Chapter 23 Returning to Meryton
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RETURNING TO MERYTON
The Bennet sisters’ time in London seemed to pass all too quickly.
It was not, strictly speaking, a restful stay, for nearly every moment was spoken for.
Their days were filled with errands—trips to Bond Street, fittings at Mrs Gardiner’s dressmaker, and visits to Georgiana’s modiste—often undertaken in the company of Lady Matlock, who appeared determined that Elizabeth should enter her new role with every possible advantage.
Bond Street alone was enough to leave them all breathless—Mary in particular, for whom London was an entirely new experience.
Carriages set down ladies at nearly every door, footmen darted through the press with parcels tucked beneath their arms, and shop windows glittered with colour and display.
Elizabeth had scarcely paused to admire one arrangement before Lady Matlock was already directing her onward.
“That pair,” Lady Matlock said decisively, indicating a display of gloves. “The leather will wear well, and the stitching is sound.”
Elizabeth smiled, half amused, half chastened. “I had thought the pale ones rather handsome.”
“Handsome,” Lady Matlock replied calmly, “is rarely sufficient for Town. You must learn to judge what endures.”
Elizabeth tucked the lesson away, aware that it extended beyond gloves alone. By the time evening arrived, she often felt both exhilarated and faintly wearied, conscious that London allowed little room for reflection before pressing upon her the next decision.
One rather tense moment arose during one of those visits when it was revealed that Mr Darcy had arranged to pay for a portion of her purchases at the dressmaker’s.
Most of the tension, to be sure, had come from Elizabeth’s side.
The small back room seemed suddenly too close, the air heavy with the scent of new cloth and starch, bolts of silk and lengths of ribbon arrayed about them as silent witnesses to a choice already made.
The dressmaker hovered nearby, pretending to examine a sleeve while listening with unmistakable interest.
“Mr Darcy had no right—” Elizabeth began, lowering her voice as she caught sight of the woman’s attentive expression, her cheeks colouring as the arrangements were discussed between Lady Matlock and her Aunt Gardiner.
“My dear,” Mrs Gardiner interposed gently, laying a calming hand upon Elizabeth’s arm, “he only wished to spare you the awkwardness of these arrangements. You will soon be his wife, and while, yes, he ought to have spoken to you ahead of time, I am certain he was unsure the best way to go about it. Your father sent as generous a sum as he could manage, but it was scarcely sufficient to provide for all that is required—both for London and for Pemberley. You will need more than one complete wardrobe.”
Lady Matlock, too, offered a calm but firm word, her tone admitting no contradiction. “It is not as uncommon as you suspect, Miss Elizabeth. Allow him this courtesy. Doing otherwise would draw more notice to his gesture than you may wish to have others know.”
Elizabeth recognised the wisdom of the advice even as it pricked painfully at her pride.
She had little choice but to acquiesce; her sense of independence smarted at the ease with which the decision had been made without her.
It had been high-handed of him, in her view, to speak with their aunts rather than with her directly.
His reasoning might have been sound, but she silently vowed to discuss the matter with him when next they were alone—though she admitted that would likely have to wait until they were again in Hertfordshire, where privacy was more easily secured than in the perpetual bustle of Town.
Turning to the mirror as the dressmaker adjusted a bodice, she scarcely recognised the composed young woman reflected there, already being shaped into someone else’s expectations.
As for the Countess, Elizabeth remained uncertain whether Lady Matlock truly approved of her, or had merely resigned herself to her nephew’s choice and now sought to present an appearance of acceptance before society.
Lady Matlock had received her kindly at their first meeting, yet Elizabeth could not quite dispel the sense that she was not the sort of woman William’s aunt had once imagined for him.
She wondered, too, whether that opinion had altered upon learning that William had supplemented the funds she brought to purchase her trousseau.
Surely Lady Matlock would have expected her nephew to marry advantageously, and Elizabeth brought little in the way of fortune or connexions to recommend her beyond her own character.
Even so, the Countess’s guidance proved invaluable during their excursions into the shops.
Lady Matlock’s eye missed little; she weighed colours against complexion, fabrics against setting, and propriety against fashion with equal care, her directions delivered with a certainty that brooked no argument.
Elizabeth, though sometimes overruled, could not help but feel grateful for her steady—if somewhat commanding—presence.
Tea at Lady Matlock’s home was a trial of a different sort. The room was filled with ladies whose smiles lingered just long enough to assess her, whose eyes seemed to weigh Elizabeth’s manner as carefully as her gown.
“You must find London very different from Hertfordshire,” one matron observed pleasantly, though her manner reminded Elizabeth rather too strongly of Caroline Bingley.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied with a smile that was all composure. “It offers more company—and rather less privacy. Still, I find the theatre endlessly diverting, and Hatchards quite capable of reconciling me to almost any inconvenience.”
Lady Matlock’s lips twitched faintly, though she said nothing, merely pouring the tea herself and steering the conversation elsewhere with practised ease. Elizabeth could not decide whether she had passed some unseen test, or merely avoided failing it outright.
Another awkward moment arose on the second morning of their stay, when Mr Bingley accompanied Mr Darcy to the Gardiners’ home in Gracechurch Street.
It had been several weeks since the Bennet sisters had last seen him; while they and Darcy had remained in Hertfordshire, Mr Bingley had been in London throughout, his absence explained—courteously, if indistinctly—by matters requiring his attention on his sister’s behalf.
Elizabeth knew the truth of the matter, but she had been unable to explain it fully to Jane, and with the tension already between them, had confined herself to quiet reassurances that whatever Miss Bingley had said was untrue.
Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner did their utmost to receive their guests with warmth, though the strain beneath the civility settled upon the room like an unspoken presence.
“London is very full at present,” Mrs Gardiner observed, once the first courtesies had been exchanged. “It seems the approaching Season draws everyone to Town earlier each year.”
“Indeed it does,” Mr Bingley replied readily enough, though his smile faltered as he spoke, his gaze drifting towards Jane, who sat without meeting anyone’s eye.
He cleared his throat and turned again to Mrs Gardiner.
“I have found it busier than I expected. For the past fortnight I have been much occupied with business matters and have had little leisure for society—far less than I should have wished.” He hesitated, as though choosing his words with care, then added more softly, “But now that you are in Town”—his look returned to Jane—“I hope my affairs will allow me greater freedom, and that I may have the pleasure of escorting you about, in Darcy’s company. ”
Mary, seated near the window, looked up from the book she had brought with her. “And Christmas is approaching as well,” she observed with quiet earnestness, “which often encourages people to set aside misunderstandings and think more charitably of one another.”
Elizabeth glanced at her sister and offered a small, encouraging smile. Darcy inclined his head in polite acknowledgement, and the conversation, though still tentative, seemed for the moment to ease.
Jane, meanwhile, said nothing. She listened attentively, her expression calm, yet her hands remained clasped in her lap, her gloves folded and refolded with unnecessary care, and she did not once meet Mr Bingley’s eye.
He appeared keenly aware of her silence.
More than once, he seemed on the brink of addressing her directly, only to divert his attention to Elizabeth or Mrs Gardiner with some mild remark on the weather or the upcoming Season.
Elizabeth observed the exchange with growing impatience.
Jane’s reserve only seemed to increase Mr Bingley’s hesitation, while his caution confirmed Jane’s own doubts about his constancy.
After so many weeks apart, the distance between them felt heavier than it had any right to be.
In Hertfordshire, such misunderstandings might linger; in London, they seemed only to multiply.
If only one of them would speak plainly, Elizabeth thought, the rest might yet be mended.
Social obligations offered little respite from each day’s errands.
Much of their time was spent in the company of Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley, yet other engagements claimed them as well.
They attended the theatre one evening, where Elizabeth found herself watching the audience as closely as the stage—the flutter of fans, the whispered asides, the glances exchanged across the rows.
Once, when laughter rippled through the house, Darcy leant slightly towards her.
“You are not watching the play,” he observed quietly.
“I am,” she replied with a smile. “I simply find the company quite as instructive.”
His expression softened. “You will do very well in London.”
Elizabeth was not entirely certain whether the remark pleased or unsettled her.