Chapter Nineteen
Mr Bennet arrived in Lyme three days later than he had originally intended, though this delay was not entirely his fault.
Some portion of the blame certainly belonged to the roads, which had shown a remarkable tendency to become slower the nearer he came to Dorset.
Some belonged to the weather, which had presented several mornings so damp and disagreeable that no sensible traveller could reasonably be expected to begin a journey at the hour originally proposed.
A very small amount perhaps belonged to his horse, which had developed a reluctance to proceed at any speed that suggested urgency.
Most of the responsibility, however, belonged to Mr Bennet himself.
Not that he would have admitted as much.
He had set out from Longbourn with every intention of joining his family.
Indeed, he had informed himself several times each day that this was precisely what he was doing.
Any husband might travel to see his wife.
Any father might wish to see his daughters.
There was nothing unusual in such behaviour and certainly nothing emotional about it.
Unfortunately, the closer he came to Lyme, the more attractive every possible delay became.
Close to the guesthouse he had stopped at a coffee house and remained there considerably longer than was strictly necessary. The coffee itself was mediocre and the room unremarkable, and eventually there was little choice but to resume his journey.
Thus it was that, shortly after three o'clock, he found himself standing outside Mrs Makepeace's lodging house and wondering whether a man might reasonably pause for a few moments before entering a building without it appearing suspicious.
The house itself was pleasant enough. It stood on a narrow street overlooking a small sweep of rooftops and sea, its pale stone front catching the weak sunshine the afternoon had produced.
Somebody had planted flowers beside the path and the windows were open.
From somewhere inside came the sound of conversation.
Mr Bennet remained where he was. There could be no harm in observing the place before announcing himself. A minute passed. Then another. He suddenly found himself quite unequal to the task before him.
The sound of shuffling feet came from behind him, and an elderly woman carrying a basket looked at him with undisguised curiosity.
Mr Bennet immediately walked up the path. One could only loiter outside another person's house for so long before attracting comment, and he had no wish to become a topic of local discussion before he had even arrived.
The door opened before he could knock.
Mrs Makepeace regarded him steadily. "Mr Bennet."
"Mrs Makepeace, I presume."
"You have taken your time."
Mr Bennet blinked at the directness of her comment. "I am delighted to find my reputation has preceded me."
Mr Bennet followed her through the hall and became immediately aware of voices from the drawing room beyond.
"...and if the sheep had remained in the correct field from the beginning," a young man was saying with enormous conviction, "the entire difficulty might have been avoided."
"Mr Bingley," said Mrs Bennet, "I cannot agree. The sheep were behaving exactly as sheep ought. The difficulty appears to have been the humans."
The room laughed.
Mrs Makepeace pushed open the drawing room door. "Mr Bennet."
The effect of his arrival was immediate.
Elizabeth sprang to her feet with an exclamation of surprise.
Jane rose beside her. A fair-haired young gentleman stood so quickly that he nearly overturned a chair.
A young blonde woman looked from one face to another in evident confusion.
A broad dark-haired man followed Elizabeth’s progress across the room.
Mrs Bennet alone remained where she was. For a moment she simply looked at him, her hands very still at her sides.
During the journey he had imagined this meeting several times. In some versions she was angry. In others she was cold. Once or twice she had refused to speak to him altogether. The reality proved considerably more unsettling. She looked well. Remarkably well.
The observation annoyed him immediately because it was so simple.
Lyme had not transformed her into somebody else.
She was not younger or prettier or dressed with any greater decorum.
She was not altered in any dramatic fashion.
Yet she looked more like the woman he had married than the woman he had left at Longbourn a few weeks before.
The habitual tension seemed absent and there was colour in her face and interest in her expression.
She had evidently been laughing and her face was open and pleased with the world.
"My dear," he said.
"Mr Bennet."
Elizabeth recovered first. "Papa, why did you not write?"
"Because then you would have known I was coming."
"A considerable flaw in most correspondence."
"It has always struck me as one." This earned the laugh he had hoped for.
Bingley immediately advanced.
"Mr Bennet, I am delighted to meet you. Charles Bingley."
Mr Bennet shook his hand and immediately recognised the symptoms. The young man was hopelessly in love. One glance towards Jane confirmed the diagnosis. Jane coloured. She appeared to return his affection and Mr Bennet looked on with interest.
"So I see, young man. A pleasure I am sure."
Mr Bingley appeared pleased by this response if a little confused by the sarcastic lilt of Mr Bennet’s words.
Tea was brought in, and with it came the inevitable enquiries from home.
Lady Lucas had contrived to quarrel with Mrs Long over a matter nobody could now clearly remember.
Kitty had acquired a cold and recovered from it within the same week.
Mary had lately discovered a new moral philosopher whom nobody else had heard of and was determined that everybody should regret the omission.
Mr Bennet answered as best he could while cups were filled and handed about, finding himself less engaged by his own news than by the company before him.
He had expected, perhaps unconsciously, to find his family preserved exactly as he had left them. The weeks apart had seemed sufficiently short to permit no great alteration. Yet before half an hour had passed he began to suspect he had entered a household with customs and relationships of its own.
Mr Bingley was plainly well established already.
Indeed, from the ease with which he addressed Jane, and the attention with which Jane listened in return, Mr Bennet thought another week might see him established permanently.
Jane, for her part, was endeavouring to behave exactly as she ought and succeeding only moderately.
Every few minutes she smiled at something Bingley said and immediately became very interested in the contents of her teacup.
For his Lizzy, the change was more subtle.
She was still witty and sociable, bouncing between conversations and adjusting her manner with ease.
A kind, quiet word for the young blonde Miss Darcy, a jest at Mr Bingley's enthusiasm with the world, warm agreement with Jane or her mama.
Yet after some minutes Mr Bennet became aware of a curious omission. She never addressed Mr Darcy.
The discovery might have passed unnoticed had Mr Darcy shown equal indifference. Unfortunately he appeared incapable of it.
The gentleman occupied a position near the window and spoke only when spoken to, but his attention returned to Elizabeth with surprising regularity.
Whenever she crossed the room his eyes followed her.
Whenever she spoke he seemed to listen, whether or not the remark had been addressed to him.
More remarkably still, whenever circumstances threatened to bring them into direct conversation, both parties developed an immediate interest in somebody else.
Mr Derby… Miss Bucket. Surely not? Oh dear lord in heaven. What was in the air in Lyme?
Arriving to find Jane apparently in the process of being courted was surprising enough. To suspect that something equally perplexing might be occurring between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy struck him as distinctly excessive.
But most curious of all was Mrs Bennet.
She did not dominate the conversation or flutter from subject to subject.
She was not even speaking particularly often.
Yet somehow she sat at the centre of everything.
Miss Darcy addressed half her observations to her.
Mr Bingley sought her approval on all of his many pronouncements.
Mr Darcy nodded his silent approval as she held court.
Even Mrs Makepeace, who did not strike Mr Bennet as a woman inclined to defer to anyone, appeared perfectly content to share authority.
Mr Bennet had long ago settled upon a theory of his wife which had the considerable advantage of making his own conduct appear both reasonable and benevolent.
Mrs Bennet, he had always maintained, was happiest when allowed to exhaust herself harmlessly.
Her enthusiasms were best laughed at, her alarms best ignored, and her schemes best discouraged.
It was a system that had preserved his peace of mind for many years.
He found himself wondering whether he had mistaken a desperate plea for his support for foolishness and enthusiasm for absurdity. The possibility was not a pleasant one. Few discoveries are less agreeable than finding that an old joke has been at one's own expense.