Chapter 10
The rain had gone east as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind a sky scoured to a hard bright blue, the wet grass shining like crystal where the sun struck it, and water still dripping from every leaf along their path.
But a soaked woman admires a prospect chiefly by hurrying through it, and Elizabeth did just that, making her way down the streaming path with the rest of the walking party.
She might have laughed at the soggy symmetry if she had breath to spare.
The shortest way in from the folly ran beside the water, across a sturdy bridge.
Aunt Gardiner, who had pleaded fatigue when she saw just how steep the rise truly was, had walked up to the house with Miss Darcy, and Elizabeth saw her in the distance, waiting near the end of the limestone walk to greet them.
Her uncle, perhaps the only one of the party who was in no hurry to be anywhere, and not at all bothered by being wet, carried his three trout before him like a man bearing the colours, and recounted to anyone within range and a number of persons beyond it, the history of his catch.
With them came the rest, strung out where the path narrowed.
Mr. Bingley was talking happily to the two Pelham girls, while the colonel offered a steadying hand to Miss Elinor where the ground was slick.
Mrs. Hurst had fallen a little behind, and behind her came Miss Bingley along the riverside, her ruined hem held an inch off the ground.
Elizabeth glanced back at her. Miss Bingley’s attention was not upon the mud, nor upon the uneven path, but upon Mr. Darcy, who had brought up the rear to make certain none of his guests was lost along the way.
Miss Bingley slowed another step.
Mr. Darcy’s glance passed over her, precise and unreadable, and settled instead on her sister. “Mrs. Hurst, may I offer you my arm? The ground is uncertain here.”
Mrs. Hurst accepted at once, with a grateful murmur.
Then Mr. Darcy lifted his voice just enough to carry. “Bingley, your sister may require you.”
Mr. Bingley turned immediately. “Caroline! I beg your pardon. I have walked on most shamefully.” He came back with all his usual good nature and offered his arm. “Here, let me be of use.”
For one instant Miss Bingley’s face went perfectly blank.
Then she took his arm with a smile so polished it might have been painted on. “Thank you, Charles.”
There was no triumph in the sight. Elizabeth was surprised by a thin, unwelcome twinge of something closer to pity. Miss Bingley had not become kinder because she had been disappointed; but she had become, for one brief moment, easier to understand.
They reached the bridge without mishap. Mr. Darcy was now speaking to Mr. Pelham, who had met them at the foot of the hill and walked back with them.
Mr. Darcy neared, and his eyes found Elizabeth at once. Only for a moment, and then they moved, properly, elsewhere.
It was absurd to be aware of so brief a look, but she could not help herself.
When they reached the house, they were received in a confusion of shawls, umbrellas, and footmen. Fires were being made up; dry shoes were being fetched; every lady was assured that she must change directly.
It was in all this confusion that Miss Bingley found her way to Elizabeth’s side.
All solicitude, she said, “What a day you have had of it, Miss Eliza. Twice soaked and twice rescued.” Her voice lowered to just above a whisper.
“But you must not allow Mr. Darcy’s exertions on your behalf to weigh upon you.
He will not think less of you for requiring his care so often, for he has the nicest sense of obligation that I have ever seen. ”
Elizabeth thought that while Mr. Darcy had protected her at the marquee, he had only come to assist with Miss Elinor. But while she thought Miss Bingley had got it wrong again, there was something in this speech that did strike home.
A man with reproaches to answer might wish to settle the account.
The invitation, the lemonade, the seat defended upon the bench, every one of those things could belong to a man who still loved her, but they might just as well belong to a man who felt himself clearing a—well, not a debt, precisely, but something near to it.
She had laughed all her life at people who saw only what they wished to see, and now she must have some sympathy for them. For she could no longer be certain whether Mr. Darcy’s manner betrayed some lingering warmth, or whether she had merely begun to wish it did.
Mr. Hurst’s first contribution to the general recovery was to ask, with feeling, whether dinner had been put back, and as this was a question of some importance to half the company, it drew several persons into consultation.
The colonel was describing the worst of the lightning to Sir Harold, who appeared to be enjoying the account because he had not been out in it.
Uncle Gardiner’s trout were handed at last to a footman, but not before he had received Aunt Gardiner’s assurance that she greatly admired them.
It was then Miss Bingley found yet another opportunity. “My dear Miss Eliza,” she said, with that falsely concerned look Elizabeth had already learned to distrust, “after such a trying afternoon, I am sure you must long to be back at Lambton and in your own things.”
Elizabeth had been about to answer that, at present, she longed chiefly for a fire, when Aunt Gardiner smiled.
“How thoughtful of you, Miss Bingley. Indeed, I have already asked that our carriage be brought round as soon as the road was judged passable. My husband and my niece have both been soaked through, and Lizzy for the second time today. Pemberley’s servants have been wonderfully forbearing, but there are limits to what even the best household can forgive in the way of ruined stockings. ”
Miss Bingley’s expression cleared almost imperceptibly. She thought she had won.
Elizabeth saw it, and her aunt’s raised eyebrow suggested that she had seen it too. Uncle Gardiner, who had been unnecessarily interested in watching the footman carry away his trout, saw it as well, for he cocked his head slightly and shot her aunt a quizzical glance.
“You give no trouble,” said Mr. Darcy at once, more quickly than mere civility required.
Aunt Gardiner turned to him with warmth, and with something quieter beneath it. “You are very good to say so. We have already trespassed a great deal upon your kindness, and I should be ashamed to extend the offence. You have many guests today, and the inn, as you know, is but five miles away.”
There it was, so lightly offered that no one could have accused her of offering anything at all.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes moved from Aunt Gardiner to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth could not tell whether he had understood her aunt’s invitation. Worse, she could not tell whether he had understood and meant, with perfect politeness, to decline. She looked down at the water-darkened hem of her gown and was suddenly conscious of every splatter of mud upon it.
Mr. Darcy opened his mouth to answer, but Miss Bingley spoke first.
“Then you are quite right, Mrs. Gardiner,” she said. “After such a day, quiet must be the very thing.”
It appeared Miss Bingley had missed her aunt’s hint, so anxious was she to see them gone.
Uncle Gardiner coughed into his hand, and Aunt Gardiner just offered Mr. Darcy a smile.
Mr. Darcy bowed. “I shall see you out.”
“That is very kind,” said Aunt Gardiner.
Miss Bingley smiled, satisfied. She had heard only the promise of departure, and that was enough.
Elizabeth and the Gardiners made their abbreviated farewells, and Mr. Darcy walked them to the front of the house.
“Miss Bennet,” he said. “It has been a great pleasure to have you here at Pemberley.”
The words were perfectly proper. They were no more than a host might say to any departing guest. Mr. Darcy’s expression gave her nothing sure, and she could not sort polite gratitude from genuine interest quickly enough to discern which he meant to convey.
“We have been very much obliged to you,” she said. “For more than the picnic.”
His eyes came back to hers. Something in his expression altered, but as she could not read Mr. Darcy’s intentions in his countenance, it left her still in a state of uncertainty.
“I hope—” he said, and stopped to seek the right words.
Behind them, Miss Bingley’s voice rose, smooth and sweet, from the hall. “Mrs. Gardiner, your carriage must be ready, I am sure. We must not keep you standing in a draught after such a day.”
Aunt Gardiner turned at once, all gratitude. “How very good of you to think of it.”
Miss Bingley smiled. “Not at all. After so much rain, one cannot be too careful.”
Uncle Gardiner appeared at his wife’s side with his damp hat in hand. “My dear, Miss Bingley is quite right. We must be carried off before I take root in Mr. Darcy’s hall.”
Mr. Darcy almost smiled. Elizabeth saw it and had to look away.
The carriage stood at the sweep, the steps already down, the horses steaming lightly in the cleared air. The rain had left the gravel dark and shining.
Mr. Darcy walked out with them.
It was a very short distance. Aunt Gardiner took Uncle Gardiner’s arm, and they contrived, with a skill Elizabeth could only admire, to be both present and not quite between her and Mr. Darcy.
Miss Bingley watched from the doorway, satisfied enough to watch them go and too satisfied, evidently, to wonder why Aunt Gardiner remained so composed.
At the carriage, Uncle Gardiner handed Aunt Gardiner in first. “My dear,” he said, “if I speak of the fish more than twice on the road to Lambton, you have my permission to stop the carriage and set me down.”
“I should not dream of it,” said Aunt Gardiner. “You would only walk beside us and continue.”
He laughed and climbed in after her.
Elizabeth remained upon the gravel.
For one moment there was no one between herself and Mr. Darcy but the carriage door and the proprieties of the entire world.
He offered his hand.
She put hers into it.
It was only assistance into a carriage. It did not mean anything, not on its own.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, very low, as she gathered her damp skirts.
“Mr. Darcy.”
The names seemed to stand in place of everything they could not say.
His hand tightened—not enough for anyone to see, perhaps not even enough for him to have intended it. Then he released her, and she took her seat beside her aunt.
Aunt Gardiner was looking out at the drive with an expression of perfect innocence. Uncle Gardiner was not looking innocent at all, but he had the kindness to study his hat.
Mr. Darcy stepped back. “I hope your return to Lambton is a safe one.”
“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “And I hope Pemberley has suffered no lasting harm from our visit.”
“None,” he said, “that I would wish undone.”
She could not tell whether he knew what he had said until the words were past recall. His face gave her only that same grave restraint which she had misread before and was determined not to misread again.
The carriage door closed.
Elizabeth looked back as they began to move.
Mr. Darcy stood upon the gravel, still bareheaded, and though the distance between them widened with every turn of the wheels, his eyes did not leave her.
Then they were through the gate and heading up from the valley towards Lambton, and she could see him no longer. She sat back against the carriage cushions, wet, tired, and very far from calm.
She had her answer about his character, at the least. She had been gathering it all day, piece by patient piece.
There was the lemonade, the way he treated his sister with such kindness, Master Henry snatched from peril, Miss Atherton answered upon the subject of her own shyness as seriously as such a girl could wish to be answered, Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt welcomed with respect where others might have made them feel out of place, and her own discomfort at the folly noted and corrected without pause.
He was a very good man.
She had said as much to Jane once, in the dark at Longbourn, before she had the smallest right to the thought, and had wished then only to be proved right.
She had not understood that being proved right could feel so very much like being too late.