Chapter Seven
Elizabeth
Another week of the season unfolded, during which Elizabeth received two callers.
She had met Mr Phelps at the Worthington musical, where he had positioned himself beside her determinedly.
He was the son of a solicitor from Clapham, with a broad face and high opinions of himself.
He had talked through the second half of the programme, before announcing his intention to call with great confidence.
She had not, in the interest of the season, actively discouraged him. Nor had she encouraged him.
He arrived at the townhouse and sat in the drawing room, talking nonstop while Jane, who served as chaperone, sat in the corner her eyes focused on a book.
For over twenty minutes, he covered his income, his late father's income and the question of how a man of good sense ought to manage a wife. This last subject was where he had some peculiar views.
"I am of the opinion," he said, "that a woman's reading ought to be directed by her husband. Independent study, pursued without guidance, produces independent conclusions. This in turn tends to produce friction."
"I see," Elizabeth responded. "And what manner of reading do you consider appropriate for a wife?"
"Devotional texts and perhaps some history, if it does not stray into the contentious. A library ought to be under the husband's direct management."
Elizabeth looked up and met Jane’s gaze. Her sister shook her head, alarmed by the direction the conversation had taken.
"The only acceptable reading being one that fits his preference."
"I see we are in agreement."
"On the contrary," she said, pleasantly, "we are in complete disagreement.
I have had unrestricted access to my father's library since childhood and it has served me well.
But more materially, a man who wishes to direct his wife's reading would find me an unsuitable candidate for the position.
I would make you very unhappy, Mr Phelps, and I would recommend you look elsewhere. "
Mr Phelps departed shortly after, looking disgruntled. Jane had counselled her on the art of being more diplomatic, but Elizbeth had made it quite clear she had no interested in any such diplomacy.
The next caller arrived later in the week.
His name was Mr Hatch, and she had encountered him at a dinner event, where he had been introduced by the hostess as a widower of good character and comfortable means.
He was five-and-forty, his sallow skin paired with a persistent cold which he had evidently decided was not serious enough to interfere with his social obligations.
Every third sentence was prefaced by the clearing of his throat and concluded with the application of a handkerchief to his nose. By the end of his visit, Elizabeth had counted over a dozen instances of throat clearing.
"I find that a lady of spirit is what a man of my age truly requires. Hmm." The handkerchief made its appearance. "I had that in my first marriage. Agreeable and quiet."
"I see," Elizabeth said.
"You strike me as a young lady of great—" more throat clearing— "vivacity. Precisely the sort a man values."
Elizabeth thanked him for the observation and managed the remaining minutes of the visit with the patient competence she was beginning to consider her most developed social skill.
After he had gone, her mother said that Mr Hatch was a man of very good character and it was important not to be too particular.
Lydia, who had perched on a sofa in the interested manner of a spectator at a sporting event, waited until Mrs Bennet had left the room and then announced: "Lizzy, I do not envy you. I really do not. Not one inch."
"Thank you, Lydia. That is very consoling."
"One told you what books you're allowed to read and the other used his handkerchief more times than I dared to count!"
"I counted but gave up at ten. Let us hope we did not all catch what he so generously brought with him."
"Well, at least they called, I suppose. That is better than nothing. Kitty and I have three suitors between us, and one of them is quite serious, I think. He danced with me twice at the Alderton assembly and asked if he could call."
"That is one suitor, not three."
"There are two others. One for Kitty, and one for both of us—we have not established which of us he is more interested in."
"In all of this, I only have one piece of advice. If there's a gentleman you like the most, you might consider choosing and attending to him more specifically, rather than distributing the attention across several."
"That," Lydia said, "is how you end up with Mr Phelps telling you about libraries."
Elizabeth could not produce a proper retort and thus did not try.
***
Jane had known for several days that Mr Bingley intended to call.
He had told her he hoped to visit their townhouse, if her family would receive him.
Jane had replied that they would be very glad to.
She had then spent subsequent days being in a condition of mild, constant anxiety that was directly proportional to how much she cared about the outcome.
On the day of Mr Bingley’s visit, she vocally reconsidered her choice of outfit twice, reached a conclusion about her hair that she then abandoned, and was on the third iteration of the clothing question when Elizabeth put her book down.
"You look very well," Elizabeth said.
"I have changed my mind about the gown again."
"He is coming to see you, Jane. Not the clothing."
"I know."
"Then the yellow gown will sufficiently count."
Jane was quiet for a moment before murmuring, "What if I am dull?"
"You are the least dull person I know, and I know you extremely well. Your personality is more than sufficient."
"Will you sit with us as chaperone? I cannot bear the thought of mother…"
"I will do as you ask and bring a book," Elizabeth said, "which I intend to read attentively, and I shall be astonished if either of you addresses a word to me."
Mr Bingley came alone, which was a relief Elizabeth did not know she needed until the moment the door opened and it was confirmed.
She had spent a brief and irritating interval imagining the alternative: Colonel Fitzwilliam, perhaps, with his good humour and his reliable mischief, or worse, Mr Darcy, with his stoic temperament and his frequent questions.
She was glad to find that the arriving carriage had contained only Mr Bingley, who came in with his hat in his hand and a look of eagerness on his face.
He greeted Mrs Bennet with such warmth that even her most transparent delight appeared to increase further. He said hello to Elizabeth with an easy cheerfulness and he paid great attention to Jane, as though she were a piece of art he did not want to miss.
They settled in the drawing room. Elizabeth took the chair nearest the window with her volume of essays. Jane and Bingley arranged themselves at the sofa, seeming to manage the awareness of one another with varying degrees of success.
She turned a page.
Elizabeth had concluded across several weeks of observation that Mr Bingley was constitutionally incapable of making anyone feel unwelcome.
This was the fluency of a person trained to reassure others without any inconvenience in doing so.
His was a basic orientation toward the world that defaulted to interest before it weighed anything else.
He listened as though the person speaking was the most absorbing factor in his immediate vicinity. He laughed easily and without edge.
He was the exact opposite of his friend.
Mr Darcy listened as though he were assembling a file of evidence.
Mr Bingley paid attention because he found a subject truly interesting.
Mr Darcy's questions arrived with the implication that he had already drawn his own implicit answers; Mr Bingley asked because he wanted to know and had no attachment to what the answer would turn out to be.
Mr Darcy's regard felt like being assessed. Mr Bingley's felt like an invitation.
She was not making unfavourable comparisons. She was simply observing the clear distinction, which made Mr Bingley immensely better suited to Jane than his friend or anyone else they knew would ever be.
"I have had an argument with Colonel Fitzwilliam," Mr Bingley was saying, "that I cannot seem to resolve. He maintains that London in February has splendid weather that the subsequent months can't replicate. I maintain the current weather is designed specifically to make one grateful for March."
"February does have defenders," Jane said. "I count myself among them, in certain respects."
"You surprise me. On what grounds?"
"The light. It falls differently than in summer, lower, and at a different angle. It reaches places the summer light misses. There is a distinctiveness to it in the morning, especially when it comes through cold glass.”
He looked at her with an arrested expression. "I had not thought of it that way. You are completely right. I have seen exactly what you mean and had no language for it until now."
"You may revise your position to a conditional one. Dislike February in principle while acknowledging its merits. That seems fair."
"A conditional dislike. I have never attempted one. It feels more sophisticated than my usual method."
"Which is?"
"Wholesale enthusiasm or wholesale dismay, without much middle ground. I have always found that the middle ground requires more effort than the extremes."
"The middle ground," Jane said, "is where most of the accurate observations live."
He smiled at this and Jane returned it with quiet pleasure. She was glad, and trying not to show the extent of it, but she was not succeeding. Mr Bingley held her gaze without looking away, and Elizabeth, behind her volume of essays, turned a page she had not read with a subtle nod.
They were well-matched. She had suspected as much and she was now tolerably certain. This was not in the way of two people who repaired each other's deficiencies. It was a more durable style that resulted from engaging with the world from similar instincts.
Mr Bingley's readiness for delight needed Jane's capacity to articulate what she found worth delighting in. Jane's shy goodness was most fully expressed when it had someone who listened to it with the absorption Mr Bingley brought.
They would not be merely civil or just compatible, but actively, consistently kind to each other. They would make one another laugh, which she had come to regard as one of the more reliable indicators of a marriage worth having.
As Elizabeth observed the two, she noted that Jane was no longer anxious.
The second-thoughts, the fragile vigilance…
all of it was gone. In its place was Jane, simply, as she was.
Interested and capable of jokes that were perfectly timed because she had not deliberated at an extended length before she offered it.
The conversation moved from seasonal lighting to the question of symphonies. Jane said the London symphonies represented a discordant culmination at certain times. Mr Bingley said he deferred totally to her judgement, Jane said she did not want deference and made him argue the point.
"The point is this," Jane said. "If you have no view of your own, then my view is uncontested, and an uncontested view is barely worth holding."
"That is a remarkably stringent position for a woman who was just defending the merits of February."
"February can be defended on its merits. Your deferral of the London symphonies has no merits whatsoever. It is a social manoeuvre dressed as an opinion."
Bingley laughed delightedly. "You are entirely right. I do have a view. I think the symphonies are magnificent, the string quartets especially."
Thus, they argued with evident pleasure, having discovered a topic they disagreed upon and were glad to have the opportunity to express their thoughts without hostility.
Elizabeth returned to her book. On the page before her, an essayist of some authority was making a point about the nature of first impressions that she did not, at present, wish to read.
She turned the page.
Elizabeth set her volume of essays down by perhaps two inches, and watched, her heart full of pleasure.
Across the room, Jane said something that made Mr Bingley sit forward with a look of concentration. The afternoon February light, clear and low, lay across the carpet between them like a stripe of quiet approval.