CHAPTER 15
Upholstered in Melancholy
Mr. Darcy came on Monday, and brought Cotton Lane with him.
This was not literally true. Cotton Lane, if made portable, would have objected to its removal in every loose shutter, doubtful yard, damp wall, and tenant who believed memory superior to ink.
But Mr. Darcy entered Portman Square carrying enough copied particulars, rough memoranda, and marked leases to make the street, for the present, as small and manageable as a bundle tied in red tape.
He was shown into the library, where Elizabeth had established herself after breakfast with Mr. Beaker’s letter beside her, two property ledgers open upon the table, and Lord Pomington asleep before the fire in a yellow morning coat trimmed with brown.
Mrs. Doddridge sat near the window with her work.
“Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, rising. “You come armed.”
“Cotton Lane is not yet subdued.”
“No. But Mr. Beaker writes that Numbers Seventeen and Eighteen are willing to surrender.”
“I have seen his note.” Darcy placed his papers upon the table with his usual exactness. “The price is not low, but it is not unreasonable. Mr. Hartwood will of course examine the title before anything is concluded.”
“Mr. Beaker says much the same, only with fewer words and more distrust.”
“A useful economy.”
Elizabeth smiled and took up the letter. Mr. Beaker’s hand, small, compact, and wholly without ornament, had seldom looked more like the man himself.
“He writes that the houses are an inconvenience in their present ownership, and that inconvenience has a cost. I believe that is as near enthusiasm as Mr. Beaker permits himself.”
“Then we must honour the exertion.”
“By buying two decaying houses?”
“By making the decay answerable to one owner.”
“That is almost cheerful.”
“It is almost practical.”
They sat at the library table. Darcy spread out a rough plan of the street, not beautifully drawn, but clear enough to reveal at once what the last inspection had made plain: that Cotton Lane had not merely suffered from poor repairs, but from being divided against itself.
Elizabeth’s houses ran in an irregular line; Numbers Seventeen and Eighteen sat between them and two smaller holdings like obstinate teeth.
Their yards disturbed access. Their rooflines affected drainage.
Their tenants borrowed conveniences from neighbours and called it custom before anyone had been awake enough to call it anything else.
“If they are purchased,” said Darcy, “the lane may be treated as a whole.”
“And if they are not?”
“It may still be improved, but every improvement will require negotiation with a man who has already discovered the value of being inconvenient.”
“Then he is a clever man.”
“Very likely.”
“I dislike clever men when they stand in the way of drains.”
Darcy glanced up. “A very particular prejudice.”
“I am forming many.”
“That is the privilege of proprietorship.”
“No, Mr. Darcy. The punishment.”
His mouth did not smile, but something in his eyes did.
They bent again to the plan. Darcy had marked the damp at Mrs. Bell’s wall, the uncertain claim behind Mr. Harding’s shop, the roofline that appeared to throw water where it had no moral right to go, and the rear yard in which every object seemed to belong to no one until removed, at which point it would certainly become precious property.
Elizabeth listened, asked, objected once, was corrected twice, and liked him better for not softening either correction.
At last she sat back.
“If Numbers Seventeen and Eighteen are bought,” said she, “Cotton Lane may at least be made whole.”
“Whole in ownership,” said Darcy. “Not yet in management.”
“You are very determined not to let me enjoy the purchase.”
“I would not deprive you of enjoyment. Only of false confidence.”
“How generous.”
He inclined his head.
Elizabeth looked down at the plan again. “Then we are not buying two houses because they are attractive.”
“No.”
“We are buying them because Cotton Lane cannot be governed sensibly while someone else owns its middle.”
“Exactly.”
“How very irritating. I prefer extravagance to have the decency to look foolish.”
“In this case, it is unlikely to oblige you.”
“No. Mr. Beaker would not have permitted it. He has a positive prejudice against amusing waste.”
“A prejudice I cannot condemn.”
“That is because you are both severe men.”
“Perhaps.”
“Though in your favour, Mr. Darcy, you occasionally say so aloud.”
This time he almost smiled.
The matter, however, did not become lighter merely because she had mocked it.
Elizabeth understood very well that the money could be found.
That was not the difficulty. Money, in Mrs. Marwood’s house, had never been considered a decoration to be admired at rest. It was a thing to be directed, guarded, set to work, and then watched for signs of misconduct.
If two houses must be purchased so that a whole lane might cease to be governed by accident, the question was not whether the expense could be borne, but whether the consequence justified the action.
Cotton Lane, Elizabeth was beginning to suspect, justified a great deal.
“The repairs must begin before the new leases are pressed,” said she after a moment.
Darcy looked up.
“Yes.”
“If I am to require more regularity from the tenants, I must first show more regularity as owner.”
“That would be wise.”
“It is also annoying.”
“Justice often is.”
She looked back at the plan. “Mrs. Bell’s wall cannot wait for a perfect lease. Nor can the roofline. Nor the drains, if they are as ill-tempered as you suspect.”
“Repairs do not wait upon documents.”
“Then who is to manage them? Mr. Beaker can count the expense. Mr. Hartwood can examine title. You can write the leases. I can decide what I mean. None of that tells me whether a gutter has been honestly mended.”
“No.”
“And I know nothing of roofs and drainage beyond their importance in not falling or flooding.”
“That is more than some owners know.”
“Do not comfort me. Give me a structure.”
He was silent a moment, considering. Elizabeth liked him best in that state: not swift for the sake of appearing clever, not slow from uncertainty, but exact. A thought in Mr. Darcy did not flutter into the room; it took form, tested its own weight, and only then presented itself.
“Then the agent is wanted sooner than we supposed,” said he.
“For repairs?”
“For repairs, inquiries, complaints, estimates, access, and record. If the tenants are to be brought under clearer terms, they should also have a clearer person to whom ordinary grievances may be carried.”
“A man they can learn to trust.”
“If he proves trustworthy.”
“Yes. Cotton Lane has trusted memory, convenience, and Mr. Harding long enough.”
“A dangerous constitution.”
“And not one I mean to preserve.”
She tapped one finger upon the plan.
“Then the order is this. Mr. Hartwood examines title. Mr. Beaker decides whether the purchase money is to be drawn from ready funds or otherwise arranged. You continue with the lease forms. And you also make inquiry for an agent who can inspect, keep a repair book, obtain estimates through proper channels, report to Mr. Beaker, and not be frightened by Mr. Harding.”
“A considerable list.”
“Add honesty, legible handwriting, and a disposition not to become poetical on the subject of drains.”
“That may narrow the field dangerously.”
“I rely upon your courage.”
He looked down at the plan, and Elizabeth had the distinct impression that she had pleased and troubled him at once. It was becoming a very interesting combination in Mr. Darcy.
“I shall make inquiries,” said he.
“A cautious answer.”
“A necessary one. Agents, Miss Bennet, are not improved by being found too quickly.”
“Nor by being found too late, if Mrs. Bell’s wall is to be believed.”
“No.”
“Then we shall be neither rash nor idle. That is always the most difficult arrangement.”
“The most useful ones often are.”
“Then I must endure usefulness.”
“As must Cotton Lane.”
Lord Pomington snored once, as if to mark that he found all reform insufficiently concerned with his comfort.
Darcy gathered the papers that required copying and left with several commissions: to make inquiry after a suitable agent; to draft a short memorandum of duties for such a person; to consider how soon the worst repairs might be begun without prejudice to the title; and to continue the lease structures for shops, dwellings, yards, and mixed abominations.
He also left Elizabeth with a considerable sense of accomplishment.
This was unreasonable. Cotton Lane had not yet a sound drain, a purchased house, an appointed agent, or a single reformed lease.
Nevertheless, the shape of the thing existed.
A disorder had been named. A course had been set.
If a street could not yet be governed, it had at least been threatened with government.
Elizabeth was pleased.
She was still pleased on Tuesday morning until the breakfast room became intolerable.
It did not do so by any new offence. That was perhaps the worst of it.
The room had committed no fresh crime. The curtains were as they had always been: sound, dark, expensive, and determined to keep out more daylight than London could afford to lose.
The carpet was good, though sombre. The chairs had all the moral air of furniture chosen to outlast foolishness.
Nothing in the room had ever been intended to charm. It had been designed to endure.
That, Elizabeth thought, was now the difficulty.
Nothing had altered.