Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ACCEPTABLE BENNET
Elizabeth
My sister had never, in twenty years of devoted sisterhood, overruled me on a matter of consequence.
There had been small rebellions, to be sure.
Jane had once insisted on wearing the blue ribbon, even though I had recommended the white.
And she had a habit of choosing men I deemed intolerable.
I indulged her with the grace of a sister who understood her generosity but watched over her like a hawk.
And I must say, I have been correct each and every time.
And I was there to comfort and soothe her—the latest being Bingley’s leaving of Netherfield Park without even a call to say farewell.
I firmly expect her, from now on, to defer to my superior judgment regarding gentlemen.
And so, I thoroughly berated her for inviting Mr. Darcy to Gracechurch Street, conveniently neglecting that my aunt had done the same. Instead of agreeing with me, Jane had pertly stated, “Perhaps, I genuinely welcome him. Why should I shun him because you dislike him?”
Me? As if I were to bear the entire blame for Darcy’s despicable behavior?
“Because he so thoroughly insulted me and made his disdain for our family clear,” I had argued, only to be met by her defense that Mr. Darcy was entitled to modify his opinion.
And so, it was with great shock and consternation that I received Mrs. Gardiner’s intelligence over Saturday breakfast. She poured the chocolate, passed the toast, and then said, as though remarking on the weather, “Jane, my love, your uncle received a request yesterday. Mr. Darcy has asked permission to call on you.”
“On me?” Jane glanced at me, for no particular reason I could ascertain. “But why?”
“I suppose he wishes to call on you for the same reasons gentlemen usually give.” Mrs. Gardiner’s smile was too encouraging. “He asked your uncle’s permission quite formally.”
“Then Uncle has given his consent?” Jane asked with an almost breathless quality I would have disdained on any other woman.
“Your uncle believes it should be your decision, and I agree with him. But he has no objection to the call itself, if you are willing.”
I could no longer hold my tongue. Did my aunt not see what Mr. Darcy was doing? He was the architect of the Bingley snub, standing at the window, proud as Lucifer, and now, he pretended to humble himself to gain an entrance with Jane?
I set my cup down hard enough to rattle the saucer.
“Willing? Jane cannot possibly be willing to receive a man who delivered a tortoise, lingered for tea, and now presumes to request a formal call as though he had earned the privilege. He brought a stone yesterday, Aunt. A basking stone. For a reptile. That is not courtship; that is a man who has run out of plausible excuses and is improvising.”
“Elizabeth.” Mrs. Gardiner’s tone held a warning. “The question was addressed to Jane.”
“Yes, but she always sees the good in every person, and she does not look behind their motives. Then when they hurt her, she cannot understand how it happened.”
“I believe Jane can speak for herself,” Mrs. Gardiner admonished. “And you need to be calm.”
“I am being calm.” I resisted the urge to stomp my foot.
“Your definition of calmness is at a pitch that is causing the dog next door to bark.” She took a sip of her chocolate. “Jane?”
Jane averted her gaze from mine, which was the first indication that she would not heed my warning. Whenever she was about to agree with me, she looked at me for confirmation and reassurance—for that nod that told her I had found an answer she was welcome to adopt as her own.
Instead of looking toward me, she looked straight into Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes. “I should like to receive him.”
My heart lurched deep inside my chest, trading places with my stomach. The entire room rearranged. The toast froze. The chocolate turned to fudge, and Mrs. Gardiner’s eyebrow arched.
“Jane.” I felt like rapping her knuckles. “You cannot be serious.”
Her gaze fell on me like a signal fire. “I am completely serious, Lizzy. I find nothing objectionable about Mr. Darcy.”
“Even when he stood at the window when you called on the Bingleys and approved their cut?”
At this, Jane winced, but she maintained eye contact. “It was not his house, Lizzy, and I wish to hear what he has to say.”
“About what?” My vision blurred, and I blinked it clear. I knew Jane’s face better than my own, had studied it every morning of my life across a shared pillow, and what I saw was new—resolve, not compliance. “More stories about Pemberley and its perfection?”
“He is Bingley’s friend.” Jane buttered her toast as if the explanation should suffice. “He may bring news or explain what happened in November.”
“He will bring excuses. He will sit in our drawing room and drink our tea and tell you whatever serves his pride, and you will believe him because you believe everyone. You cannot conceive that people might act from motives less generous than your own.”
“And you, Lizzy, cannot conceive that they might.”
“Jane.” I softened my voice, because something in her expression warned me that volume would lose this argument and only patience had a chance. “I am not trying to manage you. I am trying to protect you.”
“I know, and I love you for it. But I do not need protecting from a tea call, Elizabeth.”
“It is not the call that concerns me.” My voice strained at the ache of seeing my sister’s expression, bright with misplaced hope.
“It is what comes after it. It is the hope that it will kindle, the expectation, the belief that Mr. Darcy’s attention means something beyond an idle afternoon spent talking about his tortoise. ”
“Then we shall have nothing to fear.” Jane gave me a small smile. “Lizzy, do try not to see danger where there is none.”
Mrs. Gardiner, who had been quietly observing this exchange, set down her cup. “Elizabeth. May I speak plainly?”
“Can I prevent it?”
“No, my love, you cannot.” She smiled, which softened what came next only slightly.
“I understand your concern for your sister, and it does you credit. But Jane is two-and-twenty, and she is a sensible woman. Mr. Darcy has conducted himself with propriety since the moment he stepped through our door. Your uncle and I see no reason to refuse a call from a gentleman of good character who has been polite, generous, and considerate to our children. If Jane wishes to receive him, I am inclined to support her.”
“Generous,” I said. “He gave away a tortoise he did not want.”
“I will not even hazard an answer to that, Lizzy, for you are being uncharitable. All of which is beside the point. Jane has been asked, not you. I think you ought to respect her decision.”
“I will. But she must hear me out, because I know things.” I took a breath and fixed my gaze on my sister, who did not seem as serene as she tried to be.
“What do you know, Lizzy?” Jane asked, and at least she had the grace not to ask what I thought I knew.
“I believe Mr. Darcy had a hand in separating you from Mr. Bingley. Of all the visitors to Netherfield, he was the most arrogant, the proudest, and the most certain of his consequence. The Bingleys are wealthy but with roots in trade. They befriended you at first. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst believed you were sweet and enjoyed your conversation. Darcy had to be the man who encouraged the Bingley sisters in their snobbery and persuaded Mr. Bingley to abandon you. And he did it for nothing more than pride and a conviction that the Bennet family was beneath his friend’s consideration. ”
I braced for tears, protest, or at least Jane’s usual scramble for a charitable explanation. Instead, she gave me a look as measured as a judge’s.
“Then why,” she said, “would he wish to call on me at Gracechurch Street?”
“Perhaps he has found the acceptable Bennet sister.” The words plunged out before I could stop them, like rocks rolling off a fell. Mrs. Gardiner’s gaze widened, and Jane’s brows creased with her overly solicitous concern.
I opened my mouth for a jest, but wit failed me. My tongue turned to iron; I could not swallow.
“Elizabeth, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “That was most unlike you. Jane, my love, would you excuse us for a moment?”
Jane hesitated, glancing between us. “Aunt, I do not think—”
“Just a moment, dear.”
My sister rose, pressed my hand once, and left the room. The door closed quietly behind her, the way Jane always closed doors, as though even hinges deserved consideration.
Mrs. Gardiner did not speak immediately, and the silence she let build was worse than any reprimand, because it forced me to sit with what I had said and hear it echo.
“Elizabeth. What is the matter?”
“Nothing. I am concerned for Jane.”
“Yes, and I believe you have stated it at length enough for a Parliamentary debate. What I heard was something else, and it frightens you. What has happened between you and Mr. Darcy has nothing to do with Jane.”
“Nothing happened. He stood at Bingley’s side with a face full of disapproval. Every time he looked at my family, he scowled as if we were beneath him, and he could barely tolerate the air we breathed.”
“As Jane said, he is entitled to change his opinion. The man I saw in our drawing room is not the arrogant and disdainful man you paint, so I wonder, Elizabeth, if he has wounded you in particular.”
I squirmed in my seat. Admitting weakness was not my specialty, especially to Aunt Gardiner, who could dissect a situation with surgical precision.
“I see you’ve gone quiet, and I know you care very much about Jane’s happiness. Perhaps something good can come out of this situation, and if Mr. Darcy admires Jane, can you not forgive him for any part he might have played in the Bingley situation?”
“It is not only the Bingleys.” My throat was dry, and my voice scratched.
“Mr. Darcy only pretends at civility. It started at the Meryton assembly when Mr. Bingley suggested he dance. He demurred, saying that Bingley was already dancing with the only beautiful woman worth considering. But when Mr. Bingley pointed me out as being one of her sisters, and as Bingley put it, very pretty herself and just as agreeable, Mr. Darcy caught my eye, made sure I heard him, and said I was not handsome enough to tempt him.”
“Oh my, that was indeed rude and quite ill-tempered,” Mrs. Gardiner agreed. “Perhaps Mr. Darcy found himself on the back foot because his friend asked your sister to dance already and…”
“Aunt, it does not signify in the least. You now understand why I find Mr. Darcy disagreeable, no matter how many tortoises he brings to the children. Jane may receive whomever she likes. If Mr. Darcy wishes to call, I shall be civility itself, and I shall pour his tea and smile at him and not for one moment wonder why a man who found me insufficient has decided that my sister is worth the journey to Cheapside.”
Mrs. Gardiner patted my hand. “Go upstairs, Elizabeth. Wash your face. I will speak with Jane.”
I had been thoroughly demolished, unable even to toss my head and throw out a jest. All I could manage was, “I am well, Aunt.”
And like a chastised mongrel with her tail between her legs, I slunk up the stairs and shut the bedroom door.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, unable to admit to myself how the images stung.
Jane’s nightgown was folded on her pillow, her hairbrush beside the glass, her prayer book open on the bedside table.
The tidiness of her half of the room rebuked me.
Jane’s life was always tidy, always orderly, always arranged with quiet grace, while mine was scattered books, misplaced stockings, and opinions no one asked for.
Perhaps my sister was the kind of woman Mr. Darcy preferred.
One who would look kindly at him, who would offer no contradictory opinion, who would grace his arm with the air of a duchess.
And no, I was not jealous. I avidly disliked Mr. Darcy so thoroughly, so comprehensively that what I felt on Jane’s behalf was a portending dread that a man of his temperament would crush all that was gentle and good from my sister’s spirit.
He was too proud, too reserved, too accustomed to having his own way. Jane needed warmth and laughter and the easy, uncomplicated affection of a man like Bingley.
She did not need Darcy. And neither did I.
He would come to court my sister, and I would have to be gracious. To smile. To make conversation and give nothing away. I would have to ignore the barbs he threw at me, asking what I brushed from my pelisse or referring to impressive fortifications and not the tortoises, but mine.
What did Darcy mean by engaging me, a woman he so clearly disliked?
What fresh torment would he devise when he came to call on Jane?
I drifted to the window, wondering if I should have stayed at Longbourn and endured my mother’s endless laments about Mr. Collins, rather than follow my heartbroken sister to London.
I should be glad for her that she had caught the interest of the proudest man who had ever set foot in Meryton.
Ten thousand a year. My mother would lie prostrate for a week if she knew.
Jane would be happy with him. No, she would not. He was too reserved, too guarded, too accustomed to arranging the world to his satisfaction. He would suffocate her with his propriety.
But even as I built the case, the evidence betrayed me.
Darcy had not been reserved with the children.
Darcy had not been guarded when he spoke of his father’s tortoise, or when he told Mrs. Gardiner about Pemberley with a warmth in his voice that made the word home sound like something holy.
Darcy had laughed, actually laughed, when Rose announced she would be Sir Bertram’s best friend, and the laugh had been real, unguarded, the laugh of a man who had not expected to feel welcome and was astonished to discover that he was.
Children’s laughter floated up from the garden below, clear and bright and wholly unconcerned with the complications of the adult world.
Samuel waving a wooden sword, “I dub ye, Sir Bertram, a knight of the realm.” Alice sewing a cape and tying it around his neck only for him to withdraw his head and let the cape slide off his back, Rose shouting, “Sir Bertram! Sir Bertram, look at me! You are the finest tortoise in all of London, and I shall never let anyone take you away.” And two-year-old Thomas eating the strawberries from Sir Bertram’s dish.
I collapsed onto my bed, pillow pressed to my face—not to hide tears, but to wish, just for a moment, that my life could be as simple as a four-year-old’s devotion to a sixty-year-old tortoise.