CHAPTER 28
The Best of Everything
By the second week of February, Elizabeth had nearly persuaded herself that Portman Square had returned to order.
This was not, perhaps, the same thing as peace.
Peace suggested an absence of expectation, and Thursday now had far too much expectation attached to it.
But the servants moved without alarm; Mrs. Albright had begun to speak of the dining room in tones of cautious respect; and Mr. Darcy’s visits had become one of those arrangements which no one announced, because announcing it would make everyone consider what it meant.
He came at four. Papers appeared. Samples were produced.
Mrs. Albright rendered judgment upon braid, border, paper, varnish, and proportion with the severity of a magistrate.
Mr. Darcy listened as if housekeepers had been entrusted by Providence with the ordering of civilization.
Elizabeth laughed at them both, or tried to, and then found that the room was improving.
The old paper was gone. The gloom had retreated from the corners.
The curtains, after several anxious comparisons and one very severe interview with a length of braid, had consented to belong to the room.
Even the sideboard, once sunk in funereal dignity, now appeared capable of supporting soup without rebuking it.
Elizabeth had not invited anyone to dine. She had not fixed a date. She had not so much as written a list.
But she had begun, in the privacy of her own mind, to think that the room might one day survive happiness.
Jane’s note arrived on a Tuesday morning and immediately made caution impossible.
Mrs. Doddridge brought it in with the air of a woman who had never permitted paper to surprise her.
Lord Pomington, wrapped in blue wool and placed at a tactful distance from the fire, opened one eye upon it and closed it again, as if correspondence were beneath his rank unless it contained chicken.
Elizabeth broke the seal.
My dearest Lizzy,
Caroline says spring gowns must be ordered in February, for if one waits until spring has declared itself, every seamstress in London is besieged, the best muslins are gone, and one is dressed very prettily for May in the middle of June.
Charles wished to come with us, but Caroline has assured him that shopping is ladies’ business, and that his presence would only encourage extravagance without improving taste.
I am afraid she may be right, for he has already declared that I must have every comfort London can provide, and he seems to include shoes, ribbons, shawls, and possibly all of Bond Street under that description.
You must join us. Bring Mrs. Doddridge, and Lord Pomington too, if the day is not too cold. I shall like everything better if you are there.
Yours ever, Jane
Elizabeth read the note twice: once as a sister, and once as a woman who perceived, too late, that she had already been conquered.
Mrs. Gardiner advised, reasoned, arranged, and improved. Jane merely loved, and left Elizabeth with no decent weapon against her.
Besides, Jane had included Mrs. Doddridge and Lord Pomington as naturally as if they were gloves and a bonnet. Elizabeth could not quarrel with an invasion which made provisions for the garrison.
“Well?” said Mrs. Doddridge.
“It appears we are to be carried into Bond Street.”
Mrs. Doddridge accepted this calamity with composure. “His lordship has the grey wrapper.”
“He also has the green.”
“The grey is more suited to shops.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “Is that a principle?”
“It is a fact, miss.”
Lord Pomington sneezed once, without opening his eyes.
“You see,” said Elizabeth, folding the letter. “He approves of society when properly dressed.”
“His lordship approves of warmth,” said Mrs. Doddridge.
Elizabeth could not dispute the philosophy. It had the advantage of being both simple and usually correct.
Jane’s carriage arrived before noon, Miss Bingley installed within it as if the entire expedition had been planned by her ancestors and preserved in the family for occasions of feminine emergency.
Jane leaned forward at once, glowing with that soft, unguarded happiness which made Elizabeth’s heart ache with pleasure and alarm.
“There you are,” Jane cried. “I was afraid you might not come.”
“You addressed the note to my affections and my dog. I had no defence.”
Jane smiled and held out both hands. “And Mrs. Doddridge too! I am so glad.”
Mrs. Doddridge inclined her head with proper gravity, accepting gladness as something to be endured when attached to Miss Jane.
Miss Bingley’s eyes travelled, not unkindly but with considerable discipline, from Elizabeth’s bonnet to Mrs. Doddridge’s reticule, and from Mrs. Doddridge’s reticule to Lord Pomington’s grey wrapper.
“Does Lord Pomington attend us also?” she asked.
“Oh, certainly,” said Jane. “Lizzy would be uneasy if he were left.”
“How fortunate,” said Miss Bingley, after the smallest pause, “that London is so tolerant a city.”
“I have always trusted London to survive novelty,” said Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley’s mouth moved as if she had almost smiled and had thought better of encouraging the habit.
Mr. Bingley, it appeared, had been excluded with some difficulty.
He had proposed accompanying them, carrying parcels, giving opinions, choosing ribbons, and admiring whatever Jane admired, until his sister assured him that shopping was ladies’ business and that his presence would only multiply expenses without improving taste.
“He looked so disappointed,” Jane confessed, as the carriage joined the stream of traffic. “I nearly relented.”
“My brother,” said Miss Bingley, “would call every ribbon charming and purchase the shop to prove his sincerity. You may thank me, Jane, for preserving both his fortune and your reputation for moderation.”
Jane laughed. “Then we are very grateful.”
Elizabeth watched her sister as she said it.
Jane had always been beautiful, always gentle, always inclined to make the best of every circumstance; but marriage had given her something less visible and far more striking than a new bonnet.
She looked unafraid of being pleased. There was no apology in her delight, no shrinking from abundance, no anxious suspicion that too much happiness must be corrected before anyone noticed.
Such happiness was difficult company. It warmed one’s hands before one had consented to be cold.
The seamstress received them in rooms that smelled faintly of lavender, warm cloth, and ambition.
Bolts of muslin, sarsnet, silk, and cambric were arranged with the appearance of careless plenty and the precision of military stores.
Two young women moved about with pins at their cuffs and expressions of devotional attention.
Madame Elsworthy herself came forward with a curtsey that included Miss Bingley’s consequence, Jane’s new importance, and Elizabeth’s probable expense all in one smooth calculation.
Miss Bingley took command with the ease of long practice.
“Mrs. Bingley requires spring gowns. Nothing overcharged. Nothing rustic. She is young, but she is married; soft colours, certainly, but no childish profusion.”
Jane blushed. “Caroline, you make me sound very grand.”
“My dear Jane, I am endeavouring to prevent you from sounding anything else.”
Elizabeth took a seat by the window, Lord Pomington on her lap, and prepared to enjoy herself at Miss Bingley’s expense. This resolution lasted less than five minutes, for Miss Bingley, though managing, was not wrong.
Elizabeth disliked, on principle, being obliged to respect the judgment of a person who had not first made herself agreeable.
Miss Bingley’s civility had points in it, but it did useful work all the same. Elizabeth could not like being managed; but she was obliged to admit that Jane, who would have thanked a milliner for ruining her, required some defence against excessive gratitude.
A pale blue muslin was held up first.
Jane admired it. Miss Bingley rejected it.
“It would do very well for a girl who wished to look sixteen and harmless.”
“I was harmless at sixteen,” Jane said.
“You are harmless now. It need not be advertised.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Miss Bingley, I begin to see that affection has sharpened your principles.”
“Affection,” said Miss Bingley, “is no excuse for poor trimming.”
Jane chose, or was guided into choosing, a morning gown of fine sprigged muslin, a walking dress in soft green, and an evening gown of white sarsnet with a delicate embroidery that made her look, even before the cloth was cut, like a candle behind porcelain.
She protested at each addition, and Miss Bingley overcame each protest with arguments so practical that Jane could not reject them without seeming unreasonable.
“Spring comes very quickly in London,” Jane said at last, with a little laugh, as another length of muslin was considered. “Or so I am told.”
“Spring gowns are ordered in February,” said Miss Bingley, with the calm authority of a woman saving the household from barbarism.
“If one waits until spring is visible, the seamstresses are overrun, the best muslins are gone, and by the time anything is delivered one is dressed for May in the middle of June.”
“Then we are not extravagant,” Jane said. “Only punctual.”
“I had not known punctuality required so many ribbons,” said Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley gave her a look. “Punctuality, Miss Bennet, requires the correct ribbons at the correct time. That is civilization.”
Lord Pomington, who had tolerated blue muslin and green sarsnet with moderate indifference, turned his head away from a yellow silk with visible disdain.
Jane noticed at once. “Lord Pomington does not care for that shade.”
Mrs. Doddridge, seated near the door with her hands folded, considered the dog’s expression.
“No, ma’am,” she said. “His lordship has never favoured mustard.”
Madame Elsworthy, to her credit, did not laugh. One of the young women with pins at her cuff was less disciplined and was immediately sent to fetch another tray of trimmings.