CHAPTER 20 #2
“My dear Lizzy,” said Mrs. Gardiner, drawing back to look at her, “you are thinner than I like.”
“I am very sorry. I shall endeavour to disappoint you less at dinner.”
Mr. Gardiner laughed. “That is a promise in which I have confidence.”
It was easy enough after that to speak of roads, weather, Jane’s marriage, and whether Mrs. Bennet had survived so much joy without requiring medical attention.
Mrs. Gardiner asked with warmth; Elizabeth answered with warmth; and still, beneath every exchange, there lay the odd little pause where habit should have been.
Mrs. Marwood had not forbidden closeness with the Gardiners.
She had merely failed to make room for it.
They had been greeted, thanked, visited, and kept in exactly that order.
Mrs. Marwood had not taken Elizabeth from Longbourn in order to have her absorbed by another Bennet branch, however sensible.
The breakfast room pleased them, as it pleased nearly everyone who possessed eyes and was prepared to use them generously.
Mrs. Gardiner admired its cheerfulness. Mr. Gardiner approved the workmanship and observed that the chairs were good without being vain of it.
Pom-Pom accepted their praise as part of the rent owed to him by visitors.
Then they went into the drawing room, where fault could be discussed with greater freedom.
Mr. Gardiner agreed at once that the rosewood chairs were past useful repair.
“A mended chair in a drawing room,” he said, testing the back of one with careful pressure, “is often more expensive than a replaced one. It must be repaired, disguised, apologized for, and finally removed after injuring somebody’s aunt.”
“I have no wish to injure an aunt.”
“Then we are here in time.”
Mrs. Gardiner studied the curtains, the carpet, and the proposed balance of colour with the attentiveness of a woman who understood both economy and impression.
“You do not want anything too new, Lizzy. A fashionable chair would make the rest of the room look neglected.”
“I am discovering that furniture has very high social feelings.”
“Furniture,” said Mr. Gardiner, “is like many people. It behaves best among its equals.”
“Then I must choose chairs with good principles and moderate expectations.”
“I know a cabinet-maker in Holborn who may suit you,” he said. “If the old pattern is worth preserving, he can follow it without making the room look newly furnished. If it is not, he will tell us so without charging for the insult.”
“Excellent,” said Elizabeth. “I should like a chair with lineage, but not biography.”
Mr. Gardiner smiled. “There is a distinction?”
“A serious one. I do not object to age in furniture. I object to mystery. I have no wish to sit where someone else’s cat may have expired.”
“Then we shall avoid sentimental upholstery.”
It was useful advice. Better than useful, perhaps; it was kind, practical, and offered without claim. Elizabeth felt herself beginning to be glad she had asked them.
The feeling was still new enough to be examined when Mrs. Gardiner, who had been considering the room with an expression more thoughtful than admiring, said, “You have had some assistance with these matters, I think? Your note mentioned accounts and repairs.”
Elizabeth was adjusting the edge of one curtain, and kept her eyes upon the cloth.
“Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker advise where the law and money are concerned. I have also had assistance in property matters from Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy?” said Mrs. Gardiner.
There was nothing dramatic in her voice. That made Elizabeth look at her.
“Of Derbyshire?” Mrs. Gardiner added.
“Yes.”
Mr. Gardiner’s expression altered slightly, not in recognition, but in attention to his wife’s attention.
“I know him in business,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Gardiner lowered her voice. “Then be careful, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth almost smiled, but something in her aunt’s face prevented it.
“Careful? He is the most careful man I have ever met.”
“That may be.”
“He writes memoranda with the gravity of a bishop and looks pained if an agreement contains an unnecessary adjective. If there is a charge against him, I cannot believe it is carelessness.”
“No,” said Mrs. Gardiner quietly. “I do not mean carelessness.”
A cart went by in the square below, its wheels striking hard over the half-frozen ruts. The ordinary sound filled the pause and passed on.
“I dislike repeating what I cannot prove,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “But I was born in Derbyshire, and there are places where dreadful things are said of his character.”
Elizabeth’s fingers rested on the edge of the curtain.
“What things?”
Mrs. Gardiner hesitated. “Not enough to accuse. Enough to be uneasy.”
“That is a very convenient amount.”
“Lizzy.”
Elizabeth let the curtain fall. “I beg your pardon. That was uncivil.”
“It was not unnatural.” Mrs. Gardiner’s voice softened. “I do not ask you to believe every tale. I ask you not to suppose that every warning is malice.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “I do not suppose that.”
“I have heard of an old disgrace. Of debts, bad company, women injured — not stories fit for me to dress up as fact. They may have grown in the telling. Such things often do. But sometimes some is enough.”
“For caution,” Elizabeth replied, too quickly. “Not for judgment.”
She knew at once that she had spoken sharply. Worse, she was not sure she repented it.
Mrs. Gardiner looked grieved. “I ask only that you be cautious.”
“I can be cautious without being unjust.”
“I hope you can.”
The two condemned chairs stood between them, cracked, polished, and suddenly very useful as objects upon which nobody needed to look directly at anybody else.
Mr. Gardiner cleared his throat. “Your aunt does not accuse him, Lizzy. She asks that you not be placed where accusation might reach you first.”
Elizabeth nodded.
It was easier than answering. If she spoke again too soon, she would either say too much for Mr. Darcy or too little for her aunt, and both would be wrong.
Mrs. Gardiner touched the back of the nearest chair, perhaps to return them all to safer ground.
“This one leans very badly.”
“It has suffered from bad company,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Gardiner’s mouth moved, almost smiling.
Mr. Gardiner accepted the return to furniture with gratitude. “Holborn tomorrow, if you are free. I shall send word ahead. We may look first at the pattern and the room’s measurements, and if nothing suits, order a pair.”
“Thank you. That would be very good.”
“And you must dine with us afterward,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “The children will like to see you.”
Elizabeth agreed, because refusal would have made the morning too pointed, and because she did like the Gardiner children in the moderate way one likes children who belong to other people and may therefore be enjoyed without permanent surrender.
When the Gardiners left, the drawing room seemed less settled than before.
This was probably progress. A room could not be improved while it remained too convinced of itself.
Mrs. Albright came in to ask whether the condemned chairs were to be removed at once.
“Not yet,” said Elizabeth. “Let them remain until tomorrow. They have been of some service.”
Mrs. Albright did not ask how.
Elizabeth went back to the breakfast room and found Pom-Pom asleep on his cushion, the fire perfect, the paper charming, and the remembrance of the second roll still entirely just. She stood there for a moment, surrounded by the evidence of a successful room, and could not sit down.
That was not the room’s fault. The room was excellent. It had performed its duties admirably and could not be blamed because relations, rumours, old grief, and new draperies had made her restless.