Attentions & Assumptions
It was not only Mrs Bennet who began to treat Elizabeth and Mr Ashton as a foregone conclusion.
They were seen too often for the neighbourhood to remain neutral.
Mr Ashton walked with Elizabeth into Lambton as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, and in the most ordinary things the village found its favourite conclusions.
Shopkeepers smiled more readily. A curtsey lingered half a second longer.
A “Miss Elizabeth” became “Miss Bennet” with a softness that suggested congratulations without daring to offer them.
Even Susan, who ought to have been above speculation, began to lay an extra place at table on mornings when Mr Ashton was expected, as though his place there were already understood.
Nor was it only his presence that announced him.
Small comforts began to arrive under cover of accident: a basket from Willowbank with broth that was “only sensible” in spring; a joint sent because Mrs Ashton insisted it was too much for her table and would spoil; a loaf from Highfield when Mrs Harding’s cook had baked too many, delivered with a note that made it sound like inconvenience rather than charity.
Then, one morning, Susan came in with a small packet and the stiffest of little messages—nothing but the compliments of Mrs Reynolds at Pemberley, and the assurance that there had been more tea than could be used before it lost its flavour.
Mrs Bennet received each offering with gratitude that warmed into triumph, and spoke of neighbourhood kindness as proof.
Mrs Ashton received every report of Mr Ashton’s attentions with the pleased composure of a woman who had already decided what was sensible.
She never pressed Elizabeth with open claims; she did not need to.
She praised her steadiness, her usefulness, her spirit, and did it with such affectionate certainty that praise began to feel like placement.
When she spoke of “the comfort of a daughter,” her eyes went to Elizabeth as naturally as breath.
Mrs Harding, too, was delighted. She had liked Elizabeth from the first, and she had long wished the Bennets more firmly rooted in Lambton than charity and circumstance could manage.
Mr Ashton, respectable and attentive, offered exactly that: a connection no one could criticise and everyone could approve.
She did not say so aloud where it would be vulgar; she merely arranged rooms so that Elizabeth and Mr Ashton were placed together, and spoke of him with an approving ease that made approval seem like observation.
Mrs Bennet needed no encouragement. She took up their delight as though it were confirmation of what she had always known.
In private she spoke of it as inevitability—Matthew’s steadiness, Matthew’s good sense, Matthew’s attentions—while keeping the language of propriety intact.
There were no declarations. Only habit, repeated and witnessed, until habit began to look remarkably like a promise.
Elizabeth enjoyed Mr Ashton’s company. She did not pretend otherwise. That was part of the danger: the ease was real, the laughter unforced. Yet the more natural it felt, the more swiftly other people treated it as settled.
In time Elizabeth began to notice that Mr Ashton’s kindness had a rhythm.
He offered to walk with her into Lambton whenever she mentioned lamp oil, more tea, candles, soap, or any small necessity that seemed to vanish the moment it entered the house.
It was always presented as convenience: he was going that way; he had business; he did not mind the road.
Elizabeth, who enjoyed his company more than she thought she ought, accepted it with an ease that surprised her.
He had a talent for making ease look natural.
In the village he did everything a neighbour ought to do.
He carried parcels without making a virtue of it.
He spoke to shopkeepers in a way that suggested Elizabeth was already established in the place and must be treated accordingly.
He laughed with her and drew her into laughter, and never pressed her to be more serious than she wished.
If someone paused to watch them, his manner grew a shade more attentive, offering public eyes a steadier proof of regard.
Once, when an acquaintance greeted them, Mr Ashton answered with practised warmth, making the explanation sound as simple as breath.
“Miss Elizabeth has been so obliging as to accompany me,” he said, and said it lightly, as compliment rather than announcement.
Elizabeth told herself it was nothing more than kindness and convenience.
Gentlemen had affairs to settle; households had accounts; neighbours had errands that went more smoothly in company.
If her presence made it easier for Mr Ashton to be everywhere at once, that was merely the advantage of being respectable company.
She could not think why it should signify at all.
Mr Darcy did not call again.
Elizabeth saw him only on Sundays. He would enter with Miss Darcy and her companion, take his place, and sit with a stillness that might almost be called courtesy.
When the service ended, he bowed with perfect propriety if their eyes met, spoke to no one who had not first spoken to him, and was gone before the churchyard had properly become a place for conversation.
By the time the service ended, the younger ladies had collected as naturally as birds to a hedge.
Miss Darcy stood with Mary beside her, drawn into quiet talk of the hymns, music clearly the safest form of speech, while Mrs Younge hovered at a distance that could still be called attentive.
Kitty lingered near enough to show a corner of her sketchbook without making an exhibition of it, and Lydia, incapable of lingering, filled every pause with something bright and unnecessary.
Cassandra joined them with the ease of a girl accustomed to being included, and Miss Clark remained just behind her shoulder, quiet as a shadow and twice as observant.
Cassandra listened, smiled at the proper moments, and by small turns and shifts of place made it harder for anyone to forget Miss Darcy was there.
* * *
The invitation did not come with flourish.
It arrived in a plain hand, sealed neatly, and brought by a servant who spoke of Pemberley as though it were only another house in the village.
Mrs Bennet received the note with instant importance. “It is from Miss Darcy,” she announced, and allowed the name to sit upon her tongue for a moment, improving in value as it rested there. “She wishes to see you all at Pemberley, and she names Mary particularly. Very proper. Very gratifying.”
Mary coloured. “I should be happy to go, if it will not be thought forward.”
“Forward. Nonsense,” Mrs Bennet replied. “It would be ungracious to refuse.”
The question of conveyance solved itself before Elizabeth had fully considered it. Mrs Harding sent a sensible note offering her carriage and her company; Cassandra would attend, and Miss Clark could not object to a drive in fine weather.
Mrs Bennet read that note aloud with satisfaction. “You see. Everything is settled.”
Mary went the next day.
Elizabeth watched from the window until the carriage rolled out of sight, and the cottage felt thinner for her absence.
Mary returned before dusk, her cheeks warmed by cold air and excitement, her bonnet slightly askew in a way that proved she had forgotten, at least once, to be careful.
“They were very kind,” she said at once.
“Of course they were kind,” Mrs Bennet replied, sitting straighter. “Now, Mary. Everything.”
“Miss Darcy received us herself,” Mary began. “She was not at all confused. She spoke readily. She asked after you, Elizabeth.”
“After me?” Elizabeth heard herself say.
“Yes. She wished you to come when you could, and she plainly meant it.”
“And Mr Darcy?” Mrs Bennet demanded, reducing the whole of Pemberley to one name. “Did you see him? Was he at home? And tell me, Mary, how is the house. I dare say it is just as one hears.”
Mary hesitated, ordering her impressions before she risked them. “Mr Darcy was at home, Mama. He came in when I was shown into the drawing-room, and he spoke to me very properly.”
“Properly,” Mrs Bennet repeated, as though propriety were a kind of praise. “And Miss Darcy?”
“Miss Darcy was there,” Mary said, and a little of her stiffness softened. “She spoke more than she did at the cottage. She asked after my music, and she played a little herself.”
Mrs Bennet made a sound of satisfaction that meant everything and nothing. “Very well. And the house?”
“It is very handsome,” Mary said, and then, because she could not help herself, “but it is not only handsome. It is orderly. Everything seems placed as though it has always belonged.”
Mary added a few more particulars about the rooms, the view, and the manner of their reception, but Mrs Bennet’s attention did not settle where Mary meant it to.
Mrs Bennet stared at her, the satisfaction draining into something sharper.
“Orderly,” she repeated. “Yes, very well. But Mary, that tells me nothing at all.”
Mary’s colour rose. “I thought it might be of interest, Mama.”
“What is of interest,” Mrs Bennet returned, with offended impatience, “is what one wishes to know. How many servants were in the room? Did you have two footmen behind you, or four? Was there a butler hovering like a man who expected you to spill your tea?”
Mary’s hands tightened in her lap. “I did not count them.”
Mrs Bennet made a sound that was almost a sigh and almost a scold. “You did not count them. You went to Pemberley and did not count the servants.”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes, because if she met Jane’s, she would laugh, and Mary did not deserve laughter on top of mortification.
“I do not believe,” Mary said, stiffening into principle, “that it would have been proper.”