Page 7 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

London, Elizabeth thought, was the closest thing to freedom she and Jane were likely to be offered. No nervous mother. No boisterous younger sisters. No Mr. Collins at Lucas Lodge. No Meryton assembly room in which a proud gentleman of ten thousand a year might look at her and pronounce her tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him.

She stopped that thought. Given everything that had happened since, she was surprised to find she was still thinking about that evening. She leaned her head back against the squabs and closed her eyes.

She had not slept more than two hours together for the past three nights, her mother having thought it necessary to burst into her chamber to share further lamentations as they occurred to her. Elizabeth fell into a deep sleep despite the jolting of the coach, and when she woke, they were already entering London. Jane, who had been half-asleep against the cushion, stirred and sat up.

“I do not know how you can sleep so soundly in a carriage,” she said, rubbing her shoulder. “You did not even wake when we changed horses.”

“I can sleep nearly anywhere. You know that.” Elizabeth glanced out of the window.

This was not Hertfordshire. There was a low continuous hum of hooves on the cobblestones, large buildings and long rows of houses, and the sound of voices calling out to greet, to scold, to sell. In town, there was so much activity one was often more startled by silence than by noise. A boy with a barrow darted out before them and was almost caught by the wheels, their coachman cursed at him and the boy cursed back.

“We are nearing Gracechurch Street,” the coachman called down ten minutes later, as the carriage turned.

Elizabeth and Jane put on their bonnets as the carriage drew to a halt before a wide-fronted brick house with a freshly painted door. A figure appeared in the doorway—a handsome, slender, dark-haired woman in her early thirties.

The coachman handed them down, and Aunt Gardiner was upon them before Elizabeth’s feet had quite settled on the pavement.

“Come in, my dears, come in. Your uncle sends his apologies—there has been some nonsense at the warehouse, and he will be another hour. The children have been promised they may see you after you have eaten, which is the only condition on which they consented to be kept upstairs. Lizzy, I believe you are thinner.”

“I do not think so.”

“You are, a little.” Her aunt’s eyes sparkled. “It must be all the refusing. I expect that wears on one.”

“Aunt!” Jane exclaimed with a laugh.

Aunt Gardiner linked one arm in Elizabeth’s and the other in Jane’s and drew them towardsthe door. “Your uncle and I have been reading your mother’s letters aloud after the children are in bed,” she said. “I must confess they have given us a great deal of entertainment. In fact, we have decided to keep a tally.”

Elizabeth stopped. “Aunt.”

“We are quite impressed with your pace.” Her aunt considered Elizabeth’s face for a moment, and then appeared to weigh whether the rest could be safely disclosed. “Two proposals in the past year. I feel I should warn you, your uncle and I have laid a small wager on the subject.”

“A wager?” said Jane, scandalised.

“Only a modest one.”

“Aunt—” Elizabeth began again, but Aunt Gardiner interrupted her.

“You need not know our terms, Lizzy. I thought only that you should know the wager exists. One likes to be informed.” She paused at the threshold and looked at Elizabeth with affectionate mischief as they entered the house.

The door had scarcely closed when it opened again and Uncle Gardiner himself appeared. “My dear girls,” he said, smiling as he crossed to them. “I could not allow you to arrive without greeting you.”

“You have come too late,” said his wife serenely. “Lizzy is already informed she is the subject of our speculation.”

“Is she indeed?” He took Jane’s hand warmly, then Elizabeth’s. “Then I must beg you will not take it amiss. Your mother’s letters have furnished us with such extraordinary intelligence that it would have felt wasteful to ignore it.”

“They have furnished you with fiction,” said Elizabeth. “Mamma’s account would have me refusing half the gentlemen of Hertfordshire.”

“Not half,” said Aunt Gardiner. “Perhaps a quarter.”

“Of course not,” Uncle Gardiner confirmed. “But I think closer to a third, my dear.”

Jane, who had been listening with a smile that trembled on the edge of laughter, said quietly, “Mamma’s stories are excellent, for she has a lively imagination.”

It was so gently said, and with such perfect composure, that for a moment neither her aunt nor uncle spoke—and then both laughed outright.

Elizabeth could only be delighted. Jane’s drollness was of the rarest sort, so seldom displayed that it always came as a small surprise when it appeared. That it had done so now was the strongest possible compliment to her aunt and uncle.

“There,” said Uncle Gardiner. “Jane has put us all to rights in a single sentence. We are not laughing at you, Lizzy, I assure you, only at the picture we have been given of you. It is a very fine one, but I suspect it is not entirely accurate.”