Chapter 4
Civilities and Consequences
The sound that reached them was not the roll of wheels upon the gravel, but the sharper, more irregular rhythm of hooves. Mrs. Bennet turned at once.
“The officers!” she exclaimed. “I knew they would not disappoint us.”
Colonel Forster entered first, his manner easy and spirited, followed by Mr. Denny, whose bow embraced the room with cheerful confidence. Mr. Wickham came last.
Elizabeth smiled at him as he crossed the threshold. He was about to return it when his eye fell upon Darcy.
The change was immediate.
He checked himself, his colour fading, and for a moment stood as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
The hesitation with which he resumed his step surprised Elizabeth, for he had assured her, not long ago, that it was not in his nature to avoid Mr. Darcy, nor to be intimidated by him.
Instinctively, she turned to Darcy to observe his reception of it.
Darcy had followed her glance and now met Wickham’s look full and steady. His expression did not alter, but his lips pressed together with a firmness that admitted no doubt of his resolve. The exchange lasted no more than an instant – yet it was unmistakable.
Wickham turned partially away, placing himself closer to his colonel, and advanced no further in Darcy’s direction.
The smile returned at once – practised, ready – and he addressed himself to those immediately before him with the same ease that had so lately won him universal regard.
Yet Elizabeth, watching him now with a sharpened attention, perceived that he did not once allow his eyes to stray toward Darcy again.
Introductions followed. Wickham spoke readily to Mr. Bennet, to Sir William, to Colonel Forster – to all, indeed, but one.
Wickham’s attention remained fixed elsewhere, and the circle slowly re-formed. Conversation resumed, though Elizabeth found herself even less inclined to take part in it than before.
Darcy spoke to her again, as if the moment had passed without consequence.
“You have been remarkably hospitable,” he said. “Your mother’s table appears to have expanded with admirable speed.”
Elizabeth smiled, a little stiffly. “Longbourn is accustomed to accommodating its neighbours.”
“So I observe.” His tone was even. “Some gentlemen, however, acquire the privileges of intimacy with particular rapidity.”
She met his look at once. “Mr. Wickham is well liked. He has an engaging manner, and he is new to the neighbourhood. That is explanation enough.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “No doubt. Novelty is often persuasive.”
Elizabeth felt the remark more keenly than she wished. “If you mean to suggest that he sought an invitation improperly, you are mistaken. He was asked because we had need of numbers.”
“I make no such accusation,” Darcy replied calmly. “I only observe.”
She coloured faintly, annoyed with herself for having spoken so warmly. “You judge him harshly.”
“I do not judge him at all,” said Darcy. “I merely remark upon what is easily won.”
There was a pause.
Then he added, very quietly, “Some men are quick to make friends.”
Elizabeth waited.
“And,” he continued, his voice unchanged, “not equally careful to keep them.”
The words were not spoken toward Wickham. They were not spoken loudly. Yet Elizabeth felt them with more force than she liked.
She hesitated before answering.
She told herself that Mr. Darcy spoke from prejudice, that he had never forgiven Wickham his ease, that resentment sharpened his judgement. And yet – the memory of Wickham’s hesitation, his turned shoulder, his careful avoidance, intruded despite her efforts.
“You mistake ease for insincerity,” she said, after a moment.
Darcy looked at her steadily. “I mistake nothing.”
Elizabeth had no reply prepared for that.
She turned away soon after, outwardly composed, inwardly disturbed – less by what Mr. Darcy had said than by the unwilling sense that she could not entirely dismiss it.
At last, the long-expected summons was given, and the company began to move toward the dining room. The gentlemen took the ladies’ hands and led them to the table.
The names written in Kitty’s hand in beautiful calligraphy were waiting for their owners.
Mrs. Bennet, on Mr. Bingley’s arm, led the way with brisk satisfaction, casting a glance behind her to ensure that everyone followed in proper order. She did not want to be found wanting compared to the London dinner parties.
Elizabeth lingered only a moment, long enough to exchange a look with Charlotte, then took her place among the others, her countenance composed into perfect innocence.
The guests arranged themselves about the table with the small, unavoidable confusions attendant upon such numbers – chairs drawn back, places adjusted, a few polite murmurs of apology – until most found their places.
Darcy expected to find his seat near Mr. Bennet, the host, but the place cards showed differently. He found his name on Mrs. Bennet’s right hand, and not where she expected either.
“Mr. Darcy, your place is…” She paused; a look of surprise crossed her face as she saw Mr. Johnson already sitting on her husband’s right.
The parson was to sit on the other side, next to Mrs. Hurst, but she saw Mr. Collins there, who should be sitting with her, in Mr. Darcy’s place.
She was really confused by this, since she had placed the cards herself.
Oh, what should she do? Admitting a mishap and making a fuss about where people should sit would surely make her guests uncomfortable.
She just hoped Mr. Darcy would not begrudge her for not seating him next to the host, the most consequential guest. She fanned herself rapidly.
What was she to talk about with a man like Mr. Darcy?
“Madam?”
“Dear me,” she exclaimed, half rising again in her chair. “Mr. Darcy! I had not imagined… Pray, are you going to be quite comfortable here? I could ask our parson to exchange places with you. I am sure you would have more in common with Mr. Bennet.” She could not help herself.
Darcy, who had been in the act of settling himself, paused. “Is this not the seat you intended for me?”
He glanced down the table at once, instinctively searching for the explanation – and found it without difficulty.
Miss Elizabeth sat opposite, between Mr. Denny and Bingley, her head bent slightly as though in conversation, yet her eyes lifted for just an instant to meet his.
There was no triumph in her look, only a quick, irrepressible gleam of satisfaction – the look of someone who knew precisely what she had done and saw no reason to repent it.
Darcy felt a flicker of surprise, swiftly followed by something nearer amusement than annoyance.
So, this was her doing.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, was still fluttering.
“Oh, no! That is… I did mean to place you near me and… Mrs. Lucas. I thought to learn from you about town and… as you know, we do not travel much, so I thought you could tell us about where you live and where you have travelled,” Mrs. Bennet continued, faltering only for want of breath, not inclination.
“Though I am sure you find Hertfordshire very quiet in comparison. We are not London, to be sure.”
Darcy seated himself fully now, his manner composed, his movements unhurried. “I find it very agreeable,” he said. “Quiet has its advantages. One hears oneself think.”
He glanced at Elizabeth. Why had she done it?
A punishment – or a challenge? He should have been annoyed by the childish contrivance, yet he could not summon the feeling.
He was, instead, intrigued. That she, who seemed so indifferent to him, should take the trouble at all was not easily accounted for.
Mrs. Bennet laughed a little too readily. “Oh, indeed! Though I sometimes think young people require noise and company to keep them from melancholy. My daughters, for instance…”
She stopped, uncertain which direction to pursue.
Darcy supplied one at once. “You have daughters of very different dispositions. They all must have presented different challenges in your parenting.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed her hand to her chest at once.
“Indeed, they have, Mr. Darcy. Indeed, they have,” she said, with a sigh that seemed to gather into it the labours of many years.
“No one who has not brought up five daughters can possibly conceive what it is to be a mother. The anxieties, the sacrifices, the constant concern for their health, their prospects, their happiness – why, I declare it has quite worn me down. If only we had a son. Now, when Mr. Bennet leaves this earth, it will be Mr. Collins who inherits.”
Darcy listened with grave attention. The estate seemed to be entailed. That was a grave situation. He looked at Mrs. Bennet with new understanding.
“Here, let me pour you some wine.” He offered.
“Thank you, good sir. I have been obliged to think of everything,” she continued, warming to her subject.
“Who is to marry whom, who has a cough, who has danced too much, who has been overlooked at an assembly – there is no rest for a mother’s mind, sir.
None at all. And yet one must bear it, for who else will do so? ”
“You describe a considerable responsibility,” Darcy said, with perfect seriousness.
“Yes! And very little gratitude, I assure you,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “Young ladies do not always see how much depends upon their conduct, or how much their poor mother suffers on their account.”
Elizabeth bit her lip.
Darcy, however, inclined his head. “Your devotion to your family does you credit.”
Mrs. Bennet brightened visibly. “How kind of you to say so! Few gentlemen consider such things. I always say, a mother’s trials are quite invisible – unless one is considerate enough to look for them.”
Elizabeth glanced across the table and caught Darcy’s eye once more. This time, his expression held something new – not amusement, but a sort of thoughtful respect.
She had not intended that.