CHAPTER 48 #2
The modiste’s establishment smelled of silk, starch, wool, lavender, and ambition.
Lengths of muslin and satin lay across tables; ribbons hung in disciplined temptation; a young assistant moved with pins in her mouth and terror in her eyes; and Madame Fournier, who had dressed half of Mrs. Marwood’s circle and never admitted astonishment unless paid for it, received Elizabeth as if a wedding gown were an undertaking of national consequence.
Mrs. Doddridge settled Pom-Pom upon a low chair. He accepted the elevation as his due and disapproved of the room in general.
Jane took off her gloves. Mary stood as if she had entered a lecture. Kitty’s eyes went at once to colour and trim. Lydia had to be intercepted before she could recommend three unsuitable ribbons and a sleeve which belonged to another bride entirely.
Elizabeth had arranged breakfasts, chairs, carriages, licences, rooms, routes, and departures. It was only when Madame Fournier asked, “And how does Miss Bennet wish to look when she becomes Mrs. Darcy?” that Elizabeth found herself briefly unable to answer.
Mrs. Darcy.
The name did not strike as it had done at first, sharp and impossible. It entered quietly and stood in the room with the white silk.
Jane saw her pause and came near.
“Like yourself,” she said softly.
Elizabeth drew a breath. “That is not always simple.”
“No,” said Jane. “But it is always best.”
Lydia sighed. “It should have more flowers.”
Mary said, “Excess ornament often betrays uncertainty of purpose.”
“That,” said Lydia, “is why you should never be trusted near flowers.”
Kitty touched a length of fine ivory silk with reverence. “This is beautiful.”
“It is,” said Elizabeth.
And so the gown began there: ivory silk, a clear line, excellent work, fine lace at the edge where lace might matter and nowhere it could become argument.
It was not plain. It was not showy. It did not apologise to Mrs. Marwood’s ghost, Mrs. Bennet’s expectations, or any future newspaper notice.
It was simply beautiful in the manner of things made with judgment, money, and restraint.
Madame Fournier approved it more than she said, which was how Elizabeth knew they had chosen well.
Once the gown had been chosen, the room altered. The wedding, which had entered as a problem of management, had become visible. Jane saw it first; Mary grew solemn over it; Kitty touched the ivory silk as if touching the edge of a future; Lydia immediately wished to improve it.
Elizabeth, who could not bear much solemnity, proposed jewellery.
They went next to a jeweller’s, where the light came in more directly and struck little fires from glass, gold, and polished wood.
This part she had not announced.
Jane looked at her when they entered. “Lizzy?”
“Mementos,” said Elizabeth. “Nothing more alarming.”
“Jewellery is often alarming,” said Mary.
“Not when chosen with restraint.”
Lydia brightened. “I am very fond of restraint when it is gold.”
“You are fond of many things when they are gold,” said Elizabeth.
The jeweller brought trays.
For Jane, Elizabeth chose pearl pins, small and fine, made to sit in the hair without declaring themselves to every candle in a room.
Jane touched them with a tenderness that made Elizabeth glad of the choice.
“For when you must look angelic and do not wish to be told of it,” said Elizabeth.
Jane’s smile trembled into laughter. “Then I shall never wear them near Mama.”
“For that reason, I advise wearing them often.”
For Mary, Elizabeth chose a little necklace: a fine chain with a small amethyst pendant, dark enough to suit her gravity, pretty enough to contradict it.
Mary stared at it.
“For me?”
“For the wedding.”
Mary looked at the pendant as if beauty were an examination for which she had not prepared. “It is not necessary.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “That is its chief recommendation.”
Mary’s fingers closed very carefully over the box.
For Kitty, there was a small enamel brooch: a spray of forget-me-nots so delicately painted that Kitty bent over it without remembering to be shy.
“It is so small,” she said.
“Small things may still be well made.”
Kitty looked at it again, as if this were a new principle.
“For your gown,” said Elizabeth. “Or for any day on which you wish to be reminded that colour need not be loud to be noticed.”
Kitty swallowed, nodded, and said nothing at all.
For Lydia, Elizabeth chose earrings: small coral drops, lively but not riotous, pretty enough to please and modest enough to survive Mrs. Gardiner’s eye.
“They are small,” said Lydia.
“Yes.”
“I like them very much.”
“Then you have discovered their second virtue.”
“What is the first?”
“That they may be worn without assisting conquest.”
Lydia laughed. “Can earrings prevent conquest?”
“No, but they may be innocent of encouraging it.”
Lydia held them up to the light. “I shall be very innocent in them.”
Mary made a sound which, in another sister, would have been a snort.
The jeweller was closing the last tray when Elizabeth said, with a composure that deceived no one, “And seals, if you please.”
Jane looked down at her gloves.
Mary became very interested in the window.
Lydia frowned. “Seals? That is not jewellery.”
“It is better,” said Elizabeth. “It is useful.”
“How romantic.”
“Exceedingly,” said Elizabeth.
The jeweller brought out a smaller tray of seals, some too large, some too ornate, some so plain that even Mr. Beaker might have called them severe.
Elizabeth chose two set in gold: not identical, but plainly related.
One might hang from a gentleman’s watch-chain; the other would suit a lady’s desk or chatelaine.
The stones were dark enough to take an impression clearly, and the cutting was fine without flourish.
“For Mr. Darcy?” asked Jane softly.
“For letters,” said Elizabeth.
“Of course,” said Jane.
Mary looked at the two seals with sudden seriousness. “Letters are a considerable matter.”
“Very,” said Elizabeth, and felt herself colour.
The jeweller asked what device should be cut.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment.
“A laurel,” she said. “If it can be done.”
“For victory?” asked Lydia.
“For Surrey,” said Elizabeth.
Lydia considered this. “That is less glorious.”
“It is considerably more useful.”
The jewels and seals were private. The next purchase was public.
“And now,” said Elizabeth, as Lydia was prevented from admiring a bonnet with entirely too much military ambition, “we must choose bonnets, ribbons, and gloves.”
“For all of us?” asked Kitty.
“For all my female relations who attend the wedding,” said Elizabeth. “To have you in a matching set would be a fine thing for the wedding. It would show family spirit.”
Jane looked at her quickly. “Including Mama?”
“Including Mama.”
Lydia made a face. “She did not come.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “That is one reason the choosing may be accomplished.”
Mary considered the matter. “Uniformity is often mistaken for harmony.”
“Then we shall take the benefit of the mistake.”
Lydia held up a ribbon of alarming brightness. “Can family spirit be red?”
“Not in church,” said Elizabeth.
Jane smiled over a length of soft blue-grey ribbon. “This is pretty.”
“It is,” said Elizabeth. “It will suit you, sober Mary, soften Kitty, restrain Lydia, and give Mama no cause to declare herself neglected.”
“A great deal to ask of a ribbon,” said Mary.
“That is why we shall buy excellent ribbon.”
The scheme was settled in blue-grey and cream: becoming to Jane, improving to Mary, gentle on Kitty, not quite strong enough to encourage Lydia, and incapable of giving Mrs. Bennet a grievance that any reasonable person could understand.
The bonnets were not identical, because Elizabeth had no wish to make her sisters resemble a row of charity-school girls, but they were plainly of a set.
The gloves were good, the ribbons excellent, and Mrs. Bennet’s portion was selected with care enough to be generous and impersonality enough not to be apology.
The gifts were not dowries, apologies, or promises to mend every neglected thing.
The jewels were mementos; the seals were for what would come after; the bonnets and gloves were family display.
That was why Elizabeth could give the first with pleasure, choose the second with a flutter she refused to examine, and arrange the third with strategy.
By the time they left the last shop, March had repented of its sunshine. A fine rain fell through the brightness, silvering the railings and making every footman in London look personally betrayed.
The parcels came back to Portman Square under umbrellas: ivory silk ordered for fitting, blue-grey ribbons, cream gloves, five bonnets in bandboxes, four little jewel-cases, and an order for two seals to be cut with laurel leaves.
Kitty held her brooch box all the way home.
Lydia opened and shut her earring case until Jane took it from her.
Mary said nothing about the necklace, but her hand returned to the box in her reticule whenever the carriage jolted.
Mrs. Albright received the whole procession in the hall with the gravity of a woman accepting supplies before a siege.
“For the wedding, miss?”
Elizabeth looked at the bandboxes, the wrapped jewels, the folded gloves, and the parcel that contained Mrs. Bennet’s portion of family spirit.
“Yes,” she said. “For the wedding.”
The seals would not be ready until the following day. The licence, Mr. Hartwood had written, would be.
Accordingly, the next morning Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy called at Mr. Hartwood’s office.
March had produced another of its uncertain mornings: sunlight over the rooftops, damp under the carriage wheels, and a wind sharp enough to make spring seem more promise than fact.
Mrs. Doddridge accompanied them. Pom-Pom, who had been consulted and had answered with a sneeze, remained at Portman Square wrapped in flannel and disapproval.