CHAPTER 17
A Man May Be Judged at Dinner
By early December, Portman Square had settled into cold weather with more competence than cheer.
Fires were lit earlier, mats multiplied by the hall door, Pom-Pom’s winter wrappers came out of storage, and Cook had begun producing ginger snaps in what Mrs. Albright called “a little seasonal encouragement.”
Elizabeth suspected the household had conspired to comfort her through baked goods, which was impertinent but not ineffective.
“They are for the season, miss,” said Mrs. Albright, when Elizabeth found a fresh plate arranged beside the tea tray.
“Are we being seasonal?”
“Cook thought it desirable.”
“Desirable to whom?”
“To the household, miss.”
Elizabeth considered the ginger snaps. They were small, crisp, darkly fragrant, and arranged with more intention than apology.
“The household is becoming managing.”
“Yes, miss.”
“I suppose Mrs. Marwood would have called them unnecessary.”
“Very likely, miss.”
Elizabeth took one. It snapped exactly as it ought.
“She would have eaten three,” she said.
Mrs. Albright permitted herself no smile, but the corner of her mouth considered the question. “Cook thought so too, miss.”
It was therefore in the middle of this quiet campaign for seasonal joy that Mr. Darcy was announced.
Elizabeth was in the morning-room with two letters unanswered, a rent abstract half-understood, Pom-Pom near the hearth in a brown flannel contrivance, and Mrs. Doddridge by the fire sewing a strip of fur along the edge of what was either a dog’s cloak or a garment for a very small invalid prince.
The sky outside was the colour of pewter.
The fire was excellent. The tea was hot.
The ginger snaps had been judged fit for human consolation.
It was, in all respects, a morning designed to make any reasonable gentleman grateful for admittance.
Mr. Darcy entered as if gratitude, though certainly felt, must not be permitted to become a habit.
He bowed with perfect correctness. He looked well, which was inconvenient; grave, which was ordinary; and miserable in a manner Elizabeth found wholly unnecessary.
There was something of a large, gentle dog about him that morning: noble, dark-eyed, and convinced he had been told to remain outside in the weather.
Elizabeth, observing him over her cup, wondered who had trodden upon Mr. Darcy’s paws.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said. “You have braved the weather.”
“The weather is not severe.”
“That is the sort of thing gentlemen say when they have not been asked to admire it from a drawing-room window.”
His mouth moved very slightly. Not enough.
“I hope I do not intrude.”
“Upon accounts and ginger snaps? You may be the salvation of both.”
He glanced toward the plate. “Ginger snaps?”
“Cook is practising seasonal joy.”
“Very commendable.”
“Do not praise them before you have tasted them. It will make Cook over-confident, and then none of us will be safe by Christmas.”
Elizabeth sat, motioned him to his accustomed chair, and rang for fresh tea because a gentleman who came on business in December must be warmed whether he chose to acknowledge the necessity or not.
Mrs. Doddridge rose.
“Shall I leave you, miss?”
“No, pray stay. Mr. Darcy comes on matters of property and may require the support of witnesses.”
Mrs. Doddridge resumed her chair.
“Yes, miss.”
Mr. Darcy placed several papers upon the table with the exactness of a man setting down evidence.
“I have brought Mr. Terling’s memorandum.”
“Already?”
“He returned it yesterday at noon, as required.”
“And was it satisfactory?”
“I think it promising.”
“Promising is a word one uses when one wishes neither to praise nor to be blamed later for praising.”
“It is also accurate.”
“That is less entertaining.”
He accepted tea, then one ginger snap, then, after visible internal negotiation, a sandwich fit for a gentleman.
The last part required intervention.
“You must not look at it as if it were a legal trap,” said Elizabeth.
“I have already eaten.”
“When?”
He hesitated half a beat too long.
“Then you may eat again from civility.”
He obeyed, though with too much restraint to satisfy her. A man might be grateful for a good sandwich without seeming to compromise his honour.
Pom-Pom, who had raised his head at Mr. Darcy’s entrance, considered whether to acknowledge him.
After several moments he rose, approached with stiff dignity, sniffed the side of Mr. Darcy’s shoe, and then returned to the hearthrug with his back partly turned.
It was, for Pom-Pom, a moderate welcome.
“Good morning, Lord Pomington,” said Mr. Darcy.
Pom-Pom’s ear twitched.
“He is in a Christian humour today,” said Elizabeth. “Do not presume upon it.”
“I shall endeavour not to.”
She unfolded Samuel Terling’s memorandum.
The hand was clean, well-spaced, and neither showy nor cramped.
Mr. Terling had arranged the Cotton Lane questions under headings: Repairs, Arrears, Customary Claims, Tenant Complaints, Tradesmen, Urgent Matters, and Matters Not To Be Decided Without Direction.
Elizabeth liked that last heading before reading a word beneath it.
Mr. Terling did not flatter the property or pretend to more knowledge than he had.
He understood that repairs must precede stricter enforcement where neglect had been allowed to harden into expectation.
He recommended a weekly inspection, a separate book for complaints, written acknowledgment of any indulgence granted, and immediate report of damp, drains, unsafe walls, or encroachments upon shared access.
Most impertinently, he observed that no agent could succeed if the owner tired of regularity before the tenants did.
Elizabeth looked up.
“He is impertinent.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression altered. “He is?”
“Usefully. He has observed that if I require regularity, I must continue it.”
“He is not wrong.”
“I did not say he was wrong. That is what makes it impertinent.”
She read on.
Under Mr. Harding’s yard, Mr. Terling had written:
Long habit must be recorded, but not immediately honoured. Ask what is claimed, when it began, whether anyone objected, and whether the lease says anything at all. Confidence is not title.
Elizabeth laughed.
Mr. Darcy looked at her, and for one moment his expression warmed before he mastered it.
She saw it. Worse, she liked seeing it.
Then he looked back at his cup.
Infuriating man.
“He writes sensibly,” she said.
“I thought so.”
“You thought so in the tone of a man determined not to have thought too much.”
“That is an intricate tone.”
“You possess it.”
He did not answer.
Elizabeth turned the last page. “What is his age?”
“Three-and-twenty, I believe.”
“Very young.”
“Yes.”
“Younger than Mr. Harding’s self-importance by several decades.”
“Most men are.”
That was nearly satisfying.
Elizabeth set the memorandum down and considered the matter.
She could not appoint Mr. Terling merely because Mr. Darcy recommended him.
She could not reject him merely because he was young.
Cotton Lane needed a man who could see, record, listen, and not become either tyrannical or pliable in the face of tenants, tradesmen, damp walls, personal histories, and claims of ancient usage.
A clever memorandum was one thing. Behaviour under pressure was another.
“I must see him,” she said.
“Certainly. He may wait upon you here, or at Mr. Hartwood’s office if you prefer.”
“No.”
Mr. Darcy waited.
“I must see him at dinner.”
“At dinner?”
“Certainly.”
“You wish to invite Mr. Terling to dinner.”
“I wish to judge whether he can behave at dinner with three men of business, one woman who owns the property, and food he is too polite to refuse.”
“That is not the usual manner of appointing an agent.”
“Then perhaps it has been badly done.”
He looked at her as if the absurdity were trying to defeat his self-command.
Elizabeth continued, “A man may behave very well in chambers, where chairs are placed for the purpose, questions arrive in expected forms, and everyone pretends employment is enough to explain discomfort. Cotton Lane will not be a set of chambers. Cotton Lane will be widows, damp, arrears, tradesmen, yards, goats, tears, broken shutters, Mr. Harding, and probably several matters no Christian imagination has yet conceived.”
“Goats?”
“I have not ruled them out.”
She leaned back. “If he is frightened by supper, he cannot have Cotton Lane.”
“He did not appear easily frightened.”
“That is because he had not yet dined with Mr. Beaker.”
“Mr. Beaker is not alarming.”
“Mr. Beaker is terrifying. He can make a column of figures look disappointed in one.”
“Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker shall be asked for the day after tomorrow. You will come too, of course.”
He stilled.
“Miss Bennet—”
“Do not say you are engaged. I have not yet asked Mrs. Albright to arrange roast beef, and I should dislike wasting hope upon false premises.”
“I only meant that my presence may prejudice the decision.”
“It will. That is why I want you there.”
He looked at her.
“You have seen him first. You know where he was promising and where he may have been performing. Mr. Hartwood will test law. Mr. Beaker will test arithmetic. I shall test character. You may test whether he remains the same man when transferred from one room to another.”
Mr. Darcy was silent for a moment. Then he said, “If you think it useful, I will attend.”
Useful.
The word was becoming intolerable.
“I am relieved,” said Elizabeth, “that my dinner may aspire to usefulness.”
He heard something in her tone. She saw that he did. He looked at her, not long, but with a sort of checked attention that made her more vexed than neglect would have done.
Then he reached for his gloves.
Already.
“You are leaving?”
“I have several matters requiring attention.”
“More urgent than ginger snaps?”
“Few things could be.”
“Yet you go.”
“I must.”
He was entirely courteous. Entirely proper. Entirely unbearable.
Elizabeth rose because remaining seated would have admitted too much irritation.
“Then we shall expect you the day after tomorrow.”