Chapter Twenty-Seven
They heard the house before they reached it.
Mrs. Bennet's voice carried across the drive with the full force of a woman in the grip of a conviction she considered self-evident, and the conviction, as Elizabeth, Mrs. Gardiner, and Kitty quickened their pace up the path, appeared to be that Mr. Gardiner was dead.
"I know it, I know it, I have always said that business would be the end of him, and now here is this letter and nobody will open it and tell me what has happened to my brother, and if you had any feeling at all, Mr. Bennet, any feeling whatsoever—"
"My feeling," said Mr. Bennet's voice from somewhere within, "is that the letter is in your brother's own hand, which argues rather against the hypothesis of his death.
I would also point out that it is addressed to Mrs. Gardiner, whose correspondence I have no intention of opening, feeling or otherwise. "
Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner came through the door into a drawing room that had arranged itself around the drama with the practised ease of a household long accustomed to it.
Mrs. Bennet was on the sofa. Mr. Bennet was in the doorway with his book under his arm.
Jane stood at her mother's shoulder. Mary had not yet looked up from her volume, though she had moved it slightly closer to her face. Lydia was eating a biscuit.
Mrs. Gardiner crossed the room, took the express from the table where it had apparently been placed for maximum visibility, and opened it.
After reading it through, she said, "It is Eddie. He has broken his leg and has a slight fever. He is asking for me."
Mrs. Bennet pressed a hand to her heart. "A broken leg. A fever. Well. There it is. I knew something was wrong, did I not say so, Mr. Bennet? A mother always knows."
"You said your brother was dead," said Mr. Bennet.
"I said something was wrong." Mrs. Bennet rose.
"I must lie down. This has been a very great shock to my nerves.
I hope the boy recovers, of course. Jane, come and sit with me.
" Jane followed her mother. Mary set aside her book and retired to the pianoforte.
Mr. Bennet, having contributed all he considered necessary to the occasion, withdrew to his book room.
Lydia appeared in the doorway. "Kitty, come. We are going to Meryton." Kitty hesitated only long enough to glance toward Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner before following her sister from the room.
"Go," said Elizabeth. "You must go immediately."
"I know," Mrs. Gardiner said. She folded the letter with the careful precision of a woman doing something with her hands because the alternative is standing still and feeling everything at once.
"I had thought I might stay another few days.
I had thought—" She stopped. "It does not signify what I had thought. "
Elizabeth took her hands. "He is asking for you. Nothing else signifies at all."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her for a moment, as though there were far more she wished to say than time allowed.
"Edward will come as soon as he can. I will send him the moment I reach town. Do not let them rush anything before he arrives." She paused. "And do not let your father see how much you understand. He is not a man who responds well to being understood."
Elizabeth almost smiled. "No. He is not."
Mrs. Gardiner embraced her then, briefly and firmly. Then she released her. “I shall need the carriage,” she said.
Mrs. Gardiner found Mr. Bennet in his book room. "As you know, my son is ill. Can you not spare the carriage for me?"
Mr. Bennet looked faintly inconvenienced. “The carriage is not available,” he said. “The horses are wanted on the farm. It is harvest time.”
“Then perhaps a hire from Meryton.”
“I believe the only available vehicle there is currently being repaired.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at him for a moment.
“Have you no care whatsoever for anyone beyond the walls of your book room?” she said.
It was not quite a question. “Fortunately, Mr. Darcy was good enough to say, when we travelled here, that his carriage would remain at my disposal for as long as I had need of it. It seems I have need of it now.”
“Darcy's carriage?” said Mr. Bennet, looking up at last.
“He is not coming himself. He is sending his horses and his driver. You have banned the man from your property, not his equipage. And as you cannot provide your own, I find I have very little choice.” Rising as she spoke, she added, “I trust you will not object to his carriage using your drive.”
The carriage arrived from Netherfield in rather less than the hour Darcy had promised. Mrs. Gardiner's trunk was brought down, her things assembled, and within the hour she was gone. The house soon resumed its ordinary course, though to Elizabeth it seemed quieter than before.
Some hours later, when the sound of Lydia and Kitty returning from Meryton reached the house, Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway of his book room.
"Catherine," he said. "Come in here a moment."
Kitty followed him in and stood quietly while he settled himself behind his desk with the unhurried manner of a man conducting a routine inquiry.
"Where exactly did you find your aunt and sister this morning?" he said.
"At Hayes farm, sir. She and Elizabeth had gone to call on the tenants."
"Hayes farm," Mr. Bennet repeated. "And was there anyone else on the road?"
"It is a public lane, sir," Kitty said. "There are generally people on it."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he picked up his book. "Quite so," he said. "You may go."
The door closed behind Kitty, and in the passage she allowed herself the smallest smile before her expression settled back into its ordinary composure and she went to find her sister.
The following morning Elizabeth rose early and went out before the house was properly awake, taking the path that curved north through the home fields and down toward the lower boundary where the land began to flatten and the hedgerows gave way to open ground.
The Hayes farm sat at the far edge of it, close enough to Netherfield that the smoke from both chimneys was visible on a clear morning.
The Hayes family had worked Longbourn's northern acres for generations, and Elizabeth had been welcome there since childhood.
When she reached him, he took her hand at once, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that she should be there and he should be waiting for her. His gaze moved briefly toward the farm, then along the path she had taken across the fields.
“Is it safe?” he asked quietly. “To meet here?”
“The Hayes family have looked after me since I was small enough to follow Mr. Hayes through the furrows.” She smiled faintly. “I trust them entirely.”
“That is enough for me.” He bent over her hand and pressed it lightly to his lips.
“What are we to do?” she asked.
“I am not certain,” he said. “But I have written to my family. All of it. I know we had agreed to wait for your father’s consent before—”
“No,” she said. “I understand. I am glad you did. And yet I fear what comes next.”
“So do I.”
“When you told us what my father said, Aunt Madeline was right. Both my grandfathers died long before I was born. My grandfather Bennet died before my parents were even married. I remembered that there was some quarrel then between my father and his brother. My mother mentioned it once, years ago, and said Philip was no gentleman, and that he ought to have been more generous when they married, as it was his fault. I never understood what she meant by that. I do not think I was meant to.”
“And your grandfather Gardiner?”
“He died just after Jane was born. It was his small legacy that gave my uncle the capital to begin his business.” She paused. “So if both of them were dead long before I was born, whose grandfather was my father speaking of?”
“Do you have a family bible?”
“We do. But it is kept locked in my father’s desk. It has been for as long as I can remember. He always said it was because I nearly destroyed it as a child, before I was old enough to remember.”
She stopped, hearing the excuse aloud as though for the first time.
“I believed it because I was young, and because one does not think to question the stories one is raised inside. He keeps the key on his person.”
“You and your sister were born at Cambridge,” he said. “When your father was still at the university.”
“Yes. My parents inherited the estate shortly before my first birthday, which is why we came to Longbourn when I was very small.”
“So your birth records would not be here.”
"No." She was quiet for a moment. "I expect a letter from my aunt tomorrow. I hope Eddie is mending.”
“He will be.” His voice softened. “You are in the middle of all this, and still you think first of the child.”
“I think of everything,” she said. “That is rather the difficulty.”
“It is also one of the things I love most.” He lifted her hand again, more slowly this time, and she felt the warmth rise in her face before his lips ever touched her skin.
“At Brinmouth,” she said, because seriousness had become dangerous, “we could have simply sailed north and been done with it.”
He gave her a look. “Why must you be so impertinent?”
“Why must you be so honourable?”
“You know very well it would not have sat right with you either.”
“No,” she admitted. “It would not have. And yet—”
“And yet,” he agreed. “But not yet. We must still hope for a proper wedding.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I never considered what sort of wedding I might want. Even now, none of it matters very much. Only you.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you,” she said.
“If my family in London cannot help us, I will reconsider every avenue available to me.”
“Yes,” she said. “But if it comes to that, I would suggest a carriage rather than a boat. We are rather more conveniently placed for the northern road than for any harbour I know of.”
This time he did smile. “My impertinent love.” He raised her hand once more and held it there for a moment.
“I must go,” she said softly. “I will be missed.”