The Nearness of Neighbours #2
“You have the advantage here of a morning so clear that it seems to belong to the place,” she said, looking towards the window and the green beyond it. “The drive alone is enough to persuade one that Derbyshire has the best right to be proud.”
“It is,” Georgiana said at once, with a steadiness Elizabeth was glad to hear. “Though I think I should be very ungrateful if I pretended I do not still notice it, at least in the mornings.”
Miss Bingley’s smile softened into something more composed.
She turned from the window at last and gave her attention where it properly belonged.
“And you are quite new to Derbyshire, are you not, Miss Bennet?” she asked Jane, in a tone of natural civility.
“I do not remember hearing of you before now.”
Jane inclined her head. “We have been here only some months.”
“How odd it must feel,” Miss Bingley continued, “to begin again in a place where one has no old acquaintance. You must forgive my curiosity. I only mean that it is unusual to meet three ladies in a neighbourhood where everyone seems already connected.”
Elizabeth saw Georgiana’s fingers tighten for an instant upon the arm of her chair, and then relax again.
“It was a change,” Jane replied, still calm, “but we have been treated with great kindness.”
Mrs Hurst glanced towards the prospect again and nodded, kindness seeming to her best acknowledged at a distance. “The country does that sometimes.”
“It does, if one allows it,” Elizabeth said, because silence invited Miss Bingley to take possession of it.
Miss Bingley’s eyes moved to her, quick and bright. “Then you prefer it, Miss Elizabeth? The quiet, the hedgerows, the contemplation?”
“I prefer whatever allows a person to be comfortable without an audience,” Elizabeth returned.
Miss Bingley laughed pleasantly. “How sensible. Yet I suspect you would not find an audience entirely new.”
The conversation did not, after that, stumble into ease so much as settle into a tolerable rhythm.
Miss Bingley spoke with bright civility, asking questions which sounded perfectly natural and yet seemed designed to discover, without seeming to do so, what sort of neighbourhood had received them, what sort of comfort they possessed, and what sort of temper they brought to it.
Jane answered with that quiet composure which made even the plainest truth seem sufficient.
Mary was drawn, once or twice, into remarks upon books and improvement, and spoke with more confidence than Elizabeth had expected; Miss Bingley listened with a look that suggested she had not anticipated being obliged to take her seriously, and could not decide whether to approve or to be amused.
Georgiana sat a little straighter as the minutes passed. She did not shine, exactly, but she held her ground, and Elizabeth found herself thinking that steadiness, in a girl of fifteen, was a sort of courage.
At last Jane glanced, almost imperceptibly, towards the clock. It was done as gently as everything Jane did, but it was understood at once.
“We have intruded long enough,” Jane said, rising. “You have been very kind to receive us.”
Georgiana rose immediately. “I am glad you came,” she returned, and there was genuine warmth beneath the careful tone. “I hope you will call again.”
Elizabeth curtsied, Mary followed, and Mrs Younge moved with them towards the door in time to prevent any small awkwardness at the threshold.
They had just reached the hall when the outer door opened again, letting in a gust of brighter air and the sound of boots upon stone.
Mr Darcy came in first, his coat unfastened, as though he had only at the last moment remembered formality. Mr Bingley was beside him, still carrying the ease of the outdoors upon his face. His expression altered at once into pleasure.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, and then, with immediate animation, “Miss Elizabeth. Are you going already?”
Mr Darcy bowed, properly composed again, and Georgiana’s colour rose; but she did not retreat. She merely lifted her chin a little, reminding herself, it seemed, that this was her house, and she had invited them.
Miss Bingley, who had been nearer the window than the centre of the room, turned with bright readiness, the gentlemen’s arrival supplying what she had evidently found wanting. “Brother, you have been gone an age. You might at least have contrived to return before the visitors were carried off.”
“We were just leaving,” Jane said, smiling with the same quiet warmth she had given Mr Bingley by the river. “We have taken enough of Miss Darcy’s morning.”
“Nonsense,” Mr Bingley returned, and looked ready to add several things more, had he not caught himself in time. “I mean, Miss Darcy will forgive you, I am sure.”
Mr Bingley’s eyes went back to Jane with undisguised regret. “But you will come again? Very soon? We have had scarcely any time.”
Jane’s reply was perfectly gentle, and perfectly safe. “When Georgiana is so kind as to command it.”
Georgiana’s mouth softened, the smallest sign of pleasure. “I should like it,” she said, and then, with a steadiness that surprised even herself, added, “very much.”
Elizabeth felt Mr Darcy’s attention settle upon her for a moment—brief, quiet, requiring no outward sign—and Miss Bingley’s glance followed it at once.
“It is a beautiful morning,” Elizabeth said, because something must be said, and because the prospect beyond the glass made a convenient refuge. “One almost believes the view has been arranged to persuade visitors to remain.”
Mr Darcy’s voice came lower, meant for her ear alone. “Pemberley has never needed persuasion.”
Elizabeth met his eyes, and looked away again before the look could become anything but civil.
A few moments later the carriage was brought round. Mr Darcy offered Elizabeth his arm as they moved towards the steps; the gesture was perfectly proper, and yet it made Miss Bingley’s smile sharpen by the smallest degree.
Jane accepted the footman’s hand and stepped up without hesitation.
Mary followed with careful composure, gathering her skirts so neatly that she would not allow even a hem to appear flurried.
Elizabeth came last, and paused only long enough to thank Georgiana again, because gratitude was safer than anything warmer.
Georgiana stood on the threshold, framed by the open door and the cool brightness of the hall behind her. Mrs Younge remained just within, attentive in silence. Miss Bingley lingered a step back from them both, her smile very ready, her eyes not.
“It was very kind of you,” Jane said once more.
“And very pleasant,” Elizabeth added, because it was true, and because she would not let the word be stolen by anyone else.
Georgiana’s answer came quickly, fear of hesitation seeming to lend her courage. “I am glad. I hope you will come again.”
The door of the carriage was held open; the step waited. Elizabeth took her place opposite Jane and Mary, and the footman shut them in with a soft finality.
Through the glass she saw Georgiana still at the door, upright and steady, resolved, it seemed, to remain so until the last possible moment.
Mr Darcy stood beside his sister, just behind her shoulder; when Elizabeth’s eyes met his, something in his expression eased, slight enough to be denied if spoken of.
Miss Bingley lingered a pace behind them both, her head inclined in farewell, her smile perfectly ready.
The horses started. Gravel stirred beneath the wheels.
Pemberley began to fall away in measured fragments: the doorway, the sweep of steps, the pale front softened by distance.
As the carriage turned, Mr Darcy bowed with quiet exactness, and Elizabeth looked away again, as though there were nothing in it beyond civility.
Jane’s hand found Elizabeth’s for a moment, light as reassurance, and her smile held that quiet brightness that showed she was pleased with the morning’s visit.
Elizabeth returned the smile; then she turned her gaze to the window, where the trees drew in again and the world narrowed to hedgerows, wheels, and the steady, unhurried motion of going home.