CHAPTER 41
The First Respectable Layer of Paper
Mr. Darcy came after breakfast with the punctuality of a man determined to prove that engagement had not made him useless.
Elizabeth had expected him to be exact. She had not expected the sight of him in her hall, hat in hand, gloves fitted, coat brushed, face composed with that particular severity by which he attempted to govern happiness, to produce so immediate an effect upon her own composure.
This was inconvenient.
It was also, she was beginning to suspect, not temporary.
Mrs. Doddridge stood at a proper distance, bonneted and gloved, with an expression which gave no indication that she had ever, in any room, witnessed anything more remarkable than the arrival of a gentleman for a business appointment.
Pom-Pom, in a sober dark-blue coat trimmed with black braid, sat in Elizabeth’s arms with the air of a creature prepared to disapprove of every settlement in London.
“Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth.
“Miss Bennet.”
There was a pause.
They had said those words often enough before. The difficulty was that neither title now seemed to describe the whole of the matter.
Mrs. Doddridge looked at the clock. Pom-Pom sneezed into his legal coat.
Elizabeth recovered herself.
“We shall be late if we continue being respectable in the hall.”
Mr. Darcy’s mouth altered, not enough to be called a smile by anyone who wished to preserve accuracy, but enough to remind her that he was not, in fact, indifferent to being absurd with her.
“Then we must proceed,” said he.
He offered his arm.
Elizabeth took it.
They had performed the same action the previous day before church, and had then been required to walk, sit, kneel, stand, listen, and refrain from every natural consequence of being engaged.
Monday had the advantage of business, and business, Elizabeth had often observed, could be a most useful shield for feelings which had not yet learned to behave.
The morning was cold and colourless, with a London sky so pale it seemed to have been washed and put out before it was dry.
Their carriage moved through streets already busy with tradesmen, clerks, errand boys, and gentlemen whose faces suggested that feeling, if ever attempted, had been filed and forgotten.
Elizabeth did not say this.
Mr. Darcy sat opposite her. Mrs. Doddridge sat beside her, with Pom-Pom settled upon her lap in a manner more legal than affectionate. The arrangement ought to have restored perfect order.
It did not.
Mr. Darcy looked tired still, though less ill than he had on Saturday; his colour had improved, but his face retained that inward bracing which Wickham’s name had put there.
Elizabeth wanted, with an imprudent vividness, to smooth the line between his brows.
Since Mrs. Doddridge was present, and since the carriage was not a drawing-room after an accepted proposal, she folded her gloved hands instead.
“Mr. Hartwood likes sense,” she said.
Mr. Darcy looked up.
“Then I must hope to provide some.”
“Mr. Beaker likes evidence.”
“That is more alarming.”
“No. You have already supplied a great deal of it.”
He held her gaze for a moment; then lowered his eyes, not in embarrassment exactly, but as if praise had become a thing too heavy to receive while seated opposite Mrs. Doddridge and Lord Pomington.
“Then I shall endeavour not to damage my case before noon.”
“That is always wise.”
Mrs. Doddridge said nothing. This was very nearly approval.
Mr. Hartwood’s office had never attempted prettiness, which Elizabeth respected.
It was clean, brown, well-aired, lined with papers, and governed by the sort of furniture which existed not to delight the eye, but to survive clients.
Mr. Hartwood himself came out to receive them with more haste than he commonly allowed any person to suspect him capable of feeling.
“Miss Bennet.” His gaze moved to Mr. Darcy, then to Mrs. Doddridge, and finally to Pom-Pom, whose attire suggested that even the dog had come prepared to review settlements. “Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Doddridge. Lord Pomington.”
Pom-Pom blinked.
Mr. Hartwood, having given the dog his proper social consequence, returned his attention to Elizabeth.
“I had prepared for one matter,” said he. “I see there may be another.”
“There is,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Hartwood, I must inform you that Mr. Darcy and I are engaged to be married.”
Mr. Hartwood stopped.
It was not often that Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing a professional man wholly defeated by a sentence. Mr. Hartwood, to his credit, recovered before the silence became theatrical.
“Indeed,” said he.
Mr. Beaker, who had appeared in the inner doorway at the exact moment most likely to inconvenience sentiment, adjusted one sheet of paper by half an inch.
“Indeed,” he said, in a tone suggesting that if matrimony had been determined upon, it might at least have waited until the quarterly accounts were less disorderly.
“You may congratulate us,” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Hartwood bowed. “I do congratulate you, Miss Bennet. Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Beaker inclined his head.
“I congratulate you both,” he said. “And must observe that this will alter several arrangements.”
“That,” said Elizabeth, “is a very chilly form of happiness, Mr. Beaker.”
“It was not intended to be happiness. It was intended to be accurate.”
Mr. Darcy, who had remained very still beside her, looked almost relieved by this proof that Elizabeth’s men of business would not be dissolved by feeling.
Mrs. Doddridge was shown to the outer office with Pom-Pom, whose legal costume caused one clerk to cough into his hand and another to discover urgent business with a ledger. She accepted a chair. Pom-Pom accepted another, though not with gratitude.
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were shown into Mr. Hartwood’s private room. Mr. Darcy took the chair beside her. Mr. Beaker placed himself near the desk with his notebook. Mr. Hartwood remained standing a moment longer than necessary.
“Miss Bennet,” said he, “before any congratulation is allowed to obscure my duty, I must ask plainly. Are you quite certain?”
Mr. Darcy went still.
Elizabeth did not look at him. This question did not belong to feeling; it belonged to the same sound machinery which had kept her from being legally devoured by every claim that wore the name of affection.
“I am quite certain.”
Mr. Hartwood watched her face.
“As certain,” said Elizabeth, “as I have been of anything since Mrs. Marwood died.”
That changed him. Not visibly to anyone careless, but enough. His hand, which had rested upon the back of the chair, loosened.
“Then I am glad.”
Mr. Beaker made a small note. Elizabeth suspected the words Miss Bennet certain; inconvenience unavoidable might now exist somewhere in his book.
Mr. Hartwood sat.
“You understand,” he continued, “that my duty does not alter because you are happy.”
“I should be very sorry if it did.”
“My office is to protect the trust, the estate, and your legal interests from every person who may acquire influence over them. That includes, most particularly, a future husband.”
“Of course,” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy’s voice came low and immediate.
“Of course.”
Mr. Hartwood looked at him.
There was a test in the look. Elizabeth saw it. Mr. Darcy saw it too; indeed, she thought he had expected it.
“My duty,” said Mr. Hartwood, “is not to trust Mr. Darcy. My duty is to arrange matters so that trust is not required.”
“An excellent principle,” said Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Beaker looked up.
That, Elizabeth thought, was the first point won.
She turned slightly toward Mr. Darcy, pleased beyond what the words themselves ought to have warranted.
“I told you he would cooperate.”
“I would wish the trust protected from myself,” said Mr. Darcy, “if protection were required.”
“It is required,” said Mr. Hartwood.
“Yes,” said Mr. Darcy. “Not because I intend harm, but because marriage gives opportunity where intention may never have asked for it.”
Mr. Hartwood regarded him with increased attention. Mr. Beaker wrote something down with the subdued satisfaction of a man who had found an entry fitting neatly into its proper column.
“That,” said Mr. Beaker, “is a sound beginning.”
Elizabeth did not laugh, though she wished to.
The next half hour proceeded with all the satisfaction peculiar to seeing happiness pinned, folded, witnessed, and made safer by ink.
Mr. Hartwood explained what must be drawn.
Mr. Beaker explained what must be prepared.
Mr. Darcy was to have no management of capital, no direction over investments, no authority in settlements, no power of private instruction to trustees, and no irregular access to figures which did not properly concern him.
Mr. Darcy accepted every prohibition as if each were not an affront but a comfort.
This, Elizabeth considered, recommended him very strongly.
When Mr. Hartwood came to the question of the property work already underway, matters grew more delicate.
“Mr. Darcy’s assistance with the Marwood leases,” said Hartwood, “must be reconsidered in light of the engagement.”
“I expected it must,” said Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth sat forward.
“I do not object to another man being introduced,” she said. “Indeed, if Mr. Darcy prefers it after our marriage, or if you think it cleaner, I shall not oppose it. But the transition must not be abrupt.”
Mr. Hartwood looked at her with approval.
“You wish him to complete the system.”
“Yes. Cotton Lane has led to Manchester Square, Manchester Square to the City warehouses and the smaller properties. Mr. Darcy knows where the disorder lies. If we remove him before the leases, repair duties, payment dates, and management channels are unified, we shall be making propriety expensive for no benefit.”
Mr. Beaker wrote that down.
“A sound objection,” he said.
“Thank you. I had hoped to produce one.”
Mr. Darcy said quietly, “I would not wish the work damaged by my withdrawal.”