Painting Corners
For the first half-hour of the walk, Elizabeth and Darcy did not discuss anything of particular note, unconcerned about the rest of the party.
Darcy spent the time telling her about the paths they crossed, where they led, their relative elevation, the length of the loop, what sights could be seen, and whether a hypothetical stubborn lady walking alone could safely see the house and find her way back if, completely hypothetically, she walked longer than planned and it grew dark or cold, or rained.
Elizabeth found it all diverting and instructive.
She agreed, so he asked her to cover her eyes, as though not quite trusting himself to perform the office, and led her to a wooden bench and helped her sit.
“Open your eyes, Elizabeth.”
She did as bid and sighed happily. “That is the fairest prospect I have ever seen.”
“I thought you might appreciate it. The building on the left is the orangery. I think you would like it, especially when it is raining. It seems like a magical place from a fairy tale. The music room Mrs Reynolds showed you is the farthest window on the left on the second floor. The portrait gallery is on the far side of the house.”
“The music room was wonderful. May I blithely assume your mother is responsible for everything except the new pianoforte?”
Darcy chuckled. “You can recognise my mother’s handiwork?”
“Of course! As I suspect you know, Georgie gave me a mathematical puzzler about the decoration in London. Distinguishing your mother’s taste from your grandmother's is a task so simple Miss Bingley could manage it, given sufficient instruction.”
“Speaking of Miss Bingley, why did you prohibit the Newtons from telling us about the incident? You know perfectly well I would have done something about it.”
Elizabeth paused. It was time for a serious conversation that she was not at all certain she was ready for.
She took off her bonnet and set it carefully on the bench, and, more boldly, set his hat beside it.
“That is better. I wonder when fashion started dictating people should not see each other out of doors.”
“Probably about the same time they decided it was best to defer uncomfortable answers.”
“I am not afraid of you, and by now, you should know I am not afraid of uncomfortable conversations.”
Elizabeth gathered her thoughts. “It was a test, of sorts. Had Mr Newton made Miss Bingley’s actions known, it would have created an obligation to return.
If nothing else, he would have returned to apologise and make reparation.
At the time, I suspected, obviously incorrectly, that you and Miss Bingley might have shared a good laugh over the matter, but there is no doubt your friend would have returned. ”
“I see. From that, I surmise you did not want him to return out of obligation.”
“I wanted better for Jane. That is not to say that I try to direct her life, as I most certainly do not. I just wanted to support her in her stated goal of only marrying for love. If the gentleman returned, I wanted it to be out of affection, or at the very least, because he was a man of his word who had made a promise. Should he return of his own desire, that would be the time to make him aware of his sister’s malfeasance.
The decision was not irrevocable. If Jane wanted Mr Bingley to know about the matter, we could have asked my father or uncle to write to him, with the Newtons standing witness. ”
“It was the right thing to do, not that you require my approval. I admire that you were thrust unceremoniously into such a situation and could reason through it so clearly, while covered in mud and no doubt freezing.”
“You give me too much credit. I had Mary and the Newtons.”
“I see. So, to be clear, the idea of refraining from reporting came from Mrs Collins or one of the Newtons?”
Elizabeth laughed. “I see what you did there, and I will not be fooled.”
Both chuckled and had no need to further explore that particular subject. They sat in companionable silence for a minute or two, and Elizabeth said, “I really do like the house.”
“It is my favourite place in the world. The library is on the ground floor, the 3rd and 4th windows from the right. The garden on the right side, just behind that stone wall, has lavender and roses I think you would like. The window on the 2nd floor to the right of the trellis is the mistress’ suite. “
Elizabeth chuckled, disregarding the obvious ploy. “I assume this prospect has been the work of many generations.”
Darcy chuckled. “I wonder how long it will be before you forget just one of the things I said. I should hope some of them would fade with time, as my behaviour has, at times, been abhorrent.”
“Perhaps a few of your actions were objectionable, but in time they should all be forgot. In such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.”
“I am not so sanguine.”
“Sanguine or not, it is time to put the past behind us. We have enough difficulty with the present, let alone the future.”
“So, are we to talk about the future?”
“I suppose we must.”
A moment’s silence followed.
“It is a funny expression my uncle used: painting ourselves into a corner.”
“How so?”
“Like most such expressions, its meaning jumps immediately to mind but does not survive close scrutiny. If you are painting a wall or a ceiling, when you reach a corner, you carry on. It is only a problem when you are painting a floor, and how often does that come up?”
“Do you spend all your time poking holes in common expressions?”
“Of course, doesn’t everyone?”
He chuckled again, quite diverted. “If we are to be comprehensive, let me ask you this. Why is painting yourself into a corner so awful? At worst, you need only sit down and sleep a few hours while the paint dries.”
“Or you could step back into the paint, finish the rest of the corner, and back out, painting over your footprints as you go; then clean your boots when you are done.”
“If you wear good boots for painting a floor, you deserve what you get.”
She giggled. “Or you could leave the footprints, and carry on.”
“I suspect that if you ever did that, within a month every great house in London would be filled with footprints, and every ball would contain dozens of people with paint on their shoes. Entire new industries would spring up to provide fashionable footwear with paint on the bottom, and a guild would form to paint floors complete with footprints matching the master of the house.”
Both were soon sniggering and laughing well out of proportion to the jest, but the absurdity had served its purpose; they were less nervous.
“May I ask something impertinent?” Darcy asked.
“Have you ever hesitated?”
“In Hertfordshire, I not only hesitated, but restrained myself.”
“We are neither in Hertfordshire nor Hunsford. It is time to put all that in the past. Ask your question, if you please.”
Darcy noticed they had, perhaps unconsciously, slid towards each other until the distance was not quite proper, as if their being alone were anything but improper.
He reluctantly moved a few inches away, the better to see her face. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Back on the drive, I suspect you knew you had an entire room to paint, so why did you start in the middle of the floor and work towards a corner?”
Elizabeth looked confused, so he added, “You might have interpreted our words a half-dozen ways. For example, the figurative meaning could have been, ‘we are friends who are always welcome,’ while the literal might be, ‘we are invited to stay at Pemberley.’ You could easily think of other variants. Why choose that one?”
Elizabeth stared at the ground. At last, she whispered, “Perhaps I was emulating Cortes.”
Darcy frowned a moment before realisation dawned. “Burning your boats.”
“I cannot say for certain. You know that I cannot lie well, and I knew what you meant. Even had I tried to interpret it as something else, my aunt and uncle would have known. They would have let it go, but they would have known, and—”
She sighed.
He reached over and gently took her hand. “And?”
“And perhaps I just wanted to work this… this… this… whatever it is… out one way or the other.”
Darcy gripped her hand tighter. “You mean our courtship?”
“We do not have a courtship,” she snapped, and the sharpness seemed to surprise her.
Whatever moved within her—fear, annoyance, or the first stirrings of one of her thought storms—he did not pretend to know.
He replied softly and carefully. “Let us examine that assertion, since you like to do things logically.”
“That would be sensible.”
“How many people have you discussed me specifically with?”
Startled by the question, she gave it some thought.
“Hardly anybody, really. In Hunsford, there were, of course, Mary, Anne, Lady Catherine, her steward, 4 of her tenants, 7 of their children, and perhaps half a dozen parishioners. Then there was Jane, Mr Jameson, Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, Mr Oakley, Mr Samson, and your Uncle Darcy, the judge—I met him at a ball. Then I suppose you should count my father, my mother, Kitty, Lydia, Charlotte Lucas, and perhaps half a dozen assorted people in Meryton. Of course, Georgie had to have her say as well, and your aunt’s stories of your misspent youth were absurdly funny. As I said, hardly anybody.”
She finished with a lazy smile.
Darcy chuckled. “Let us suppose we make a Euler Diagram, with your block being the people you talked to about me, and my block being the converse. The shapes would nearly overlap, as I have discussed you with about 2/3 of the people you mentioned, as well as a few others.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
Darcy leaned forward until they faced each other, only a foot apart.
“Now make an order-of-magnitude estimate of the number of words each of us has spent talking about each other with other people, and compare that to the total count of words a typical courting couple would have before they came to an understanding. What would you say?”