CHAPTER 11
Safe from Proposals
Elizabeth returned from Mr. Darcy’s chambers in very good spirits, which she attributed entirely to the advancement of Cotton Lane and not at all to the expression upon Mr. Darcy’s face when she had dedicated it to him.
It had been a most satisfactory interview.
The papers had been received. The proprieties had been observed.
Mr. Darcy had neither mistaken the offer for favour nor refused it out of pride.
He had looked startled, certainly; but as Elizabeth had never supposed Cotton Lane to be a phrase designed for tranquillity, she did not hold that against him.
Mrs. Doddridge walked beside her with the empty paper-case held precisely beneath one arm.
Lord Pomington, having contributed all that could be required of him to the legal transaction, was now carried in his basket and wore the expression of a creature who had been consulted by inferior minds and found the exercise tiring.
“I think that went very well,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, miss.”
“He accepted Cotton Lane.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And did not seem offended.”
“No, miss.”
“He did look startled.”
“Yes, miss.”
“That was unavoidable.”
“Yes, miss.”
Elizabeth glanced at her.
“Mrs. Doddridge, if I did not know you better, I should suspect you of humouring me.”
“No, miss.”
This answer, being no more than could be expected, satisfied them both.
London went on about them with its usual indifference: wheels over damp stone, tradesmen calling, ladies under bonnets moving from one errand to another, a boy carrying more parcels than prudence recommended, and two gentlemen arguing in a doorway with all the warmth of men who had forgotten the subject and remembered only the pleasure of disagreement.
It was not the green narrowness of Hertfordshire, nor the padded ease of Portman Square.
It was movement, consequence, occupation — a great machine of needs and bargains, and Elizabeth, who had always liked things that could not be governed merely by wishing them tidy, found her spirits rise still further.
Cotton Lane belonged to such a world. It was not pretty, and had never pretended to be.
Her aunt had called it useful with the air of a woman bestowing a compliment upon something too sensible to blush.
It had doors, ledgers, tenants, repairs, rents, and complaints — all the dull, stubborn life of property that existed because people required walls in which to conduct their business and sleep above it.
And now Mr. Darcy had it.
Not all of it, of course. Elizabeth was bold, not foolish.
Mr. Beaker and Mr. Hartwood would remain over the whole like two elderly ravens upon a legal battlement.
But a portion had been placed in Mr. Darcy’s hands, and Elizabeth was too honest with herself not to acknowledge the pleasure she felt in having done it.
He had been grave when she spoke. Grave, and wary, and very handsome in that black-coated, exacting way which ought not to have improved upon acquaintance and yet had.
The severe line of his mouth had not softened much; she did not think it was a mouth much given to softening.
But it had moved once, unwillingly, when she had said Cotton Lane was not commemorative but administrative, and Elizabeth considered any amusement wrung from Mr. Darcy by surprise to be worth the trouble of producing it.
She had not gone to his chambers to amuse him.
That was important.
She had gone on business.
If business happened to be amusing, that was no fault of hers.
“You are walking quickly, miss,” said Mrs. Doddridge.
“Am I?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Then Cotton Lane has improved my constitution already.”
“Yes, miss.”
Pom-Pom stirred in his basket and gave a small offended snort, as if objecting to the idea that any street but his own could be credited with exertion.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth told him. “You improved it first.”
Pom-Pom subsided.
By the time they reached Portman Square, Elizabeth had almost convinced herself that the morning’s satisfaction was entirely rational.
Mr. Darcy would examine the papers. He would discover at once that the work was real, not charity wrapped in red tape.
He would write, perhaps, with questions.
His letters, she suspected, would be concise, orderly, and annoyingly correct.
He would not flatter her understanding. He would probably not flatter anyone’s understanding, except by assuming it was equal to being used.
That, Elizabeth thought, might be the most attractive form of respect.
The door opened before she could reach the bell. Mrs. Albright stood within, severe and dependable, her cap as exact as judgment.
“There is a letter for you, miss.”
“From whom?”
“Longbourn, miss.”
It was astonishing how a single word could alter the air.
Elizabeth took the letter.
She knew her father’s hand at once: a little careless, a little elegant, sloped as if the writer had never expected the world to be improved by haste but had also never thought it worth much labour.
For one moment the paper seemed to carry with it the whole confused atmosphere of Longbourn — Mama’s nerves, Lydia’s noise, Kitty’s anxious echo, Mary’s moral persistence, Jane’s gentleness, Mr. Collins’s speeches, her father’s library door standing half open and half shut against everything that required him.
“Will you take luncheon in the small parlour, miss?” asked Mrs. Albright.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“The dog’s coat is damp at the hem.”
“Then Lord Pomington must recover from public service before luncheon.”
“Yes, miss.”
The ordinary exchanges settled the house back around her, but not quite as before.
Elizabeth went upstairs, removed her bonnet and gloves, and placed the letter upon her writing table while she changed.
She did not open it immediately. This was not delay, precisely.
It was the respect due to an interruption one had not invited.
When she came down to the small parlour, the letter still waited.
Mrs. Doddridge sat near the window with Pom-Pom’s basket at her feet and some narrow hem already in her hands. If Mrs. Doddridge had ever been flustered by anything in her life, she had not thought it useful to continue the habit.
Elizabeth sat.
She broke the seal.
My dear Lizzy,
I write with intelligence which may restore Longbourn to your good opinion, or at least make it less alarming to your dog.
Mr. Collins, having recovered from the wound inflicted by your refusal with a speed that does him great credit, has transferred his affections and his future eloquence to Miss Charlotte Lucas.
They are engaged. Your mother has been persuaded that this is a tragedy, Lady Lucas that it is a triumph, and Mr. Collins that it is Providence.
You may therefore return without danger, if you require it. The house is now safe from proposals, though not, I fear, from speeches.
Your affectionate father,
T. Bennet
Elizabeth laughed before she could prevent herself.
It was a good letter.
That was the trouble. Her father’s letters were often good when his conduct had not been.
She read it again, more slowly. Mr. Collins had recovered.
Of course he had. A man so satisfied with his own consequence could not remain long wounded when another woman stood conveniently near to admire it.
Charlotte Lucas — Miss Lucas, rather; Elizabeth had no right to call her otherwise in her thoughts — was engaged to him.
Elizabeth set the letter down.
“Well,” she said.
Mrs. Doddridge looked up.
“Miss?”
“Mr. Collins is engaged to Miss Lucas.”
“Yes, miss.”
“You are not surprised.”
“No, miss.”
Elizabeth felt her mouth twitch despite herself.
“No. Perhaps one ought not to be.”
She rose and went to the window. Portman Square lay orderly beyond the glass: clean fronts, sober railings, the usual measured passage of carriages, all the composed respectability Mrs. Marwood had chosen and maintained with such exact force of will.
It was a long way from Longbourn. In some moods, a comfortable distance.
In others, a distance that asked whether comfort had cost something she had not yet named.
Miss Lucas was older than Elizabeth, sensible, and not rich. Elizabeth knew her a little, and liked what she knew; she did not know her well enough to be shocked on her behalf. There are choices which look absurd only to those who have never been forced to choose between two forms of dependence.
Was it better to remain a daughter in one’s father’s house, useful, unmarried, and increasingly difficult to place — or to become mistress of such a husband as Mr. Collins?
Elizabeth could not decide.
She had been spared the question, and could not pretend that being spared had made her wise.
Mr. Collins was ridiculous. That did not make Miss Lucas foolish.
A woman might choose a house, consequence, security, and a parlour in which her own keys mattered, even if the price of those keys was listening to Mr. Collins congratulate himself upon giving them to her.
Elizabeth could dislike the bargain without despising the woman who had made it.
Still — Charlotte Lucas.
No. Miss Lucas.
Elizabeth returned to the table and took up her father’s letter once more.
You may therefore return without danger, if you require it.
There was the little hook beneath the velvet.
Papa had observed the danger accurately, named it prettily, and done nothing at the time when naming it might have been of use. He knew enough to joke that Longbourn was now safe from proposals. He had not known enough — or had not chosen enough — to make it so while she was there.
Had she required protection? Apparently so.
Had Longbourn supplied it? Apparently not.
And now that Mr. Collins had placed his future eloquence elsewhere, she might return, if she required it.
Elizabeth folded the letter, unfolded it, and folded it again.
“Mrs. Doddridge.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you think Longbourn is now safe?”
Mrs. Doddridge considered this with no visible evidence of strain.