4. Particular Attention
four
Particular Attention
By the beginning of April, Elizabeth had become accustomed to finding Mr. Darcy in Gracechurch Street.
This was not, she told Jane in her letters, so extraordinary a circumstance as it might appear.
Mr. Darcy had long been acquainted with her aunt and uncle.
He was often in that part of town on business, or so he claimed, though Elizabeth could not help suspecting that no gentleman’s business required him to pass within three streets of the Gardiners’ house with such punctual devotion.
He called three times a week, never staying beyond what propriety allowed, never arriving without some reasonable pretext, and never giving her aunt any cause to lift more than one mildly knowing eyebrow.
On Tuesdays he brought a book he had mentioned in conversation and professed himself obliged to lend it before he forgot.
On Friday he came to ask whether Mr. Gardiner might advise him regarding a shipment of china he wished to purchase for Pemberley.
The next Monday he brought Georgiana, who sat beside Mrs. Gardiner with visible delight while listening to recollections of Mrs. Darcy in Lambton.
By the third week, his calls were so naturally folded into the rhythm of the house that Mrs. Gardiner would glance toward the clock before tea and remark, “I believe we may require another cup,” with no more ceremony than if she expected a relation.
Elizabeth did not write all of that to Jane.
She wrote that Mr. Darcy remained a very agreeable acquaintance, that Miss Darcy was sweet-tempered and shy, and that London offered far more diversion than she could possibly describe.
She added that her aunt and uncle were in excellent health, that the children had become devoted to a new set of wooden animals purchased near Cheapside, and that she hoped Mary had not abandoned the pianoforte merely because no one had contradicted her choice of solemn airs in Elizabeth’s absence.
As for the rest, she was less certain how to set it down.
Mr. Darcy had improved upon acquaintance, which was inconvenient, since she had not thought him in need of much improvement to begin with.
He still possessed moments of reserve, particularly in larger company, where he would sometimes retire into silence and leave others to suppose him proud.
Yet in Gracechurch Street, or walking beside her aunt in the park, or discussing books with her uncle after dinner, he revealed a mind both serious and playful, capable of dry absurdity when least expected.
He did not flatter. He did not perform. He listened with an attention that made careless conversation difficult.
Elizabeth, who had always enjoyed being attended to, found this particular attention troublesome in the most pleasant way.
Their first walk in Hyde Park occurred on a morning so bright and windy that half of London seemed determined to air itself.
Mrs. Gardiner had proposed the outing for the children, who raced ahead under the nursemaid’s supervision while Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Darcy fell into conversation behind them concerning warehouses, shipping delays, and some new tariff Elizabeth had no desire to comprehend before noon.
Georgiana walked on Elizabeth’s other side, her bonnet ribbons fluttering against her cheek.
“Do you often come here?” Georgiana asked.
“When I am in town, yes. At home, I am more spoiled. I may walk without carriages, nursemaids, fashionable parasols, and gentlemen who believe the entire path belongs to their boots.”
Georgiana peered ahead where two gentlemen had indeed claimed a broad portion of the walk while speaking with great animation over the top of their canes. “Do you prefer the country?”
“I prefer freedom,” Elizabeth replied. “The country allows one to cross a field because one wishes to know what is on the other side. In town, crossing anything usually requires calculation and courage.”
Georgiana considered this, then said, “I think I should like to walk in Hertfordshire.”
“You would be very welcome. Longbourn has several fields with no purpose except to invite trespass.”
“Does your father mind?”
“My father encourages my crimes by asking whether I found anything worth seeing.”
Behind them, Darcy’s deeper tone mingled with Mr. Gardiner’s easy reply. Elizabeth did not catch the words until her uncle said, with feeling, “No, no, that merchant is completely mistaken if he thinks I shall accept goods in such condition merely because they have crossed the Channel.”
Darcy answered, “Then he has not dealt with you long enough.”
“Long enough to know better, I should think.”
A gust of wind pushed Elizabeth’s skirts against her ankles.
She caught her bonnet with one hand and saw Darcy step around a puddle in order to retrieve a small wooden horse dropped by one of the Gardiner boys.
The nursemaid had already begun to hurry back, but he reached it first, wiped a smear of mud from the painted flank with his handkerchief, and offered it gravely to the child.
“There, sir. Your cavalry has suffered no mortal injury.”
The little boy took the horse with solemn gratitude. “He fell in battle.”
“A common hazard.”
“Will he limp?”
“If you require it for the story.”
The child studied the horse, then galloped back toward his siblings, evidently satisfied.
Elizabeth became very interested in the budding trees.
Georgiana leaned nearer. “Fitzwilliam likes children, though he pretends not to know what to do with them.”
“He appears to manage wooden horses with distinction.”
“Yes. Real horses too, of course.”
“Useful accomplishments both.”
When Darcy rejoined them, his handkerchief still bore a streak of mud. He folded it, saw Elizabeth’s expression, and tucked it away without comment.
“You are amused, Miss Bennet.”
“I was admiring your military assistance.”
“The casualties were light.”
“Due entirely to your intervention.”
Mr. Gardiner, catching the tail end of the exchange, laughed. “Darcy, you have now been praised by Elizabeth. Take care. She will expect regular acts of heroism.”
“Then I must pray all future dangers are wooden.”
The bookshop encounter occurred several days later, when rain sent half their intended party scattering toward shelter and the other half into a narrow shop that smelled of leather, dust, and damp wool.
Mr. Gardiner had business nearby, Mrs. Gardiner wished to examine a volume of sermons for her sister, and Elizabeth had long ago learned that few storms were so inconvenient they could not be improved by books.
Mr. Darcy discovered them there.
Or perhaps, Elizabeth thought as he entered and removed his hat, Gracechurch Street and its environs had developed a habit of producing him whenever the day required improvement.
“You are caught in the rain?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.
“I believe the rain caught me,” Darcy replied, giving his hat to the shop boy, who looked awed to be entrusted with so fine an article. Darcy thanked him with no air of condescension, and the boy flushed with pleasure before fleeing to a peg near the back.
Elizabeth had seen him do such things often enough now to know they were not performed for admiration. He spoke to servants as though they existed fully before he had need of them. It was a small thing, perhaps. Yet many people revealed themselves in small things because they forgot to guard them.
“Have you come in search of sermons?” Elizabeth asked, lifting the volume her aunt had chosen.
“Not willingly.”
“I commend your honesty.”
“If I have offended the clergy, I hope they will forgive me.”
“My cousin Mr. Collins would be deeply wounded.”
Darcy’s face altered, and she was nearly certain he had no idea who Mr. Collins was. “Then I must be grateful Mr. Collins is not here to hear me.”
“You would be less grateful after five minutes in his company.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave Elizabeth’s arm a light tap with the sermons. “My dear.”
“I am being generous. Three minutes would suffice.”
Darcy’s laugh was low enough that the bookseller, who had been pretending not to listen, lost his place in a stack of invoices.
They wandered among the shelves while the rain struck the windows in silver threads.
Darcy recommended a history of Derbyshire families after warning her that it contained at least two chapters of unnecessary pride from a gentleman determined to prove his ancestors had been important before anyone else’s.
Elizabeth chose a novel for her aunt, a small volume of poetry for herself, and a book of maps for the Gardiner children, who had recently taken to arguing over whether dragons lived in Scotland.
“Do they?” Darcy asked, examining the book before offering it to the bookseller.
“Certainly—farther north than my uncle has traveled.”
“Then the map is incomplete.”
“I shall write to the publisher.”
Mr. Darcy insisted upon paying for the maps, declaring himself an investor in geographical accuracy. Elizabeth objected, Mrs. Gardiner objected more properly, and the youngest Gardiner boy decided the matter by accepting the package from Darcy and asking whether dragons ate soldiers.
“Just the foolish ones,” Darcy answered.
The child considered this. “Then they may eat Peter.”
“Peter is your brother?”
“He puts peas in his pockets.”
“Ah.” Darcy looked grave. “Then he must take care in Scotland.”
By the end of the month, Elizabeth had seen Mr. Darcy in settings she never would have imagined upon first meeting him.
He attended a dinner in Gracechurch Street and praised Mrs. Gardiner’s cook with enough specificity to win the woman’s devotion for life.
He escorted them through a crowded exhibition of antiquities and listened patiently while Mr. Gardiner explained the likely value of a carved ivory box.
He obtained invitations for the Gardiners to two evenings where Elizabeth knew perfectly well they would never have been received without him.
The first of these occasions made her uneasy.