2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
By the time Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner arrived at Longbourn, Lydia had been dying by degrees for three days and had discovered that no one attended to the process with sufficient sympathy.
Mrs. Bennet had attended to it, certainly, but in a manner more likely to prolong the household’s suffering than soothe Lydia’s.
Kitty had attended to it faithfully until she remembered, at intervals, that Lydia was leaving without her.
Mary had observed that disappointment, rightly borne, might refine the character, which had nearly caused Lydia to throw a pincushion.
Jane had been kind. Jane was always kind, which made even reproach difficult.
Mr. Bennet had retreated to his library with cowardly efficiency.
Elizabeth, having begun the whole calamity, endured the consequences.
She descended to the hall just as the Gardiners’ carriage came to a halt before the door.
The morning had broken fair after rain, and the gravel still held dark patches where water had gathered beneath the wheels.
Her aunt stepped down first, smiling as Mr. Gardiner made to hand her out, and Elizabeth’s chest loosened in a way it had not done since Brighton had become the single subject spoken of beneath Longbourn’s roof.
“There is my Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said, crossing the hall with both hands extended. “You look a bit exasperated. Has this house been louder than usual?”
Elizabeth kissed her cheek. “That is a charitable description.”
Mr. Gardiner entered behind his wife, shaking damp from the brim of his hat before Hill could quite prevent him. “Then I am glad we shall relieve you of the strain. Loud households often breed contention and strife.”
“Uncle, you are braver than you know.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes moved over Elizabeth’s face with more perception than Elizabeth wished. “Where is Jane?”
“With Mama in the morning room. Lydia is there as well, unless she has expired since breakfast.”
Mr. Gardiner surrendered his hat to Hill. “Should we send for the apothecary?”
“The complaint is disappointment,” Elizabeth replied. “I fear no apothecary in Hertfordshire can cure it.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a look halfway between amusement and concern, then slipped her arm through Elizabeth’s. “Come, then. Let us face the afflicted.”
The morning room had been prepared for guests with unusual care, though the effort was somewhat lessened by Lydia lying across the sofa in a manner that suggested she had suffered a great personal bereavement.
Kitty sat near her feet, folding and unfolding the same length of ribbon.
Jane stood by the tea table, and Mrs. Bennet occupied the chair nearest the fire despite the day being far too warm for it.
“My dear sister!” Mrs. Bennet cried, rising with immediate animation. “How good of you to come. You find us in the most dreadful distress. Such misery. Such cruelty. Such a change in all our plans.”
Mrs. Gardiner accepted her embrace with admirable serenity. “So, Elizabeth’s letter suggested.”
Lydia tilted her head up from the sofa cushion. “Did Lizzy tell you she ruined everything?”
“Lydia,” Jane murmured, reaching for the teapot.
“She did,” Lydia insisted. “I was to go to Brighton, and now I am to be sent into the wilderness.”
Mr. Gardiner peered around the pleasant morning room with interest. “The wilderness has improved since last I visited Longbourn.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek.
Mrs. Bennet pressed a handkerchief beneath her eye, though no tear had yet appeared. “Your brother has taken it into his head that Lydia may not go with Mrs. Forster after all.”
“And since her aunt and uncle are going north,” Mr. Bennet said from the doorway, where he had appeared with suspicious timing, “I have proposed an arrangement that will either improve Lydia or provide Derbyshire with sufficient warning before our arrival.”
Lydia sat up, her curls tumbling over one shoulder. “Papa, I am in the room.”
“So, I perceive. The atmosphere of tragedy gave you away.”
Mrs. Gardiner removed her gloves slowly, glancing from Lydia to Elizabeth and then to her husband. “We are very happy to have Elizabeth with us, of course. But Lydia as well?”
At that, Lydia forgot her role as martyr long enough to look indignant. “I am not a parcel to be discussed before delivery.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet said mildly. “Parcels do not generally object to the route.”
Jane placed a hand on her face in exasperation.
Mrs. Gardiner’s mouth twitched, but she came to sit near Lydia. “My dear, if you are to join us, I hope you will not consider yourself merely endured. We should like you to enjoy the journey.”
Lydia stared at her aunt with open suspicion. “Are there assemblies in Derbyshire?”
Mr. Gardiner went to warm himself at the hearth before going toward the window. “There are people in Derbyshire. I believe some of them have been known to dance.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer of a cautious man.”
Mrs. Bennet sank back into her chair. “She would have danced every evening at Brighton.”
“And perhaps every morning too,” Mr. Bennet added. “We are cruelly depriving the south coast of a marvel.”
Elizabeth sent him a warning glance. He received it, looked momentarily chastened, and then wandered toward the bookshelf with every appearance of innocence.
Mrs. Gardiner rested one hand upon Lydia’s sleeve. “Lydia, I understand you are disappointed.”
“No one can possibly understand,” Lydia declared, though she did not pull away. “Mrs. Forster chose me. She wrote particularly. I was to walk upon the Steine and meet officers from every regiment, and now I must look at rocks.”
“Some rocks are very fine,” Mr. Gardiner offered.
Lydia jerked her head up sharply. “Uncle.”
He held up both hands and retreated.
Mrs. Gardiner’s expression remained kind, though there was a firmness beneath it Elizabeth knew well.
“If you come with us, you must come as one of our party, not as a prisoner being dragged to execution. We travel for pleasure. That pleasure will include walking, visiting relations, seeing views, perhaps some shopping, and whatever society presents itself respectably. It will not include sulking in every inn parlour between here and Derbyshire.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “I do not sulk.”
Kitty coughed into the ribbon.
Lydia kicked lightly at her sister’s skirt. “I do not.”
Mrs. Gardiner waited.
After a moment, Lydia dropped back against the sofa cushion. “I suffer. That is different.”
“It may be different in poetry,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, “but in a carriage, it often appears much the same.”
Elizabeth hid her face quickly to hide her smile.
Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “Poor Lydia. She has such spirits that confinement must be agony.”
“Then movement will do her good,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “We shall have a great deal of it.”
Lydia peered through her lashes. “Will there be shops?”
“In towns, yes.”
“With ribbons?”
“Almost certainly.”
“And perhaps officers?”
Mrs. Gardiner smoothed one crease from her glove before answering. “If we encounter officers, you will behave with propriety.”
The depth of Lydia’s sigh suggested the sofa had absorbed some of her despair. “That is what everyone says now.”
“It is what everyone ought to have said sooner,” Mr. Bennet remarked from near the bookshelf.
Mrs. Bennet gave a cry of protest. “Mr. Bennet!”
He withdrew a volume and examined the spine. “I am reforming. None of you seem to appreciate how inconvenient it is.”
Elizabeth’s amusement faded a little. She could not decide whether to be grateful or alarmed that her father had taken the matter this seriously. It had been easier, perhaps, to wish him more responsible when responsibility remained theoretical.
Mrs. Gardiner addressed him. “You are resolved, then? Brighton is abandoned?”
“Absolutely,” Mr. Bennet answered. “If my brother and sister will consent to add one lively young lady to their party, Lydia shall go north.”
Mr. Gardiner and his wife shared a look.
Mrs. Gardiner gave Lydia her full attention. “Can you obey us while you are with us?”
Lydia sat up again, affronted. “Of course I can.”
“Without arguing over every instruction?”
Lydia hesitated.
Kitty leaned nearer and whispered, rather too audibly, “Say yes.”
“With very little arguing,” Lydia amended.
Mr. Gardiner grinned. “A lawyer could not have answered better.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s brow rose.
Lydia compressed her mouth, fought some internal battle, and then muttered, “Yes, Aunt. I can obey you.”
“And you will not complain of every hill.”
“That depends how many there are.”
“Lydia.”
She huffed. “Very well. I shall not complain of every hill. Just the worst ones.”
Mrs. Gardiner patted her hand. “A reasonable beginning.”
“Then it is settled,” Mrs. Bennet said mournfully, in the tone of one announcing a funeral. “My poor girl is to be carried away from every pleasure.”
“Not every pleasure,” Mr. Gardiner said. “We have no objection to pleasure. We object to disaster.”
Lydia appeared ready to challenge that distinction but could not find a suitable argument.
Jane moved to refresh Mrs. Gardiner’s cup. “Aunt, you must be fatigued from the road.”
“Not at all, my dear.” Mrs. Gardiner accepted a cup and surveyed the room. “Though I suspect preparations here will require more energy than the journey itself.”
Lydia brightened, faintly but visibly. “I must have my white muslin altered.”
Mrs. Bennet revived swiftly. “Yes! It is the very thing. And your blue sash, though perhaps the ribbon is not quite what it was.”
Kitty leaned toward Lydia. “You said you would take the pink.”
“I shall take all three.”
Mrs. Gardiner set down her teacup. “You will take what can reasonably fit in your trunk.”
Lydia’s face fell. “One trunk?”
“And a smaller box.”
“For a whole journey?”
“Yes.”
Lydia fixed Elizabeth with a fresh look of accusation. “This is also your fault.”
Elizabeth, who had been taking her tea near Jane, lowered her cup. “I had not realized I possessed influence over the size of trunks.”
“You have influence over everything dreadful.”