CHAPTER 13 #2
Lord Pomington was at last installed upon a chair brought forward at Mrs. Doddridge’s request, and there sat in his fur cloak like a prince reviewing inferior tribute.
Mrs. Doddridge stood beside him with the air of a woman for whom dogs, silver, solicitors, and moral judgment were equally natural parts of a winter morning if Miss Bennet had arranged them.
At last the shopman brought out a service from a lower case.
Darcy knew at once that it was better.
It did not announce itself. That was the first point in its favour.
The shape was clean, the proportions sound, the ornament restrained to a narrow border and a small repeated leaf that had not been asked to do the work of substance.
The teapot sat well upon its feet; the hinge opened cleanly; the handle joined as it ought; the tray had weight without ostentation.
It was handsome, but not vain. Good, but not theatrical.
He lifted the teapot.
Yes.
Miss Bennet watched him rather than the silver.
“This is better,” he said.
“How much better?”
“Considerably. The weight is honest. The hinge is well made. The feet will not suffer from daily use. The ornament knows its place.”
Her mouth curved.
“That is not a small virtue.”
“No.”
“And the tray?”
He examined it.
“Good. Not too large. It will not bully the table.”
She looked delighted.
“I had not known trays could bully.”
“They often attempt it.”
“Then we must not encourage them.”
He set the teapot down.
“This would last.”
That was the deciding phrase. He saw it reach her. Not shine, not impress, not make a figure. Last.
Miss Bennet looked at the service for a long moment. Her face softened in a way that had nothing to do with silver and everything, he thought, to do with the absent sister for whom it was intended.
“Yes,” she said. “That is what I want.”
Then she looked at him.
“You were exactly right to come.”
The words were quiet, almost matter-of-fact.
That made them worse. Praise might have been resisted; gratitude could have been answered; flirtation might have been managed by distance.
But this was simple appreciation, founded on his judgment and addressed directly to the part of himself he had almost forgotten how to offer.
He inclined his head.
“I am glad to have been of service.”
“Very formal,” she observed.
“Very necessary.”
“Is it?”
He did not answer. He could not tell her that without formality he might reveal how much he had felt the compliment, or how absurdly pleased he was that she had chosen something good on his judgment.
The door opened while the shopman was making his notes, and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam walked in.
Darcy saw him first and knew, with the immediate resignation of long acquaintance, that the morning had become unrecoverable.
Richard had entered with the careless air of a man pursuing some small errand of his own. Then he saw Darcy. Then Miss Bennet. Then the tea service between them, Mrs. Doddridge in attendance, and the silversmith bending over the order-book with all the reverence due to matrimonial plate.
He stopped.
It was not a large stop. Unfortunately, Darcy knew him too well to miss it.
“Darcy,” said Richard, after one interested pause. “I had no notion I should find you so agreeably employed.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy, because retreat was impossible, “allow me to present Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Miss Bennet, my cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth bowed with perfect composure.
“How do you do, Colonel?”
“Better than I did a moment ago, madam.”
His eyes returned to the silver.
“Am I interrupting a matter of consequence?”
“Very great consequence,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy has prevented me from buying something ridiculous.”
Richard looked at Darcy.
Darcy lowered his eyes to the teapot. The hinge did not deserve such attention, but it was safer than his cousin’s face.
“Has he?” said Richard.
“Indeed. I have discovered a remarkable talent in Mr. Darcy. His knowledge of silverware appears superior to that of many who sell it.”
“A rare distinction,” said Richard gravely. “And one not every gentleman has occasion to display before marriage.”
Elizabeth considered this.
“Then more gentlemen ought to be tested before it.”
Darcy said, rather too quickly, “The service is for Miss Bennet’s sister.”
Richard’s brows rose.
“Of course,” he said. “That explains everything.”
It explained, Darcy felt, almost nothing.
The shopman, who had no part in the conversation and an eager interest in its social balance, bent with renewed attention over the order-book as if hoping not to be recognized by history.
Elizabeth said, with that composed directness Darcy had begun to find more dangerous than any blush could have been, “My sister is to marry Mr. Bingley next month. Mr. Darcy’s assistance has spared her from a tray that might have bullied her breakfast table.”
“Then Miss Bennet has my congratulations,” said Richard. “And Mr. Bingley my sympathy, should the tray have had its way.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“He is of a cheerful temper. He might have borne it too kindly.”
“That would only encourage the tray.”
“Precisely.”
Darcy had the acute sensation of a private world enlarging without his consent.
Richard looked from Elizabeth to Darcy once more, and his expression acquired that warmth of amusement which promised extensive future inconvenience.
At that moment Lord Pomington, who had been partially obscured by Mrs. Doddridge’s skirts and his own grandeur, sneezed.
Richard looked down.
Then he looked again.
“Good God.”
“Yes,” said Darcy.
“It is Lord Pomington,” said Elizabeth.
“Of course it is.”
Richard bowed in the dog’s direction after only the smallest hesitation.
“I am honoured.”
Lord Pomington blinked and did not object, which was more civility than he extended to many Christians.
There was very little else to be said that could improve the situation.
Richard, having got what pleasure he could from it in the moment, was too well-bred to continue pressing upon Miss Bennet what he would later certainly press upon Darcy.
He explained that he had come to order an engraved flask for a friend too fond of bad weather and brandy, made his farewells with proper elegance, and withdrew with the air of a man unexpectedly rewarded by Providence for a trivial errand.
Darcy remained where he was.
He felt, not for the first time since meeting Miss Bennet, that the world around him had somehow accepted a relation between them before he himself had found terms for it.
Miss Bennet, meanwhile, returned without confusion to the matter of the silver, as if colonels mistaking wedding purchases were no more than one of the ordinary dusts of life.
“This one,” she said to the shopman. “The engraving must be neat, and if it is not, I shall know it before your apprentice does.”
“Yes, madam.”
They concluded the business. Darcy expected release.
He should have known better.
Once they were again upon the pavement, Miss Bennet lifted Lord Pomington more securely into her arms and said, “Now we must go for cheese.”
Darcy looked at her.
“Cheese.”
“Yes. You need not be alarmed, Mr. Darcy. I can perfectly well choose cheese.”
“I had not doubted it.”
“Though I am sure your taste in cheese is as good as your taste in silver.”
“That is a reputation I had not expected to acquire.”
“Then you must take care how much judgment you display in public.”
Mrs. Doddridge said nothing. Her silence, by now, seemed less like absence of opinion than formal endorsement.
“I have a particular favourite,” Miss Bennet added. “If it proves unequal to memory, we shall abandon it without regret.”
Darcy looked once in the direction of his chambers.
Miss Bennet noticed.
“You are coming.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. You have already endured the worst possible part of the expedition. It would be folly to desert before the cheese.”
He did not know what principle of reasoning this invoked. Only that in her mouth it became difficult to contest without sounding absurd.
The cheese shop was two streets away, narrow, warm, and so pungent that Darcy stopped just within the door. Miss Bennet proceeded as if cheese were a matter of consequence and not to be approached by the timid.
The cheesemonger knew her household, or at least knew Mrs. Albright’s standards, which appeared to amount to nearly the same thing.
A large Cheshire was discussed. A Stilton was considered and rejected as too insistent for Jane but suitable for Portman Square.
Another cheese, sharp without harshness and rich without heaviness, was approved by Miss Bennet after a taste so small Darcy could hardly believe she had judged by it.
Then she made him taste it.
He ought to have declined. He did not.
It was excellent.
Worse, it was precisely to his taste.
Miss Bennet looked at him with quiet triumph.
“Yes,” she said. “That one.”
“I did not say anything.”
“You did not need to.”
This was intolerable.
A parcel was prepared. Another, apparently for Mrs. Albright’s private satisfaction, followed it. Lord Pomington expressed no opinion on cheese, which Darcy was forced to consider one of his more gentlemanlike qualities.
When they emerged, the light had shifted. The clean brightness of morning had thinned into the pale chill of early afternoon. Miss Bennet looked down the street, then back at him.
“It is later than I thought.”
Darcy understood danger before he understood its form.
“I should return to chambers.”
“You cannot possibly have eaten.”
“I assure you—”
“Yes,” she said. “That is exactly the habit I object to.”
He drew himself up slightly.
“My habits are not generally subject to correction in the street.”
“They ought to be, if they are foolish in the street.”
Mrs. Doddridge looked at nothing. Lord Pomington tucked his nose deeper into fur, as if even he found the exchange beneath him.
“I am perfectly able to work without luncheon,” Darcy said.