CHAPTER 32
An Invitation Returned
After Mr. Darcy left, Elizabeth had perhaps three minutes in which to be sensible.
She used the first to look at her glove.
She used the second to become angry with herself for looking at it.
She used the third to remember that Mr. Wickham existed.
This was not a distribution of attention of which Mrs. Marwood would have approved.
A gentleman of uncertain character, connected with Mr. Darcy’s family and furnished, it seemed, with enough old knowledge to make falsehood respectable, ought clearly to have occupied the whole of her understanding.
Instead Elizabeth found herself staring at the faint pressure left in the kid of her glove, as if leather could retain impertinence.
She drew the glove off.
This did not improve matters. Her hand, once freed, appeared no more innocent than before.
Lord Pomington, who had been asleep in the careless security of one whose enemies were usually limited to draughts, damp grass, and insufficiently warmed cushions, opened one eye upon her and sighed.
“You may spare yourself,” Elizabeth told him. “I already know you disapprove.”
Mrs. Doddridge, seated by the window with her work, said nothing.
She had resumed her needle with so complete an appearance of ordinary occupation that a stranger might have supposed no gentleman had recently brought a dangerous name into the drawing room, nearly confessed some old injury, exceeded the usual limits of leave-taking, and departed looking as if honour itself had become insufficiently aired.
Elizabeth folded the glove once.
Unfolded it.
Set it beside her.
Took it up again.
“Mrs. Doddridge,” she said at last, “was that a very strange call?”
Mrs. Doddridge drew her thread through the cloth with the calm of a woman who had long ago discovered that most human emergencies did not require assistance from the face.
“It ended properly, miss.”
“That is not quite the same thing.”
“No, miss.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “And is that all you intend to say?”
“I believe so, miss.”
There was comfort, of a sort, in this. Mrs. Doddridge had seen nothing, or had chosen to see only what could be defended, which, in a companion, was sometimes the highest exercise of intelligence. Elizabeth ought to have been grateful for it.
She was grateful.
She was also vexed.
“It is very inconvenient,” said Elizabeth, “to be surrounded by people of discretion.”
“Yes, miss.”
Before Elizabeth could decide whether this was agreement, sympathy, or rebuke, the door opened and the footman announced Mr. and Mrs. Bingley and Miss Bingley.
Elizabeth had never felt so little prepared to receive happiness.
Jane entered first, all softness and warmth, with that particular brightness which had not altered her so much as made her more visibly herself.
Marriage had not made her less Jane; it had only relieved her of the old Longbourn habit of happiness apologizing for taking up space.
Mr. Bingley followed close behind her, as if the distance between threshold and wife were too great a separation to be endured without cheerfulness.
Miss Bingley came last, elegant, composed, and so perfectly arranged that Elizabeth suspected she had forgiven Portman Square for being comfortable only because it had proved itself also consequential.
“My dearest Lizzy,” cried Jane, coming directly to take both her hands. “We are not intruding, I hope?”
For one small instant Elizabeth was too aware of the hand Jane held.
Then she returned the pressure.
“No,” said she. “You are rescuing me from my own thoughts, which is a great public service.”
Jane smiled, but did not immediately release her attention.
Mr. Bingley bowed with all his usual animation. “Then we have arrived at exactly the right moment, which I shall take as proof that marriage is improving me.”
“You must not claim all the credit,” said Elizabeth. “Jane has always had a talent for appearing before one has quite decided what one feels.”
“Then I shall claim the merit of bringing her,” said he. “That is enough glory for any man.”
Jane coloured faintly and looked at him with such unconscious pleasure that Elizabeth, who was generally fond of proof, could not resent the abundance of it.
Miss Bingley’s glance passed from Jane’s blush to Elizabeth’s face.
“Charles,” said she, “has been unbearable since last night.”
“That,” said Elizabeth, “is a grave charge.”
“It is also a moderate one. A weaker sister would have called him triumphant.”
“I was not triumphant,” said Mr. Bingley. “I was grateful.”
“You were grateful at breakfast,” said Miss Bingley. “By luncheon you were expansive. Had we allowed the matter to continue until dinner, Miss Bennet’s dining room would have become a public institution.”
Elizabeth laughed despite the morning. “Then I am obliged to you for preventing the nation from overusing it.”
They sat. Tea was summoned because Jane and Bingley together seemed naturally to require tea, conversation, and the belief that comfort was a thing best multiplied.
Mrs. Doddridge acknowledged them with her usual composed civility and returned to her work.
Lord Pomington rose, stretched his small offensive body under his pale wrapper, and allowed Jane to admire him.
“Lord Pomington looks very well,” said Jane.
“He has endured much,” said Elizabeth. “The dinner last night, the green velvet, Mr. Bingley’s admiration, and now a morning of disturbances.”
Mr. Bingley looked concerned. “I hope not unpleasant disturbances.”
Elizabeth’s hand moved, quite without permission, toward the glove in her lap. She stopped it.
“Only the ordinary disturbances of a house that has made itself too successful. It is now in danger of being liked.”
“That,” said Mr. Bingley, “is precisely why we have come. Your dinner was such a good evening, Miss Bennet, that I have been uneasy ever since under the weight of obligation.”
“Obligation? That sounds very grave. I hope you have not suffered.”
“Exceedingly. Jane says I have spoken of repaying it at least twice since breakfast.”
“Once,” said Jane, smiling. “Twice only if one counts the moment Caroline told him that obligation, when left to gentlemen, too often becomes noisy gratitude and no arrangement.”
“It was a just correction,” said Mr. Bingley. “I accepted it with humility.”
“You accepted it,” said Miss Bingley, “by asking whether a dinner, a concert, or a public triumph would be most suitable.”
“And what,” said Elizabeth, turning to Miss Bingley, “did you decide?”
“That an opera box is precisely the thing. Public enough to be civil, private enough not to be oppressive, and expensive enough to prove sincerity.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Miss Bingley has a great respect for sincerity when properly priced.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head. “Sincerity is like most other virtues, Miss Bennet. It is improved by suitable presentation.”
Jane tried not to laugh and failed.
Mr. Bingley looked delighted, as he always did when the people he liked spoke to one another without injury.
“Caroline secured the box,” said he, “and Jane wished for you, and I am much in debt to your dinner. Louisa and Hurst are to join us, unless Hurst discovers that music interferes with digestion. Mrs. Doddridge, of course, if she will accept the trouble. And if there is anyone else in your circle whom you would like included, Miss Bennet, you have only to say so. I would not have you feel carried into our party by force.”
“A very considerate abduction,” said Elizabeth.
“Exactly.”
“And this was not planned, was it?”
“Not by me,” said Mr. Bingley. “Caroline had the box in view, Jane wished for you, and I discovered that gratitude required immediate action. I call that a very natural progression.”
“I call it an ambush conducted by affectionate people.”
“Yes,” said Jane. “But a very small one.”
“Those are often the most successful.”
Miss Bingley set down her cup. “There is no ambush, Miss Bennet. You are perfectly at liberty to refuse us, though I warn you that my brother will take it as proof that your dinner was so superior to anything we may offer in return that modesty forbids you to witness our failure.”
“That would be a very ungenerous interpretation.”
“Not ungenerous,” said Miss Bingley. “Only dramatic. Charles is never content with an emotion unless the whole room may be admitted to it.”
Mr. Bingley accepted this description with cheerful resignation. “Then you will come?”
Elizabeth ought to have hesitated. At least, some outward hesitation might have been correct.
The morning had already contained Mr. Darcy, Mr. Wickham, a warning, a hand-kiss, and a promise to be careful.
To add an opera box, Miss Bingley, public society, and possible acquaintance to such a collection seemed excessive.
But refusal would look odd. Worse, it would feel like retreat.
Mr. Darcy had not warned her in order that she might sit in Portman Square and imagine Mr. Wickham into every gentleman who crossed a room.
Besides, there was sense in going where society might be observed before society had the leisure to arrange itself against her.
And Jane wished it.
“I shall come,” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Bingley looked as if the whole success of Saturday had been assured by this single sentence.
“Excellent. I knew you would. Jane said you would come out of affection. Caroline said you would come because an opera is one of the few public amusements still pretending to be superior to itself. I said both were excellent reasons.”
“Your philosophy grows bolder every day, Mr. Bingley.”
“Marriage encourages a man.”
“It has certainly not discouraged you.”