CHAPTER 30 #4
She was aware of him in every measure: the dark sleeve at the edge of her sight, the quiet readiness of his hand, the discipline of his stillness, the fact that he had stood as correctly for Miss Bingley and yet somehow did not stand in the same room now.
The music betrayed her by opening under her hands.
It was not a difficult piece. That did not make it safe.
When it ended, the room resumed itself gradually, as rooms do after something more than entertainment has been admitted and everyone wishes to prove themselves too well-bred to have noticed.
Mr. Bingley praised all three ladies with such indiscriminate sincerity that even Miss Hall’s mouth softened.
Jane protested for Miss Bingley. Miss Bingley received praise with a grace sharpened by knowledge of its justice.
Mr. Hartwood declared that if such things could be had after dinner, age had fewer grievances than he had supposed.
Mr. Beaker said nothing, and looked as if he had approved as much music as any sensible man ought.
Elizabeth rose from the instrument with composure restored only on the surface.
Across the room, Miss Bingley’s eyes met hers for one brief instant.
There was no jealousy in them. Jealousy would have been simpler.
Miss Bingley had required Mr. Darcy’s assistance and received it.
Miss Bennet had required nothing aloud and received more attention.
Miss Bingley had seen the distinction, classified it, and put it away for future use.
A little later, as Elizabeth stood near Lord Pomington’s chair and pretended to examine the ruby clasp because her hands wanted occupation, Miss Hall came beside her.
“His lordship has sustained public life remarkably well,” said Miss Hall.
“He has had practice in private tyranny.”
“A useful preparation.”
“So I have always found it.”
Miss Hall’s gaze remained upon the dog. “You played with less caution than you intended.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled on Pom-Pom’s velvet. “Did I?”
“Yes. It was an improvement.”
“That is a severe compliment.”
“Most true ones are.” Miss Hall looked then toward the room, but only briefly. “Careful men do not always feel little, my dear. Only under stricter government.”
Elizabeth turned her head.
Miss Hall had already moved away.
Coward, thought Elizabeth, with great feeling and no justice.
The evening began, after that, to loosen toward departure.
Mrs. Hall took leave with composed approval. Mrs. Belwick declared the dinner charming, the music delightful, and Lord Pomington a credit to his station. Miss Hall went with the expression of a woman who had not found the evening wasted.
Mr. Hartwood forgot his gloves. Mr. Beaker remembered both his own and Mr. Hartwood’s, which Elizabeth thought a fine summary of their long association.
Jane kissed Elizabeth’s cheek warmly.
“My dear Lizzy, it has been a beautiful evening.”
“Do not praise me too much. I shall become unbearable.”
“You are not in the least unbearable.”
“That is only because you have been married too lately to judge.”
Mr. Bingley said, with earnest feeling, that it had been the very model of a dinner and that he feared all future dinners would suffer by comparison. Miss Bingley, drawing on her gloves, gave the room one last survey.
“You have made Portman Square very difficult to dismiss, Miss Bennet. That is not a common accomplishment.”
Elizabeth looked at her.
“I shall accept the uncommon part as praise.”
“It was meant as such.” Miss Bingley paused. “Mostly.”
“Then I am mostly obliged.”
Miss Bingley smiled, and for once the expression had more amusement than contest in it.
The Gardiners remained among the last.
Mr. Gardiner shook Mr. Darcy’s hand before departing. It was not friendship. It was not trust. But it was the civility of one man to another whom he could no longer dismiss as mere report.
Elizabeth saw that too.
Mrs. Gardiner lingered a moment while her husband spoke to Mr. Hartwood.
“You wished us to meet Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly.
Elizabeth did not pretend not to understand. “Yes.”
“That was part of the evening?”
“Part,” said Elizabeth. “Not the whole. I hope I am not so rude as to invite a dozen people merely to instruct two of them. But I thought you would like to see him and judge him yourself. It seemed a safer practice.”
Mrs. Gardiner studied her. “Safer than report?”
“Safer than any report.”
“Observation is useful, Lizzy. It is not always complete.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “But it is a beginning I trust better.”
Her aunt’s expression did not soften into approval. Elizabeth would have distrusted it if it had. But something in it steadied.
“That is not an unreasonable principle,” said Mrs. Gardiner.
“I am relieved. I have so few.”
This time Mrs. Gardiner’s smile came freely, though it did not last long.
“Take care, my dear.”
“I am trying.”
“I know.”
That was worse than warning, somehow. Warning could be resisted. Understanding had to be carried.
The Gardiners took their leave.
At last Mr. Darcy came to take his own.
The room had thinned around them, though not emptied.
Mrs. Doddridge stood at a distance with Jane; Mr. Bingley was finding his hat in a manner which suggested hats often concealed themselves from him at important moments; Miss Bingley watched her brother with familial resignation.
There was nothing improper in Mr. Darcy’s pausing a moment before Elizabeth.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, “you have given us excellent company and a dinner in which every guest was considered. I thank you for both.”
Elizabeth had been prepared for praise of the room. She had been prepared to laugh at praise of the dog. She had not been prepared for him to have noticed the table.
“Then the room has passed its first public attempt?”
“Entirely.” His smile was slight, but warmer than she had expected. “Though I think the room had less to do than its hostess.”
She could have answered that. In a better-ordered world, she would have answered it very well. Unfortunately, her mind had chosen that moment to present her with the memory of his hand turning pages beside hers, and wit became temporarily unavailable.
“You are generous,” she said.
“I am accurate, I hope.”
That was no improvement. It gave her nothing to mock.
Then he seemed to recollect himself, or perhaps to remember something less suited to candlelight.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, after a small pause, “may I wait upon you tomorrow, if you are at home?”
“Tomorrow?”
It was not a clever answer. It was hardly an answer at all.
“Yes. There is a matter on which I should be grateful for a few minutes of your attention, and I should prefer not to delay it until our usual hour.”
The words were perfectly proper. They had, nevertheless, the effect of altering the air between them.
Elizabeth looked at him more closely. The warmth had not left him, but it had been joined by something graver. Not reluctance. Resolution, perhaps. Or care sharpened into necessity.
“Then you must come,” she said.
His bow was formal. His expression was not.
“Thank you.”
He left soon after, and with him went the last part of the evening which had not yet admitted itself to be over.
When the final carriage rolled away and the servants began the quiet work by which an event is returned to being a house, Elizabeth remained for some minutes in the drawing room among lowered candles, displaced chairs, abandoned music, and the after-air of company.
Pom-Pom, still in green velvet, had endured public life with less impatience than many persons of greater natural advantages and was now accepting a final morsel in the spirit of one who had acquitted himself before the world and found the world only moderately worthy.
Mrs. Doddridge appeared beside him and looked about the room as if taking stock of a campaign respectably survived.
“It went off well, miss.”
Elizabeth looked at the music still open upon the instrument.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe it did.”
The room had held. The dinner had pleased.
Jane had been happy in her house. Mr. Bingley had improved the company by liking it.
Miss Bingley had behaved with polish and left without despising the arrangements, which was almost affection in another language.
The Gardiners had not ceased to be cautious, but they had agreed, at least, to look where she had asked them to look.
Miss Hall had seen too much. Mr. Hartwood had been merry.
Mr. Beaker had eaten. Pom-Pom had triumphed.
The evening had answered.
That was the difficulty.
Mr. Darcy had sat at her table, spoken with her friends, been received where she had wished him to be received, and justified her perhaps more thoroughly than even she had expected. He had thanked her with warmth. He had asked to come again.
Tomorrow.
Elizabeth moved toward the instrument and closed the music, though no one had asked her to do it. The room was quieter now. Without voices, the candles seemed suddenly aware of their own exhaustion.
She had gathered him in for an evening.
She had not kept him.
But he had asked to come tomorrow, and not for business.
That, Elizabeth thought, was perhaps worse.