3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
They had many stops on their journey to see sights and explore. Within the first days of travel, Lydia had determined three things with certainty.
First, inns improved considerably when they served hot chocolate before breakfast.
Second, her aunt possessed a terrifying ability to remain cheerful through inconveniences that ought to ruin an entire morning.
Third, Elizabeth Bennet became more unbearable with every mile northward.
Lydia sat wedged into the corner of the carriage with a shawl tangled around her knees and glared at the rain striking the windows.
“This weather is malicious,” she announced.
Across from her, Elizabeth continued reading with complete indifference to the weather, which Lydia found deeply unreasonable.
Mrs. Gardiner adjusted the cuff of her glove. “The clouds are unlikely to alter course because you disapprove of them, my dear.”
“They ought to try harder.”
Mr. Gardiner grinned from beside his wife and folded his newspaper. “I confess I have never before encountered a young lady at war with the sky.”
Lydia crossed her arms. “The sky began it.”
Elizabeth turned one page with maddening calm.
Lydia narrowed her eyes. For two weeks she had maintained what she considered a highly dignified resentment. She spoke to Elizabeth when required by politeness and ignored her whenever possible. Unfortunately, Elizabeth was entirely capable of surviving such treatment.
It was deeply unsatisfactory.
The carriage lurched over a rut in the road. Lydia grabbed the strap above the window with a squeak while Mr. Gardiner steadied the basket at his feet before it overturned.
“Wretched road,” Lydia muttered.
“It improves nearer the town,” Mrs. Gardiner replied.
“You have said that since breakfast.”
Her aunt was unaffected by the petulance. “And I remain optimistic despite your efforts.”
Lydia huffed and leaned her head against the carriage wall.
Outside, the countryside rolled past in damp green stretches interrupted by hedgerows, grazing sheep, and occasional cottages that all appeared occupied by people with very little interest in assemblies.
Hertfordshire had already begun to feel far away.
The accents changed from town to town. The roads climbed more often.
Even the air smelled different whenever they descended from the carriage at posting inns—cooler somehow, touched with rain and distant fields.
Lydia had intended to hate every moment of the journey.
This had proven difficult almost instantly.
The inns were amusing. People stared. Once, on the second evening, a young gentleman had bowed to her in the supper room and nearly upset his wine while attempting to continue staring afterward.
Another innkeeper’s son had offered to carry her trunk and blushed so violently when she thanked him that Kitty would certainly have laughed herself ill.
Lydia had not mentioned either occurrence to Elizabeth. Some victories must remain private. Still, Brighton would have been better.
“There are no officers anywhere north of Hertfordshire,” she declared mournfully.
Mr. Gardiner peered through the carriage window, searching the landscape for evidence. “That is alarming news. We must inform the army.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s mouth twitched.
Lydia ignored them both. “I have not seen one proper regiment since we departed.”
“You saw three officers outside the inn at Leicester,” Elizabeth replied without looking up from her book.
“They hardly count.”
Elizabeth lowered the book slightly. “Because they did not admire you sufficiently?”
Lydia sat upright. “One did admire me.”
“He asked whether the seat beside the fire was occupied.”
Elizabeth frowned.
“That was the beginning of admiration.”
Mr. Gardiner coughed into his hand to disguise a laugh.
Elizabeth resumed her reading serenely.
Lydia glared harder. Her sister had become altogether too serene during the journey.
At Longbourn there had at least been some visible guilt attached to ruining Lydia’s life.
On the road, Elizabeth was almost happy.
She liked talking to Aunt Gardiner about views and towns and books no one sensible wished to read.
She walked whenever the weather permitted and returned with color in her cheeks and bits of leaves caught against her hem.
Twice already she had laughed so freely with Mr. Gardiner over some ridiculous story that Lydia had nearly forgotten herself enough to join in.
Nearly. She would not forgive so easily. The carriage rocked again.
Mrs. Gardiner set aside her reticule and regarded Lydia thoughtfully. “You have sighed no fewer than six times within the last quarter hour.”
“I suffer.” How could they not understand her pain?
“You suffer comfortably.” Mrs. Gardiner smiled blandly.
“That does not improve matters.”
“It improves them a great deal,” Elizabeth murmured.
Lydia kicked lightly at her sister’s boot.
Elizabeth looked up at last. “Lydia.”
“You deserved it.”
Mr. Gardiner unfolded the newspaper again. “I foresee a very long road to Derbyshire.”
“You chose to bring us,” Elizabeth reminded him.
“That is true. A grave tactical error.”
Lydia smiled despite herself, then quickly suppressed it before anyone could take encouragement.
The rain eased by the time they reached the next posting inn, though the yard remained muddy enough to threaten Lydia’s slippers.
“This place smells of horses,” she complained while Mr. Gardiner handed her down from the carriage.
“It is a coaching inn,” Elizabeth replied, gathering up her skirts behind her. “What precisely did you expect it to smell of?”
“Pastries,” she replied saucily.
Mrs. Gardiner emerged next, accepting the ostler’s assistance with practical ease before surveying the inn yard. “We shall stop long enough for luncheon and fresh horses.”
Lydia brightened faintly. “Will there be pastry at luncheon?”
“If there is not, I shall consider the north entirely barbaric,” Mr. Gardiner assured her.
The inn parlor proved low-ceilinged but warm, with rain-darkened beams overhead and a fire crackling despite the season’s lingering warmth. Lydia took possession of the chair nearest the hearth before Elizabeth could reach it.
“That was deliberate,” Elizabeth observed.
“Yes.”
Elizabeth took a different seat without complaint. “You are extraordinarily vindictive for a person denied one seaside excursion.”
Lydia accepted the cup of tea the maid placed before her. “Brighton was not merely a seaside excursion. It was my future.”
Mrs. Gardiner removed her gloves and seated herself between them before another argument could properly begin. “Your future is remarkably resilient for something destroyed three times daily.”
Lydia leaned back dramatically. “Aunt, you do not comprehend the extent of my suffering.”
“I comprehend that you have complained from Hertfordshire to Nottinghamshire without exhausting yourself.”
Mr. Gardiner took the chair opposite them and unfolded his napkin. “That requires admirable stamina.”
Lydia reached for a biscuit. “No one pities me.”
“I pity the other travelers,” Elizabeth said.
Lydia considered throwing the biscuit at her. Unfortunately, the biscuit was excellent.
The luncheon improved Lydia’s spirits considerably despite her determination to remain tragic. There was cold ham, fresh bread, little tarts filled with preserves, and—most importantly—pastry. She informed Mr. Gardiner that the north might yet be tolerated under strict conditions.
“An encouraging concession,” he replied.
Mrs. Gardiner, however, watched Lydia over the rim of her teacup with entirely too much understanding. “You are enjoying yourself a little,” she remarked.
Lydia nearly choked on pastry. “I am not.”
“Mm.”
“I am merely hungry,” she insisted defensively.
“You have been hungry in Hertfordshire before without smiling at stable boys.”
Elizabeth’s teacup rattled faintly against its saucer.
Lydia flushed. “I was not smiling.”
“You asked him whether he had sisters.”
“That was conversation.” Could they not leave her alone?
Mr. Gardiner appeared fascinated. “Was it successful conversation?”
The traitorous corners of Elizabeth’s mouth moved.
Lydia glared around the table. “You are all very cruel.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached over to straighten the ribbon slipping loose from Lydia’s sleeve. “Merely observant.”
Lydia twisted the ribbon in her hands, suddenly less inclined to argue.
Her aunt possessed an alarming habit of making correction sound companionable. Mama became dramatic. Lizzy became severe. Aunt Gardiner merely adjusted ribbons and continued speaking like no battle had occurred at all.
It was difficult to remain magnificently offended in the face of such tactics. Aunt Gardiner made sulking feel like unnecessary labor.
After luncheon, the weather cleared entirely.
The roads stretched golden beneath late afternoon sunlight, and the carriage windows remained open enough to admit warm air carrying the scent of grass and damp earth. Lydia leaned out farther than Mrs. Gardiner approved of until ordered back inside twice in ten minutes.
“There might be riders passing,” Lydia argued.
“There might also be ditches,” Mrs. Gardiner replied.
“I should not fall into one.”
“That confidence suggests why you might.”
Lydia subsided with poor grace.
Still, she continued watching the road eagerly.
One never knew when interesting people might appear.
Interesting people did appear, though not always satisfactorily.
A handsome gentleman passed them on horseback near dusk, nodded politely toward the carriage, and vanished before Lydia could determine whether he admired her.
Later, in another village, two officers crossed the street while the carriage waited to change horses.
Lydia nearly climbed out the window.
“There!” she cried, clutching Elizabeth’s arm hard enough to wrinkle the sleeve. “You see? Officers.”
Elizabeth peered over the top of her book with visible resignation. “Yes, Lydia. England remains defended.”
“They are very handsome.”