CHAPTER 17 #2
“At what hour?”
“Seven. We are not giving a rout. We are judging an agent.”
“I shall be punctual.”
“Of course you shall. It is one of your more aggressive virtues.”
He bowed, and because he was Mr. Darcy, he did not answer that as he might have done had he been less determined to be made of stone and papers.
When he had gone, the room seemed at once warmer and less interesting.
Mrs. Doddridge said, “Shall I inform Mrs. Albright of the dinner, miss?”
“Yes.”
“For the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“With Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth turned. “You need not say it as if Mr. Darcy were the roast.”
“No, miss.”
Pom-Pom sneezed from the hearth.
Elizabeth looked down at him. “Do not begin with me. You were pleased to see him too.”
Pom-Pom turned his face to the fire in virtuous denial.
When Mrs. Albright came to remove the tray, Elizabeth said, “Pray have a small packet of ginger snaps made up for Mr. Darcy.”
“For his chambers, miss?”
“Certainly. There is no reason his chambers should be denied seasonal joy merely because he is determined to be.”
“No, miss.”
“And Mrs. Albright.”
“Yes, miss?”
“Do not look pleased with yourself.”
“No, miss.”
“You are doing so internally.”
“Very likely, miss.”
Elizabeth had not meant to laugh, which made the matter worse.
The dinner instruction was received with the grave readiness of a woman who knew that all emotional irregularity, if properly managed, became menu and timing.
“Not a company dinner,” said Elizabeth. “Not grand. Sensible.”
“Gentlemen’s business, miss?”
“Yes. They are to eat well enough to think and plainly enough not to be distracted by admiration.”
“Roast beef, then. Potatoes. Carrots. Greens. Apple pie. Cheese. Soup to begin if the gentlemen have come through cold.”
“You see why I rely upon you.”
“Cook will be satisfied, miss.”
“With the dinner?”
“With the gentlemen.”
“Are gentlemen more satisfying to cook for?”
“They eat more honestly, miss.”
Elizabeth thought of Mr. Darcy accepting sandwiches as if politeness had been appointed his executor.
“One hopes,” she said.
The day between was occupied by letters, household directions, and that restless anticipation which Elizabeth chose to call preparation.
Mr. Hartwood accepted with warmth, Mr. Beaker with brevity, Mr. Darcy with correctness, and Mr. Terling with gratitude so carefully expressed that Elizabeth began to suspect he had spent twenty minutes removing all exclamation from the note.
By seven on the appointed evening, Portman Square was fully awake.
The house did not glitter. Elizabeth had not wished it to.
It glowed. The hall lamps were steady, the dining-room fire strong, the table bright without ostentation.
The silver was good but not aggressively displayed.
The linen was exact. It was the kind of dinner Mrs. Marwood would have called sufficient, by which she would have meant excellent.
Mrs. Doddridge wore grey silk and an expression of complete neutrality. Pom-Pom, dressed in a dark red evening wrapper edged with black braid, had taken up a position near the drawing-room fire from which he could inspect arrivals with the severity of a magistrate.
Mr. Hartwood came first, smiling and already disposed to approve of any dinner at which business might be made more humane by soup.
Mr. Beaker followed, narrow, tidy, and wearing the air of a man who had never knowingly been surprised by a figure.
Mr. Darcy arrived next, punctual to the minute, his cravat so correct Elizabeth wondered it did not rebuke the room.
Mr. Terling was last by only a few minutes, and so plainly anxious not to be late that Elizabeth forgave the interval.
Her first impression was that he looked young enough to be cheated before breakfast.
His coat had been brushed within an inch of its existence.
His cuffs were clean but worn. His hair had been made obedient by determination rather than skill.
His ears were unfortunately prominent, but as Elizabeth had never yet heard that rent was collected by symmetry, she set that aside.
Youth, however, was another matter. Cotton Lane contained several persons who would consider a young agent not a servant of order but a fresh form of opportunity.
He bowed to her first.
That was promising.
Not too low, not carelessly, and not with a sideways glance at Mr. Darcy to know whether he had done it correctly.
He then bowed to Mrs. Doddridge as if she existed, which raised him still further in Elizabeth’s opinion, and accepted Pom-Pom’s stare with a seriousness that suggested either good manners or excellent nerves.
“Mr. Terling,” said Elizabeth. “You find us prepared to examine you under the disguise of dinner.”
“I am honoured, ma’am.”
“Do not be too honoured. It may interfere with digestion.”
His colour rose, but he smiled faintly. “I shall try to be grateful without becoming useless.”
Mr. Hartwood looked pleased already.
Mr. Darcy said nothing.
Elizabeth saw that he did not, and saw also that he watched Mr. Terling with a concealed concern which touched her more than it ought.
Mr. Darcy had brought the young man forward, but would not push him.
He left Mr. Terling to stand on his own feet.
It was honourable, and therefore, in the present state of Elizabeth’s temper, inconvenient.
Dinner began well.
The soup restored civilization after the cold streets.
Mr. Hartwood spoke of a lease matter in Bloomsbury with enough absurdity to make law almost social.
Mr. Beaker corrected one figure in it without looking as if he had enjoyed doing so, which Elizabeth did not believe.
Mr. Darcy was civil, exact, and too quiet.
Mr. Terling listened more than he spoke, but when addressed, answered plainly.
By the time the roast appeared, Elizabeth had learned that Mr. Terling did not grab at conversation, did not flatter his way into it, and did not seem affronted when Mr. Beaker asked a question in the tone of a man discovering a weak sum in a ledger.
“So,” said Mr. Beaker, carving into his potatoes with grim neatness, “if a repair estimate rises by a third between inspection and completion, what do you ask first?”
Mr. Terling set down his fork.
“Whether the first estimate was dishonest, careless, or incomplete, sir.”
“Not whether the second is too high?”
“I should ask that also. But if the first was false, the second may only have had the misfortune to be true.”
Mr. Beaker looked at him for a moment.
“Possibly.”
From Mr. Beaker, this was almost an embrace.
Mr. Hartwood came next, with all the cheerful malice of a lawyer testing a young man’s footing.
“Suppose two tenants each claim a right to the same yard by custom.”
“I should ask what each means by right, sir, and whether either can show it written.”
“And if both say it has always been so?”
“Then I should know only that both have had practice saying it.”
Elizabeth looked down at her plate.
Mr. Darcy did not smile. His eyes did, which was worse.
“And if Miss Bennet presses you for an immediate answer?” Mr. Hartwood continued.
Mr. Terling glanced at Elizabeth, then back. “I should hope Miss Bennet would prefer a correct answer tomorrow to a foolish one tonight.”
“I might not,” said Elizabeth.
“Then I should disappoint you, ma’am.”
Mr. Hartwood laughed outright. Mr. Beaker gave the smallest possible nod. Mr. Darcy looked at Mr. Terling with quiet approval, then returned his attention at once to his glass as if approval, too, might become immoderate if left unattended.
Elizabeth began to like Mr. Terling.
It was, however, still early.
After the beef had been done justice and the vegetables properly praised by their disappearance, Elizabeth decided it was time to become dishonest.
“Mr. Terling,” she said, “you must forgive me. I mean to be very troublesome for a few minutes.”
He looked attentive rather than alarmed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Suppose I am your tenant. I occupy one of the smaller houses. I am a widow of excellent sensibility and uncertain accounts. I tell you my nephew has run away with a barmaid, and the family must be pacified at once, and therefore my rent cannot possibly be paid this quarter. What do you do?”
Mr. Hartwood lowered his wineglass in anticipation.
Mr. Terling thought for a moment. “I should ask whether the nephew lived in the house, ma’am.”
“Does that matter?”
“It may matter to the peace of the house. It does not at first appear to matter to the rent.”
Mr. Beaker made a sound that might, in another man, have been amusement.
Elizabeth leaned back. “Very severe.”
“No, ma’am. Only uncertain why the barmaid has entered the account.”
Mr. Hartwood coughed into his napkin.
Mr. Darcy’s hand had gone very still beside his plate.
Elizabeth saw it and was wickedly encouraged.
“Very well. Suppose my mother is ill, my sister has taken to her bed from sensibility, and the apothecary refuses to come unless paid.”
“I should be sorry.”
“That is not very useful.”
“No, ma’am. But one should begin where one can be honest.”
Mr. Hartwood murmured approval.
Mr. Terling continued, “I should ask whether part payment could be made, whether arrears had occurred before, whether there was immediate distress in the household, and whether Miss Bennet had given any rule for cases of hardship.”
“I might cry.”
“Then I should offer a chair.”
“And then?”
“Wait until you could answer questions.”
Elizabeth looked at him for a moment, then laughed.
It was not a lad’s answer. Or rather, it was a young man’s answer with the good sense not to pretend at hardness. He would not be cruel for effect. He would not be useless from softness.
Promising.
“Now suppose,” she said, “that I am a private household and my lease expressly forbids livestock.”
Mr. Beaker looked up sharply.
“But you discover I have been keeping goats.”
“Goats, ma’am?”
“Two. Possibly three. The number has not yet been proved. One has eaten the wallpaper and damaged the passage. What do you do?”
Mr. Terling considered.
“First, ma’am, I should wish to see the goats.”