2. A Fortunate Acquaintance
two
A Fortunate Acquaintance
Darcy had not intended to think of Miss Elizabeth Bennet before breakfast.
The determination lasted until his valet laid out his coat.
“Will you wear the dark blue today, sir?”
Darcy, who had been standing near the window with a newspaper held open and unread in his hands, gave the coat a brief inspection and said, “Yes. That will do.”
Barton paused, his hand already extended toward the garment. “You wore the blue yesterday, sir.”
“Then the brown.”
“The brown is suitable for morning calls.”
“I do not make morning calls today.”
Barton’s brows did not rise. Years of service had rendered him nearly immune to surprise, or at least to the display of it. “Very good, sir.”
Darcy folded the newspaper with more care than the news deserved and set it aside.
He had read three lines regarding Parliament, four concerning the price of wheat, and half a paragraph on a ship recently arrived from Jamaica before discovering that his thoughts had slipped, most improperly, to a painting recently seen at an exhibition, a weathered oak, and a young woman who had defended unfashionable subjects with all the confidence of a general reviewing troops.
Miss Bennet.
Elizabeth Bennet, niece to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street.
That last circumstance remained a source of unreasonable satisfaction.
Had she been a stranger met once in a public room, he would have had no proper means of pursuing the acquaintance.
Had she belonged to one of the families his aunt preferred, he would already be enduring inquiries, hints, expectations, and the dreadful industry of relations who thought themselves subtle.
Instead, Miss Bennet was connected to people he already knew and esteemed.
Mr. Gardiner had always been a sensible, well-informed man, pleasant without presumption, and Mrs. Gardiner possessed manners that would have done credit to any drawing room in England.
It was a fortunate connection. Exceedingly fortunate. Too fortunate, perhaps, to be examined before coffee.
Darcy dressed and went down to breakfast, where Georgiana sat with a piece of toast cooling untouched upon her plate and a book open beside her teacup. She was reading, or pretending to read, with the fixed diligence of a girl who wished not to be asked what occupied her mind.
“Good morning,” he said.
She started slightly, then gave him a smile. “Good morning, Fitzwilliam. I did not hear you come in.”
“That is not a compliment to my step. I have never been accused of moving with stealth.”
“You are quieter than Cousin Richard.”
“Most cannons are quieter than our cousin before breakfast.”
Georgiana’s eyes brightened, and she lowered her gaze to her plate before the smile escaped her command.
Darcy took his seat and accepted coffee from the servant.
His sister had been in better spirits since their arrival in town, though she remained too easily startled, too apt to withdraw when conversation touched any matter beyond music, books, or the proper conduct of the servants.
He did not press her. Time, his aunt had assured him, would do more than interrogation.
“I encountered Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner yesterday,” he said, stirring his coffee.
Georgiana lifted her head. “Mrs. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street?”
“The same. They were attending the exhibition at the museum.”
“Oh, I am glad. Mrs. Gardiner is very kind. She told me once that my mother danced beautifully.”
“She did.”
“I wish I remembered her better.”
Darcy set down his spoon. “You remember more than you suppose. Little things, perhaps, but those are often the truest.”
Georgiana touched the rim of her cup with one finger. “Mrs. Gardiner said Mama wore pale green at a private assembly in Lambton and that everyone remarked upon how well it suited her. I remember asking whether green was a happy color or a sad one, because I could not decide.”
Darcy had no memory of the question, though the image of his mother in pale green came readily enough. He had been fifteen when she died, old enough to remember too much and too little at once.
“Mrs. Gardiner has a talent for remembering kindly,” he said.
“Shall we see her while we are in town?”
“That was my intention. I mean to invite Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner to dine later in the week.”
Georgiana sat straighter. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“May I attend?”
Darcy nearly asked why she should not, then recalled how often her own uncertainty supplied objections before anyone else could form them. “Of course. You have met Mrs. Gardiner already, and this will be a family dinner.”
Her relief was so plain that he disliked himself for not having mentioned it sooner.
“They are to bring their niece as well,” he added, reaching for his toast with more composure than he possessed.
“Miss Bennet?”
The question came too quickly.
Darcy paused.
Georgiana colored. “Mrs. Gardiner mentioned a niece once. I believe she said Miss Bennet was fond of walking.”
“She is presently staying with them.”
“And she will come?”
“If the invitation is accepted.”
Georgiana considered this with visible interest. “Is she pleasant?”
“Yes.”
The answer was too brief, and Georgiana, who could sometimes be very young and at other times disconcertingly perceptive, studied him over her teacup.
“Very pleasant?” she asked.
Darcy took a bite of toast and discovered it was quite without flavor. “She converses well.”
His sister’s smile appeared and vanished behind the rim of her cup. “That is high praise from you.”
“It is accurate praise.”
“I should like to meet her.”
“You may have the opportunity in two days’ time.”
“Will you call upon Mrs. Gardiner today?”
“Yes. It would be appropriate to deliver the invitation in person.”
“Naturally.”
There was a note in Georgiana’s tone that sounded suspiciously like their cousin Richard.
Darcy chose not to encourage it. He shifted the conversation toward her music, asked after a new piece she had been practicing, and listened while she described a difficult passage in the second movement.
By the time breakfast ended, she had promised to play it for him before dinner, and he had promised to say nothing if she began it twice.
Still, when he went to his study, the morning did not proceed as it ought.
A letter to his steward required a firmer hand than he could summon.
An account from Pemberley’s carpenter invited several questions, and Darcy read the same line regarding roof repairs three times before he admitted that his attention was of no use to anyone.
He rang for Barton and requested the carriage.
Gracechurch Street was not so far removed from his usual haunts as many in his circle would have pretended.
Darcy had never possessed much patience for men who spoke of trade while wearing coats paid for by fortunes made two generations earlier in sugar, shipping, coal, or clever marriages.
Mr. Gardiner’s house, when Darcy arrived, had the look of prosperity without ostentation.
The brass knocker shone, the steps were well swept, and the servant who admitted him took his card with precise efficiency.
Mrs. Gardiner was at home.
So was Miss Bennet.
That information, delivered with no significance by the footman, struck Darcy with such absurd pleasure that he removed his gloves more slowly than necessary, lest he enter the drawing room with an expression Barton would have considered undignified.
Mrs. Gardiner received him with her usual warmth. “Mr. Darcy, how kind of you to call so soon.”
“The kindness is yours in receiving me.” Darcy bowed, then faced the young woman seated near the window with a book in her lap.
Miss Bennet rose.
He had remembered her well. That was the first thought, followed instantly by the second, which was that memory had been inadequate.
Her brown hair was arranged in an elegant simplicity that suited her far better than the towering constructions some ladies favored.
A few curls framed her face without appearing coaxed into submission, and her gown, though not of the newest or most costly fashion, had been chosen with excellent judgment.
The color warmed her complexion, and the cut allowed grace without any attempt at display.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, curtseying.
“Miss Bennet.” His bow was not deeper than propriety required. He hoped it was not. “I trust you suffered no ill effects from yesterday’s exertions at the exhibition.”
“It is the ordinary fatigue of having formed too many opinions in too short a space of time.”
Mrs. Gardiner took her seat with an expression that suggested she had no intention of preventing conversation. “Elizabeth slept very well.”
“Aunt,” Miss Bennet protested, though there was laughter in her eyes.
“It is true, my dear. Mr. Darcy will not think less of you for possessing human requirements.”
“On the contrary,” Darcy said. “I am relieved to learn Miss Bennet is mortal. Yesterday had left the matter somewhat in doubt.”
Miss Bennet blinked, then laughed. “That is very grand praise for a woman who merely criticized clouds.”
“Never merely. You did so with conviction.”
“My convictions are frequently attached to trivial subjects.”
“A useful habit. It gives one practice for the serious ones.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached for her work basket. “I see I need not exert myself to promote conversation.”
Darcy presented the invitation before he could be diverted from his purpose. “My sister and I would be honored if you and Mr. Gardiner would dine with us on Thursday. Miss Bennet, I hope you will accompany them.”
Mrs. Gardiner accepted with evident pleasure. “We should be delighted, provided Mr. Gardiner has no prior engagement. I believe Thursday is free.”
“I shall be very happy to come,” Miss Bennet said. “I have heard a great deal of Miss Darcy.”
Darcy’s pleasure suffered a brief stumble. “From Mrs. Gardiner?”