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They considered the remainder of Ashbourne's term and the modest accommodation the income could support when it ended. Her uncle had not discovered a means of turning her provision into a fortune. There would be ordinary limitations, and she knew enough now to prefer those to assurances which ignored expense. She could return to her husband without returning the means by which she had left him.

Gardiner put the papers together, leaving her copy where she could reach it. “You may ask me again if anything is unclear.”

“I think I understand.” She smiled at him. “I am not accustomed to finding that a difficult matter may be explained without someone growing displeased that I wished to know.”

He covered her hand briefly with his own, then asked whether she wanted her aunt. Elizabeth shook her head. Her aunt was in the garden, and she would join her presently. There was no need for a family audience while she decided what to do with an answer.

After her uncle went out, she remained beside the table. Through the window she could see Mrs. Gardiner admiring the new position of the bench. It would be possible to keep this life: the modest arrangements, the garden and the right to arrange her own hours. She had not failed to enjoy it. She would be taking some of it with her, even if the next view from her window belonged to Darcy's house.

* * *

Charlotte came for two days after the Gardiners had gone. The smaller house was now secured upon terms her adviser had examined, and she had learnt that a modest establishment could demand as many decisions as a great one, provided each purchase was considered often enough. She brought Elizabeth a list of things she had decided not to buy, which was longer and more amusing than the list of things she wanted.

They sat in the garden after luncheon. Elizabeth asked after the table and was told it had acquired a second virtue: one could work at it without being afraid of marking the surface. Charlotte had not yet bought flowers. She intended to grow some, though she suspected Elizabeth's promised cuttings might arrive with unnecessary advice.

“I shall confine myself to instructions indispensable to keeping them alive.”

“Then I shall distinguish the indispensable from the remainder.” Charlotte folded the list. “You are thinking of going back to him.”

Elizabeth looked towards the house. She had meant to speak first, and found herself relieved not to have to find an opening.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to tell you whether that is wise?”

“I don't know.” Elizabeth laughed softly. “I should like to be told that I shall never regret it.”

“Then you must ask someone less attached to accuracy.” Charlotte moved her chair out of the sun. “I was glad you left when you wished to leave. I shall be glad if you can return because you wish to return. I cannot promise what your husband will do next year.”

Elizabeth watched her friend settle again. Charlotte had refused to make a verdict of affection, and it was precisely the answer she needed. They spoke for a while of less formidable matters. When Charlotte went indoors for her shawl, Elizabeth stayed in the garden and let herself want what she had been attempting to judge from every possible distance. She could still remember waiting for his permission to see Charlotte, and the sickening discovery that even her hidden letter had amused him. Those memories had not grown agreeable. Beside them now stood his unguarded admission of impatience, the argument about the novel, the morning he had gone at ten while she went about her own business. She could want more such mornings and remain angry about the others. But she would have to tell him that, without making it gentle for his sake.

Darcy's next visit had already been arranged for the following afternoon. Charlotte departed that morning for her own house, taking the cuttings wrapped for the journey. Elizabeth walked to the gate to meet him when he arrived. She had decided before seeing his face, though the sight of it made the decision difficult to speak.

“I want to live with you,” she said when they were alone upon the path.

Darcy stopped. His hand moved towards hers, then waited. Elizabeth took it herself.

“Not because Ashbourne is coming to an end. Not because Charlotte is provided for, or because your aunt has stopped interfering.” Her voice shook. She abandoned the careful account she had prepared. “I love you. I enjoy your company when you are not making it necessary to argue for the right to disagree with you. I want to be there when something amuses you. I want the ordinary mornings.”

He looked at her with an expression so unguarded that she had to hold his hand more tightly. For a moment he seemed unable to speak. She saw him try twice.

“You told your aunt,” she said, before he could. “You wrote it down and let it be kept. You stopped reading my letters. You came when I asked and went when you had said you would. I have been counting, you see. I did not mean to.”

“Elizabeth.”

“I remember Hunsford. I am not promising to forget it.”

Her hand had stiffened in his. She looked at their joined fingers. “Sometimes I shall be angry when you have done nothing that morning. I do not know how long that will last.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. She knew the effort of withholding a reassurance; she had wished to offer Charlotte so many.

“I shall dislike it,” he said. “I hope I shall remember why.”

“And if you tell me that coming home obliged me to have finished with it, I shall not stay to persuade you otherwise.”

“No.” He released her hand when she drew it back. “It does not oblige you.”

She stood apart from him until she could breathe easily. He had not reached for her again. When she took his hand this time, she knew what remained between them as well as what she wanted.