His head bent over it, propriety observed in every particular, though Elizabeth suspected no gentleman had ever managed such a simple courtesy with greater seriousness.
When he released her, he did not immediately step aside.
“I do not know what I shall do when you leave.”
The words were spoken so plainly that they nearly escaped notice.
Elizabeth smiled to lighten what had suddenly become too earnest.
“You will have Georgiana to amuse. Then Ramsgate. Before long your friend Mr. Bingley will return, and I imagine he will keep you fully occupied through the summer.”
“Yes.”
She started toward the steps.
“And after?”
Elizabeth looked back.
“And after?”
“After Ramsgate.”
She laughed gently.
“I am quite certain you will discover something to occupy your time, Mr. Darcy.”
He looked as though he wished to answer differently.
Instead he bowed.
“I hope you are right.”
Darcy descended the steps and entered the waiting carriage.
As it pulled away, he glanced through the window.
Elizabeth remained where she had left him, one hand resting lightly upon the open door, watching until the carriage carried him beyond her sight. When the carriage disappeared around the corner, he turned to face forward.
A few weeks.
Until that afternoon, the interval had appeared comfortably distant. Now it seemed absurdly brief. He had spent years believing time to be generous. It was proving remarkably otherwise.