CHAPTER 24 #2
Elizabeth’s mouth moved despite herself. Mrs. Gardiner saw the concession and advanced upon it with all the gentle ruthlessness of affection.
“You must come out more.”
“I do come out.”
“To inspect things?”
“That is still out.”
“To be received. To dine. To be seen by people who are neither tradesmen, trustees, nor tenants with opinions about yards.”
“I have dined with the Halls.”
“Good. Then you are in practice.”
“Aunt.”
“And you shall dine next week with the Westbrooks.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “Shall I?”
“Yes.”
“That was a very complete invitation, considering it did not begin with Mrs. Westbrook.”
“I shall speak to her. It will be easily arranged. Mr. Westbrook is one of your uncle’s most valued associates, and Mrs. Westbrook is a kind, sensible woman. They give a dinner on Tuesday. Your uncle and I are already engaged to go.”
“Then I am to be added like an extra dish?”
“Like a niece who ought to have been asked sooner.”
“I do not know the Westbrooks.”
“That is one of the purposes of going.”
Elizabeth sat back. “I begin to suspect society of being a device by which one is made to know people.”
“It has been known to operate in that manner.”
“How many people?”
“Only a few.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “That phrase is never innocent.”
“It is a dinner, not a rout.”
“Many tyrannies begin as one dinner.”
Mrs. Gardiner folded her hands in her lap, betraying by that very composure that she meant to prevail. “You may call it tyranny afterward if you dislike it. Until then, you will call it dining with your uncle and aunt.”
Elizabeth could not be angry. She wished to be.
It would have been convenient to be angry.
Mrs. Bennet’s claims had always arrived draped in noise and necessity; they could be identified and resisted.
Mrs. Gardiner’s claim came quietly, wearing concern, and offering not extraction but inclusion.
It was much harder to refuse being wanted when no one appeared to want her money, carriage, house, or usefulness.
“There is only one difficulty,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
“Only one? That is encouraging.”
“Pom-Pom cannot come.”
Elizabeth turned her head slowly.
“Cannot?”
“He is not, I believe, a usual dinner guest at the Westbrooks’ table.”
Pom-Pom, though not present, seemed to enter the room in spirit. Elizabeth felt his outrage as distinctly as if he had been sitting on the hearth rug, wrapped in flannel and monarchy.
“I must question,” she said, “whether the Westbrooks’ table is as respectable as you say.”
“It is respectable enough to exclude dogs.”
“A severe definition.”
“A common one.”
“Common things are not always right.”
“No,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “But they are often enforced at dinner.”
Elizabeth considered this. “Does Mrs. Westbrook exclude all dogs, or only dogs of unusual discernment?”
“I have not inquired.”
“Then you cannot be certain.”
“I am willing to risk the injustice.”
“That is because you do not have to explain it to him.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes brightened. “I trust you will do so with delicacy.”
“I shall say he has been sacrificed to the prejudices of trade.”
“Say rather that he has been spared the fatigue of inferior conversation.”
“That is better. I shall use it.”
“Then you accept?”
Elizabeth looked into the fire.
The drawing room had altered because she had allowed alteration.
It had not ceased to remember Mrs. Marwood; it had merely ceased to be governed by the fact that Mrs. Marwood was dead.
The breakfast room had done the same. Perhaps, though she disliked the thought, there were forms of alteration that did not amount to surrender.
She disliked lessons when discovered in furniture.
“I accept,” she said. “Under protest.”
“I expected nothing less.”
“And Pom-Pom will know where the blame lies.”
“I shall endeavour to survive his opinion.”
“He is very steady in dislike.”
“So I have observed.”
By the time Mrs. Gardiner left, the matter was settled.
Elizabeth was to dine with the Westbrooks on Tuesday, to call first in Gracechurch Street, and to arrive with her aunt and uncle in a manner so proper that even Mrs. Doddridge, when informed, said only, “Very suitable, miss,” which was among her warmer forms of approval.
Pom-Pom’s opinion was less favourable.
He received the news later that afternoon in the morning room, where Mrs. Doddridge was adjusting the shoulder of his wrapper with a seriousness equal to any diplomatic negotiation.
The wrapper was blue wool trimmed with a scrap of pale braid, and the effect would have been handsome had Pom-Pom not chosen to look betrayed.
“You cannot go,” Elizabeth told him. “It is not my fault.”
Pom-Pom blinked.
“It is Mrs. Gardiner’s fault.”
He appeared to consider this useful.
“She says dogs are not usual dinner guests.”
At this he gave a small, indignant sneeze.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I thought so too.”
Mrs. Doddridge, who had a pin between her lips, removed it and said, “Some houses are particular, miss.”
“Particular is a very charitable word.”
“Yes, miss.”
Pom-Pom turned his head away from the wrapper and fixed his dark eyes on Elizabeth.
“I cannot help you,” she said. “I have already accepted.”
He gave a thin, offended sound and returned his nose to Mrs. Doddridge’s sleeve.
Elizabeth watched him with sympathy. “We must both make sacrifices to society, it seems.”
Mrs. Doddridge clipped a thread. “Yes, miss.”
That evening, when the lamps were lit and the house had settled into its winter quiet, Elizabeth stood before her wardrobe and discovered that society, having begun with Pom-Pom’s exclusion, intended further insults.
She had gowns. No one could deny that she had gowns.
Mrs. Marwood had never permitted negligence in dress, and Elizabeth had inherited the belief that clothing was a form of household order applied to the person.
There were good silks, good muslins, good wool gowns for morning, walking dresses of excellent cut, mourning dresses proper enough to satisfy any conscience, and half-mourning shades that moved through grey, lavender, dull violet, and sober pearl with dutiful reluctance.
They were all respectable.
Too respectable.
Some were suitable for receiving Mr. Hartwood. Some for answering Mr. Beaker. Some for church. Some for sitting with elderly ladies who distrusted cheerfulness before noon. Several were fit for proving that a young woman could manage property without wishing to be looked at.
Elizabeth touched the sleeve of a grey silk and frowned.
Her wardrobe had not been neglected. It had merely continued, with excessive loyalty, to believe Mrs. Marwood recently dead.
She rang.
Her maid appeared with commendable promptness and no visible curiosity, though Elizabeth had long suspected that Evans possessed more opinions than she allowed her face.
“Evans,” said Elizabeth, with the air of one entering a negotiation, “do I possess any gowns which do not look as if they were chosen by a trustee?”
Evans paused.
It was a very small pause. To another person it might have appeared respectful. To Elizabeth, who knew the household language of hesitation, it confessed weeks of private judgment.
“Yes, miss.”
“You have been waiting for this question.”
“No, miss.”
“Evans.”
Evans lowered her eyes to the open wardrobe. “Only the occasion.”
This was impertinent enough to be useful.
“I am to dine out on Tuesday.”
“Yes, miss.”
“With Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, at Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook’s.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And I cannot go as if I were auditing their conduct.”
“No, miss.”
“You answer that too quickly.”
“I beg your pardon, miss.”
Elizabeth looked again at the grey, the lilac, the pearl, the careful silks of mourning’s long aftermath.
“Something warmer would be better, I suppose.”
“Yes, miss.”
“As a moral condition, or a colour?”
“Both, perhaps, miss.”
Elizabeth gave her a look of deep reproach. “The household has grown bold.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Pom-Pom?”
Evans’s mouth did not move, which was as near as she ever came to laughter. “His lordship has not expressed himself on gowns, miss.”
“He has standards.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Very well,” Elizabeth said. “We shall consult the dressmaker tomorrow.”
Evans’s relief was so nearly invisible that Elizabeth respected it.
“And Evans?”
“Yes, miss?”
“Find what can be made less severe without making me look as if I have taken leave of my senses.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Or Mrs. Marwood’s.”
Evans hesitated again, but this time there was kindness in it. “Yes, miss.”
The next morning was cold, dry, and bright enough to make London look almost clean if one did not examine the corners.
Mrs. Gardiner was not invited to accompany them to the dressmaker.