A week after Colonel Forster's letter assailed Longbourn the Gardiners arrived there, bringing Cousin Kitty back, to trade for their own four children.
The three older children had been taking turns keeping watch for their parents' coach from a dormer with a good view of the gate of the estate. Within seconds of the coach being stopped the four children were on the front steps giving Cousins Jane and Mary conniptions as they tried to keep their young charges from being trampled by the team of four as it came around the circle drive (there was no real danger, the coachman had an eye on the children and would have stopped his horses well before any of them came to grief).
The children were eager to leave Longbourn, so eager, that as far as they were concerned, their parents did not even have to get out of the coach; their Cousin Kitty could get out, her trunk thrown off, their trunks thrown on, they piled in, and then they could be off home, away from dismal and bleak Longbourn.
This is not to say they hated being left at Longbourn; not at all, they looked forward to visiting it every year: fresh air, wide open spaces in which to range, splashing in the stream, playing with the tenant's children, riding Nelly, being spoiled by their Aunt Bennet, who was not nearly as strict as their Mama, not nearly at all, their Uncle Bennet reading strange old stories to them, that their parents never read to them, like Beowulf – until the last week of this visit the only thing they would have asked for was their Cousin Lizzy. If she had been there, there would have been more tree climbing, more frog hunting, more mud all the way around – not that there was none of it this trip; the youngest Lucas boy, thirteen year old Simon, (bribed by Cousin Mary to come to Longbourn and lead the children in adventures where she and Cousin Jane could not) had led them all in all these activities, indeed had almost led them rafting on the pond (drawn to recklessness by his mysterious (to his rational self, to the extent a boy that age can be rational) attraction to the oldest Gardiner, Miss Susan, twelve years old, whom he sensed was on the cusp of something dangerous yet alluring) until Cousin Mary had reined him in. But Cousin Lizzy was not there, you could not even say her name in the presence of Uncle and Aunt Bennet, let alone ask about her, and Cousins Jane and Mary, would only give vague answers if you asked about her, answers that did not really say anything, like when they asked their Mama what the scullery maid and the junior footman were doing in the pantry and why did that mean they had to quit their jobs. Then something happened the last week.
One morning, a week ago, the children came down for breakfast and Uncle and Aunt Bennet were not there, and they had been not there since, nor at dinner, nor anywhere, anytime. But they were in the house, somewhere, and in no mood, so the children had to be quiet, tip toe around like when their Mama had the headache, or their Papa was ill with hangover disease. Such a silent regime being an impossibility for any length of time exceeding an hour the children spent most of their time outside, from getting up to going to bed, taking almost all their meals 'al fresco' as Cousin Mary called it, or picnicking as Cousin Jane said – once, when it rained, they ate in the stables, in the company of the horses, who ate their apples, and the stableman's dog, who ate more than his share of their biscuits, and another time they had a grand meal in the treehouse the Lucas boys built in the great oak that formed a boundary point between the lands of Lucas Lodge and Longbourn, hosted by Simon Lucas, who in his tomfoolery around Susan, managed to fall off a branch and almost, but not quite, knock himself out. He was quite chagrined to be comforted in his distress by Cousin Jane and not Susan. Once it was clear he was alright, Cousin Mary having determined there was no bleeding, nausea, dizziness or broken bones (she read much more widely than Fordyce), she told him to walk it off and be brave him about it if he wanted to impress someone she said with a wink (she read much more widely than Fordyce).
Whatever happiness there was in that week of days outside it was generated by the children and their friends, Simon Lucas and the tenants' children.
A chill had fallen over their Cousins. It was hard to tell with Cousin Mary, the difference between her happiest day and her saddest, was perhaps a quarter of a quirk of her lips, but the past week the only upward quirks from her had been forced and fleeting at best. It was easy to tell with Cousin Jane, she had not grinned or laughed or tousled anyone's hair or clapped when they were being silly and when she hugged one of the children it was like they were hugging her. Their Mama always told them it was better to give than to receive but they were too young to be giving hugs, they needed to receive them, they could give hugs when they were old, like Cousin Jane. And she did not give them all of her attention; when she used to, it was like you were the only people in the world; now when the children were catching butterflies, or digging for pirate Lizzy's treasure, Cousin Jane would be staring at the horizon, even though there was nothing there that had not been there forever.
The children tried to figure out what was wrong. It was something to do with Cousin Lydia and ruination. Every once in a while, Aunt Bennet could be heard wailing about 'how they were all ruined' and 'oh, Lydia, how could you?' and Cousin Mary would run off to get the tonic and then Aunt Bennet would get quiet. The older three wondered if they could get some of that tonic so they could dose Mark, the youngest sibling, when he wailed. The only ruination they had previously experienced was when Mark had escaped from the nursery when their parents had been entertaining dinner guests and he pulled at their Mama's best tablecloth and tipped over four glasses of red wine, ruining the tablecloth. Mark had wailed that night. And the next day Mama had said she was thinking of selling all the children to the gypsies, not just Mark, and Papa had said he didn't think she'd get that good a price for them. Mama cut up the tablecloth and made nightgowns for them out of it. Whatever Lydia had ruined the children didn't think that nightgowns could be made out of it.
So, when their parents came, the children were ready to leave, right now; but they didn't, the adults had to talk, so they had to spend one more night in gloomy and cheerless Longbourn. Susan and the next oldest, Edward, sat at the top of the stairs listening to the adults argue. They couldn't make out words but by the sounds they knew the adults were arguing. Aunt wailed, Uncle whined, Papa rumbled, Mama sounded disappointed like when you didn't do what you were supposed to, Cousin Kitty coughed and cried, Cousin Mary sounded like she was preaching – and Cousin Jane shocked them, they didn't hear her until the end, her voice was always like honey but now it sounded like a knife coated in honey. When she quit talking that was the end of the argument and Susan and Edward had to scramble to avoid being caught eavesdropping.
Early the next morning, too early really even for those eager to leave, the Gardiners jammed into their coach and headed to London. Jammed, because Cousin Kitty was going with them, and it seemed like she was taking all her stuff with her. When 'why' was asked the children were hushed. Cousin Kitty stared out the window, tears running down her cheeks, and a dreary trip got drearier.
