Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy did not linger upon the path, though neither hurried. The sea lay bright behind them; the morning was clear; and there was in both their countenances something too settled to be mistaken for mere pleasure in the air.
The parlour door stood open. Within, Mrs. Gardiner sat near the small table where tea had been laid, though not yet cleared, while Mr. Gardiner stood at the window looking down into the yard where the carriage waited for the morrow.
“If we are to make good progress before the heat rises,” he was saying, “we must be earlier than usual. The road beyond the ridge grows heavy after noon.”
“Then we shall not linger at breakfast,” replied Mrs. Gardiner. “I will have the trunks brought down before seven.”
Their entrance interrupted no more than the conversation. Mr. Gardiner turned from the window as Elizabeth came in and said, “You are punctual.”
“The tide waits for no one,” she answered.
“And neither does breakfast,” returned Mrs. Gardiner, rising. “Come, before the eggs decide to grow cold in protest.”
Mr. Gardiner offered his wife his arm, and together they led the way into the breakfast room. Elizabeth followed with Mr. Darcy, as she had done so many mornings before; yet to her the simple procession seemed altered, as though the familiar order of the household had acquired a new significance.
Darcy crossed the threshold with Elizabeth.
Seats were taken, cups filled, and the small offices of the breakfast table resumed.
For a few moments nothing was said beyond what the meal required.
Mrs. Gardiner poured the tea; Mr. Gardiner helped himself to toast and glanced once or twice toward the window, though his attention was plainly elsewhere.
At length Mrs. Gardiner looked from Elizabeth to Darcy and back again.
“Well?”
There was no mistaking the question.
Elizabeth met her aunt's gaze. The colour rose in her cheeks, but she answered steadily. “Mr. Darcy has asked me to be his wife, and I have consented.”
Mr. Gardiner's brows lifted. Mrs. Gardiner looked entirely satisfied.
“I thought as much.”
Mr. Gardiner turned from one to the other and lifted his cup as though the gesture had occurred to him naturally. “Then I offer my congratulations to you both.”
“I hope you will not think me precipitous,” said Darcy.
“Precipitous?” returned Mr. Gardiner. “After six weeks of walking the same stretch of sand? I should have thought you remarkably patient.”
Elizabeth laughed, and Mrs. Gardiner, who was adding cream to her tea, regarded Darcy with evident amusement. “And yet patience has deserted you.”
Darcy did not attempt denial. “I knew it was our last morning here. It seemed impossible to leave that shore without speaking.”
“It is our place,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes.”
“Then we are obliged to Brinmouth,” said Mr. Gardiner, helping himself to another piece of toast. “It appears to have hurried what Hertfordshire might have delayed.”
Breakfast resumed in an easier tone. Cups were refilled and bread passed from hand to hand. After a few moments Mrs. Gardiner set down her cup and glanced toward the window, where the servants were already moving about the yard.
“I begin to think Brinmouth is determined to prevent our departure. Every friend insists upon sending something with us. At this rate we shall require a caravan.”
“The rear compartment will bear it,” said Mr. Gardiner.
“Will it?” she returned. “With shells, baskets, books, and Elizabeth's indefensible collection of sea pebbles?”
Elizabeth protested at once. “They are not indefensible.”
Darcy looked at her. “They shall be defended.”
Mrs. Gardiner set down the spoon with which she had been stirring her tea. “Well, we are fortunate that Mr. Darcy's carriage is to travel with us. I suspect we should otherwise be forced to leave half our treasures behind.”
“I would carry every pebble myself,” said Darcy, “if it spared her the smallest inconvenience.”
Elizabeth's colour deepened, but she did not look away.
“In that case,” said Mr. Gardiner, reaching for the marmalade, “I shall ensure the pebbles are properly catalogued.”
The laughter that followed left the room easier than before. Plates were moved aside, cups emptied, and the last of the toast divided between them. At length the servants returned to clear the table, and when they had withdrawn again Mr. Gardiner set down his cup.
“Darcy,” he said, “if you will spare me a few minutes.”
“With pleasure.”
The little study bore the marks of recent accounts. Ledgers lay open upon the desk, and a pen rested where it had been set aside. Mr. Gardiner closed the door behind them and turned at once.
“You have my blessing. I need not pretend otherwise. I have long thought you worthy of her.”
The gratitude in Darcy's expression was unfeigned. “I value that beyond measure.”
“But,” continued Mr. Gardiner, drawing out a chair and taking his own place behind the desk, “I cannot give you my consent.”
Darcy remained standing. “No. You cannot.”
“She has only just turned twenty. Her father's authority stands for another year.”
“I shall apply to him openly. I would not have it otherwise.”
Mr. Gardiner regarded him for a moment. “You know my sister and her husband as well as I. My sister will be transported for reasons that may not entirely please Elizabeth. My brother-in-law is less fond of disturbance than most men. He may not part easily with what he has grown accustomed to.”
Darcy's mouth tightened. “I suspected as much.”
“And if he refuses?” asked Mr. Gardiner.
Darcy was silent for a moment before answering. “I hope to convince him. I believe time and steadiness may do what eagerness cannot.”
“And if time does not suffice?”
Darcy drew a breath. “If we must wait until she is one and twenty, we shall wait.”
Mr. Gardiner regarded him thoughtfully. “And Scotland? It was mentioned, I think.”
“It was mentioned,” said Darcy. “Only mentioned. I hold an estate there, and the laws are less restrictive. But I would not act so without necessity.”
“You would not elope?”
“No.”
“And yet you fear losing her.”
“I do.”
“You wish,” he said, “that if matters grow strained at Longbourn, I might contrive to invite her away again. And that, in doing so, I might omit certain details of geography.”
Darcy's composure faltered enough to show he had indeed entertained the thought. “I would not ask you to act against your conscience, nor against hers. I am torn between honour and dread. I will not deceive Mr. Bennet. Yet I cannot pretend I do not consider every possible safeguard.”
“That does you credit,” said Mr. Gardiner.
“Both the honour and the dread.” He crossed to the window for a moment before turning back again.
“I shall speak with my wife. We must be united in whatever we undertake. But understand me clearly, Darcy; if difficulty arises, we shall not abandon Elizabeth to it.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Gardiner opened the door. “Come. We have left the ladies long enough, and I believe my wife possesses a particular talent for discovering when gentlemen think themselves excessively strategic.”
Darcy smiled. “I have observed as much.”
When the gentlemen withdrew, Elizabeth did not at once sit down. The room seemed altered; not emptier, but newly weighted with what had just occurred. Mrs. Gardiner watched her for a moment.
“You are happy.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Elizabeth moved to the window and rested her hand against the frame, looking out toward the faint line of sea beyond the roofs.
“For so long, I feared that if he came to Longbourn, if he saw it all too clearly, he might hesitate.
My mother's enthusiasm, her comparisons, her certainty that everything must be loudly admired, and my father's detachment.”
“And now?”
“Now I know he has decided with full knowledge already. There is no hesitation in him. He is steadier than I am.”
“But?”
“It is not his uncertainty that troubles me. It is mine.”
“In what way?”
Elizabeth was silent for a moment. “Here,” she said at last, “I have felt regarded. Not merely because I am useful, or because I am sensible, but for myself. At home, I am necessary. That is not the same thing. My mother arranges. My father withdraws. Jane shines. I manage. It has always seemed understood that I would remain.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I believe it has.”
“And though I am very happy, though I would not retract a word of this morning, I cannot forget that I am not yet fully my own.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached for her hand. “You have only just turned twenty.”
“I know.”
For a few moments neither spoke.
“For an instant,” Elizabeth said, “I wondered whether we might simply remain here. Or go somewhere beyond everyone's reach. Somewhere that does not require permission.”
“To Scotland?”
Elizabeth coloured, but did not deny it.
“He mentioned it once. In jest. Or half in jest.”
“And what did you think?”
Mrs. Gardiner's hand remained in hers.
“I thought that if I followed him anywhere, I would not feel diminished.”
Mrs. Gardiner pressed her fingers gently. “Then I am very glad you need not choose between affection and duty.”
Just then the door opened and the gentlemen returned.
Elizabeth turned at once, and whatever concern had occupied her seemed lighter than before.
“For a moment,” she said, “I was tempted to ask whether the tide runs as swiftly north as it does toward London.”