Chapter Four
Elizabeth
Two weeks later
Within two weeks of navigating the season, Elizabeth had arrived at many realisations. One of those was the fact that she did not quite like Mr Darcy. This was not a hasty generation. She had come to it after enough time had passed to gather concrete evidence.
Mr Darcy was proud. This much was legible from the set of his shoulders and the peculiar economy with which he distributed his social attentions.
He stared, rather unabashedly, with a method so practised that it was rare to catch him in the middle of the act.
And he asked questions in an imperial tone that often felt like he knew the answers to them before they were uttered.
It was a tone that Elizabeth had found, across varying degrees of proximity, consistently difficult to manage without losing her patience.
That he kept appearing at the same events she attended was, she had concluded, a coincidence compounded by the smallness of their social world. London may be large, but the circles in which the Bennets moved were considerably less so.
She was also not going to admit that she had noticed how many times they had come across each other.
The dinner party at Mrs Abbott's was the most notable occasion. They had been placed near enough to one another for conversation to become unavoidable. Mrs Abbott herself was a widow of comfortable means and cheerful temperament who had taken a liking to the Bennets with remarkable speed.
Her house in Harley Street was decorated with historic furniture and recently refurbished drapery. The dining table was made of fine mahogany, and on it were candles from France and a view from the far window of the garden below.
Elizabeth had been aware, then, of the close distance between herself and Mr Darcy, but it was he who broke the silence first.
"I hope your family’s settling nicely in Portman Square."
"We are."
"And did you find it to your liking?"
"Very much so." She had said this with a note of finality.
He had waited. His silence was always full of attentiveness, so much so that it wasn’t quite pressure but a similar sensation. A different man would have dispelled the awkward pause, but he inhabited it and glanced at her expectantly.
"We arrived in early January," she had added. "And we find the situation very convenient."
"Your father did not accompany you?"
"He preferred to remain at Longbourn. He is, by inclination, a man of the country."
"As are many men of sense."
The remark had been delivered without inflection, which made it almost impossible to determine whether he was complimenting her father, censuring London, or both.
"Do you prefer the country yourself, Mr Darcy?" She had asked in a voice that was deliberately vague.
"I prefer Pemberley."
"That is not quite an answer to the question."
He inclined his head. "It is the most accurate one I can give."
She had let it go. Across the table, Jane and Mr Bingley were conducting one of several conversations since their first meeting at the subscription ball.
Elizabeth watched them for a moment with a fond look, but when she looked back, she discovered Mr Darcy had been watching them too. It was difficult to tell what he thought of the arrangement, which annoyed her to no avail.
After Mrs Abbott’s dinner concluded and they had all been returned by their respective conveyances to their respective establishments, Elizabeth's resolve regarding him was decided. Whatever enquiry he was conducting regarding the Bennets' situation was one she would offer no responses to.
She was too worried about the gap between their finely dressed appearances and their financial coffers to dwell on someone with distinctly threaded coats and an air of interest in her family’s personal affairs.
Her own problem was less abstract, and considerably more pressing.
The household accounts, which she tracked in her notebook on the principle that her mother’s awareness of the contents would temper her spending, had reached a figure that required some degree of alertness.
The gowns had been the first casualty of spending. Elizabeth had estimated a price on the basis of what seemed reasonable, but her mother had located a modiste in Bond Street who charged far more. By the time Elizabeth had understood the full extent of the commission, it was already concluded.
The gowns were beautiful, but also very expensive. And then there had been the gloves, bought in dozens because their mother felt two pairs each were insufficient for Town outings, ribbon trims in excess and acceptances to several more events which cost money.
Half their household funds were gone, and they were only two weeks into a season that showed no sign of concluding early.
Then there was Mr Thwaite, who occupied a different position in her thoughts. He had been, at every turn, precisely as he appeared: generous, tactful and attentive to Mary's comfort.
An extra carriage had been placed at their disposal, a theatre box was offered twice and he did not press when Elizabeth had contrived a graceful refusal to the second offer. Then there was the subscription ball, which had been arranged without ceremony or any expectation of gratitude.
He asked nothing, and this was, paradoxically, the most uncomfortable element of the arrangement. A generous gesture was manageable when it came with terms, because terms could be met and the obligation discharged.
What Mr Thwaite offered came with no terms at all, which meant more favours could only be accumulated. The concept made Elizabeth uncomfortable, which she suspected spoke unflatteringly of her own equanimity.
She was aware that this was not a complaint one could make aloud. She was also attuned to the fact that the correct response was to be grateful and circumspect when making decisions. But her unease at being at someone else’s mercy remained. It was for this reason that she developed a solution.
It was not an elegant one and it relied on several considerations: a great deal of early rising, a plausible story about the restorative properties of morning air, and the cooperation of a carriage that collected her twice a week with splendid discretion.
Her employer, Mrs Garroway, was a respectable woman of the merchant class, prosperous and sensible.
She had twin daughters named Charity and Diana, aged fourteen, who required a refined instruction that their mother was equipped to recognise the necessity of but not provide herself.
She wanted someone to teach them deportment, conversation and extra tutoring to refine their social skills before their debut into society.
The arrangement had been negotiated with care.
Elizabeth boarded the Garroway carriage at a location sufficiently removed from Portman Square to avoid being identified by anyone from the Bennet household.
She had told her family she walked in the mornings to improve her health, which was accurate in some ways, but not completely.
The fee Mrs Garroway paid was not large by the average standards, but to Elizabeth it was material. She deposited the proceeds into the household accounts every week, pleased that she had solved a problem by practical means rather than by waiting for circumstances to improve.
Charity and Diana were incredibly good company.
Charity had opinions on everything and was constitutionally unwilling to let any of them go unchallenged, which Elizabeth found rather bracing after being in the centre of London society, where having opinions and stating them plainly were considered flaws.
Diana had an appetite for playful schemes, which she often explained in detail before setting up. Between them, they generated a uniqueness of view that Elizabeth found almost refreshing.
So she supplemented the family’s coffers with money from her employment and kept a closer eye on the accounts.
She tutored the Galloway girls on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
She deflected inquiries about their housing and other details.
She trailed her sisters to events, met various people and ensured matters were in order.
It was not very different from Longbourn. The scale was larger and the carpets were considerably better, but the underlying work was still the same.
Elizabeth returned from Tides Street, where the Garroways lived, on a Thursday morning to find the hall quiet.
Mrs Garroway, who typically offered tea at the start of each session, had given her a paper-wrapped parcel from the kitchen.
The parcel contained delicious fruit tarts.
They were arguably one of the best advantages the tutoring arrangement offered.
There were no maids in sight and the sound of a pianoforte being played filtered in from the music room.
On the hall table, beside the silver card tray, lay a letter.
She would not have given it a second thought, except that it had been opened and imprecisely refolded.
That was likely her mother's work. Mrs Bennet preferred to skim her correspondence, hastily going through the pages of important details before turning away with an impatient huff. The letter was addressed to Mrs Bennet, further confirming Elizabeth’s theory.
She picked it up, recognising the angular, fine handwriting belonging to her father, who considered letter writing close to an art form. He wrote a lot for pleasure and personal consumption, but did so rarely when corresponding with others. When he did the latter, there was generally a reason.
Still standing in front of the hall table, she began to read.
There was a customary report of his health, which was splendid and a gleeful report of Longbourn's quietness since their departure.
He sent his regards to his daughters, alongside a sarcastic quip about likely losing Lydia to the excitement and fanfare in London.
And then, near the end, was a paragraph that caused her to pay closer attention.
One of the maids has come across, in Mary's room, an envelope bearing a rather distinct signature.
The envelope was perfumed, and the hand was unfamiliar.
I mention it only because I hold some passing curiosity as to whether Mary has acquired a new acquaintance of whom we are as yet unaware, perhaps another of a romantic type.
If that is the case, then she must be quite popular.
It further confirms how unpredictable life can be, that the least sociable daughter of ours ends up being the one with the most prospects. Very amusing, indeed.
As Elizabeth refolded the letter, she considered its details at length.
Mary had a correspondent. Someone whose letters were evidently kept away from sight until a maid’s curiosity had outdone her discretion. It was not from Mr Thwaite, whose regular letters would have been recognisable to anyone in the household and would not have wanted any questioning.
Moreover, a signature and perfumed envelope with nothing else to distinguish it suggested that the person had been kept with some intentionality from the family's knowledge.
Regardless of Elizabeth’s own suspicions, it was helpful to remember that Mary was eighteen.
She was, of all the Bennet sisters, the one least in need of supervision and the one most likely to resent it.
She was sensible and capable of managing her own affairs.
If things continued on the way they were, she was also likely to be engaged or married by summer.
A woman in that position was entitled to her own private acquaintances and the management of her own affairs.
Whatever the envelope contained was Mary’s to keep to herself or disclose.
Elizabeth was quite certain of this reasoning.
She stood at the foot of the staircase listening to the pianoforte for a moment, then headed upstairs to change her walking shoes.