CHAPTER 19 #2
As if he had not stood in this very room while she chose brightness instead of endurance.
As if he had not been fed here, consulted here, trusted here.
As if he had not entered her business, her household, her grief, and the small absurd kingdom of Pom-Pom’s comfort.
As if he had been a passing professional man who might inspect bills and disappear into chambers with no more consequence than a correctly filed receipt.
Elizabeth’s face did not change.
At least, she hoped it did not.
“Yes,” she said. “I dare say my friends will be civil enough to admire what they are shown.”
Darcy’s head lifted.
Something in his expression moved too late.
“Miss Bennet—”
“Mrs. Albright,” said Elizabeth, turning away, “Mr. Beaker should have the accounts tomorrow morning. Perhaps James may carry them after breakfast.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And Mr. Darcy must not be delayed. I am sure he has been very patient with our domestic rebellions.”
Darcy said nothing.
Pom-Pom, with a treachery Elizabeth would remember, rose from his cushion and trotted to Darcy’s boot.
Darcy bent at once, as if gratitude from a ridiculous dog were easier to accept than kindness from anyone else. His hand rested briefly on Pom-Pom’s head. The gesture was careful, warm, and unbearable.
Elizabeth looked at the clean chimney-piece.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
There was a second in which he might have answered differently. She knew it. She felt the room know it. Mrs. Doddridge’s needle did not move. Mrs. Albright was as still as a closed door.
Then Darcy bowed.
“Good day, Miss Bennet.”
He took the packet of questionable charges, because of course even in retreat he remained useful, and left.
The room seemed lighter after he had gone.
Elizabeth considered this unfair.
She stood where she was until the sound of the front door had closed below. Then she crossed to the table, rearranged a receipt that did not require rearrangement, and discovered that her hands were not steady.
“How very stupid,” she said.
Mrs. Doddridge did not answer. She had the good sense, or the absence of curiosity, to continue hemming Pom-Pom’s wrapper with unaltered composure.
Elizabeth sat down in the green chair nearest the fire. It was a comfortable chair. Too comfortable. She had chosen it because Mrs. Marwood’s old chairs had always seemed designed to improve the posture at the expense of every softer human need.
Now the chair received her kindly, and that was the final insult.
Miss Hall’s voice returned with dreadful clarity.
Nor must you do a gentleman’s feeling for him merely because he has not the courage or inclination to do it himself.
Elizabeth pressed her fingers beneath her eyes.
It appeared she had done precisely that.
She had mistaken attendance for choice, and usefulness for something warmer. Worse, she had done it knowingly enough to be ashamed of it.
Mr. Darcy had shown her clearly enough. She had only refused to read him correctly because she preferred the other interpretation.
A few tears escaped before she could forbid them.
They were not noble tears. They were mortifying, hot, unreasonable things, and therefore very quickly wiped away.
Pom-Pom, having returned from his faithless farewell downstairs, placed his front paws upon her skirt and looked up at her with dark, accusing eyes.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, unsteadily. “You may despise me if you like. I have been ridiculous.”
Pom-Pom sneezed.
Mrs. Doddridge looked up.
“Has he taken the disputed receipts, miss?”
Elizabeth blinked at her.
“Yes.”
“Very good, miss.”
It was not comfort. It was not sympathy. It was not even, Elizabeth suspected, a judgment upon Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Doddridge had merely confirmed that the room’s business had not been wholly wasted.
For some reason, this helped.
Elizabeth wiped one last tear away and sat straighter.
Very well.
If she had been ridiculous, she could forgive herself for it.
Everyone was allowed, surely, to be a little ridiculous now and again.
Loneliness made fools of wiser women than she had ever claimed to be.
She had been pleased; she had been grateful; she had allowed herself to think that a grave gentleman with tired eyes and careful hands had understood more than he had ever promised to understand.
That was not a crime.
It was only an error.
And errors, as Mr. Beaker would certainly agree, were best corrected before they entered the permanent accounts.
Mrs. Albright entered quietly to remove the remaining papers.
Elizabeth looked up. “The proper receipts may go to Mr. Beaker tomorrow. The disputed accounts have gone with Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes, miss.”
“If Mr. Darcy sends any further observations, I shall answer them myself. But only what is necessary.”
Mrs. Albright’s eyes rested on her for one brief moment — not searching, not pitying, but understanding too much and saying nothing of it.
“Yes, miss.”
Elizabeth found that silence almost more difficult to bear than Mrs. Doddridge’s indifference.
“And we shall begin with the drawing room next week,” she added, because to stop would be worse.
“The drawing room wants it,” said Mrs. Albright.
“So does the dining room, I believe.”
“The dining room has wanted it longer.”
Elizabeth almost smiled.
“Then we shall be very brave.”
“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Albright. “But not all at once.”
That was kindness, though no one in the room was so ill-bred as to call it by its name.
Mrs. Albright gathered the papers and withdrew.
The fire settled. Pom-Pom, after a brief struggle with the dignity of the new chair, arranged himself in a position that suggested he had personally commissioned the upholstery. Mrs. Doddridge’s needle resumed its small, even progress through the flannel.
Elizabeth remained by the hearth.
Only then did she notice that the afternoon had darkened without her seeing it.
The upper corners of the windowpanes had frosted on the outside, silvering the glass in delicate, uneven fans.
Beyond them the sky had sunk into a heavy winter blue, and snow was falling over Portman Square — soft at first, then steadier, whitening the railings, the steps, the waiting carriage wheels, the dark shoulders of the street.
Inside, the breakfast room was warm, finished, and bright.
Mr. Darcy had seen the room. The accounts were nearly settled. The house could proceed.
Elizabeth sat beside the fire and watched the snow gather against the glass.