The Nearness of Neighbours
The cloth had been drawn, the decanters set within easy reach, and the remains of dinner reduced to that comfortable disorder of fruit, nuts, and sweetmeats which made even a formal table feel less like a duty.
Bingley had been restless all through the last course, unable, it seemed, to decide whether to speak at once or wait until speaking would be undeniably proper. The moment Mr Hurst’s attention returned to the wine, Bingley’s eyes brightened and his chair turned a fraction towards Darcy.
“Well,” he began, with the air of a man determined to be perfectly reasonable, “you have not told your sister the most important consequence of our ride.”
Georgiana’s hands paused over the stem of her glass. “Have you found some new view, Mr Bingley?”
“A view, indeed,” Bingley said, laughing. “Three of them. We met your neighbours. Miss Bennet and her sisters.”
Georgiana’s expression softened. “You met them upon your ride?”
“We did,” Bingley said, and the pleasure of it rose again in his face, fresh enough to seem newly recollected. “And I assure you, Miss Darcy, Miss Bennet is an angel.”
Caroline’s brows lifted. “An angel?”
“Truly,” Bingley insisted, unabashed. “Not merely pretty. There is something in her manner that makes one feel immediately at ease, so incapable does she seem of suspecting ill in anyone. She speaks so quietly, and yet one listens as though she had said something of consequence.”
Darcy kept his gaze upon his glass, though he could feel Caroline’s attention turn, by instinct, in his direction.
“And the sisters?” Caroline asked, with all the appearance of idle curiosity.
“Miss Elizabeth is very quick,” Bingley said at once.
“She has a way of looking at you that suggests she has already understood what you meant, and is deciding whether to forgive it. And Miss Catherine—” He laughed, remembering it.
“Miss Catherine had her sketchbook and looked ready to let the river swallow her rather than be obliged to curtsey.”
Georgiana gave a small sound of sympathy. “Poor Miss Catherine.”
“She was very proper,” Darcy said, because it was true, and because he would not have her made ridiculous at his own table.
Caroline’s smile remained bright. “And these young ladies have been long in the neighbourhood?”
“They came some months ago,” Darcy replied. “They rent a cottage from my neighbour, Mr Harding. There is some connection, though I do not pretend to understand all the branches of it.”
Georgiana’s expression softened. “Mrs Harding speaks of them with great kindness,” she said. “They are much liked in the neighbourhood.”
Bingley leaned forward, still animated by the recollection. “They are in mourning.”
Caroline’s brows lifted a fraction. “Indeed? For whom?”
“Their father,” Darcy replied. “He died last year.”
* * *
Morning at the cottage had acquired a careful rhythm, the house itself seeming to have learnt quieter habits in mourning.
Mrs Bennet had been gone since early, dressed with unusual briskness and purpose, declaring that she must call upon Mrs Ashton at once, for she would not have it said that she had sat at home like a cipher when the neighbourhood was full of talk.
Kitty and Lydia were gone too, safely lodged with Cassandra Harding and under Miss Clark’s gentle attentions for the morning, and the house felt quiet and still.
Susan moved about with steady competence, opening windows, laying out what was required, and speaking in that sensible tone which suggested that a small household was easier to manage when no one encouraged fuss.
Mary had already been at the pianoforte, practising with determined patience.
Jane fastened her ribbon with calm precision.
Elizabeth, watching, felt the familiar restraint of mourning settle over her, not merely upon their clothes, but upon every decision that must be made in public.
For Miss Darcy’s invitation had been made in precisely those proper terms which did not force refusal. It was to be no party, only a morning call, quiet and early, in a room where one might sit and speak without being expected to appear cheerful.
They had scarcely finished dressing when wheels sounded upon the lane. Susan went at once, and returned with a look caught between importance and unease. “The Darcys’ carriage,” she said.
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened in a way she did not acknowledge. She rose, drew on her gloves, and reminded herself that this, too, was propriety: to accept what had been offered without making it an occasion.
The carriage waited at the gate with its sober finish and familiar crest; the coachman sat immovable upon the box; a footman had already stepped down and stood ready, eyes lowered, manner perfect.
Jane went first, composed as ever. Mary followed with careful dignity.
Elizabeth came last. They had been out in carriages before, since coming to Derbyshire, but there was a particular strangeness in being sent for, and in Mr Darcy’s carriage most of all, where every quiet spring and polished surface reminded her how far their own circumstances had shifted.
The door closed. The horses moved. The cottage fell away behind them, and Pemberley lay ahead.
Mary smoothed her gloves, hoping, perhaps, that the action might settle her thoughts. “I confess,” she said, with an effort at composure that did not quite conceal her interest, “I am curious to meet Mr Bingley’s sisters. Georgiana spoke of them as though they were very much at home at Pemberley.”
Jane’s expression softened. “Georgiana will be pleased to have company.”
“Yes,” Mary replied, “but it is not only company. Georgiana says Miss Bingley has a great deal of animation. She is very attentive to arrangements, and to what is proper.” Mary hesitated, then added, with honest exactness, “I believe she means to be agreeable, but she will not easily be prevented from directing a room.”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “Then it is fortunate we are not going to be directed.”
Mary looked faintly offended by the lightness. “You may make jokes, but I do not wish Georgiana to be made uncomfortable in her own house. And Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst are fashionable. One ought to be prepared.”
Jane’s hand rested for a moment upon Mary’s sleeve, quiet and steady. “Prepared to be civil,” she said. “Nothing more is required of us.”
Mary drew a breath, conceding the point because Jane’s gentleness made refusal impossible. “At least we shall not be expected to do anything extraordinary,” she said, taking comfort where she could. “It is only a morning call.”
“Only a morning call,” Elizabeth repeated, watching the hedgerows slide past, and thinking that there were calls which altered nothing, and calls which were remembered long after they were over.
The road curved, the hedgerows fell away, and the park began so quietly that Elizabeth might have missed the moment of leaving common ground behind. The lane widened, the grass ran closer to the wheels, and the trees drew in about them with a shade that cooled the morning air.
For a time they travelled through something like a small wood, the boughs meeting overhead, the light shifting in narrow patches across the carriage windows.
The horses climbed at an easy pace, and the world seemed enclosed, green upon green, until the ground rose a little more and the trees thinned without warning.
Then the wood ceased.
A valley opened before them, broad and still, with a stream below that caught the light where it turned.
On the opposite side, set upon rising ground, stood the house.
It was stone, large without heaviness, and placed with the air of long belonging rather than display.
Behind it, a ridge of wooded hills lifted the line of the horizon; before it, the stream widened, not into anything showy, but into something that looked less commanded than persuaded.
The carriage descended, the view slipping and returning between trunks and hedges as the drive bent, and then they crossed the water by a low bridge, the sound of it brief beneath the wheels.
When they rose again the house was nearer, the proportions clearer, the windows bright in the open day. Elizabeth sat a little straighter, and did not know whether it was expectation or caution.
The butler received them at the door, and the hall was cool and bright, with the staircase rising in an easy sweep before them. Elizabeth had scarcely time to take it in before they were shown into a parlour and the butler announced them.
“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Mary Bennet.”
Georgiana Darcy stood near the window, having chosen the light, it seemed, on purpose.
Mrs Younge was close by, attentive without hovering.
Near the hearth were two other ladies, already seated: one in a posture of elegant ease, the other with a languor suggesting she could be comfortable anywhere and preferred to make no effort about it.
Miss Darcy came forward at once.
“I am very glad you could come,” she said, and though there was colour in her cheeks, her voice did not shake. “Jane, Elizabeth and Mary.”
Jane’s answer was quiet, warm, and perfectly proper. “You are very kind to invite us, Georgiana.”
Georgiana turned, with a small, controlled breath, towards the two ladies by the hearth.
After introductions were finished they took their seats; Mrs Younge placed herself where she might be useful without seeming to supervise.
For a few seconds, the room held a polite silence, everyone appearing to wait upon the safest subject with which to begin.
Georgiana laid her hand on the arm of her chair, steadying herself by the gesture, and looked up again at once.
Jane’s expression did not alter, but Elizabeth saw her choose her moment with quiet kindness.
Elizabeth let the silence sit only long enough to be proper.