Chapter 8
Elizabeth’s gown had been blotted clean and laid before the fire to dry, while she was wrapped in a dressing gown and instructed, with all Mrs. Reynolds’s authority, to drink tea and warm herself.
Her stockings, which had only been a little damp, had been carried off without ceremony and replaced from some inexhaustible Pemberley store with a pair so fine that Elizabeth was almost sorry to put her feet in them. A pair of slippers had also appeared, which fit her well enough.
“I have been dressed by Pemberley,” Elizabeth informed her aunt, who was sitting at the same fire and looking very comfortable. “I shall never again be content with Longbourn’s stockings.”
“Pray do not accustom yourself too quickly to Pemberley comforts,” said Aunt Gardiner, with a little smile. “It is always best for one’s allowance to rise before one’s standards.”
Elizabeth looked down at the borrowed stockings and held out one leg. “Do you think Mrs. Reynolds would notice if I kept these?”
“Yes.”
“How unfortunate. I had begun to form an attachment.”
“You have formed an attachment,” said Aunt Gardiner, turning her feet towards the fire. “But I do not believe it is to the stockings.”
Elizabeth’s eyes moved quickly to the tea in her cup. “Have I?”
Her aunt smiled and said nothing.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I believe you know, but in any case, I am not required to explain everything I have observed.”
There was something in the way Aunt Gardiner said it—mild, dry, a little too innocent—that Elizabeth elected not to examine.
Mrs. Reynolds returned then, and Elizabeth’s gown was pronounced fit to be worn. A maid shook out Elizabeth’s petticoat one last time and then helped her dress. Mrs. Reynolds stood back, considered the whole, and gave a small nod.
“There,” she said. “You will do very well, miss.”
Elizabeth thanked them both and exchanged the slippers for her half-boots.
Her aunt rose and accepted her shawl from the maid. Before she turned away, she gave Elizabeth one brief look that said Not finished, my dear. Only delayed.
Mrs. Reynolds led them into the passage and down to a parlour.
Inside the room, Henry Atherton sat on his mother’s lap, dressed in dry clothes, wrapped in a blanket, and holding a biscuit in one fist. Miss Atherton, who appeared weary of everyone making such a fuss over her brother, sat very composed upon a stool and watched the proceedings.
“May I ask after Mr. Atherton?” Aunt Gardiner asked as they came inside.
Mrs. Atherton smiled. “Mr. Atherton satisfied himself that Henry was breathing and cross, and then I sent him back to his fishing. I have quite enough to manage without my husband underfoot.”
When Elizabeth came to sit near the fire, Mrs. Atherton reached across, took her hand, and held it.
“I have not thanked you,” she said, in a low voice. “I find I cannot do it properly without disgracing myself, so I shall do it badly and you must forgive me. If you had not alerted everyone—”
“It was nothing, Mrs. Atherton,” Elizabeth demurred. “It was Mr. Darcy who—”
“Mr. Darcy carried him out of the marquee,” said Mrs. Atherton. “I know that. But it was you who saw the danger and called it out.”
She pressed Elizabeth’s fingers once, hard enough to betray what her composure would not.
“As for Mr. Darcy, he dashed in without the least thought for himself, and do you know what my husband said when he heard of it? He said, ‘Of course he did.’ That is the whole of Mr. Darcy’s character in this county, Miss Bennet, and I believe you must be the same.
” She stopped, looked down at Henry’s now dry curls and gave a small, unsteady laugh.
“I have told my husband we shall be assigning a footman for Henry. He shall assist Esther in keeping watch when they are out.”
Mrs. Atherton drew breath and investigated the fire.
When she spoke again, her voice had steadied, and turned, a little, towards dryness.
“I have known Miss Bingley a great many years, Miss Bennet. I was at seminary with her and her sister. She informed me . . .” She paused to shake her head and take a breath.
“Well, I had thought, this morning, that I knew a great deal about which of you I would sooner have beside me in a difficulty, but I find that I was entirely wrong.” She released Elizabeth’s hand.
“There. Now I have embarrassed us both.”
Elizabeth said something warm and inadequate.
“Is Mr. Darcy here?” Miss Atherton asked quietly. “I would like to ask him a question.”
There was movement in the doorway and Mr. Darcy entered.
“There you are,” she told the girl with a smile. “As if he came when you called.”
Mr. Darcy was wearing a fresh coat, a blue one that had clearly never been within a mile of flying lemonade. He crossed at once to the fire to bend over the blanketed Henry, and inquire, with perfect gravity, whether he had taken any lasting harm.
“There was a fish,” Henry informed him, by way of answer.
Mr. Darcy was clearly amused. “So you have said. I believe it was a very large one.”
“It was THIS big.” The blanket fell open for Henry’s repeated demonstration. “And nobody caught it.”
“A grievous loss,” said Mr. Darcy. “We shall have to see what can be done about it another day.” He restored the blanket to its office, satisfied himself by some private inspection that the boy was whole, and only then did he straighten and turn to Elizabeth.
“Miss Bennet, I hope that you are well.”
“Quite well, I thank you—I was only a little wet. But you look so grave, Mr. Darcy, that I must ask whether you are well.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I am.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “Miss Atherton seems to have a question of great importance which she wishes to pose to you.”
“Of course,” he said, and approached the girl. “How may I be of service, Miss Atherton?”
The girl pursed her lips before looking up at Mr. Darcy and asking, quite directly, “Is Miss Darcy shy?” She paused, and added, with great seriousness, “Because I am shy. People do not always believe me, because I can talk if I make myself. But it is very tiring, and afterward I want to go and sit somewhere quiet and not be looked at.”
Mr. Darcy did not laugh or arrange his features into the dreadful brightness grown people so often put on for children. Instead, he drew a chair close to the child and sat in it, then seriously considered Miss Atherton’s question.
“She is,” he said. “She has been shy the whole of her life. When she was your age, she would hide behind the curtains in the music room sooner than be presented to her father’s guests, and once stayed there so long that a footman drew the curtains at dusk without ever knowing she was inside them.”
Miss Atherton’s eyes went round. “What did she do?”
“She waited until everyone had departed, then went to bed.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“It was not until the morning after that she mentioned it. She did not want anyone put to trouble on her account. That is rather a habit of hers.”
“Did she grow out of her shyness?” Miss Atherton asked, leaning forward.
“No,” said Mr. Darcy. “I do not believe one grows out of it, any more than one grows out of being tall, or fond of music. But one may learn to control it. My sister has spent today in a great deal of company and did not once run away to the house to sit quietly, though I have no doubt she wished to. And I am sure with practice, you shall be able to do the same.”
Miss Atherton absorbed this in silence, then nodded, having plainly reached a decision of some weight. “Then I shall practice.”
“I am quite sure you will. You are performing admirably at this moment although you do not know me well, and I am a good deal more alarming than a curtain.”
“You are not alarming at all,” Miss Atherton said, gazing up at him.
“Thank you, Miss Atherton.” Mr. Darcy spoke a low word to her mother and rose.
He had nearly reached the door when Elizabeth glanced at her aunt.
Aunt Gardiner’s brows lifted a fraction. Elizabeth answered the look with a small smile, rose, and said, “Mr. Darcy, if you are returning to the party, might my aunt and I accompany you?”
He turned back, surprised enough for it to show. “You wish to go out again?”
Elizabeth laughed. “I was only a little damp, sir, and have since been rescued by Mrs. Reynolds who provided a fire, dry stockings, and tea. It would be a shame to waste such fine weather by remaining indoors.”
“A great shame,” said her aunt, coming to stand beside her. “We have so little time left in this part of England, and Derbyshire is best enjoyed out of doors, not through a window.”
Mr. Darcy glanced from one to the other, the surprise changing into something warmer. “Then I should be very happy to escort you both.” They made their way to the entrance where he opened the door for them himself, and they passed from the hush of the house into the full brightness of the day.
The change struck Elizabeth almost comically.
Indoors, there had been Mrs. Reynolds’s benevolent tyranny.
Out of doors, the sun was still high and the air still fresh.
The river flashed here and there through the trees.
Voices carried from the lawn. Somewhere beyond the shrubbery, people were laughing.
“It is very fine weather,” said Aunt Gardiner with satisfaction.
They walked on, though not quickly. Mr. Darcy’s pace accommodated her aunt’s without any appearance of doing so. Her aunt was not a great walker, and he had shortened his stride to hers without a word.
Elizabeth had noticed such things perhaps too often. None of it was remarkable, but then, that was precisely the trouble. Great but singular performances were impressive, but ordinary, consistent kindnesses were more difficult to dismiss.
“You know every turn of this place, I suppose,” said Aunt Gardiner, looking towards the trees.
“Most of them.”
“And which is your favourite?”
Mr. Darcy was silent for a moment, considering it with a seriousness that amused Elizabeth.
“I fear that depends upon the season and the hour.”