Chapter 14 #2
He folded the note, set it aside, then took it up again.
He had declined such invitations for years without reflection.
Lambton had always been a place he observed.
Yet the ease of refusal no longer presented itself so readily, and he found that he could not decide without information he would not ask for by letter.
* * *
Elizabeth met Mr Darcy in the woods the following day.
She had walked out early, as she often did, for the quiet pleasure of being alone in a place that did not demand anything of her. The trees were thin with spring, the leaves only just emerged, and the ground still held the scent of damp earth where the sun had not yet reached.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned, expecting one of the village children. Instead she found Mr Darcy upon the path, alone, his coat buttoned against the lingering chill, his hat in his hand.
He bowed. “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Good morning, Mr Darcy,” she replied, and could not help adding, “You are on foot.”
His expression shifted; a hint of self-consciousness crossed it. “I am. I found that the morning suited walking.”
“It does,” Elizabeth said, and resumed her pace.
He fell into step beside her with no hesitation, though his silence lasted long enough that she began to wonder whether he had followed her merely for the sake of politeness.
At last he spoke. “Mrs Grant has done me the honour of inviting me to dine with them on Thursday.”
Elizabeth glanced at him. “Yes. Mrs Grant is very kind.”
“I was uncertain,” he said, carefully, “whether you and Miss Bennet meant to accept her invitation.”
The question was so plainly restrained, so determined not to sound like what it was, that Elizabeth very nearly smiled.
“We shall go,” she replied. “My mother does not dine out, but Jane and I will attend.”
Some small tension left his face, as though he had been holding himself in place by force of will. “Then I shall accept.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes upon the path. The simplicity of it unsettled her more than a finer speech could have done. “You speak as if my presence settles the matter.”
He did not answer at once. When he did, his voice was steady, but not quite indifferent. “I should not wish to intrude where I am not wanted.”
“You are invited,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs Grant does not press where she expects refusal.”
“No,” he agreed, and there was something like humour in the admission. “She does not.”
They walked a few steps in silence.
“It will do you no harm,” Elizabeth added, lightly, because lightness was suddenly easier than sincerity, “to appear in a dining room in Lambton.”
“And will it do you no harm,” he returned, “to encounter me in a wood?”
Elizabeth looked at him then. His expression held a seriousness that asked for truth.
“It will do me no harm,” she said. “Provided you do not begin to think you must save me from the opinion of others.”
A corner of his mouth moved, not quite a smile. “I will endeavour to deserve your good opinion first.”
The answer was so unadorned that for a moment she had none ready. She turned her face back to the path before he could read too much in hers.
They walked on.
That evening, Mrs Bennet revived the subject of the dinner as though it were a matter of consequence.
Not in the language of strategy, for she was still too conscious of her mourning to speak openly of any plan beyond propriety, but in the language of care.
Jane must wear the gown that suited her.
Elizabeth must not insist on plainness out of stubbornness.
Their manners must be as gentle as their appearance.
“You will be among strangers,” she said. “Not strangers in the sense that they will behave rudely, for Lambton is not Hertfordshire, but strangers in the sense that they do not know you yet. They must be allowed to know you properly.”
Jane promised every reasonable thing. Elizabeth promised nothing, but she did not resist.
Mrs Bennet was not foolish. She was frightened. Elizabeth could see it now in the way her mother’s hands tightened upon her shawl, in the way she watched her daughters as though she feared time itself might steal them away.
Elizabeth yielded, not because she agreed, but because she understood.
On Thursday, the Grants received them with simple warmth.
Their house did not command attention as Willowbank did, not by size or by situation, but it had a steady comfort to it, as if it had always belonged to the people within it and would continue to do so.
Mrs Grant’s manner was brisk, affectionate, and practical; she pressed Jane’s hand, kissed Elizabeth’s cheek with the ease of one who believed in immediate intimacy, and spoke of their settling as though it were a matter she had been quietly managing from the start.
Mrs Harding was already there, seated near the window, her work in her lap. The clergyman and his wife, Mr and Mrs Rutherford, arrived soon after, along with another couple from the neighbourhood, respectable, amiable, and eager to be pleased.
Mr Ashton came in with the ease of a man entirely at home, smiling, as though the room had been arranged for his comfort.
He bowed to Jane, then to Elizabeth, with nothing in his manner that asked anything beyond civility.
Yet when Mrs Rutherford, in apologising for some minor confusion over cards left in the village, misstated the name of one of Mrs Grant’s tenants, it was Mr Ashton who quietly corrected her and did so with such ease that the correction felt like assistance rather than display.
Mrs Grant thanked him with visible relief.
He only smiled and turned the matter aside.
Elizabeth had only just begun to think that Mrs Grant’s “small party” was indeed small, when the servant announced another arrival.
Mr Darcy entered.
He greeted Mr Grant, bowed to Mr and Mrs Grant and the Hardings, acknowledged Mr and Mrs Rutherford with polite restraint, and then his eyes found Elizabeth’s.
He did not linger upon her. He merely looked, and in that look there was a steady recognition that made her more aware of herself than she wished.
Dinner was served.
Elizabeth found, as the conversation moved around the table, that Mr Darcy watched more than he spoke. It was not a cold watchfulness. It was attentive, as if he were learning a language he had once refused to study.
Mr Ashton spoke easily, drawing remarks from everyone and keeping the room bright.
He had the talent of making people feel they had been clever themselves, and Mrs Grant laughed more often than she had intended.
Jane was at ease, responding with her usual sweetness, and Elizabeth observed that Mr Ashton’s attention turned naturally towards her sister, not because he sought to flatter, but because Jane’s manner invited confidence.
Mrs Harding spoke little, but when she did, it was with quiet sense. Mrs Rutherford, encouraged by the warmth of the company, spoke of small village concerns, of visiting, of the comfort of neighbours who were present when needed.
Elizabeth did not feel idle for a moment.
If she was not speaking to Mrs Grant, she was answering Mr Rutherford, or listening to Mrs Harding, or replying to Mr Ashton’s easy questions.
There was no space to withdraw, even if she had wished it; and in that unrelenting gentleness she found, to her surprise, that she did not wish it very much at all.
It was not in any single glance, any sudden change of expression.
It was in the steadiness of Mr Darcy’s attention, the way he seemed to take account of her as part of the room, always engaged, always present, never performing, never retreating.
Once, when Mr Rutherford launched into an earnest account of a boundary hedge and lost himself among measurements, Elizabeth felt laughter rise and checked it at once.
Looking up, she found that Mr Darcy had caught the moment and checked his own smile with equal care.
The shared restraint was slight, but it altered the air between them.
When Mrs Grant spoke, late in the meal, of Mrs Ashton’s health and regretted her absence, Mrs Harding replied with calm assurance.
“My sister is improving,” she said. “She will be stronger in time. Cassandra is with her today, which I am glad of, for she does not like solitude.”
Mrs Grant nodded. “It used to be Amelia, did it not.”
Mrs Harding’s eyes did not shift. “It did.”
No one asked for an explanation. The matter passed, as such matters often did, carried along by the current of civil conversation. Yet Elizabeth noted Mr Ashton’s hand pause upon the stem of his glass before he set it down again, and the pause seemed less like pain than discipline.
When the ladies withdrew, Mrs Grant drew Jane to one side with affectionate insistence, speaking to her as if she had always been her niece. Mrs Harding sat with Elizabeth for a moment, her look warm and shrewd.
“You are settling,” she said.
Elizabeth smiled. “I am trying.”
Mrs Harding’s eyes softened. “Trying is often enough.”
In the drawing-room, the talk turned to music, to books, to the river and the walks beside it.
When the gentlemen joined them later, Mr Darcy spoke little.
He stood near Mrs Harding for a time, then moved closer to where Elizabeth stood.
It was the sort of restraint that made his presence felt more strongly than any boldness would have done.
Elizabeth found herself again in conversation with Mr Ashton, whose manner remained pleasantly light. He asked questions with evident interest, and listened in a way that made her feel her words were worth keeping. There was nothing alarming in him.
There was also, Elizabeth thought, something careful.
He never spoke of Hertfordshire. He never asked how long they meant to remain.
His attentions were precisely measured to appear natural, as though he were determined that no one should be able to accuse him of any design at all.
That very care was, in its way, a design of another sort.
When at last they took their leave, Mrs Grant pressed both Jane’s hands and declared she would not allow them to disappear again for a fortnight, and Mrs Harding kissed Elizabeth’s cheek with a warmth that felt earned.
Outside, in the Grants’ carriage on the way home, Jane sat still, her face thoughtful.
“It was a pleasant evening,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” Jane replied. After a pause, she added, “And it is a comfort to know we are not forgotten.”
Elizabeth looked out at the hedgerows slipping past, at the softening light over the fields. She thought of Mr Darcy’s quiet attention, of Mr Ashton’s ease, of Mrs Harding’s steady kindness, of Mrs Grant’s lively warmth.
And as they turned into the lane that led to the cottage, she found herself wondering which of those comforts would prove the most dangerous.