Chapter Five
Darcy
Mrs Lavinia Bingley had two modes of operation: the performance of delight, and the assessment of threat. She moved between them with fluid ease and the remarkable thing, which had always impressed Darcy against his better judgement, was that most people never identified the seam between them.
He had known her since Bingley was at school. She had been a handsome woman then, and was a commanding one now. She was well-dressed and possessed of a bearing that announced consequence before she had spoken a word.
Her son had inherited her sociability and mercifully little else.
Darcy had called at the Bingley townhouse to speak with Bingley, but found his mother in the morning room instead, newly arrived from Scarborough the previous evening and already in full possession of the season's relevant intelligence.
"Caroline tells me that Charles has developed a considerable interest in a young woman, Miss Jane Bennet."
"So I have observed."
"I had not previously heard the name. They're a Hertfordshire family, Caroline says." She pronounced the word Hertfordshire with clear distaste. "New arrivals to the better circles, one assumes. You have met them, haven't you? What do you know of them?"
"Very little. From what I have heard, the family appears comfortable. They are staying in Portman Square, after all."
Mrs Bingley's answering sniff suggested that Portman Square, while not without merit as an address, was not the final settlement of the question.
"I shall be the judge of comfort. I have been around long enough to know that the appearance of a good address and the notion of a good family do not often reconcile. I attended Lady Montague's private soirée yesterday evening. Mrs Bennet was there."
He waited for her to continue.
"Her behaviour," Mrs Bingley continued, "suggested she was very pleased indeed to secure the invitation, which I found somewhat unnerving.
Lady Montague's invitation list is immensely exclusive, yet the matron of a family newly arrived in Town, not previously known in these circles, was on it.
That speaks either to a very determined social effort or to an unknown connection.
But she is a pleasant enough creature, Mrs Bennet.
Quite forthcoming and rather more eager than the average person. "
"In what sense?"
"When she learned I was Charles's mother, she took my hand in both of hers and insisted that I must call upon them the very next day.
It was as if we were already the greatest friends in the world.
There was an earnestness to her request, which I presume to be either genuine or she's an excellent dramatist. I'm inclined towards the latter, but even if I did imagine that she was being honest, that too is a cause for concern.
A mother with daughters to see settled does not have the luxury of being genuine. "
"And what do you plan to do?"
"I intended to call on the Bennets today with Charles, but he appears to have gone out.
He did not state where, which is a fairly reliable indication that he thought I might not approve of the destination.
As you know, I am justifiably rigid in taste.
" She reached across the table opposite for a cup of tea.
"I should like you to accompany me instead, Darcy.
You know the family. Your presence would give the call a degree of propriety. "
What she meant was a degree of cover. He was to make their presence look like a social visit, instead of what it was: an investigation into the bearer of her son’s interest.
It was not a role he had ever been prepared for, not even when he was a young lad being paraded about by his nosy aunt, Lady Catherine.
He considered declining. He had no specific reason, after all, to come along on such a visit.
"Very well," he said instead.
It would be a fair use of his time since his plan to see Bingley was disrupted.
Mrs Bingley nodded, almost as if she had known he would agree. Why she would ever think that was unclear to Darcy, but he refrained from saying so.
"She is a simple woman," Mrs Bingley explained in the carriage as it raced steadily along the road.
"Not unintelligent, but simple in the sense of having clear ambitions and little skill concealing them.
I can tolerate that. What I am less comfortable with is the situation at hand.
Charles can do considerably better than a Hertfordshire gentleman's daughter of uncertain connections. I want him wed to a worthy lady, her relations properly vetted. I have told him, he must purchase and estate and become a proper gentleman, and then he must marry up. A baronet’s daughter at least, if not better.
A viscount would do nicely. That would help Caroline also, since Louisa decided to settle for a mere merchant. "
Darcy wanted to remind her that she, Mrs Bingley, had also settled for a merchant, and one who had kept her comfortable, but refrained.
She turned her steely gaze toward Darcy, her face twisted in displeasure. "I should like to know what I am dealing with."
Darcy reflected that knowing what one was dealing with was a reasonable ambition when it came to the matter of marriage. But Mrs Bingley would be disappointed if she expected him to encourage it.
He did not intend to be involved in intricate parts of her schemes, especially given that his friend would not approve of it.
They were received into the townhouse the Bennets occupied by Mrs Bennet, who clapped her hands in delight at their arrival. An unaware person would think it was a fortune requiring immediate celebration.
The drawing room had been arranged with visible forethought. There were flowers on the mantelpiece and lines of imported china in decorative rows. It was not the best-designed space in the world, but it was, to its credit, relatively welcoming.
Mrs Bingley sat next to Mrs Bennet on the sofa and proceeded to conduct the most accomplished social performance Darcy had ever witnessed.
There was an expertise to it that was almost admirable.
Mrs Bingley was a woman who enjoyed certain varieties of conversation and could feign more excitement or positivity than she truly felt.
The talent came out here, as she directed the dialogue towards specific ends for her purposes. Mrs Bennet, who was absorbed in the pleasure of the exchange, did not appear to notice.
"Your drawing room is handsomely decorated," Mrs Bingley said, appearing impressed, "The wallpaper especially. Is it French?"
"It is, I believe. He certainly selected everything with great care."
"He?" Mrs Bingley questioned, tilting her head in casual interest.
"I am referring to the gentlemen who procured the furnishings. But the wallpaper…do you not find it the most elegant thing? I say to Jane nearly every morning: Jane, I have never seen wallpaper like this in a private house. The stripe is so perfectly proportioned."
"It is, truly. And your management of the household, I can see it is in excellent hands. Everything is so well-ordered. Do you have a large staff?"
Mrs Bennet embarked upon this subject at once, pleased to have met an audience. Mrs Bingley listened, noted, and asked the occasional well-placed question. She smiled as if she were thoroughly enjoying herself, which she likely was, only not for the reasons Mrs Bennet would have supposed.
Darcy endured it for a significant period, until he could not abide more talk of dresses, household management and the best shoemakers in the region. He had ceased to contribute anything several exchanges ago and neither woman appeared to have noticed his silence.
When the conversation moved to the difficulties of acquiring a competent lady's maid in London, he excused himself.
A sound reached him from beyond the French doors leading to the back of the house. It was close to a shriek, sharp and decisive in a way that suggested something had gone wrong.
The garden was sizable and had a gravel path, several tall trees and rows of flowers along the left wall that were yet to bloom. In the centre of the path stood Jane Bennet with a hand pressed to her mouth, and beside her, Lydia was pointing dramatically at one of the trees.
And a few feet from the tree, crouching on the gravel with a scattering of breadcrumbs and an expression of concentrated purpose, was Elizabeth.
In the lower branches sat a tiny yellow bird. It seemed to have recently discovered liberty and now regarded them all as if philosophically considering what to do about it.
"He was right there in the cage," Lydia was saying, "and I went in for a closer look. Then the latch fell open. I barely touched it."
"You did touch it, otherwise it would have remained secure," Elizabeth replied, her eyes fixed on the animal.
"I was only trying to see him better."
"The latch does not open itself from being looked at."
"You don't know that for certain."
"I do, Lydia. It's common sense."
"Well, I didn't mean to cause any ruckus. What are we going to do? He'll fly away."
"The first thing is for everyone to stop making noise. Jane, stand still and Lydia, do not point. It is not helping."
"I'm showing you where he is."
"I can see where he is. I am looking directly at him."
"Well, so am I, but—"
"Lydia," Elizabeth said sternly. "Please be quiet."
Darcy was standing at the garden doorway.
None of them had noticed him. He watched Elizabeth extend a handful of crumbs along the path.
She appeared to have decided on a course of action, which she intended to see through.
It reminded him of the dinner at Mrs Abbott’s and the way she redirected his questions with similar steadfastness.
"He will not come down for crumbs alone," he said.
Elizabeth glanced up at the sound of his voice, her expression a mixture of surprise and wariness. “Why is that the case?"
"Add some apple juice to the crust. A few drops are sufficient. The scent carries much better than plain bread and the bird will be driven to investigate."
"And how did you come to know this?"
"The gardener at Pemberley keeps finches in the glasshouse. I have retrieved several from inconvenient locations."
There was a brief pause as she considered his statement and rose to her feet. She went back into the house, returning shortly after with a cup of apple juice. She dipped a piece of crust in, just as he advised. Then she extended the crust towards the lower branch and was still.
The bird tilted its head curiously.
Lydia opened her mouth to speak. Elizabeth, without glancing at her, raised one finger. Lydia’s mouth snapped shut.
The animal descended. It landed on the crust, pecked once, twice and stayed. Elizabeth moved with deliberate care that would not have disgraced a field naturalist and brought the crust in a slow, even arc toward the open cage door.
The bird, absorbed in its apple-scented bread, went along. Then the cage door was shut, the latch securely held.
Jane let out the breath she had been holding. "Oh, thank goodness."
Elizabeth rolled her shoulders, a look of pure satisfaction on her face. She seemed to recall his presence and turned to him almost begrudgingly.
"Thank you."
The words were delivered with some consideration for proper manners. Yet he found this more pleasing than an effusive show of appreciation would have been.
"It was nothing."
"Your advice was helpful and timely and I will not pretend otherwise."
The other Bennet sisters offered their thanks as well, Lydia doing so with a look of appraisal while Jane’s appreciation was made with clear sincerity.
If they were curious about why he was present in their townhouse, none of them showed it. It was the Season, after all, and house invitations and visits were common.
Darcy turned back towards the house, but he did not go in immediately. He stood at the doorway with a feeling of purposelessness whose origins he could not name. And he was aware, endlessly, of Elizabeth Bennet’s presence behind him. To say she intrigued him was an understatement.
He had been resolved to dismiss her from their first meeting, especially when it became obvious that she didn't hold him in much regard. He often succeeded in this until they crossed paths and he found himself blurting one or more curious questions to her.
Even now, in their brief encounter, he had noticed little details about her that were better kept in his head.
Such information included the refined ways her hair curled along her back and the bright rosiness in her cheeks.
She was like an art piece he couldn't stop cataloguing or asking leading questions about.
The reason for such interest in an ordinary young lady was something that circled around over and over.
Most people, in his experience, were legible with enough attention: their social habits, modes of self-presentation and methods of deflection all devolved, given time and observation, into a recognisable pattern.
And the pattern, once established, did not require further examination.
He was, by nature, a man who found other people exhaustible.
But Elizabeth Bennet was not resolving into a pattern.
She deflected his questions with practised ease, and then crouched on a gravel path with breadcrumbs, entirely unconcerned with how she looked while doing it.
She was sharp and patient. She accepted his advice only when she had assessed it as sound, with a pragmatism that outweighed her personal feelings about him.
He could not place her. He had tried, and she did not stay placed, and he was irritated by this because it resisted the approach he habitually applied to people.
But the part he found least convenient was the realisation that he was also intrigued by that.
When he returned to the drawing room, the conversation had progressed to the topic of the Italian versus German opera. Mrs Bingley was expressing her views in a tone of authority and Mrs Bennet concurred, occasionally offering embellishments.
Darcy resumed his sitting and contributed nothing. Through the window, he could see out into the garden, which was empty. The sisters had likely gone in as well, to attend to their respective interests.
He wondered what Elizabeth in particular was doing at the moment. Was she still concerned about the bird? Or was she reading, which he’d once overheard her declare as a hobby?
Mrs Bingley’s laughter rang out, a piercing sound, ushering him out of his thoughts back to the present.