CHAPTER 47
A Dinner for Reasonable People
Jane’s note arrived at Portman Square shortly after noon, brought by one of Bingley’s servants who looked as if he had been instructed to deliver it with particular care and no conversation.
Elizabeth received it in the morning room, where the pale fire, the half-sorted wedding lists, and Pom-Pom’s sleeping form combined to make the house look more peaceful than she felt.
She knew Jane’s hand before she broke the seal.
My dearest Lizzy,
Papa has arrived in town, bringing Kitty and Lydia with him. Mama remains at Gracechurch Street, but I am afraid she is not so composed as we had hoped. My aunt and uncle have been most kind, yet I cannot think their house the best place for Mr. Darcy’s first meeting with the family.
Papa thinks it desirable that such a meeting take place before the wedding. I have therefore agreed to receive everyone here tomorrow for dinner. My aunt and uncle will come with Mama and Papa and the girls. Mary is already with us, and Miss Bingley will of course be present.
I hope it may be a quiet evening. I would not ask it if I did not think refusing might create more pain than accepting.
Your affectionate Jane
Elizabeth read the letter once.
Then she read it again, though the words did not improve by repetition.
“I would not ask it,” she said aloud, “if I did not think refusing might create more pain than accepting.”
Pom-Pom opened one eye, disliked the sentence, and shut it again.
Mrs. Doddridge, seated near the window with a small piece of grey flannel in her lap, said, “Mrs. Bingley writes with much consideration.”
“She does,” said Elizabeth. “That is the difficulty.”
Jane had not written, I wish to give you pleasure. She had not written, Come and be happy with us. She had written like a woman arranging furniture around a leak in the ceiling, hoping the plaster might hold through dinner.
Elizabeth stood and went to the window.
Portman Square lay cold and orderly beyond the glass.
The trees were bare, the rails dark from earlier rain, the pavements marked by wheels and passing feet.
Her own house contained workmen’s measurements, wedding linen, lists of banns and breakfasts, rooms being made ready for Fitzwilliam Darcy, and servants who had already begun to treat his future presence as a practical fact.
It was not a simple life, but it was governed.
Jane had married, moved to Brook Street, become mistress of her own table, and still Longbourn had found the softest chair in the room.
Elizabeth folded the note.
“Jane should not have been asked.”
“No, miss,” said Mrs. Doddridge.
That was one of Mrs. Doddridge’s virtues. She never turned an obvious wrong into a moral exercise.
Mr. Darcy came at four.
He had called so regularly in the last week that Mrs. Albright no longer made his arrival sound like an event.
His card still came in; propriety was not abandoned.
But the house had learned the weight of his step, the manner in which he gave his hat to the footman, and the pause in the hall when Pom-Pom decided whether the visitor deserved acknowledgement.
Elizabeth received him in the library. She had meant to speak calmly. Instead she put Jane’s note into his hand almost before he had finished greeting her.
He read it standing by the table, his expression growing no more severe, only stiller.
When he had finished, he looked up.
“Jane should not have been asked,” said Elizabeth.
“No.”
The simplicity of the answer steadied her more than comfort would have done.
“She has only just escaped Longbourn.”
“Then it is wrong that Longbourn has been brought to her.”
Elizabeth looked away quickly, because he had found the very point at once. “Papa wishes you to meet them.”
“I understand.”
“It is not a compliment.”
“I did not suppose it one.”
“I ought to refuse.”
“Do you wish to?”
“No.” She pressed her fingers against the back of a chair. “That is what makes it vexing. If I refuse, Jane must bear whatever follows. If I go, Jane still bears the evening.”
“Then we shall go,” said Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth turned back to him.
He had not said it with eagerness, or with gallantry, or with any air of rescue. He had said it as one accepted a necessary road in bad weather.
“I warn you,” she said, “it may not be an evening of pleasure.”
“I shall not mistake it for one.”
Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. “That is the most comforting thing you could have said.”
His mouth softened. “Then I am glad to have been useful.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Properly attentive,” he amended.
“Better.”
The next evening, Brook Street looked as Jane’s houses always would: warm, pretty, carefully arranged, and full of welcome so genuine that one almost forgot welcome could be work.
Almost.
Mrs. Doddridge entered behind Elizabeth with Pom-Pom in his grey wrapper, his expression suggesting that Brook Street had been accepted provisionally and the company not at all.
Elizabeth saw Jane first.
Her sister stood in pale blue near the drawing-room fire, smiling as Bingley spoke to her, one hand resting lightly against the back of a chair.
Her gown was perfect, her hair simply dressed, her expression gentle.
She looked happy. She also looked as if she had spent all day persuading the room that nothing difficult could enter it.
Elizabeth’s anger, which had been moving about inside her with no proper object, found one and held.
Jane should not have had to do this.
“Lizzy,” Jane said, and came forward.
Elizabeth embraced her carefully. “You have made everything beautiful.”
Jane’s smile brightened and faltered at the same time. “It is only dinner.”
“No,” said Elizabeth softly. “It is not.”
Jane heard enough to look away.
Bingley came to greet them with all his usual warmth, though there was anxiety beneath it, like a second candle set too close to the first.
“My dear Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy! I am very glad you are come. Jane has had the whole house in such order that I have been forbidden to move anything since three o’clock.”
“That was wise of Mrs. Bingley,” said Mr. Darcy, bowing. “You are a gentleman of excellent movement, Bingley, but not always of excellent placement.”
Bingley laughed with visible relief. “I shall accept that as praise from you.”
Mary was near the pianoforte, standing with her hands folded and an expression of such prepared gravity that Elizabeth nearly pitied Mr. Darcy before the introduction had begun.
“Mary,” she said, “you have not yet met Mr. Darcy.”
Mary turned.
Mr. Darcy bowed with grave respect.
“Miss Mary Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy,” said Mary, with the solemnity of a person entering a library under examination, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I am pleased to make yours.”
Mary considered him for a moment. “I hope you will make Lizzy happy.”
“Mary,” said Elizabeth.
“It is a reasonable hope,” Mary replied. “I see no impropriety in stating it.”
Mr. Darcy bowed again, a little more deeply. “I shall endeavour to deserve it, Miss Mary.”
Mary looked satisfied, though not frivolously so. “Then I hope you will succeed.”
Miss Bingley, who had been standing near the tea table with the air of a woman determined not to be surprised in her own brother’s house, looked at Mary with an expression very like reluctant approval.
Elizabeth suspected Caroline Bingley had never expected to approve of Mary Bennet in any particular. The evening was already producing novelties.
Miss Bingley’s greeting to Mr. Darcy was polished, to Elizabeth correct, and to the approaching difficulty almost military.
“My brother and Mrs. Bingley have made every arrangement,” she said. “I trust the evening will be comfortable.”
Elizabeth heard the condition inside the courtesy: provided everyone deserves comfort.
Before anyone could answer, the sound of arrivals came from below.
It was not one carriage. It was a small campaign.
Jane’s fingers moved once against the chair back.
Bingley turned toward the door with determined cheer.
Mr. Darcy did not move, but Elizabeth felt the stillness in him alter. Not alarm. Readiness.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner entered first, and Elizabeth felt some of her breath return.
Mr. Gardiner’s face was composed, Mrs. Gardiner’s kind, though watchful.
Behind them came Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, Kitty, and Lydia: Longbourn transported, shaken out by travel, and set down beneath Brook Street lamps.
Longbourn did not enter singly. It arrived under escort.
Kitty looked about the room with wide, uncertain eyes. Lydia looked delighted. Mrs. Bennet looked injured before anyone had spoken. Mr. Bennet looked as if he hoped amusement might yet be made to do the work of authority.
Elizabeth disliked him for it at once.
“My dear Jane!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “What a very handsome room. I am sure you are quite the lady now, though I do not know how a mother is expected to feel when all her daughters are taken into such places and she is told she must behave like a guest among them.”
Jane’s smile did not fail. That made it worse.
“Dear Mama,” she said, going forward, “I am very glad you are come.”
Mrs. Bennet kissed her, then held her a little too long, as if even affection must be made visible to witnesses.
Lydia broke from the group almost at once.
“Oh, Lizzy! Is that Pom-Pom? He is uglier than I remembered. How charming!”
Mrs. Doddridge, whose expression altered not at all, said, “His lordship has often been admired in those terms.”
Lydia laughed and dropped to look at him. Pom-Pom lifted his nose, judged her too loud, and withdrew one paw beneath his wrapper with offended dignity.
Mr. Gardiner’s eye passed over the room and came to rest briefly on Elizabeth. He did not speak, but she understood him well enough: we are here; we are watching.
Mr. Darcy was introduced to Mr. Bennet.
Mr. Bennet looked him over with open interest. “Mr. Darcy, I am happy to meet the gentleman who has persuaded Lizzy to be less determined than usual.”