CHAPTER 46
Terms of Attendance
Mr. Gardiner had always considered himself a patient man, and had generally found the opinion supported by evidence.
He was not, however, a man who mistook patience for an obligation to surrender his breakfast room, his wife’s peace, and the whole morning’s order to another person’s nerves.
Mrs. Bennet had slept in Gracechurch Street, if sleep was the proper term for a night divided among bell-pulls, foot-warmers, draughts, hartshorn, and repeated assurances that nobody understood her.
Mrs. Gardiner had borne it with more kindness than Mr. Gardiner thought any human creature strictly owed another before breakfast. The servants had moved softly; the children had been sent upstairs by careful stages; the tea had been renewed twice and drunk not at all.
Jane and Mary had not returned from Brook Street.
Mr. Gardiner could not blame them. From his wife’s account, Jane had left pale and distressed, while Mary had gone in a silence more condemning than speech. He had no intention of sending for either of them to manage what their father had neglected and their mother had made impossible.
As for Elizabeth, she had not called again.
Mr. Gardiner hoped she would not. At least, not yet.
Affection did not require a young woman to present herself twice in two days to be wounded in the same place.
He was in his counting room after breakfast, having settled one matter concerning a shipment delayed at the docks and another concerning an invoice whose arithmetic had improved considerably once questioned, when the servant brought in Mr. Darcy’s card.
Mr. Gardiner looked at it for a moment.
Then he said, “Show him in.”
He had expected Mr. Darcy at some point before the wedding. He had not expected him in Gracechurch Street the morning after Mrs. Bennet had done her best to convert Elizabeth’s engagement into a domestic alarm. But perhaps, Mr. Gardiner thought, that was to the gentleman’s credit.
Mr. Darcy entered with his usual grave correctness. He was carefully dressed, very composed, and looked rather like a man who had resolved before leaving his own rooms that feeling should not be permitted to disgrace argument.
Mr. Gardiner rose.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Gardiner.”
They bowed, shook hands, and sat. The civilities, being necessary and inadequate, were soon exhausted.
“I am obliged to you for receiving me,” said Darcy.
“You are welcome here, sir.”
Darcy did not immediately answer. His gaze moved once about the room, not curiously, but as if placing himself within it properly.
Mr. Gardiner had known men of high birth who entered a merchant’s house as though condescension were a form of cleanliness.
Mr. Darcy did not. If he was uncomfortable, it was not with Gracechurch Street.
That, too, Mr. Gardiner noted.
“I have called,” Darcy said, “on a delicate matter.”
“So I supposed.”
Darcy’s eyes lifted to his.
“I spoke with Elizabeth yesterday.”
The use of her Christian name might have been presumption from another man. From this one, after what had been settled between them, it sounded like a responsibility he had not taken lightly.
“She was very much distressed,” Darcy continued. “She did not tell me everything, and I did not ask her to do so.”
“That was wisely done.”
“I hope so. I have no wish to make her repeat pain in order to justify it.”
Mr. Gardiner leaned back slightly. That was not the opening he had expected.
He had expected, perhaps, offended pride, or a guarded request that Mrs. Bennet’s expressions be better controlled before they reached his own ear.
He had not expected Mr. Darcy to begin by guarding Elizabeth from explanation.
“Mrs. Bennet came here in great agitation,” Mr. Gardiner said. “My wife has told me enough to understand that Elizabeth was not used well.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. The movement was slight, quickly governed.
“I do not ask you to defend me from Mrs. Bennet,” he said. “I ask you to defend Elizabeth from being made to defend me.”
Mr. Gardiner was silent.
That was a different request.
Darcy seemed to know it, for he did not press his advantage.
“I cannot direct Elizabeth’s opinion of her mother,” Darcy continued. “I would not attempt it. I cannot properly direct Mrs. Bennet, either. I have not even met her. But I believe you are the person most able to speak, at least until Mr. Bennet comes to town.”
“Until he comes?”
“I think he must.”
Mr. Gardiner’s mouth moved faintly. “You are not alone in that opinion.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“What, precisely, do you wish done?” Mr. Gardiner asked.
“Not punishment,” said Darcy. “Terms.”
The answer was so prompt, and so unlike the usual language of wounded lovers, that Mr. Gardiner almost smiled.
“Terms,” he repeated.
“Yes. Mrs. Bennet may dislike me. She may dislike the marriage. She may lament what she imagines Longbourn loses by it. I cannot prevent any of that, nor would contradiction improve it. But she must not make Elizabeth’s wedding another occasion upon which Elizabeth is required to defend her own happiness. ”
“No,” said Mr. Gardiner slowly. “She must not.”
Darcy’s hand, resting on his knee, closed once and opened again.
“I shall pay every respect due to Elizabeth’s family,” he said. “Because they are hers. But I cannot be unclear, sir. My first duty is to Elizabeth. Any regard I show the rest of her family must come through that, not before it.”
There it was.
Not arrogance. Not defiance. Not a young man trying to detach a beloved woman from every prior attachment so that he might enjoy the triumph of being obeyed.
Priority.
Mr. Gardiner had known many young men in love who wished to be admired for feeling strongly. Mr. Darcy appeared to wish only that feeling might be converted into limits, order, and protection. It was not romantic in the usual way.
Mr. Gardiner found he liked it better.
“You speak very plainly, Mr. Darcy.”
“I hope not improperly.”
“No,” said Mr. Gardiner, after another pause. “Not improperly.”
Darcy looked relieved, though no one unacquainted with him would have seen it.
“My concern,” Darcy said, “is that if Elizabeth is left to answer every claim herself, she will either be made cruel or be made unhappy. I cannot desire either.”
“That is well put.”
“I would not willingly exclude her mother from the wedding,” Darcy continued. “But Mrs. Bennet must attend it as Elizabeth’s mother, with civility and self-command, or she must not attend it at all.”
Mr. Gardiner tapped one finger against the arm of his chair.
“That will be very hard for Fanny to hear.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“And harder for my brother Bennet to enforce.”
“Then he should be invited to discover whether failing to enforce it is easier.”
This time Mr. Gardiner did smile.
“Very solicitor-like, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s expression changed so faintly that Mr. Gardiner suspected the phrase carried some private significance.
“I hope,” said Darcy, “it is not only that.”
“No,” said Mr. Gardiner. “I do not think it is only that.”
For the first time, some of Darcy’s severity softened. Not into warmth exactly; warmth, in him, seemed too carefully guarded to appear without permission. But into something honest.
“I cannot make this pleasant,” he said. “I do not flatter myself that Mrs. Bennet’s anxiety may be cured by any arrangement of mine. But I would spare Elizabeth the burden of standing between her mother’s fears and her own marriage.”
“You love her very much,” said Mr. Gardiner.
Darcy was still for half a breath.
“Yes,” he said.
No enlargement followed. None was needed.
Mr. Gardiner rose and went to the window. Gracechurch Street moved beyond the glass with its usual purposeful disregard for private distress: carts, boys, baskets, shopmen, mud, voices, a maid carrying parcels beneath one arm and indignation in every step.
“I have already meant to write to Mr. Bennet,” he said. “Your call confirms the necessity.”
Darcy stood also.
“I am grateful.”
“Do not be too grateful. I am not acting only from admiration of your reasoning. Fanny is my sister, and I wish her well enough when she allows it. But she is making my wife miserable in her own house. That cannot continue.”
“No.”
“Jane and Mary went back to Brook Street last night and have not returned. I shall not ask them to. Elizabeth has kept away, which is wise. I shall ask her to continue doing so until her father arrives.”
Darcy’s face altered.
“You would write to her?”
“Yes. To Jane also. They must both understand they are not required here.”
“Thank you.”
Again, the words were plain. Again, Mr. Gardiner believed them.
“I shall also write to Bennet that if he cannot calm his wife, he must remove her. Gracechurch Street is not to become an asylum for every fear Longbourn will not govern.”
“That is more than I had any right to ask.”
“You did not ask it,” said Mr. Gardiner. “You made the right matter visible.”
Darcy bowed his head slightly.
There were many things still uncertain about Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Gardiner was not a romantic enough man to imagine one morning’s conduct settled every future difficulty.
Darcy’s family situation remained strange; his history was not clean to the world; his prospects, though not contemptible, were less simple than a mother might wish for her daughter.
Elizabeth was understood to be well provided for — perhaps a thousand a year, perhaps something more — and even that was enough to make a prudent relation cautious of the gentleman who wished to marry her.
But the man standing in Gracechurch Street had not come to flatter, bargain, excuse himself, or demand that a foolish woman be punished for insulting him.
He had come because Elizabeth had been hurt.
That did him credit.
Mr. Gardiner walked back to the desk.
“I shall tell Mrs. Bennet that she may attend the wedding only if she behaves as a guest, not as the main event.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened, possibly against amusement, possibly against admiration.
“That is a useful distinction.”
“I hope Fanny may find it so.”