CHAPTER 53
A Proper Direction
April had come into London with more brightness than warmth. The square showed a thin green along the railings, the pavements still held last night’s rain, and every household seemed undecided whether to trust spring or keep the fires laid.
Elizabeth had been married long enough to discover that happiness, though very agreeable, did not excuse neglected calls.
Mrs. Hall had written with warmth, wit, and a degree of reproach so prettily wrapped that only an ungrateful woman could have failed to admire it.
Miss Hall, according to the same note, had declared that marriage was no reason for abandoning old friends, unless the husband had proved either more entertaining than expected or more troublesome than advertised; and Mrs. Hall hoped, if Elizabeth could be spared from either condition, to see her before the week was out.
Elizabeth, who had no desire to have Miss Hall form conclusions without the assistance of evidence, ordered the carriage the next morning.
Mrs. Hall’s parlour had a small fire despite the sun, and a bowl of early hyacinths on the table made the room smell faintly of damp earth and good intentions. Miss Hall received Elizabeth with one long look.
“Well,” she said, “you appear to have survived.”
“That is a disappointing opening, Miss Hall. I had expected at least ten minutes before being judged.”
“You are mistaken. I began before you crossed the threshold.”
Mrs. Hall, who sat by the fire with her work-basket open and her spectacles in one hand, rose to kiss Elizabeth on the cheek with genuine affection.
“My dear Mrs. Darcy.”
The name still had a strange power in other people’s mouths.
It had become familiar at breakfast, in Mr. Darcy’s voice, in Mrs. Albright’s announcements, in Mrs. Doddridge’s calm acknowledgements; but from the lips of an old friend of Mrs. Marwood’s, it seemed less an alteration than a public certificate of one.
Elizabeth smiled. “You see, I have remembered to call before you were obliged to accuse me of ingratitude.”
“I should never accuse a bride of ingratitude,” said Mrs. Hall.
“I should,” said Miss Hall. “Brides are often guilty of it. They imagine marriage has made them interesting enough to be forgiven everything.”
“Has it not?” Elizabeth asked, seating herself.
“No. It has only made you liable to questions.”
“Then I shall disappoint society by answering very few.”
Miss Hall nodded approval. “A sensible beginning.”
Mrs. Hall rang for tea and looked at Elizabeth with softer amusement. “And is Mr. Darcy well?”
“Very well.”
“And you?”
“Also very well.”
“Then I suppose,” said Miss Hall, “we must endure the inconvenience of your being happy.”
“I shall endeavour not to make it vulgar.”
“That,” said Miss Hall, “is all one can ask of young people. They cannot help being happy, but they may sometimes be persuaded not to decorate it.”
Mrs. Hall laughed. “Do not listen to her, my dear. She has been pleased for you since the wedding breakfast and resents having to admit it.”
“I admitted nothing,” said Miss Hall. “I merely observed that Mr. Darcy looked at his wife in a manner unlikely to make her miserable. Observation is not sentiment.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “It is much more respectable.”
Tea came in, and for several minutes the conversation was permitted to remain where it pleased Mrs. Hall best: the wedding breakfast, the journey to Surrey, whether The Laurels had proved comfortable, whether Portman Square had settled into its altered state, and whether Lord Pomington had accepted Mr. Darcy’s residence as final.
“He has not accepted it,” Elizabeth said. “He has merely ceased objecting aloud.”
“Then he has joined most of society,” said Miss Hall. “A dog of sense.”
Mrs. Hall poured tea. “And Mrs. Doddridge?”
“Still with me. Still entirely herself.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Hall warmly. “That was well done.”
Elizabeth looked down at her cup for a moment. “It required less doing than saying. Mrs. Doddridge had not packed.”
“Of course she had not,” said Miss Hall. “A woman of judgment does not abandon a comfortable house merely because the mistress has acquired a husband.”
“Miss Hall,” said Mrs. Hall.
“What? I speak in praise of her judgment.”
“And Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Hall asked. “Does he understand that Mrs. Doddridge is not to be displaced?”
“Perfectly. He is learning that marriage to me includes several persons who were not mentioned in the service.”
“Then he is learning marriage properly,” said Mrs. Hall.
Miss Hall set down her cup. “Speaking of persons not mentioned in the service, society has already supplied several.”
Elizabeth looked up.
There was something in the lightness of Miss Hall’s voice that was not light at all.
“Has it?” she said.
“My dear,” Mrs. Hall murmured, “it is nothing that need disturb you.”
“That,” said Miss Hall, “is not quite true. It need not distress her, which is a different matter.”
Elizabeth placed her cup on its saucer. “Then perhaps I had better hear it before deciding which emotion would be most convenient.”
Miss Hall’s eyes sharpened with approval.
“There is a foolish account going about your marriage.”
“Only one? How restrained of the world.”
“Do not encourage her,” said Mrs. Hall, though she did not look displeased.
Miss Hall continued. “Mr. Darcy is said to have discovered, very late, that principle may be reconciled with fortune. Or, in plainer language, that a gentleman with damaged prospects may recover them by marrying a rich young woman with more heart than judgment.”
Elizabeth was silent for one beat.
Then she laughed.
It was not a laugh of amusement, precisely. It had too much edge for that, and Miss Hall heard it at once.
“If Mr. Darcy is a fortune-hunter,” Elizabeth said, “he is a very poorly skilled one.”
Miss Hall’s mouth moved. “So I should have thought.”
“He had every opportunity to conduct himself with greater vulgarity. He chose instead to be honourable, difficult, and alarmingly slow.”
“A severe defect in a mercenary gentleman.”
“A nearly disqualifying one.”
Mrs. Hall looked anxious and affectionate at once. “My dear, such things are said for a week and contradicted by conduct for a lifetime. People speak because they have mouths and very little else to occupy them. Time proves character where gossip only scratches at it.”
“I am sure you are right,” said Elizabeth.
She was sure Mrs. Hall was right in every generous sense. She was less certain that generosity described the whole of the present case.
Miss Hall was watching her.
“You do not think it ordinary?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think ordinary malice is lazy,” said Miss Hall. “It sits in a drawing room and improves upon what it has already heard. This has travelled too neatly. Too many people have received the same shape of it.”
“Then someone has given it shape.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hall’s expression altered. “You think it is directed?”
“I think it is being assisted,” said Miss Hall. “People are always willing to think ill of a marriage if the materials are supplied in a convenient packet. But the packet must first be made.”
Elizabeth took up her cup again and let the warmth of it hold her fingers steady.
The rumour was ugly, but it was also, in one particular, almost reassuring. Mrs. Marwood had taught her early that wealth was safest when it did not announce its whole size at the door. The world knew enough to gossip, but not enough to count properly.
“How very poor their arithmetic is,” she said.
Miss Hall leaned back. “That is not the answer of an injured romantic fool.”
“No. It is the answer of a woman offended by inaccurate accounts.”
Mrs. Hall smiled despite herself.
Miss Hall turned her cup in its saucer. “I need hardly tell you that the gentleman who wore your tea so becomingly comes to mind.”
“Mr. Wickham.”
“I do not know his history,” said Miss Hall. “I know only that he addressed you with too much confidence, retreated with too little dignity, and has reason to dislike the version of events now accepted in my rooms. That is often enough material for a fool.”
“He is not only a fool,” said Elizabeth.
Miss Hall looked at her. “No. That also occurred to me.”
Mrs. Hall looked troubled. “Then you must be careful.”
“I mean to be.”
“That,” said Miss Hall, “is not always the same thing as being quiet.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “But sometimes it is more effective.”
Miss Hall gave her a look of severe satisfaction. “Marriage has not softened you beyond recognition.”
“I should be sorry to think it had.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Hall, “do not let it spoil your happiness.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “It cannot.”
Mrs. Hall seemed relieved.
“It can only make me wish to defend it more intelligently,” Elizabeth added.
Miss Hall smiled. “There she is.”
When Elizabeth rose to leave, Mrs. Hall took both her hands.
“You are very happy?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“Then keep that before you. Rumour is noisy, but it is not always strong.”
Elizabeth kissed her cheek. “I will remember.”
Miss Hall, who had followed them into the hall, said, “Remember also that fools are not made harmless by being fools. They are only made easier to underestimate.”
“I will remember that too.”
“And if another version reaches me, I shall send it on.”
“Without improvement?”
“With severe restraint.”
“That will be a novelty.”
Miss Hall looked pleased by the insult and sent her away.
Elizabeth returned to Portman Square before luncheon with Miss Hall’s warning folded into her thoughts and no immediate desire to make Mr. Darcy miserable by post. He was at chambers; she would tell him when he came home, and with as much sense as possible.
By the afternoon, intending to send a card to Brook Street before calling on Jane and Mary the next morning, Elizabeth opened her card-case and found herself still Miss Bennet.
She stared at it.
The card was wrong.