Tea, Tarts, & Visitors #2
“Susan,” she called, and when the maid appeared, wide-eyed at the sight of visitors so far above her usual experience, Elizabeth kept her voice steady and practical.
“Set a fire here, if you please, and have tea brought in at once. Tell my mother that Mr and Miss Darcy, and Mr Ashton, have come to call, and that I beg she will not trouble herself to come down unless she feels equal to it.”
Susan bobbed a curtsy, already turning with a haste that suggested speed might make her equal to the moment.
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Bennet is in Mrs Bennet’s room. She is awake, ma’am, but she hath had a trying morning.”
Elizabeth removed her bonnet and gloves with calm hands that did not quite match the quick beat of her thoughts, then added, in the tone of one speaking of an ordinary household matter,
“And where are my younger sisters?”
Susan hesitated, then answered with reluctant truth.
“They are in the kitchen mending, ma’am. Miss Mary is seeing to the tarts so as they do not disappear. Miss Kitty is hovering. Miss Lydia is pretending she is not.”
Elizabeth turned back to Susan before the maid could flee entirely into panic. “And Susan—bring the tarts.”
Susan blinked. “The—tarts, ma’am?”
“Yes. All of them that remain,” Elizabeth said, with the calm authority of a woman who had been denied too many small pleasures lately to be precious about them now. “Put them on a proper plate. Bring them in with the tea.”
Susan looked ready to protest on behalf of future meals, but Elizabeth did not allow her the chance.
“And tell my sisters,” she added, lowering her voice only a fraction, “that Miss Darcy has come to see them—Miss Darcy, with her brother, and Mr Ashton besides. If Lydia can behave like a sensible creature for ten minutes, she may consider herself fortunate.”
Susan’s eyes widened further, though whether at the visitors or at the softened warning Elizabeth could not have said. She curtsied and went at speed.
Elizabeth exhaled once, smoothed an imaginary crease in her sleeve, and turned back towards the parlour door—already bracing herself for the sound of quick feet and wounded indignation that would no doubt follow.
Elizabeth returned to the parlour to find it in the only state a seldom-used room could achieve: swept, orderly, and faintly accusing in its good intentions.
The grate had been laid with neat patience, and Mr Ashton was already kneeling to it, striking a light with the calm competence of a man determined to be useful.
“Mr Ashton, you need not,” Elizabeth said, stopping just within the door.
“It is no labour at all,” he replied, without looking up. “Besides, your maid has quite enough to do.”
Mr Darcy stood as she entered, his hat upon his knee with the precision of an additional rule of propriety. “You are too obliging, Mr Ashton,” he said, quiet and exact.
Mr Ashton’s mouth curved. “I have been accused of worse.”
The first flame caught, small and steady, and Mr Ashton rose, brushing his hands together as though the matter were settled.
Miss Darcy lingered near the little pianoforte, her fingers resting lightly upon the closed lid. “I hope we do not overwhelm your household,” she said, and tried to make it light, though the colour in her cheeks betrayed her. “I did not mean to descend like an army.”
“You do not overwhelm us,” Elizabeth answered, and meant it. “We have survived far worse invasions.”
Miss Darcy’s eyes lifted, bright with gratitude, and then returned at once to the instrument. “Is this yours?” she asked softly. “It looks as though it has been very faithful.”
“It is the smaller one,” Elizabeth said, and felt the sting of Longbourn in the word. “Mary practised on it upstairs. We brought it because it was ours to bring.”
Footsteps sounded in the passage, and Mary appeared first, composed into propriety, as though she had dressed herself in it; she curtsied with careful dignity and said, “Georgiana,” though the warmth in the word betrayed her.
Kitty followed, smiling a little too quickly. “We are very glad to see you again.”
Lydia came last, and for once she arrived with her manners in excellent order.
Her attention was fixed on Elizabeth, her face arranged into such pointed innocence, such deliberate sweetness, that it might have been painted there for effect.
See? it said. I am behaving. I expect to be rewarded accordingly.
Elizabeth felt the smile threaten and mastered it with effort.
“It is a pity Cassandra is not here. Will you come tomorrow to the Hardings’?” Kitty said, taking her seat.
“Oh yes!” Miss Darcy replied at once, and the brightness of her answer carried more confidence than her posture did. “I am looking forward to it. Mrs Harding was so kind, and Cassandra made me laugh, which I did not expect of myself.”
Mary’s composure softened. “Cassandra is very diverting.”
Before Elizabeth could answer, other footsteps sounded upon the stair, slower and more measured. Jane appeared in the doorway with her hand lightly supporting Mrs Bennet’s arm, her expression steady in that way Elizabeth had come to rely upon.
Mrs Bennet paused on the threshold, colour rising as she took in the Darcys and Mr Ashton. She made a curtsey that cost her more than she wished to show.
“Miss Darcy,” she said, and then, with a glance that could not help including the gentlemen, “Mr Darcy. Mr Ashton.”
The gentlemen bowed; the ladies curtsied. For a moment, propriety settled over them all as neatly as a cloth upon a table.
Susan slipped in behind Jane, cheeks flushed from haste, and stopped short at the sight of the fire already burning. Her eyes flicked from the grate to Elizabeth.
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” she murmured, and curtsied again.
“It is quite well,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Is the tea ready?”
“Yes, ma’am. Near ready,” Susan replied, relief making her words too quick. “And the tarts are on a plate, as you said.”
Mrs Bennet’s head turned at that, with a startled hope she immediately tried to disguise.
Susan recovered herself, curtsied, and disappeared into the hall.
Elizabeth moved at once, not with bustle but with purpose, and guided her mother to the nearest chair, making it seem the most natural thing in the world that visitors should find Mrs Bennet settled and comfortable.
“Pray sit, Mama,” she suggested.
Mrs Bennet did sit, though she kept her shoulders lifted, determined to show herself equal to anything. Jane remained close behind her, one hand light upon the chair back.
Mr Darcy and Mr Ashton took the places that were left to them, both perfectly civil, both a little too careful of their hands.
Miss Darcy returned to the pianoforte with Mary beside her, Kitty hovering within reach of the conversation, and Lydia positioned where she could see the passage without appearing to do so.
A moment later, Susan reappeared, bearing the tray as though it were a trial of character. The teapot steamed, the cups rattled faintly, and the plate of jam tarts sat on top like a crowned temptation.
She curtsied, set everything down, and looked to Elizabeth as though awaiting judgement.
“Thank you, Susan,” Elizabeth said, and the steadiness of her voice was reward enough. “You may go.”
Susan vanished with obvious relief.
Elizabeth poured, as she had done all her life, and found that ordinary motions steadied the room. She handed the first cup to her mother, the second to Miss Darcy, and only then to Jane.
Miss Darcy watched the tarts again, her expression brightening like a child offered a particular kindness.
“They look excellent,” she said, and then coloured slightly, fearing, perhaps, that she had admired them too openly.
Elizabeth smiled. “They are a neighbour’s charity,” she replied. “Mrs Harding sent them this morning, and we have been practising restraint ever since.”
“Oh,” Miss Darcy said, with quick pleasure. “How kind of her.”
“She is kind,” Jane added gently.
Elizabeth reached for the plate.
“One each,” she said lightly. “We are not savages.”
Lydia’s hand moved a moment too soon, checked itself, and then accepted her portion with the meekness of a martyr who expects to be praised for surviving it.
Mrs Bennet glanced at the plate, glanced at the company, and assumed an air of resigned virtue. “Well. If one must eat, one must eat. It would be ungrateful to refuse what is sent in kindness.”
Jane’s mouth curved.
Mary took her tart with composed gratitude, but her eyes went back to the pianoforte, which had become newly important simply because Miss Darcy wished it so.
Mrs Bennet took in the company again, like a woman counting heads at church, and her composure sharpened into curiosity.
“How did this come about?” she asked, with a careful lightness that did not disguise the fact that she wanted every particular. “I did not expect to be honoured by so much company at once.”
Elizabeth kept it simple. “I went into Lambton for flour, I met Mr Ashton at the door, he accompanied me into the village. We met Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy in the street as we were leaving, and Miss Darcy wished to call. Mr Darcy was kind enough to offer us his carriage.”
“That is very kind indeed,” Mrs Bennet said, and the emphasis fell where it pleased her most.
Miss Darcy praised the tarts with genuine pleasure, which pleased Mrs Bennet excessively; Kitty and Lydia, all manners on the surface, ate with the vigilance of girls determined to prove they could be trusted with happiness.
Mary hovered near Miss Darcy and the pianoforte, drawn as much by music as by the novelty of being wanted for it.
Conversation settled into a tolerable rhythm.
Miss Darcy spoke of the Hardings and of Cassandra with shy animation.
Jane answered when she was addressed, steady and gentle, lending her mother a quiet reassurance simply by remaining close.
Mr Ashton contributed when it was useful, agreeable without pressing; Mr Darcy did rather less, though his attention returned often to Elizabeth, as though he were listening even when he did not speak.
Mrs Bennet’s first remarks were gratitude, and gratitude, Elizabeth knew, was one of her mother’s most useful tools.
“How obliging of you, Mr Darcy,” she said, once the cups had been distributed, and she made the words sound like a compliment and a claim at once. “Miss Darcy, you are quite goodness itself. It is a comfort to have such neighbours.”
Miss Darcy coloured, pleased; and Mrs Bennet, encouraged by that success, turned at once to the safer, steadier subject.
“Jane,” she said, with sudden tenderness, “you must tell Mr Darcy how very kind Mrs Harding has been to us, and how we have been settled here, in spite of everything. Mr Darcy ought to know, for he has been so attentive to good conduct and proper feeling.”
Jane answered with her usual quiet sincerity, speaking of Mrs Harding’s care, of Nora’s visits, of the household slowly finding its order again.
It was ordinary, gentle conversation, and yet Mrs Bennet placed it neatly in Mr Darcy’s path, so that he must either respond to Jane or seem insensible.
He responded; of course he did. He asked after Mrs Bennet’s health again, and Jane, who could never make anything sound like a complaint, made even fatigue seem manageable.
Then, because the room required balance and because Mrs Bennet never left a line half-drawn, her attention shifted.
“And Mr Ashton,” she added, with a grateful emphasis that made neighbourliness sound like devotion, “has been so good to Elizabeth. She insists upon doing errands herself, and I declare I never know what she will attempt until she is already half-way to the village.”
Elizabeth felt the net tighten, lightly thrown.
Mr Ashton replied with easy civility; Elizabeth answered because she must; and Mrs Bennet, satisfied, praised Mary’s steadiness to Miss Darcy, admired Kitty’s sweetness, and observed Lydia’s “improvement” with the air of a woman rewarding obedience.
The visit did not linger long enough to become burdensome. Tea was taken, the tarts diminished to a respectable number, and conversation kept to safe, neighbourly ground until even Mrs Bennet’s nerves began to look less like distress and more like vigilance.
At last Mr Darcy rose, having waited, Elizabeth thought, for the first proper moment when departure could not be called abrupt.
“Mrs Bennet,” he said, with a bow that was all exact civility, “we have trespassed upon you long enough. I am much obliged for your indulgence.”
“You are very good, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet replied at once, sitting a little straighter, as though good breeding alone might restore her strength. “It is no trespass. Such calls are a comfort. Are they not, Jane?”
Jane smiled, gentle and composed. “They are indeed, Mama.”
Miss Darcy came forward too, her colour a little higher than it had been, and curtsied with earnest care.
“I am very glad you allowed me to come,” she said quietly to Mrs Bennet, and then looked to Elizabeth with the same hopeful warmth she always seemed to reserve for her. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.”
“You are always welcome,” Elizabeth answered, because it was both kind and true.
Mr Ashton had been standing near the hearth, cup set aside, waiting, it seemed, for the room to settle into farewell before he introduced what had brought him in the first place.
When Mr Darcy’s departure made it necessary to speak or lose the moment, he stepped forward with a folded note in his hand.
“Mrs Bennet,” he said, and his manner, though easy, turned careful, “I have a message from my mother.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes brightened at once, trained to recognise an invitation before it was opened.
“She desired me,” Mr Ashton continued, offering the note with respectful restraint, “to beg the honour of your company at Willowbank, when you feel equal to it. Nothing large. Nothing fatiguing. Only a quiet dinner, and as soon as you judge it proper.”
Mrs Bennet took the note as though it were a favour and a triumph together.
“How exceedingly obliging,” she said, already arranging the evening in her mind. “Jane, Lizzy. Do you hear that?”
Elizabeth met Mr Ashton’s glance, understood the purpose behind his civility, and inclined her head.
“That is very kind indeed,” she said. “We shall consider it with gratitude, and answer as we ought.”