Chapter 23 #3
Then a party of ladies drifted up to them, one of them declaring that the mountains looked the same in every painting. By the time they passed on to the next landscape, Miss Elizabeth had stepped back to her aunt.
Darcy did not attempt to follow. He had learned something, at least. Whatever stood between them had not erased her cleverness or her humour.
It had not made her indifferent. She was capable of turning towards him still, but something was telling her not to do so. There was still an opportunity for him.
But it was not enough.
There was not a great deal of time before Mr. Aldridge’s return.
Darcy would have to speak to Miss Elizabeth in private, and clearly that was not going to happen here.
There was one place he might do it: Gracechurch Street.
There she would be on her own ground, where she could be comfortable enough to either answer or turn him away as she pleased.
The problem was that he had no idea how to ask for an invitation without appearing too forward. He wandered back to the first landscape, the one with the light Miss Elizabeth had not been certain of.
“Mr. Darcy.” Mrs. Gardiner had come up at his elbow without his hearing her. She nodded at the painting. “Do you like this one?”
“I do. It is very good.” He looked again and said what he had meant to tell Miss Elizabeth. “It is more than good. The prospect is taken from my uncle’s land, above the river, and the painter has captured the light perfectly.”
Mrs. Gardiner stood for a moment to study the picture. “I have never toured Matlock, but it is not so different from your own grounds at Pemberley.”
“We are a little farther from the Peak, as you know. But the landscape there has its own beauties.”
Without turning to look at him, she said, “You did not come for the paintings today, I think, even those of Derbyshire.”
It was a great relief to be spoken to directly. “No.”
“You have taken more notice of one lady this last hour than of every canvas on these walls, and she has taken great care to pretend she has nothing to say.”
Darcy clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the painting without seeing it. “I believe I have done something to distress your niece,” he said. “However, I do not know what it is, and I cannot mend it when I do not know what I have done. That is the whole of my concern.”
There. He had confessed, which was both mortifying and relieving. Fortunately, Mrs. Gardiner did not pity him, which he could not have borne.
“Then you had better come and see us.” She was still not looking at him.
She might have been recommending a reliable coal merchant for all anyone passing by would know.
“We are at home on Thursday. Come at one, and without your sister or cousin, I think. You are quite old enough to knock on a door by yourself.”
Mrs. Gardiner had offered him the invitation he had not known how to ask for, and he was deeply grateful for it.
“I can only promise you tea,” she said, tugging at the hem of her glove. “But I have never known Elizabeth to be cold without a reason. She can, however, be proud, and quick to judge, even sometimes mistaken, as we all are.”
It was not a guarantee. Darcy understood that. Even so, it was the first solid ground he had felt beneath his feet in four days.
“At one o’clock,” he said.
“At one.” Mrs. Gardiner nodded at him.
Behind her, Miss Elizabeth was near enough to have heard the hour, if not the whole conversation. Darcy could not read her face.
The party gathered their coats and catalogues, then they all made their farewells.
Georgiana talked all the way home about the pictures of Derbyshire, the flower studies, and both Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth’s opinions on everything.
Richard offered his own judgements upon landscapes it was clear he had scarcely glanced at.
As the carriage turned out of Pall Mall, Richard leaned across. “Am I fond of flower paintings?”
“Yes,” said Darcy.
“I thought I might be.” Richard settled back, satisfied. “It is important to know one’s preferences.”
Georgiana, who had been examining her catalogue, looked up. “You liked Night-Blowing Cereus best.”
Richard considered this with gravity. “I did. I never knew a flower could appear so ferocious. I quite enjoyed it.”
Darcy let his cousin rattle away, hearing only perhaps half of it.
He could only think about Thursday and Gracechurch Street.
There would be no mother arranging for him to walk around the block like a fool, no parties that were suddenly four times the promised size, no young ladies with anxious parents appearing in his home.
For once in the whole of this wretched season, nobody had arranged a thing except a time for him to call.
Whatever had changed in Miss Elizabeth, it was not her kindness. He had seen it all morning, offered to Georgiana, to her sister, to her aunt, even to strangers who stepped in her way and apologised too late. Even to him, until she remembered herself and retreated.
And on Thursday, he would be able to ask her why.