Chapter 10 #6
Mrs. Long coloured faintly. “Indeed, indeed. I meant no offence. Only, in a small neighbourhood, one cannot help being curious.”
“Curiosity is the life of a small neighbourhood,” Mr. Bennet agreed.
“Yet even in Hertfordshire we sometimes resist it. You have my word that Miss Darcy’s indisposition was no more than a feverish chill, and that she is now as much out of danger as any of us can claim to be in this uncertain world.
Beyond that, I must disappoint you. Her history is not mine to tell. ”
His tone was perfectly civil, but there was a quiet finality in it.
Charlotte, who had been listening with attentive gravity, came to Mrs. Long’s aid with gentle tact.
“I am sure we are all satisfied to learn Miss Darcy is so much restored,” she said.
“Nothing reassures one so much as a young lady’s taking an interest in her work and her music again.
It speaks more than any account could do. ”
Mrs. Long seized on the opening. “To be sure, to be sure. She must be vastly better than when I first heard of her illness.” She turned her attention, with visible relief, to safer ground—the size of Mr. Bingley’s party, the number of dishes at supper, and whether Mrs. Goulding’s gown had been new or merely altered.
When their visitors had at last taken their leave, Elizabeth glanced across at her father. He met her eye for an instant, gave the smallest inclination of his head, and retreated once more to his library.
Charlotte lingered behind to collect her gloves. “You see, Elizabeth,” she said quietly, “inquiries soon turn to other subjects when they are not answered. You need not be afraid that everyone will be speaking of Miss Darcy for ever.”
Elizabeth managed a small smile. “I am very much obliged to you, Charlotte.”
It was, Elizabeth reflected, one of the rare occasions on which her father’s love of a well-timed speech had been employed on the side of real kindness, instead of merely his own diversion.
Stranger at the Table
Mr. Darcy had never before given so much thought to the domestic arrangements of another man's Christmas. Yet as he paced the small parlour at Netherfield, the matter would not leave him.
“The Gardiners come as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet had said, when Darcy had inquired how the household meant to keep the holy day. “My wife's brother, his wife, and their children.”
“They live in Town?” Darcy had asked. “In what part, if I may know?”
“Gracechurch Street. My brother Gardiner is in business there.”
Darcy had given a civil nod and allowed the subject to drop.
Now, alone, he recalled the conversation with discomfort.
A brother in trade. Any brother of Mrs. Bennet’s.
The prospect conjured, with painful ease, an image of a larger, louder, more bustling male counterpart to his hostess: voluble, injudicious, all nerves and exclamation.
A houseful of children tearing through Longbourn’s rooms, Mrs. Bennet in transports, Lydia in raptures.
It was not a scene into which one would willingly leave a recovering girl of fifteen with shattered nerves.
The thought at last drove him to Longbourn that afternoon, where he found Mrs. Annesley in Georgiana’s chamber, knitting a shawl. Georgiana herself was downstairs with Elizabeth and Mary, copying out some of the music he had sent.
“Mrs. Annesley,” he said, when she had curtsied and he had inquired after his sister.
“I wished to consult you on a point. Mr. Bennet tells me that Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner are expected for Christmas, with their children. I begin to doubt whether it is prudent to leave Georgiana here whilst the house is so full. Perhaps it would be better to remove her and yourself to Netherfield for a week or two until the bustle is past.”
Mrs. Annesley laid the shawl aside and regarded him with calm attention.
“You fear the household will be too noisy for Miss Darcy, sir?”
“I fear every thing that might disturb her,” Darcy said. “She has only just begun to be easy. The arrival of Town relations, young children, altered routines—” He broke off with a sharp gesture. “If there is any risk of her being overtaxed, I would rather have her under my own roof.”
“Quite natural,” Mrs. Annesley said. “A brother must think so. Yet if I may speak plainly, sir, I do not believe removal at present would serve her.”
He frowned. “You think it would be better for her to remain here? Among strangers from Town?”
“I do.” Her tone was mild but firm. “Miss Darcy has begun to prosper at Longbourn because she is not confined to a sick-room, nor shut up with only her own attendants. The company of five sisters—of Miss Elizabeth’s liveliness, Miss Jane’s gentleness, Miss Mary’s music, Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia’s high spirits, moderated as they now are—has done her a great deal of good.
She is gradually learning to feel herself part of a household again. ”
Darcy glanced towards the small pile of music on the table—the pieces Mary had marked for Georgiana’s practice.
“You believe the Bennet family has benefited her more than quiet at Pemberley would have done,” he said.
“I do,” Mrs. Annesley replied. “She has learnt here to bear noise without panic, conversation without fear. She has found a friend in Miss Elizabeth, and a pattern in Miss Jane. As for the Gardiners—Miss Elizabeth speaks of her uncle and aunt with particular affection. I own I am curious to see whether they are not as much an advantage as an inconvenience.”
“Gracechurch Street and trade are not promising introductions,” Darcy said, though with less conviction than he might have shown a month earlier.
“It is prudent to consider the company in which a young lady is placed,” Mrs. Annesley said.
“At the same time, I have sometimes observed that we judge the quality of an acquaintance more truly by their actions than by their address. A man may live above a shop and yet possess more genuine gentility than one who lives in a square.”
Darcy coloured slightly. It was an uncomfortable application of a maxim he knew he ought to applaud.
“You advise that I reserve judgement,” he said.
“I advise only, sir, that you see them for yourself,” Mrs. Annesley replied.
“If Miss Darcy has found kindness at Longbourn, it may be that the kindness has connexions. Trade does not forbid good breeding. If the Gardiners are what their nieces believe them, they will bring into the house two more rational, affectionate adults who will treat Miss Darcy with consideration. That is no small addition.”
He was silent for a moment.
“You would have her remain,” he said at last.
“I would, sir. Removing her now would suggest that every change is dangerous. A few weeks more in such society—provided it proves as Miss Elizabeth expects—will not go amiss. On the contrary, I think it may complete the good that has already begun.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. He did not like the notion of ceding his instinct to remain in control, yet every thing Mrs. Annesley said accorded with what he had seen: Georgiana laughing at Kitty’s chatter, gravely debating fingering with Mary, leaning on Elizabeth with a trust he knew he had not yet fully earned for himself.
“Very well,” he said. “She shall stay. I will meet this Mr. Gardiner for myself before I decide whether Gracechurch Street must always signify degradation.”
Mrs. Annesley’s mouth curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile. “I think Miss Darcy will be grateful for your patience, sir. She has been looking forward to their arrival.”
“She has?” The question escaped him before he could check it.
“Miss Bennet has told her of Mrs. Gardiner’s kindness,” Mrs. Annesley said. “I believe Miss Darcy hopes to find another friend.”
That settled it. Whatever misgivings he retained about Gracechurch Street and trade, he could not bring himself to disappoint Georgiana on the strength of his imagination alone.
He took his leave of Mrs. Annesley and went in search of Georgiana, meaning to walk with her as far as the lane and then back to Netherfield.
Instead, when he stepped out into the pale winter light, he saw her already abroad with Elizabeth and Mary: Georgiana between them, a basket of holly on Elizabeth’s arm, Mary carrying a roll of music.
He hesitated only a moment before crossing the gravel.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, dropping a curtsy that was more amused than formal. “You are early. Our Christmas greenery is not yet assembled for inspection.”
“I am confident you shall manage it well,” he replied. “I came, in truth, on another errand. I understand that your uncle and aunt from Gracechurch Street are expected,” he said. “I wished to be assured, before they arrive, that Georgiana would not be unsettled by the additional company.”
“You are all consideration, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said. “You fear, then, that my relations may overwhelm Miss Darcy?”
“I feared the noise and bustle of a full house might distress her,” Darcy said. “She is but lately recovered from a severe shock. I thought—at first—that it might be best to remove her to Netherfield whilst your Christmas party is at its height.”
“To spare her the trial of my connexions,” Elizabeth said. “You need not scruple to speak plainly, Mr. Darcy. I am under no illusion that our family circumstances recommend us in your eyes. It is no great labour to understand you.”
He winced. “I did not mean to suggest that your relations must be objectionable. Only that—”
“You need not trouble yourself to soften it, Mr. Darcy,” she said, though her eyes were more sad than angry. “Yet you will find, I think, that my uncle and aunt Gardiner are guilty of no worse offence than living near the city and being uniformly sensible.”
The picture her words conjured—a well ordered house within sight of warehouses, governed by sense and kindness—sat oddly with his earlier imaginings of mere bustle and coarseness in trade.
“You are confident in their merits,” he said.