CHAPTER 8 #4
“I am glad,” Miss de Bourgh said, after the first lighter civilities had been allowed their proper place, “that you returned this morning, for visits at Rosings are too often composed of obligations rather than conversation, and one may see the same people many times without learning anything of them, which I have always thought a very expensive form of society.”
Elizabeth smiled with a gentleness that spoke both understanding and compassion.
“Then I must be grateful that you speak with honesty, rather than merely performing the civilities expected of us, for society supplies far more of the latter than the former.”
A faint expression, very near amusement, softened Anne’s countenance.
“Politeness,” she said, “is frequently only another word for mutual concealment, and nowhere more so than in great houses, where everybody is expected to be pleased, and very few are permitted to be sincere. Rosings has, I think, been particularly diligent in preserving that custom.”
Elizabeth looked at her with increased attention, for the quiet precision of the remark revealed more than complaint—it suggested long observation.
“You perceive a change here, then,” she said, “though perhaps not one easily described, which I think is often the most persuasive sort of change.”
Miss de Bourgh turned slightly in her seat, as though the subject deserved more exactness than lighter conversation allowed.
“I do,” she replied. “Nothing has altered in appearance, and yet the whole temper of the house feels different. New rules are introduced, old habits displaced, servants become cautious where they were once merely respectful, and one is made sensible, without being directly told, that attention is expected in places where formerly none was required.”
Elizabeth did not immediately answer, but the recollection of Mrs. Younge’s constant attendance and guarded authority made Anne’s meaning far from obscure.
“Such changes,” Miss Bennet said at length, “are seldom accidental, particularly where they are felt most strongly by those who have the least power to resist them.”
Anne inclined her head.
“Mrs. Jenkinson used always to say that a well-governed household ought to move so quietly that no one thinks of its government at all, and I believe she was right. When rules begin to announce themselves, they generally serve vanity rather than order.”
“Mrs. Jenkinson appears a woman of very sound principles,” Elizabeth observed.
“She is,” Anne answered, with a warmth less restrained than usual.
“She has always thought first of what is proper, and though she is often considered too particular, I have never found her attention burdensome where it was sincerely intended for my comfort. She is not elegant in her anxieties, perhaps, but she is honest in them, and I have learned to value honesty more than elegance.”
Elizabeth could not but feel the justice of that distinction.
“And Mrs. Younge?” she asked, with the caution proper to a subject which might easily become improper if too directly pursued.
Anne was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, it was in a lower voice, not from fear, but from an instinctive dislike of accusation unsupported by certainty.
“Mrs. Younge is attentive also,” she said, “but not always where attention is required. She observes more than she assists, and seems to consider every conversation incomplete unless she has been present for it. I do not accuse her of intentional wrong, for suspicion is an uncomfortable habit, and I would rather be unjust to myself than to another—but there have been circumstances of late which I cannot entirely dismiss.”
Elizabeth waited without pressing her, for confidence, once hurried, often retreats altogether.
“At first, there was only the change itself, Mr. Wickahm and his Hunsford servants moving at Rosings under the pretext of improving the parsonage,” Anne continued.
“Then, Mrs. Jenkinson was persuaded—very suddenly—that a period by the sea would be of benefit to her health, and my mother, who had lately grown impatient with what she called unnecessary vigilance, allowed herself to be convinced. Mrs. Jenkinson left for Brighton within the week, and Mrs. Younge appeared almost immediately afterwards, as though one arrangement had been waiting only for the other to be removed. At least, this is how things were presented to me.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but there was enough in her silence to show she understood the significance of such timing.
“For some days, it seemed only an alteration of company,” Anne went on.
“Mrs. Younge was attentive, obliging, and always precisely where she ought to be—or where she ought not. She learned the habits of the house with remarkable speed. Then Mr. Wickham started to suggest changes, and my mother, against her common sense, approved them without giving much consideration. At the same time, small things began to disappear.”
Her voice remained calm, but there was something colder beneath it now.
“Silver cutlery first, then a pair of candlesticks from the smaller drawing-room, and later several smaller pieces from Hunsford, which might easily be supposed to have been removed during the alterations there. Nothing sufficiently grand to provoke immediate scandal, but enough to make the servants uneasy and to teach everyone that certain absences were better noticed quietly.”
“And no explanation was ever found?” Elizabeth asked.
“None that was honest,” Anne replied. “In a large house, confusion is easily manufactured. One servant supposes another has moved something; one room is blamed for another; and if Lady Catherine is assured that all is well, she prefers not to hear otherwise. But the disappearances began only after Mrs. Younge came, and that is a coincidence I have never found persuasive.”
Miss de Bourgh paused, and when she spoke again, it was with a restraint that made the words more serious.
“At present, I find there is no one to whom I may speak of such matters without first considering whether I ought to remain silent. My mother ignores me. I am sorry to trouble you with a confession on such mean matters. I do not accuse Mrs. Younge lightly. I only know that before she arrived, Rosings was governed by habit; afterwards, it was governed by caution.”
“And yet repeated accidents,” Elizabeth said quietly, “begin at last to resemble intention.”
Anne looked at her with gratitude for being understood.
“One of the maids,” she said, after another pause, “who had no motive, that I could discover, for invention, told Mrs. Fairfax, our housekeeper, that she had seen Mrs. Younge carrying a bundle of laundry through the hall, although such duties are not hers. It might have been a way of concealing some of the missing silver cutlery, together with those candlesticks, and taking them to a trunk in her own room, but nothing was found there. It was afterwards supposed that she may have left them in Mr. Wickham’s custody, for no one is permitted to enter his room to attend to it.
I would not repeat it as certainty, for I did not witness it myself, and servants are not always wise in what they conclude; but I have not been able entirely to forget it. ”
Elizabeth’s expression changed, though her composure remained.
“That is not a trifling report.”
“No,” Anne replied, “and what troubles me most is not the theft, if theft it was, but the confidence of it. It suggests an arrangement of some sort, not impulse. Mrs. Younge and Mr. Wickham appear to understand one another with a readiness that seems older than acquaintance ought to allow.”
The name, once spoken plainly, altered the conversation by making suspicion visible.
Elizabeth answered with care.
“Mr. Wickham is a man who appears agreeable with very little effort, and I have observed that such persons are often trusted before they are known. It is an accomplishment less innocent than it first appears.”
A slight colour rose in Anne’s face, though whether from agreement or some more private thought Elizabeth could not determine.
“My cousin Darcy,” she said, after a moment, “has never trusted him. Perhaps he knows more about Wickham, as they grew up together at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth’s heart, against her better discipline, became immediately attentive.
“Mr. Darcy,” she repeated, with studied composure, “is not, perhaps, inclined to trust lightly in any direction.”
“No,” Anne said, and there was something almost protective in the quiet certainty of her tone, “but where he does care, he cares with more steadiness than people suppose. He is not a man who displays concern for the comfort of being admired; indeed, I think admiration would make him rather uncomfortable. But once his regard is engaged, it is not easily withdrawn, however much he may appear to govern himself.”
Elizabeth, who had intended no confession and would certainly have denied any expectation of one, nevertheless felt that these words did not pass without consequence.
“He is sometimes difficult to understand,” she said.
Anne allowed herself the smallest smile.
“That is because Cousin Fitzwilliam prefers action to explanation, which is a habit unjustly interpreted by society as pride, though I have often thought it merely a form of caution. He would rather be accused of reserve than of insincerity.”
There was enough truth in this to make contradiction impossible.
After a brief silence, Anne spoke again, though with more hesitation than before.
“I have sometimes thought,” she said, her gaze resting not upon Elizabeth, but upon the garden beyond the window, “that if I were ever to marry, I should prefer a house in Sussex. The air is said to be better there, and the distance greater, which I own I should consider an additional medicinal advantage.”
Elizabeth turned to her in some surprise, but not without pleasure.
“You would choose for yourself, then, rather than merely submit to arrangements made by others, which I think requires both courage and judgment.”