CHAPTER 12 #2
She drew a second sheet toward her and wrote down three names.
The first was Mrs. Marwood’s silversmith, a house of good reputation and no particular fashion, which recommended it.
The second Mr. Beaker had once named with approval, though his approval of any tradesman generally meant that the man had survived accounts rather than charmed taste.
The third was more fashionable, and Elizabeth wrote it down with suspicion rather than hope.
One must begin somewhere. One need not be trapped there.
She looked back at the half-written note to Mr. Darcy.
Cotton Lane could wait.
Silver could not.
This was not, of course, because rents and leases were unimportant.
Rents and leases were very important. Damp walls were important.
Mr. Harding’s memory, when allowed to roam uncorrected, might become expensive.
But Cotton Lane had been ill-arranged for years and would remain standing until next Thursday unless Providence had developed a sudden interest in municipal punishment.
Jane’s wedding silver admitted of no such comfortable delay.
A tea service, if it was to be chosen properly, must be ordered, examined, perhaps engraved, packed, and sent. A wrong decision could not be repaired by clauses. Bad silver would sit on Jane’s table for life, reproaching everyone with either thinness or vanity.
Mrs. Doddridge could make the expedition respectable. She could not make a silversmith honest, nor judge whether a teapot had proper substance beneath its polish.
Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth thought, could probably do both by standing still and looking displeased.
The thought was so satisfactory that she added to the note before she could grow too sensible.
A more immediate claim upon my judgment has arisen. My eldest sister is to be married next month, and I mean to choose for her a silver tea service: handsome, useful, and sufficiently well made to be trusted with daily happiness.
I should be obliged by your assistance tomorrow morning.
A respectable young lady may be treated very handsomely in a silversmith’s shop and still be cheated; I require someone beside me who can look stern at the proper moment, and who appears capable of judging whether a silver teapot has been made with proper substance or only polished into consequence.
If eleven is convenient, I shall call for you.
E. Bennet
She read it over.
The first paragraph was business. The second was family. The third was prudence. The whole, therefore, was entirely defensible.
Mrs. Doddridge’s silence supported this conclusion, or at least did not challenge it in any audible manner.
“I think that will do,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, miss.”
“You have objections?”
“No, miss.”
“You would say if you had?”
“No, miss.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“No. That is true.”
She folded the letter and sealed it. The seal came down cleanly, which she chose to consider a favourable sign.
When the footman came, she gave directions for it to be taken to Mr. Darcy’s chambers at once and an answer waited for, if convenient.
It was possible, of course, that Mr. Darcy would be engaged, or object, or suggest that the purchase of silver tea services did not fall within the usual duties of a solicitor.
Men were often narrow in their professional imagination when domestic necessity had not yet educated them.
But Elizabeth did not truly expect refusal.
She expected gravity. Possibly alarm. A very proper note in reply. Perhaps a sentence explaining that Thursday would suit Cotton Lane and that tomorrow at eleven would not be inconvenient, though phrased in such a way as to suggest that inconvenience had been conquered by principle.
That would do very well.
She turned then to Jane’s letter and began her answer, for affection, unlike silver, should not be made to wait merely because it could not be purchased.
My dearest Jane,
Your letter has given me more pleasure than I can properly express without sounding like Mama, which you will agree is a danger no sister should run unnecessarily.
Elizabeth paused, smiled, and continued.
I am glad beyond measure that your day is fixed, and gladder still that you write of Mr. Bingley with such peace.
I always thought him amiable, but I like him better for making you happy enough to confess it.
Tell him that Lord Pomington accepts his inquiries as no more than his due, and has recovered his spirits sufficiently to object to the weather, the fire, his breakfast, and the left side of his cushion.
You are very good not to press me toward Longbourn.
I love you the better for it, though I hope you do not require improvement in my love.
I cannot promise to come while the house is in its present condition of triumph and consequence; but I shall see you in town, and often, if Mr. Bingley has sense enough to bring you there.
I shall not say more now, except that I am happy for you, and that you deserve every happiness with such quiet certainty that Providence would be ashamed to disappoint you.
Your affectionate,
Elizabeth
She read this one with less satisfaction than Mr. Darcy’s, but more tenderness.
It was not easy to write to Jane without exposing too much.
Jane’s goodness invited confession as naturally as some people invited gossip.
Elizabeth therefore stopped before her hand could betray her into saying what loneliness Portman Square had known, or how strange it was to discover that Longbourn could wound without pulling and Jane could pull without wounding.
That was enough for one letter.
By luncheon, Mr. Darcy’s reply had not yet come. Elizabeth told herself this was natural. He had work. He had chambers. He had other clients, though she could not imagine that they were, at present, as interesting as herself. Cotton Lane might require consultation. Silver might require recovery.
By two o’clock, she had told herself twice more that delay was natural and once that it was unimportant.
At half past, the answer arrived.
Elizabeth took it with an indifference that deceived no one in the room except, perhaps, Pom-Pom, who was asleep and therefore not available for judgment.
Mr. Darcy’s reply was brief.
Miss Bennet,
Thursday next will suit Cotton Lane, and I shall make the necessary preparations.
I am at your service tomorrow at eleven.
F. Darcy
Elizabeth read it once.
Then again.
There was no protest. No lecture. No suggestion that silver might be entrusted to her own eyes, or that silversmiths could be dealt with by servants, or that his profession had not originally contemplated tea services.
He would come.
At eleven.
She placed the note upon the table beside Jane’s.
“Mrs. Doddridge.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Mr. Darcy is reasonable.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Or at least obedient to reason when it is put before him.”
“Yes, miss.”
“That is a very good quality in a man.”
“Yes, miss.”
Pom-Pom opened one eye, considered the matter, and closed it again with no visible confidence in masculine virtue.
Elizabeth, however, was not to be discouraged.
By the end of the afternoon, the silversmith had been selected, the carriage ordered, Mrs. Doddridge informed that her attendance would be required in her least destructible bonnet, and a small list begun of what a tea service ought and ought not to be.
It was perhaps unnecessary to write down not vulgar, not thin, and not swans, but Elizabeth had always found that lists relieved the mind, even when the mind already knew perfectly well what it intended.
Cotton Lane stood safely upon next Thursday.
Mr. Harding might continue in uncertainty a week longer, which was no more than he deserved.
Jane’s happiness had been answered by action.
Mr. Darcy had been invited to perform an office for which he had given no prior consent but every appearance of suitability.
It was all very proper.
Or near enough to proper that Mrs. Doddridge did not object, which in practice came to much the same thing.