22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
The journey from Derbyshire began in misery and became, by slow degrees, merely uncomfortable.
That was not improvement enough to satisfy Lydia.
She spent the first hour denouncing everything; injured clerks, warehouse accounts, rutted roads, carriage springs, and every horse that failed to carry them faster than its fellows.
She wept twice, complained three times that Georgiana would forget her, declared once that Horace would perish of grief, and then fell asleep against Elizabeth’s shoulder with one hand still clenched around a handkerchief.
Elizabeth let her sleep.
Rain freckled the carriage window. Derbyshire passed in blurred greens and grays, each mile carrying them farther from Pemberley, from Georgiana, from the drive where Mr. Darcy might even now be back at Pemberley and find them gone.
No. He would not so soon. He had said tomorrow.
Except he had left early for an estate matter. Estate matters, she had learned, did not arrange themselves around anyone’s happiness.
Mrs. Gardiner sat across from her, one hand braced against the side of the carriage as the wheels struck a rut.
Her face held concern, fatigue, and the practical strain of a woman mentally arranging every consequence of their sudden departure.
Mr. Gardiner rode outside for a time, preferring fresh air to the crowded carriage, though Elizabeth suspected he also wished to give his wife and nieces what privacy the journey could offer.
Lydia stirred as the carriage slowed near a posting inn.
“Are we there?”
“No,” Elizabeth said.
“Then why have we stopped?”
“To change horses.”
Lydia groaned and sat upright, her bonnet ribbons hopelessly crushed beneath one cheek. “I hate changing horses. It gives one time to remember one is still traveling.”
“That is an objection I had not considered.”
“You would if you had proper feeling.”
Elizabeth nearly smiled, though it did not last.
Lydia rubbed her eyes, then blinked toward the wet yard. Men hurried about with harnesses and lanterns. A maid appeared at the inn door with an apron over her gown. The smell of damp straw, horse, and hot food reached them when the carriage door opened.
Mrs. Gardiner leaned forward. “We shall go inside for a short while. Your uncle thinks it wise to take refreshment before continuing.”
Lydia descended first with unusual silence.
Elizabeth followed, accepting the inn servant’s arm, then her aunt’s.
They were shown into a private parlor where a fire had been lit too recently to warm the room properly.
A table held tea, bread, cold meat, and a dish of stewed apples.
Lydia stared at the food as if it had personally wronged her.
“You must eat,” Mrs. Gardiner said.
“I cannot. I am overcome.”
“You ate very well when overcome this morning.”
“That was before I was torn from Miss Darcy.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s expression softened. “Eat a little.”
Lydia took bread with tragic dignity and then added butter with less tragedy.
Elizabeth removed her gloves and warmed her hands near the fire. The room smelled faintly of smoke and wool. Rain tapped at the window. Voices came and went beyond the door, muted by wood and plaster.
After several minutes, Mrs. Gardiner left to speak with Mr. Gardiner about the horses and whether they could press on before the road worsened. Lydia abandoned her bread, crossed to Elizabeth, and stood there twisting her handkerchief.
“Lizzy.”
Elizabeth turned from the fire. “Yes?”
Lydia’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
That, more than anything, alarmed Elizabeth.
“Lydia?”
Her sister dropped into the chair beside her with a thump utterly at odds with the solemnity of her face. “I miss Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth stared.
“I do,” Lydia said defensively. “I know it is absurd. I used to think him horrid. I still think him horrid in some ways. He always looks like he is about to scold someone, and often he is. But I miss him.”
Elizabeth lowered herself into the opposite chair, partly because her knees had become unreliable. “I miss him too.”
Lydia nodded fiercely, relieved by the confession. “Of course you do. You are in love with him.”
“Lydia.”
“Well, you are.”
Elizabeth reached for the poker and adjusted a piece of coal that required no adjustment. “That is not a subject for an inn parlor.”
“It is precisely a subject for an inn parlor. No one important is here.”
“The servants are important.”
“They are busy. Also, they likely know more about people in love than we do.”
Elizabeth should have rebuked her. Instead, she pressed her lips together and let the fire answer for her.
Lydia leaned forward, elbows upon her knees. “I am sorry.”
The words came abruptly.
Elizabeth turned from the grate.
“For what?”
“Oh, many things. You will have to choose one if you want order.”
“Lydia.”
Her sister picked at the edge of the handkerchief. “For being dreadful. Before. At home. In Meryton. About officers. About Brighton. About everything, I suppose. I did not mean to be dreadful all the time. Just some of the time.”
A laugh escaped Elizabeth, too unsteady to be very merry.
Lydia’s eyes filled. “Do not laugh.”
“I am not laughing at you.”
“You are a little.”
“A little,” Elizabeth admitted. “But kindly.”
“That is acceptable.”
Elizabeth reached across the narrow space between their chairs and took Lydia’s hand. Her sister’s fingers were cold.
“I am sorry too.”
Lydia frowned. “You?”
“Yes. I judged you harshly.”
“I was often ridiculous.”
“You were,” Elizabeth said, and Lydia’s mouth twitched despite herself. “But I dismissed you too easily. I thought you incapable of change because change would have required more patience from me than scolding.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “That is a very Lizzy apology.”
“It is sincere.”
“I know. That is what makes it worse. You always make sincerity sound like it has read three books.”
This time Elizabeth laughed properly, and Lydia did too, though hers wobbled near tears.
After a moment, Lydia sniffed and pressed the handkerchief beneath her nose. “Derbyshire was infinitely better than Brighton would have been.”
Elizabeth’s hand stiffened around hers.
“I never thought I would say it,” Lydia continued.
“Brighton had officers, and sea bathing, and Mrs. Forster, and probably dances, though Mrs. Forster’s taste in feathers remains suspect.
But Derbyshire had Miss Darcy. And Horace.
And Mr. Darcy being moon-eyed over you, which was surprisingly entertaining. ”
“Moon-eyed?”
“Yes. Do not pretend otherwise. He looked at you as if you were a lone book in the library and he had been deprived of reading for a year.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. “That is a very strange comparison.”
“It is an accurate one. He is the sort of man who would suffer over a book.”
“He will come,” Lydia said after a moment, more softly.
Elizabeth let go of her hand and turned back to the fire.
“I believe he will.”
“Then say it with more conviction.”
“I believe he will,” Elizabeth repeated, with a little more force.
Lydia sighed. “Lizzy, I worked far too hard for everything to fail because of unforeseen circumstances.”
“You worked?”
“Yes. Georgiana and I arranged matters constantly. Do you think people simply fell into place?”
“I had begun to suspect invisible hands.”
“Mine. And Miss Darcy’s, though hers are more elegant and less likely to knock things over.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He may be delayed.”
“Then he will come after delay.”
“He may think—”
“No.” Lydia sat up straighter. “No thinking. Thinking is how sensible people ruin simple things. You wrote him the letter, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then he knows. And he will come.”
Elizabeth stared into the low flame. The coal had finally caught properly, sending a thin wavering light across the hearth.
Privately, she did believe it.
Not with childish certainty. Not with the easy confidence Lydia seemed able to summon at will. But beneath the discomfort, beneath Miss Bingley’s warnings and Elizabeth’s old fear of misjudgment, one truth remained firm enough to touch.
Mr. Darcy had asked if he had hope.
She had given him more than hope.
He would come if he could.
Elizabeth turned back to her sister. “You are right.”
Lydia’s face brightened with immediate triumph. “I know.”
“We have endured too much to fail now.”
“Yes. Though if he delays excessively, I shall write to Georgiana and demand action.”
“I have no doubt.”
Mrs. Gardiner returned before Lydia could outline what action might involve, which spared Hertfordshire an advance declaration of war. The horses were ready. The rain had eased. Mr. Gardiner had decided they would continue several more miles before stopping for the night.
Lydia rose with renewed purpose, seized a slice of bread for the road, and marched toward the door.
Elizabeth lingered one moment at the fire.
Then she followed.
The journey home was long, hurried, and broken by practical discomfort.
They changed horses more often than Elizabeth’s tired body approved.
They stopped at inns where meals were too hot, too cold, or too late.
Lydia recovered enough spirits to narrate much of Derbyshire to anyone trapped within the carriage.
Mrs. Gardiner slept whenever the road permitted.
Mr. Gardiner grew increasingly preoccupied as they neared Hertfordshire, though he still found time to apologize for every inconvenience he had not caused.
Their arrival at Longbourn produced all the confusion Elizabeth might have expected after so many weeks away.
The Gardiners’ children, who had spent the intervening weeks there, rushed from the house almost before the carriage had properly stopped.
Mrs. Gardiner scarcely reached the ground before she was surrounded, while Mr. Gardiner submitted cheerfully to several embraces at once and attempted to answer three questions from three children.
Mrs. Bennet received Elizabeth and Lydia with cries sufficient to bring Hill, Jane, Kitty, Mary, and two maids into the hall.