Chapter 10 #4
The incident was over as quickly as it had begun.
Mrs. Annesley resumed her place. Lydia, after a furtive look at her, resumed her work with noticeable care.
Darcy, who had observed the whole with a quiet satisfaction, could not but acknowledge that his judgement in companions for his sister had been, in this instance at least, entirely right.
Mrs. Bennet, recovering her spirits, turned again to scheming.
“Jane, my love, you should show Mr. Bingley the garden. T The shrubs are quite green still, and the prospect from the south lawn is as fine in December as in June.”
“I should be very happy to see it,” Bingley said at once.
Jane rose, and Elizabeth’s glance sought Darcy’s. The smile that accompanied it was so full of amusement that it discomposed him. Whether she laughed at Bingley’s manifest admiration, or at her mother’s openness of design, he could not determine.
When Jane and Bingley had left the room, Mrs. Bennet began, with great animation, to recount every particular of the assembly for the benefit of those who had remained at home, omitting no circumstance that bore, however slightly, upon Mr. Bingley’s partiality.
Darcy, suspecting that he was not required for this recital, went to the window where Elizabeth stood.
“There is a matter I must speak to Georgiana of,” he said, his voice turning more grave.
“I had a letter this morning from Colonel Fitzwilliam. He writes that Wickham has been found—at London, in lodgings of no great comfort. He is said to be ill, some fever or other disorder. A surgeon attends him, and though there is hope of recovery, his circumstances are pitiable.”
Elizabeth’s countenance grew serious. “I am sorry to hear it. However undeserving he may be, one cannot wish such suffering on any man.”
“No,” Darcy agreed quietly. “It is that very thought which troubles me. Georgiana must be told, I suppose, yet I dread the effect. She has been easy and cheerful of late—I would not darken her peace if it can be avoided.”
“Then perhaps she need not be told all at once,” Elizabeth said after a moment’s reflection. “If his illness worsens, she should hear it—from you, and gently. But if he recovers, let the news reach her when it can bring no fresh pain. Compassion is not always best shown by haste.”
He looked at her with something like relief, conscious of how much clearer his own path felt for her words. “I am glad to have your judgement on it. You see the matter as I would wish to see it myself—and I shall follow it with Georgiana.”
A pause fell, in which he felt the weight of that reliance settle comfortably between them. Then, rallying, he glanced toward the garden door. “Your mother appears perfectly satisfied with the result of last night.”
“She is in transports. Mr. Bingley’s amiability has quite conquered her.”
“Bingley is universally amiable.”
“Universal amiability,” Elizabeth repeated. “What a formidable condition. It makes good-nature sound almost like an illness. ‘I am sorry to tell you, sir, you labour under a severe case of universal amiability. There is nothing to be done.’”
The corner of his mouth moved. “You mistake me. I did not mean it as a censure.”
“No? Then how did you mean it? I am excessively curious. When you say a man is universally amiable, do you mean to praise him, or only to observe him, or to hint at some hidden danger?”
“It is simply to say that Bingley is friendly to everyone.”
“Alarming, indeed,” Elizabeth said. “Friendliness at an assembly. If he should proceed to talk pleasantly to strangers, there will be no enduring him. We shall be obliged to send for the magistrate.”
“You are diverting yourself at my expense.”
“I am diverting myself, certainly.” She cast him a sidelong look. “You have a particular manner of speaking of your friends, Mr. Darcy. You commend them, and yet your commendation sounds rather like anxiety. It is a curious talent.”
“I only meant that Bingley is apt to form attachments quickly.”
“Quickly! He has known my sister, what, two days? How shocking his precipitancy must appear.” Her tone was all lightness. “Pray, what is the proper period for forming an attachment? I should be sorry for any of us to offend through undue haste.”
“There is no fixed period,” he said, with some impatience.
“Oh, there must be, if only in your own mind. A fortnight? A month? You have so orderly a turn, I am persuaded you have calculated it already. You calculate every thing else.”
“I do not calculate every thing.”
“Perhaps not. Yet you certainly like to see things ordered as you choose. The waggons, the servants, even the length of this very call—you have all in hand.”
“I cannot perceive that a preference for order is so terribly blameable.”
“I do not blame it.” Her voice softened.
“Only I fancy it must be most agreeable to have the means of ordering every thing as you please. Most people must shape themselves to arrangements made by others, or be content with what chance affords. You have only to decide what is most to your taste, and everyone about you is employed in effecting it.”
“You make me sound very much indulged.”
“Not indulged. Only—accustomed to having your preferences consulted.” She spoke without heat.
“It is not intended as a reproof, Mr. Darcy. It is merely how the matter appears to one who has never been mistress of anything larger than a small bedchamber. When one is born to a great estate, one must learn to direct. When one is not, one must learn to submit. The lessons are different, that is all.”
She had drawn nearer as she spoke, or he had to her.
The warmth of the room, the faint scent of some light, fresh perfume about her, the small curl of hair that had escaped to rest against her neck—these trifles intruded themselves upon his notice when his whole mind ought to have been engaged in answering her.
“I had not considered it in that way,” he said at last.
She smiled, and the brightness of her eyes disturbed him more than he cared to own. No one else took such a tone with him—teasing him, and yet leaving him more stimulated than offended. If it was impertinence, it was of a kind he had never before encountered.
“I have been quite philosophical,” she said. “You came to see your sister, not to hear my lectures on the nature of authority. Shall we join the others, before my mother suspects us of plotting?”
“I was not being lectured,” he found himself saying.
“Were you not? How would you describe it, then?”
“Provoked,” he answered.
“Ah.” Her smile widened. “Then we are quits, for you provoke me continually. Only, you do it without seeming to know it.”
They were, he realised, standing nearer than was quite proper, and their voices, though not raised, might easily reach more ears than he liked. Her eyes, full of mischief, were fixed on his.
“You take great pleasure in provoking me, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I take great pleasure in conversation, Mr. Darcy. If you find conversation provoking, that is perhaps more revealing than you intended.” She paused. “I will own, however, that your countenance is remarkably rewarding. You have remarkably expressive eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows,” he repeated.
“Exceedingly expressive. They convey whole paragraphs of disapprobation without your being obliged to utter a syllable. It is most economical. You might publish A Gentleman’s Guide to Silent Disapprobation.”
He was opening his mouth—he scarcely knew whether to protest or to laugh—when Bingley and Jane re-entered, a little rosy from the air and clearly well pleased with their walk.
Mrs. Bennet instantly fastened upon them. “Did you see the evergreens? And the prospect? It is very fine, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”
“Very fine indeed, Mrs. Bennet. Though I must confess, I was chiefly taken up with my companion.”
Mrs. Bennet’s delight could hardly be contained. Her gaze, wandering for a moment, fell on Mrs. Annesley, still quiet in her corner, and a new expression, half speculative, crossed her face.
“Girls,” Mrs. Bennet said, gently, “you might put your work-baskets a little in order. A neat drawing room is so much more comfortable.”
Lydia and Kitty, surprised by this unaccustomed injunction, obeyed without argument.
Darcy glanced at his watch. They had already overstayed his allowance.
“Bingley,” he said, “we must be returning.”
“So soon? I had not supposed—”
“We have been here nearly half an hour.” His tone admitted of no debate.
Bingley’s regret was evident, but he submitted. Leave-takings were made, Bingley lingering over Jane’s hand, Darcy as punctilious as ever.
In the carriage back to Netherfield, Bingley was all rapture—on Jane’s sweetness, the prettiness of the garden, Mrs. Bennet’s attentions. Darcy, for his part, was unusually silent.
“You are rather grave, Darcy,” Bingley said at last. “Has anything occurred to displease you?”
“Nothing,” Darcy replied. “Nothing at all.”
Yet he knew it was not quite true. Something had occurred. Some alteration, slight yet undeniable, had taken place. Only he was not at all prepared to give it a name.
Proper Society
The blue guest chamber at Longbourn had recovered its usual order.
The extra pillows Mrs. Bennet had heaped upon the bed were reduced to a reasonable number.
The chair by the fire no longer groaned under a mountain of shawls.
A tray of untouched broth and tea had been carried away.
Only the scent of lavender remained, clinging faintly to the curtains and coverlet.