9. Home Again
nine
Home Again
Elizabeth arrived at Longbourn on an August afternoon that smelled of warm grass, dust, and ripening apples.
The carriage moved through the familiar lane with a rattle of wheels over dry ruts, and the house came into view much as it always had: its windows bright beneath the late summer sun, its shrubbery a little untidy where Mrs. Bennet had once declared it charming, its front steps bearing the scuffs and ordinary wear of home.
After London, after Ireland, after weeks spent in unfamiliar rooms, crowded inns, wild coasts, damp roads, cheerful discomforts, and her aunt’s unfailing good humor in the face of every inconvenience, Longbourn ought to have appeared small.
It did not.
It appeared beloved.
Elizabeth pressed one gloved hand to the carriage window as though the touch could hasten their arrival.
Beside her, Mrs. Gardiner smiled over the sleeping form of her youngest child, who had collapsed against her lap with one fist still closed around a ribbon purchased in Dublin.
Mr. Gardiner sat opposite, reading a letter from his clerk with an expression of mingled patience and resignation.
“I believe,” he said, folding the paper, “that Thompson has contrived to conduct business in my absence with more order than I manage in my presence.”
“That is a dangerous discovery,” Mrs. Gardiner replied.
“It is good I own the business. Let us hope Thompson never received a better offer of employment. He would make another too prosperous, and I should be left to the wolves.”
Elizabeth laughed, though her attention had already gone beyond the carriage.
Longbourn. Jane. Her father’s library. The old path beyond the paddock.
Mary’s music, Kitty’s complaints, Lydia’s noise, her mother’s schemes.
All the domestic disorder she had written of with amusement and missed with unexpected force.
Ireland had been beautiful. She had found things worth writing about, two disagreeable inns, one excellent inn with a landlady who deserved a fortune, roads that tested every wheel and temper, and more shades of green than even Mr. Darcy’s devotion to Derbyshire could have prepared her to admire.
Mr. Darcy.
She sat back before Mrs. Gardiner could observe the direction of her thoughts.
His name had followed her through the summer in the most inconvenient fashion.
It had occurred to her beside the sea, while examining ruins, in the middle of a very poor dinner, and once while watching her uncle bargain with a man over shipping terms in such language of mutual respect and exact calculation that she had longed to hear Mr. Darcy’s opinion of it.
Georgiana’s letters had come twice, bright with descriptions of Ramsgate, music, shells, and walks by the water.
Mr. Darcy appeared in them by accident. My brother says I must not bring crabs into the house.
Brother has gone to Kent for Mr. Bingley.
Fitzwilliam returned earlier than expected.
After that, the next letter had been shorter, less lively, and Elizabeth, reading it in a room overlooking a gray Irish morning, had wondered whether the sea had ceased to be quite so enchanting.
No explanation had followed. She had no right to expect one.
Still, in September, or perhaps earlier if business allowed, Mr. Darcy had said he wished to call at Longbourn.
She had answered yes. More than yes, if honesty were required.
She had told him she should be happy to see him, and she had remembered his face afterward with a frequency that would have exposed her to merciless teasing had Jane been present to witness it.
They were not returning in September after all.
Mr. Gardiner’s business had concluded more quickly than expected, and Mrs. Gardiner, missing her children and declaring that Ireland had had enough of them for one year, decided they would return through London and send Elizabeth home in August. There had been no time to write to everyone properly.
Jane knew the day. Perhaps Mr. Darcy did not.
Maybe he would come. Maybe he would not.
The carriage stopped before the house before Elizabeth had properly arranged her thoughts. The front door opened, and Hill came out with such visible pleasure that Elizabeth’s first step from the carriage was nearly into an embrace.
“Miss Lizzy! Oh, how pleased Miss Bennet will be. She has been watching for you this half hour.”
Jane appeared a moment later, hastening down the steps with more eagerness than elegance, and Elizabeth ran to meet her.
“My dearest Jane.”
“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane held her close, and for several seconds there was no need for speech. “You are thinner.”
“I am not.”
“You are browner, then.”
“That I will allow. Ireland has taken liberties with my complexion.”
Jane drew back, laughing, and looked her over with that affectionate inspection sisters may perform without offense. “You are very well?”
“Perfectly. And you?”
“Very well indeed.”
That “indeed” invited inquiry, but Mrs. Gardiner had descended, Mr. Gardiner was handing out parcels, and the Gardiner children had awakened into chaos.
Within minutes the hall was full of trunks, greetings, bonnet ribbons, exclamations, and a dispute between two small cousins over whether a wooden horse had crossed the sea or merely dreamed that it had.
Mrs. Bennet received them in the drawing room with tears, smelling salts which no one required, and a speech upon the length of Elizabeth’s absence that lasted until she remembered there were visitors already present and she must not be robbed of the pleasure of introducing them.
“For you are just in time, Lizzy. We have such company today. Your Aunt Philips is here, and your uncle, and Mr. Wickham, who is quite one of the pleasantest young men I have ever met. Though not so young as all that, of course, which is a very good thing. A man ought not be too young when he has serious intentions.”
“Mama,” Jane murmured.
Mrs. Bennet waved her off. “I say nothing improper. Everyone knows it. Lydia, where is Mr. Wickham? Oh, there you are. Come here and be introduced to my second daughter. She has been all over Ireland and will make you think very poorly of Hertfordshire if she is not stopped.”
It was then Elizabeth noted the stranger among her family.
The gentleman who came forward was handsome in a manner that generally announced itself before introduction. He had fine features, an easy carriage, and a manner so open that reserve in his presence would have seemed ungenerous. He bowed with grace.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I am honored at last. Miss Lydia has spoken of you so often that I feel acquainted with you already.”
Lydia, standing far nearer to him than Elizabeth remembered any man being permitted to stand near her without producing maternal shrieks, colored and tossed her head. “I said that Lizzy thinks herself very clever.”
“Then I was misled,” Mr. Wickham replied gravely. “I understood you to mean she is very clever.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “An improvement upon Lydia’s report within ten seconds of acquaintance. You are very quick, Mr. Wickham.”
“I have been told survival among the Bennet ladies requires it.”
Mr. Bennet’s voice sounded from his chair near the window. “It does. Though I do not advise appearing too competent. They will expect feats of endurance.”
“Papa,” Lydia protested.
Mr. Bennet peered over the top of his book. “My dear, I speak from experience.”
Elizabeth crossed to kiss his cheek before he could retreat behind the volume. “You are looking very indolent, sir.”
“And you are looking very traveled. I am afraid Ireland has not cured you of impertinence.”
“It has strengthened it.”
“Then I must write to your aunt and complain.”
Mr. Philips, who sat beside his wife with his hands folded over the head of his cane, chuckled. “You see, Wickham? This is the daughter who keeps them all sharp.”
“I begin to perceive it.” The gentleman smiled again, revealing straight, white teeth. His tousled brown hair fell carelessly over one brow, and he reached up to brush it away.
Elizabeth accepted the seat Jane made for her and took in the room while tea was ordered.
Kitty was flushed with excitement and disappointment together, a familiar combination when Lydia had obtained attention first. Mary sat at the pianoforte with music open before her but no intention of playing while so much conversation could be morally assessed. Lydia, however, was the true surprise.
She was still Lydia. No transformation could have made her otherwise.
Her ribbons were too bright, her laugh came too readily, and she spoke before reflection had done more than knock at the door.
But some portion of her animation now centered around Mr. Wickham instead of scattering itself upon every officer, shop window, or new bonnet.
When he spoke, she listened. When she interrupted, she stopped if he lifted a hand or murmured her name.
Once, when she reached for a third biscuit before tea had properly circulated, he placed the plate nearer Kitty first, and Lydia, after one astonished look, waited her turn.
Elizabeth looked at Jane.
Jane’s eyes held a small message of their own: You see it?
Yes. Elizabeth did see.
“So, Mr. Wickham,” Mrs. Gardiner said when introductions had concluded, “you have joined my brother Philips’s office.”
“I have been fortunate in the opportunity.” Mr. Wickham accepted his tea from Lydia with a word of thanks that made her beam. “Mr. Philips has been very generous in taking me on. I mean to prove worth the trouble.”
“Trouble?” Mr. Philips objected. “No trouble at all. A young man with a good hand, a quick mind, and some knowledge of the law already? I should be a fool not to value him.”
“A great fool,” Mrs. Philips added, nodding with consequence. “And I told him so.”
“You tell me so whenever possible, my dear,” Mr. Philips replied.