Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elizabeth stood before the glass, frowning at her reflection. It was only a farewell dinner, an evening of polite conversation with a man she found disagreeable and a girl she would likely never see again.
A girl she had grown rather fond of, truth be told.
She would write to Georgiana. A few letters, perhaps, until Georgiana was feeling better, until Mr. Darcy decided that her help with his sister was no longer required and discouraged any further intimacy.
The friendship was not of long duration, and her family would of course wish her to be in company with young ladies of similar wealth and breeding.
She sighed. There was something almost enviable in Georgiana’s position, having a brother who was so concerned for her welfare. Elizabeth had no brother, and although her father loved his daughters, his affection expressed itself in wit and indulgence rather than vigilance.
She reached for the yellow muslin. It was her favourite, the colour of sunshine, of early spring, of hope.
But when she held it against her skin, she saw at once that it would not do.
She had not yet regained the bloom of health; the pink in her cheeks that made the yellow so becoming remained stubbornly absent.
She tried the green instead. Studied herself critically. It made her look . . . not ill, precisely, but not well either. Faded. Tired. As though she had been washed and hung to dry. Elizabeth sighed, put the green away, and took up the blue.
The blue was practical. The blue made her look healthy, or at least healthy enough. “The blue will do,” she told the room.
“Talking to yourself again?” Mrs. Morgan appeared in the doorway, her expression one of amused concern.
She had been, for her sisters were not here. “I was not talking. I was considering.”
“You have been considering for the better part of an hour.”
“The yellow does not suit my complexion at present. The green is worse. The blue is serviceable.”
Mrs. Morgan raised her eyebrows. “Serviceable seems enough for a dinner with a man you profess to dislike.”
“I do dislike him.”
“And yet you wish to appear pretty.”
“I wish to appear presentable. For Georgiana’s sake.” Elizabeth smoothed the fabric of her skirt, avoiding Mrs. Morgan’s knowing gaze. “I should not like to distress her by appearing half-dead at her farewell dinner.”
“Naturally.” Mrs. Morgan’s tone suggested she was not at all convinced. “For Georgiana’s sake.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Morgan smiled but said nothing more, which was somehow worse than if she had argued.
The walk was far easier than it had been only a fortnight ago. Mrs. Morgan had insisted she rest after luncheon, and Elizabeth felt reasonably strong. She knew the evening would probably tax her reserves. She had not been out at night since arriving. But she could manage one dinner.
“You are quiet,” Mrs. Morgan observed.
“I am conserving my strength.”
“You are thinking about Mr. Darcy.”
“I am thinking about Georgiana.”
“And not at all about pushing her brother into the sea.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Perhaps just a little.”
Mrs. Morgan hummed. Elizabeth was not certain what that meant.
The house on Marine Parade was handsome against the evening sky, which had turned a soft grey after the clear brightness of the afternoon.
Candles glowed in every window, casting warm light onto the ground below.
It looked more welcoming than Elizabeth had yet seen it.
Almost inviting, truth be told. As long as one did not know the master of the house.
Georgiana met them near the door with undisguised eagerness. She looked better than she had yesterday, and Elizabeth felt a surge of affection for her.
“Elizabeth! Mrs. Morgan! I am so glad you have come.”
“We would not have missed it,” Elizabeth said warmly.
Then Mr. Darcy appeared behind his sister in his evening clothes, his face all severe lines and sharp angles in the candlelight. He looked like a man bracing himself for a distasteful duty.
She was glad she had chosen the blue gown.
Elizabeth curtsied with careful correctness. “Thank you for the invitation, sir. Your note was most precise.”
A slight furrow appeared between his brows. “I endeavour to be clear in my correspondence.”
Did the man not understand a friendly tease? “You succeeded admirably.”
They regarded each other. Georgiana glanced between them with barely concealed anxiety, her earlier brightness dimming somewhat. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
The dining room was handsome, the table laid with care. Silver gleamed in the candlelight. Pale pink and white roses had been arranged in a crystal vase at the centre of the table.
It was a small table, with Mr. Darcy and Georgiana seated at each end and Elizabeth and Mrs. Morgan between them on either side.
The soup arrived. It was wonderful, a rich consommé with herbs she could not quite identify.
“This is excellent,” she said. “My compliments to your cook.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “It is adequate.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Adequate?”
“Yes. The seasoning is correct. The temperature is appropriate. It is adequate.”
“Mr. Darcy, this soup is rather better than adequate. It is good. It may even be very good.”
“I do not see that there is a meaningful distinction.”
“The distinction,” Elizabeth said, holding back a laugh, “is the difference between a compliment and a dismissal. If I were your cook and you told me my soup was adequate, I should be tempted to add something unexpected to your next bowl.”
Georgiana pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “My brother once told Mrs. Hanover that her Christmas pudding was ‘consistent with previous years.’ She did not speak to him for a se’nnight.”
“It was excellent pudding,” Mr. Darcy protested. “I meant it as praise. Consistency is a virtue.”
“Not in puddings,” Elizabeth said. “In puddings, one hopes for something rather more enthusiastic. ‘Transcendent,’ perhaps, or ‘a triumph.’”
“I believe,” Mrs. Morgan offered mildly, “that most people hope to be thought better than adequate in their endeavours. It is a natural human desire.”
“There. You see?” Elizabeth gestured towards her companion. “Mrs. Morgan understands. Adequate is what one says when one cannot think of anything worse but refuses to say anything better.”
It felt rather wonderful to tease someone again, particularly such a solemn man as this.
Mr. Darcy regarded her with something that might have been either frustration or a reluctant sort of amusement. “And what would you have me say? That I am overcome by the precise balance of herbs?”
Now he was entering into the spirit of the conversation. She offered him a small smile. “I would have you say ‘It is good.’ Three words, three syllables in all. Surely that is not beyond your capabilities.”
A pause. Then, stiffly: “The soup is good.”
She laughed a little. “There. Four syllables, even. Was that so very difficult?”
His face remained as serious as ever, but his eyes twinkled. “It was adequate.”
Mrs. Morgan raised her napkin to her lips, her eyes bright with amusement. “This is a very peculiar conversation.”
“Is it?” Elizabeth asked. “I find it most illuminating. I am learning much about Mr. Darcy’s approach to praise.”
He shook his head.
The fish course arrived. Elizabeth regarded the sauce with pleasure. “Oh, lovely—béchamel. I am very fond of béchamel.”
Georgiana laughed lightly. “My brother cannot abide it.”
Elizabeth glanced at Mr. Darcy, who was regarding the fish with suspicion.
“How unfortunate,” she said. “For you, I mean. It is a very fine sauce.”
“There are other sauces.”
“None so fine as this one.”
He met her eyes and Elizabeth discerned a glint of something that might have been appreciation. The man possessed a sense of humour after all.
“You are determined to vex me this evening, Miss Bennet.”
“Not at all. I am determined to enjoy my dinner. If you are vexed by the béchamel, that is your own affair.”
The conversation turned, by degrees, to safer ground. Or so Elizabeth thought.
“I understand from my sister that you enjoy novels, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy ventured.
“I do indeed.”
“I find them . . .” He paused, eying her with a silent challenge. “Somewhat impractical.”
Elizabeth set down her fork. “Impractical in what sense?”
“They concern themselves with matters of the heart rather than matters of substance.”
“And matters of the heart are not substantial?”
Georgiana glanced between them.
“They are substantial to those who experience them,” Mr. Darcy allowed. “But many novels exaggerate both emotion and danger beyond reason. No one truly feels with such intensity as fictional heroines profess to feel.”
“Do they not?” Elizabeth tilted her head. He was right, of course, that many fictional characters were drawn with rather broad strokes. But the core of his claim was incorrect. “Is it not possible that you do not in fact understand how very deeply a woman can feel?”
Georgiana stirred. “I—” She stopped, looking at Elizabeth as though seeking permission.
“Go on, Georgiana,” Elizabeth encouraged gently. “I should very much like to hear your reflections.”
“It is only—” Georgiana twisted her napkin in her lap. “I have sometimes thought that novels are not exaggerations at all. They simply give voice to those feelings we are not permitted to speak aloud.”
Mr. Darcy looked at his sister with surprise.
“Georgiana makes an excellent point,” Elizabeth said warmly. “We are all of us playing the roles society demands of us. The best novels merely show us what lies beneath the performance.”
“The fear,” Georgiana added quietly. “And the longing.”
“And the desperate wish to be understood by another person.” Elizabeth met Mr. Darcy’s eyes. “Even when we have convinced ourselves we do not care whether we are understood at all.”
“I had not considered it in those terms,” Mr. Darcy said slowly. “You have given me something to think upon, Georgiana, Miss Bennet.”