Chapter 5 #2
Across the grass Mrs. Atherton and Miss Bingley were laughing at something Sir Harold Carstairs had said, Sir Harold being one of those men who occasionally produce a dry remark so witty that it was worth waiting for.
Under the second oak Georgiana sat between the two Pelham girls.
Miss Anne Pelham was talking, Miss Elinor was listening, and Georgiana, situated between them, was beginning at last to enjoy herself.
Mrs. Annesley sat within arm’s reach of her, but for the moment, was not required.
Mrs. Gardiner left the game and went to sit on a rug.
Near the lemonade table, Mrs. Hurst had arranged herself in the shade with every appearance of permanent settlement. After a time, Mrs. Atherton and Sir Harold moved away and Miss Bingley came to sit beside her sister.
All was proceeding well. Which was how he ought to have known to be on his guard.
Miss Bingley rose.
She did not move away at once. First came the careful closing of her fan, the smoothing of one glove, the slight adjustment of the ribbons on her sleeve—each movement small, exact, and unnecessary. Then she crossed the grass and settled herself beside Mrs. Gardiner with a polished smile.
“How very charming all this is,” she said. “There is something so instructive in a country party. One sees everyone precisely as they are.”
Her glance touched the children, the quoits, Lady Carstairs in full command of the field, and at last returned to Mrs. Gardiner. “I am sure, Mrs. Gardiner, that Derbyshire society must seem very quiet to you, after what one becomes accustomed to in the city.”
Darcy was not near enough to be included in the conversation, but he was near enough to hear it, which, he suspected, had been Miss Bingley’s object. He observed the exchange out of the corner of his eye, for he would not allow Mrs. Gardiner to be made uncomfortable.
But Mrs. Gardiner only smiled as though Miss Bingley’s observation had been an entirely innocent one. “The city does teach one useful lessons,” she said. “One sees there how much must be accomplished and accounted for before those in town may become quite so elegant.”
Her glance rested briefly on Miss Bingley’s gloves, then her silk gown, then the little worked reticule at her wrist.
“The best families, I have found, are less particular about such distinctions,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “They are aware how much depends upon maintaining good connexions in the city. Newer families, however”—the pause was exact— “are sometimes less easy on the subject.”
The silence that followed was neither confusion nor shock, but recognition. Miss Bingley had meant to wound, but Mrs. Gardiner had returned the compliment with interest—and with considerably better manners.
Miss Bingley, recovering herself, turned the faintest degree in his direction. She expected, perhaps, that he would assist her. Or that he might confirm, by silence alone, the old alliance of rank against trade.
He stepped a little closer and addressed Mrs. Gardiner.
“I believe,” he said, with deliberate calm, “that good sense and worth have never been dependent upon one’s London direction.”
Mrs. Gardiner dipped her head in acknowledgement.
Miss Bingley’s colour rose.
With impeccable timing, Mr. Gardiner was just then walking up the slope from the direction of the bridge with a rod over his shoulder and his hat pushed back.
He was the very picture of a man who had spent a profitable morning on the river and who had not the smallest notion that anything whatsoever was the matter.
Especially with the two enormous trout he carried on a string to be admired, sent to the cook, and possibly praised a little by his wife and niece.
Darcy turned to Mr. Gardiner—not to Miss Bingley, for that would reward her offence, and not to Mrs. Gardiner, for that would imply that she required rescue when she had just dispatched her opponent with no weapon sharper than good breeding.
No, he turned to the man with the trout.
“Mr. Gardiner. You are returned, and not empty-handed, I see. I was promised an account of your sport, and I mean to hold you to it. Did the fish lie where I said? Under the sycamore, above the third oak?”
He stopped. Good God, he was babbling.
Mr. Gardiner’s face brightened. “Sir, they lay precisely where you said. I confess I had begun to think your sycamore a fiction got up to flatter a guest, but then the cloud came over, and I moved up into the shadow as you bid me, and—” He raised the string an inch.
“The second took a fly I tied myself at the inn on Tuesday night, and I give you fair warning, I intend to be wholly insufferable about it.”
“I should expect nothing less,” said Darcy. “What was the fly?”
Miss Bingley returned to Mrs. Hurst. No one stopped her; indeed, no one even noticed she had gone except for Darcy.
Miss Elizabeth returned to the rug, and as she smoothed and arranged her gown, her eyes lifted suddenly to his.
The glance was too brief to be deciphered. There was amusement in it, but whether it was at him, or for him, or even in approval of what he had done, he could not tell.
Then Miss Elinor asked Miss Elizabeth a question, Darcy beckoned a footman to take the trout to the kitchen, and the moment was gone.
Mr. Gardiner, having exhibited his catch and handed it off, pronounced the day far too fine to waste and the day’s fish unlikely to wait upon his convenience. He bent over his wife’s hand. “The fish are biting. I cannot answer for when I shall be fit society again.”
“You have never been fit society in the presence of an opportunity to fish, Mr. Gardiner,” said his wife placidly, “and I married you in full knowledge of the defect. Go.”
He went, beaming, and soon disappeared down the slope.
Mrs. Gardiner turned back first. “Well,” she said, “that was very neatly done, Mr. Darcy.”