The Man Who Was Not Abroad
Christmas in Gracechurch Street was quieter than Christmas at Longbourn, and Elizabeth found she did not dislike it.
There was no great household to direct, no mother to declare every dish insufficient, no younger sisters to quarrel over ribbons before breakfast. There were only the Gardiner children in a state of happy disorder, Mr Gardiner carving with solemn ceremony, Mrs Gardiner laughing when the youngest fell asleep against her side, and Elizabeth, for one whole afternoon, almost able to forget that London contained secrets.
The forgetting did not last. On the second morning after Christmas, while the two younger boys disputed possession of a wooden horse and their sisters attempted to judge the matter with more authority than success, a letter arrived from Longbourn.
Mrs Gardiner read the direction and said, “Your mother.”
Elizabeth set down her cup. The letter was not long, but it contained enough exclamation marks to fill three pages. Mrs Bennet, Jane, and Mr Bingley meant to come to town the following week. Wedding shopping, it seemed, could not possibly wait.
Elizabeth read the letter twice before she trusted herself to speak. “They mean to stay here. Mama and Jane, at least. She does not say what is to become of Mr Bingley.”
“He will manage well enough.” Mrs Gardiner took the letter back and glanced over it once more, already moving past the question.
“The Hursts have a house in town. Or his club, if Mrs Hurst’s company proves more than he can bear before breakfast.” She said this with faint dryness, entirely certain of her own place in the world and expecting others to know theirs.
“Either way, he will call here every day, at an hour calculated to annoy your uncle and delight your mother in equal measure.”
Elizabeth almost smiled despite herself. “That does sound like him.”
“There is something to be said for a man so reliable he can be predicted exactly.” Mrs Gardiner set the letter down beside the teapot. “Jane may share with you. That much, at least, requires no rearrangement.”
“Lizzy. You have gone quite pale.”
“I am only surprised,” Elizabeth said. “I had not thought to see them so soon.”
It was not quite a lie. She had not thought to see them so soon.
She had also not thought, until this exact moment, how very much she did not want her mother under this roof.
Here, Mr Gardiner made careful enquiries about moved money; a man had stood outside watching the street; and Mr Wickham now knew precisely which door to walk past if he ever cared to.
“Jane will be sensible,” Mrs Gardiner said. “And Mr Bingley is fond enough of you to be careful, whether or not he understands every reason for it.”
“And my mother?”
“Your mother will talk a great deal, very loudly, about ribbons and lace and how handsome Mr Bingley’s carriage is. I do not think Mr Wickham requires anything further from her than that. And I do not think she has anything further to give him.”
“You make her sound almost an advantage.”
“She is a mother arranging a wedding,” Mrs Gardiner said. “There is no better disguise in England.”
* * *
January 1812
The following week proved Mrs Bennet had not exaggerated her urgency, only its direction.
She arrived at Gracechurch Street with Jane, three bandboxes, two lists, and Mr Bingley, who appeared to have been entrusted with every parcel too awkward for a servant and was carrying them with perfect good humour.
“My dear sister,” Mrs Bennet cried, embracing Mrs Gardiner before she had fully crossed the threshold, “you cannot imagine what we have suffered. There is no lace to be had in Meryton, none at all, and if Jane is to be married like a gentlewoman, London is our only hope.”
“Mama,” Jane said softly, though she was smiling. “There was lace in Meryton.”
“Not wedding lace,” Mrs Bennet said with absolute authority, settling a point no one else had known was disputed. “Mr Bingley, my dear sir, do put that box somewhere safe. It contains the trimming for Jane’s gown, unless it contains my cap, in which case it must be safer still.”
Mr Bingley obeyed at once. “Mrs Bennet has placed great confidence in me. I have not dropped anything yet.”
It was not until Bingley had gone off to see his parcels safely deposited, and the bandboxes had been distributed to whatever corners of the house could hold them, that Mrs Bennet settled into the parlour and arrived, with the inevitability of weather, at the subject Elizabeth had been hoping to avoid.
“And no word from Mr Darcy, I suppose.”
“Mama—”
“I only ask because I have asked Mr Bingley directly, more than once, whether his friend means to stand up with him at the wedding, and each time he grows quite uncomfortable and changes the subject, which tells me a great deal.” Mrs Bennet shook her head with mournful satisfaction.
“No word at all, since the ball. I said to your father, I said, that man danced with our Lizzy as though the whole room ought to take notice, and then vanished entirely, and what is a mother to think?”
“Mama, you really must not ask Mr Bingley such things.”
“Why ever not? He is to be my son. I may ask him whatever I like. You have not seen hide nor hair of the man since coming to London, have you?”
“No, Mama. I have not.”
“No wonder you look so ill. I said as much to your aunt the moment I arrived. A broken heart does dreadful things to the complexion, and you have had one for weeks now, whatever face you put on it for the rest of us.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, found nothing adequate to say, and closed it again.
Across the room, Mrs Gardiner’s needle paused over her work.
“Lizzy is not ill,” Jane said, crossing to take Elizabeth’s hand. “She is only tired of being observed.”
“That is what all girls with broken hearts say,” Mrs Bennet replied.
At that unfortunate moment, Mr Bingley returned, smiling, parcel-free, and entirely unprepared for the conversation he had re-entered.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Have I missed something?”
“No,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” Mrs Bennet said. “Mr Darcy.”
Mr Bingley’s smile faltered.
“Mr Darcy,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Mrs Bennet said again, with rising triumph, as though his hesitation had already proved her case. “Lizzy has had no word from him at all, not since the ball, and you yourself told me only last week that you did not know when he meant to return.”
“That is true,” Mr Bingley admitted. “I do not know.”
“And does he write to you?”
“He has written. Once or twice.” Mr Bingley glanced, helplessly, towards Elizabeth, as though hoping she might rescue him from a conversation he had not chosen to enter. “Business, mostly. Estate matters. He did not say a great deal.”
“Estate matters,” Mrs Bennet said. “A man does not disappear from a neighbourhood for two months over estate matters, Mr Bingley, whatever he may tell you.”
“I am sure I do not know the whole of it,” Mr Bingley said, with painful honesty. “He is not a man who explains himself more than he must.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, before she could stop herself. “He is not.”
Every eye in the room turned to her. She had not meant to say it with quite so much feeling.
“There,” Mrs Bennet said. “You see. She defends him even now.”
“I did not defend him, Mama. I observed a fact.”
“It is the same thing, when one says it in that tone.”
Jane’s hand tightened gently around Elizabeth’s.
Mr Bingley, sensing an opening that required no further participation from him, took the opportunity to discover an urgent need to check on his horses, and excused himself with a speed Elizabeth privately admired.
Mrs Bennet watched him go with satisfaction.
“There,” she said. “You see? He knows something.”
“He knows Mr Darcy is difficult,” Elizabeth said. “That is not the same thing.”
“It is near enough when a wedding is involved.”
“Mama,” Jane said, with more firmness than she usually allowed herself, “Mr Darcy is not involved in the wedding.”
Mrs Bennet looked wounded by the very idea. “My dear Jane, every gentleman of consequence is involved in a wedding, if only by failing to attend it.”
Mrs Bennet was soon persuaded upstairs to examine whether one of the bandboxes contained lace, trimming, or calamity. Mrs Gardiner went with her, tactfully armed with patience.
Jane remained below, her hand still lightly holding Elizabeth’s.
“Lizzy,” she said, very softly, “are you unhappy?”
The question was so gentle that Elizabeth could not laugh at it.
“I am often foolish,” she said. “That is not quite the same thing.”
“I am not asking whether you have been foolish,” Jane said. “I am asking whether you have been hurt.”
Elizabeth looked towards the door through which Mrs Bennet had vanished, as if her mother’s return might save her. It did not.
“I thought I had been,” she said at last. “Now I am not certain whether that makes it better or worse.”
“Lizzy.”
“I cannot explain it properly.”
“Because you do not know?”
“Because I am not sure it is mine to explain.”
“Then I will not ask you to explain it,” Jane said. “But I will ask one thing more.”
“What is that?”
“Whether it is safe.”
Elizabeth looked at her properly then. Jane’s eyes held none of their mother’s avid curiosity, only a steady, careful concern that asked for nothing beyond the truth.
“I do not know,” Elizabeth said honestly. “I believe it will be. Eventually.”
“Eventually is a very long word to carry alone.”
“I am not entirely alone in it.” Elizabeth pressed her sister’s hand. “That much I can tell you.”
“Very well,” Jane said. “I will not press you further. But Lizzy, if it should ever stop being safe, you will tell me. Not Mama. Not even Aunt Gardiner, if it comes to that. Me.”
“I promise.”
It was, Elizabeth thought, a promise she fully intended to keep, and one she sincerely hoped never to need.
Mr Bingley returned a few minutes later, having evidently decided enough time had passed to render the room safe again. He came in cheerfully, asking after the bandboxes’ fate, and settled into a chair with his usual easy good humour.