Chapter Eleven
Mary
The next day, Mary sat down to make a full report of the previous days events to Elena. She’d wanted to confide in Elizabeth more, but her sister had only wanted to comfort her. Which, while kind, had not been exactly what she needed.
Mary didn’t really know what exactly she’d needed, but it was something…more. Something her family could not give her.
And yet, she knew Elena would understand. She gave Elena a full account of what had occurred, from her pleasant morning with Mr Waith to Miss Bingley’s unexpected appearance and then to the exchange in the park.
She sat back for a moment and swallowed hard before setting quilt to paper once more.
She is a beautiful woman — I will not pretend otherwise, because doing so would be dishonest and also beside the point — and she appears to share in the same interests as Mr Thwaite and myself.
I use the word ‘appears’ in this context because it is obvious that she has recently learned these subjects to speak about them, rather than for inherent understanding.
There is a clear distinction, yet I'm not sure if it is visible to anyone except me.
She spoke to Mr Thwaite about a recent Haydn programme that I have not seen.
I had opinions of the composition but did not offer them, which I regret now.
At the moment I could not quite bring myself to do so.
This is what I mean when I say that her ease does something to mine.
It does not extinguish it, exactly. It makes me doubt the point of it.
Then we met her again in the park, quite by design I think.
Her mother drew Mr Thwaite into conversation and I fell behind, which I did not intend but also did not know how to prevent.
Mrs Bingley said she had recently been gifted a collection of sacred anthems by Miss Bingley and thought immediately of him.
Upon hearing this, Mr Thwaite complimented Miss Bingley, stating that she had always had excellent taste in sacred works.
It was a small matter, I'm aware of that. There is a high chance that he was speaking with his usual honest feeling, but I must confess that this situation has made me feel odd.
I feel unsure, along with a million other feelings. I wonder if I must be worthy of being liked by Mr Thwaite, especially when in consideration with Miss Bingley. She is a lot of things I'm not. So much more outspoken and confident…
I am not given to self-pity, she wrote next, then sat back and looked at the sentence with scepticism.
She was not given to self-pity of the visible variety, but she was capable of its private form, which was perhaps more tenacious for being conducted without an audience.
She decided to leave the sentence in, because it was true enough in distinct, irreplicable ways.
When I first met Mr Thwaite, I did not expect to care for him as much as I do. I respect him enormously and I began to value his intellect as we continued to speak to each other.
There is something else now that I cannot say without embarrassing myself, even on a page that only you will read. I will only admit this much: the prospect of losing his regard is a fear that has increasingly grown within me.
Elizabeth was kind to me last evening. She asked whether Mr Thwaite had seemed to enjoy Miss Bingley's company. I responded in the negative. She said: then there is your answer. She is perceptive, she loves me and she wanted me to feel better, and I did, briefly.
But I find that Elizabeth's kindness and your understanding are not quite the same thing.
She knows what I feel because she is observant and because she has known me all my life.
You seem to understand, intellectually, why I feel the way I do.
Yours is a different capacity, considerably rarer, and I do not encounter it often enough to take it for granted.
I hope this letter does not alarm you. I am not in despair. I am simply telling you the truth, which is what this correspondence has always been for. I value it more than I can easily say.
Your friend, Mary
She folded the missive and sealed it. As she did so, she glanced up at the tiny mirror above the writing desk, which reflected her own face to her. She did not often look at herself with any sustained notice, having concluded years ago that it was a task with a poor return.
But she looked now and as she did so, she was reminded that she did not look like the rest of the Bennets.
The same observation had been posed to her, by various well-meaning people over the years.
The common explanation given in the family was the portrait in the upstairs hall at Longbourn.
It was a painting of Mrs Bennet's mother, a woman who had died long before Mary was born.
A serious face above an unfashionable necklace, peered from a frame that needed regilding.
Mary was said to look like her and Mary had always accepted this explanation because it was the one available.
She looked at her own face now: the dark hair, the serious set of the features and the absence of any resemblance to Jane's fairness or Lydia’s animated face.
And then she picked up the sealed letter and set it with the outgoing post.
***
Elizabeth
The first thing she established, arriving at the theatre with her mother, Lady Hamilton and settling into their allocated box, were the other occupants in the space.
Colonel Fitzwilliam sat in his regimentals next to a young woman she did not recognise and, just behind them, was Fitzwilliam Darcy in formal evening wear.
Mrs Bennet, who had been conducting an early review of the programme with Lady Hamilton, paused. Colonel Fitzwilliam, whom Elizabeth had encountered several times since Almack's and found reliably pleasant company, acknowledged them immediately.
"Miss Bennet. Mrs Bennet and Lady Hamilton. What a fortuitous arrangement. I had not hoped for such agreeable box-fellows."
Mrs Bennet answered that she was very glad indeed. Lady Hamilton said she was delighted. Elizabeth acknowledged the greeting and observed, in the same moment, that Mr Darcy had risen to his feet.
"Ladies," His bow was correct. "May I present my sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy."
The young woman who stepped forward was perhaps fourteen, fair and slight, and appeared to be focused on seeming at ease.
She curtseyed appropriately, glancing at Elizabeth with an interest that was barely suppressed.
She then said, with the slight rush of a person who had been holding a remark in reserve: "I have heard a great deal about you, Miss Elizabeth.
From Charity and Diana Garroway. They speak of you very often. "
Elizabeth smiled and meant it. "I hope not too often. Their attention is not always focused, which I prefer not to encourage."
"Charity told me you made her conjugate French verbs for an hour when she tried to hide a novel under the desk."
"She described the novel to me in some detail before she remembered that describing it confirmed its existence. She had not thought the disclosure all the way through."
The laugh this produced from Miss Darcy was involuntary and then swiftly retrieved, but it was real. Colonel Fitzwilliam, beside her, seemed equally bemused.
"Georgiana has wanted to meet you for some weeks," he said. "I believe she was hoping we would encounter you tonight."
"Richard," Miss Darcy murmured shyly.
"I speak only in your favour," he replied, unperturbed.
Elizabeth was aware that Miss Darcy’s knowledge of the Garroway arrangement implied Mr Darcy's knowledge of it also. She did not panic at this. She reminded herself that she was not here to solicit his approbation, and that what he thought of the tutoring was his own affair.
They all settled in their seats to watch the play. When the curtain rose, Elizabeth admitted to herself that the first act was rather good.
The first act had been, Elizabeth thought as she settled into her seat and the curtain rose, rather good. The central performance was compelling, the dialogue was tight and one or two of the speeches were incredibly stirring, whether it was due to the playwright's work or the actor's was unclear.
During the extended interlude, Colonel Fitzwilliam immediately engaged Mrs Bennet on the subject of the costumes. Lady Hamilton produced her opinion of the leading actress, which was favourable and detailed.
"What did you think of the first act?" Miss Darcy asked Elizabeth keenly.
"I found it riveting," Elizabeth said. "The central performance especially. And there is a speech in the tenth minute that I’m sure I will deliberate upon for the next couple of days."
"The speech where she argues with her brother?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was the most affecting thing in the act. She could not stop herself from saying all of it at once. It felt more real than if it had been separated into two calmer conversations."
"That is exactly my instinct, although I have not yet decided whether that stance is right or simply sympathetic."
"Is there a difference?"
"I think so. I find things affecting that are not always sound, and sound things that do not coincide emotionally."
The Colonel, who had apparently exhausted the topic of costumes, turned to them and said: "Miss Bennet, you should share that opinion with Darcy. He has been decided about that scene since its emergence."
"Has he," Elizabeth said.
Miss Darcy turned to her brother. "Fitzwilliam, what did you think of it?"
He had been hovering at the periphery of their group, present without intruding, and now he considered the question.
"The central performance is fine," he said. "But the construction of the aforementioned scene is what I found unconvincing. The playwright has compressed what are two separate arguments into a single speech, and the logic of both is lost in the compression."
"The compression is intentional," Elizabeth replied.
"Not every playwright considers logical sequence the highest theatrical virtue.
The momentum of that speech is the point.
The character cannot reason clearly because she is in distress, and that distress is properly expressed.
If you separated the arguments, you would have a scene that was correct and empty. "
He raised a curious eyebrow. "Do you believe then, that theatrical emotion should take precedence over dramatic logic?"
"I believe they are not as separable as you suggest. The logic of that moment is its emotion.
Your reasoning fails because the feeling is too large to contain.
That is the dramatic argument, and the form is serving it.
Tidying it into two coherent speeches would be a misreading of what the part is attempting. "
There was a pause. Colonel Fitzwilliam had adopted the expression of a man at a sporting event who was pleased with the quality of play.
"On that point," Mr Darcy said, "I will not concede."
"You are not required to. I am simply telling you that you are wrong."
Georgiana made a sound that was close to a laugh and succeeded in converting it, at the last moment, into a cough.
"However," he continued, "given the staging of that scene, I imagine you have an observation about the sight lines."
Elizabeth nodded. "I was about to speak about that. The split stage method divides the audience's focus without being a distraction. It means one watches both characters simultaneously rather than following only the heroine's perspective."
"Yes. That is what I found most intelligent about it."
The end of the extended interval was signalled with a ringing bell. They returned to their respective seats, and the curtain rose again. Elizabeth returned her attention to the stage, trying not to think about the conversation she had just had, or the man she had just had it with.
This was mostly successful.
At the end of the play, there was considerable applause, which Elizabeth joined with sincere appreciation.
Mrs Bennet began collecting her belongings with efficiency as she prepared to depart, while Lady Hamilton made a few pronouncements on the evening's theatrical merits as she adjusted her shawl.
"I thought the ending quite perfect," Lady Hamilton said to the general vicinity. "But I maintain the second act was stronger than the first."
"I think that was rather the point," Elizabeth said. "The resolution required the accumulation."
"Very possibly. Your mother agrees with me about the second act, at any rate." Lady Hamilton bestowed a satisfied nod on Mrs Bennet, who had not, as far as Elizabeth could determine, formed a distinct opinion on either act but was very willing to agree that both had been enjoyable.
"We’ve had a lovely evening altogether and that’s what matters most," Mrs Bennet said.
After bidding the other occupants of their box goodbye, the women made their way to the stairs. At the top, Elizabeth was uncurling the shoulder frills of her gown when, through some habit of observation that she preferred to attribute to general social vigilance, she glanced back across the foyer.
Mr Darcy was watching her.
He did not look away when she noticed. He met her gaze steadily, with neither judgment nor hostility. As if he were mesmerised by the sight of her.
She turned and went into the cold night air, and said nothing about it in the carriage. Instead, she spent the journey home looking at the dark streets and contending with the fact that she had nothing to say.
Jane was still awake when they returned. There was a book open in her lap and she glanced up from it with an enquiring look.
"How was the play?"
"Very good. Georgiana Darcy was in our box. She is charming, quite genuinely so."
"And her brother?"
"Present also."
"And?"
"He and I discussed the play. We disagreed about a scene and found ourselves in agreement about another. That is the whole of it."
"Was the disagreement resolved?"
"Neither of us conceded, but it ended pleasantly."
"What does it mean," Elizabeth said with a casual air, "if a gentleman consistently seems to be paying you attention?"
"Hm. I think that for you to have noticed the interest so reliably, you must have been paying him a similar degree of notice."
"That is not quite the same:"
"It is, Lizzy. One cannot reliably observe a pattern of attention without leaning rather closely oneself."
"I grant you, I haven’t been as interested in what he does."
Jane pursed her lips and said nothing else, which was considerably more eloquent than anything she might have said.
Elizabeth allowed herself the question of whether she had indeed been too attuned to Mr Darcy and what the answer to that ultimately said about her.