CHAPTER 25
The Advantages of Young Company
The sage silk did not object to candlelight.
This was fortunate, for Elizabeth had already resolved that if she must be improved by dinner, she would at least arrive in her own carriage to suffer it.
Mrs. Doddridge sat opposite her with her hands folded, composed beneath a bonnet of such sober respectability that no one could have suspected her of having spent the morning altering a blue wool wrapper for an offended dog.
Pom-Pom, excluded from the evening by a sentence which Elizabeth had not yet forgiven, remained at home with Mrs. Albright, a warm brick, and a sense of injustice sufficient for three households.
“You need not look so resigned,” said Elizabeth, as the carriage turned out of Portman Square.
Mrs. Doddridge blinked. “No, miss.”
“You are going to dinner, not execution.”
“Yes, miss.”
“That answer would comfort me more if it did not suit both.”
Mrs. Doddridge considered this, then said, “Very likely, miss.”
Elizabeth laughed, and was glad of it. She had dressed with more care than she intended to confess.
Evans had done her hair a little more softly than usual, coaxing the brown curls into order without persuading them into obedience; the sage silk lay well, with darker trimming narrow enough to avoid argument; and though Elizabeth had stood before the glass determined to find it excessive, the gown had declined to assist her.
It was not mourning. It was not display. It was a quiet colour that looked almost severe until she moved, and then caught warmth.
Mrs. Doddridge had said, “Very suitable, miss,” which, from Mrs. Doddridge, came close to applause.
The Westbrooks lived in a handsome house in a good street, not grand enough to oppress and not modest enough to excuse neglect. Their lamps were bright, their servants competent, and their door opened before Elizabeth had fully finished assuring herself that dinner was only dinner.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were already there. Mrs. Gardiner stood near the fire, looking as if she had arranged a civility and now hoped it would behave. Mr. Gardiner came forward at once, took Elizabeth’s hand warmly, and looked her over with affectionate approval.
“My dear Lizzy. We are outdone.”
“By the silk?”
“By the whole effect.”
“Then you must not tell Evans. She will become impossible.”
“I thought she had already reached that distinction.”
“Only in private.”
Mrs. Gardiner came next. Her glance touched Elizabeth’s gown, her composure, Mrs. Doddridge, and the absence of Pom-Pom.
“Very well,” she murmured.
“Do not sound so relieved,” said Elizabeth. “It is injurious to the silk.”
“I am admiring the silk.”
“The silk accepts admiration only in moderate quantities.”
“Then I shall restrain myself.”
“That is kind. It is newly exposed to society.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled, but before she could answer, Mrs. Westbrook advanced.
She was a good-looking woman of perhaps five-and-forty, with an open manner, a handsome cap, and the composed satisfaction of a person accustomed to arranging comfort for other people without first asking whether they liked the plan.
She received Elizabeth kindly, praised Mrs. Gardiner for bringing her, and declared that Miss Bennet’s name had long been familiar to them.
Elizabeth, who had been made familiar to many people by report and rarely improved by it, curtsied and said what was proper.
Mr. Westbrook followed with hearty civility. He was a square, prosperous man, cheerful in face and voice, and seemed sincerely pleased by every chair in his own drawing room. Elizabeth liked him immediately for not examining her as if she had been imported with the dessert.
The daughters were soon distinguished. Mrs. Ridge, the elder, was recently married and still possessed the soft brightness of a young woman not yet tired of being called Mrs. Ridge.
Her husband stood beside her with an agreeable expression and the air of a man who found his wife’s family pleasant, which was in itself a recommendation.
Miss Westbrook, newly out, was pretty, shy in motion but quick in eyes, and looked at Elizabeth’s gown with such admiration that Elizabeth forgave her at once.
Then Mrs. Westbrook said, “And my nephew, Mr. Clark,” and the evening acquired its first warning.
Mr. Jonathan Clark bowed with excellent polish.
He was handsome. Elizabeth admitted it at once, because there was no merit in denying evidence.
He had fine hair, good teeth, a well-tied cravat, and the smooth complexion of a gentleman who had never had to prove himself by anything less comfortable than punctual attendance at dinner.
His figure was good, his address correct, and his expression carried that faint expectation of approval which spoils many handsome men before they become old enough to deserve it.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, with a bow that suggested he knew exactly how far he had inclined.
“Mr. Clark.”
“Mrs. Gardiner has told us that you are lately returned from Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth glanced once at her aunt, who looked innocent and not wholly unalarmed.
“I am lately returned from many things,” said Elizabeth. “Hertfordshire is one of them.”
Mr. Clark smiled as if he had discovered wit and meant to be generous with it. “The country has many advantages.”
“So I am frequently informed by those who possess it.”
“My father’s place is in Sussex.”
“Then you may speak with authority.”
“Modest authority,” he said, with a smile that did not seem to suspect the danger of the word modest. “It is not a great estate, but it is an old one.”
Elizabeth had never before known land to age its owner by association, but she received the information with civility.
“How fortunate for your father.”
“For us all, I hope,” said Mr. Clark. “A gentleman’s consequence is naturally rooted in land.”
“Is it? I had supposed some of it might be rooted in conduct.”
He looked pleased, as if she had agreed with him in a more graceful form.
“Certainly, certainly. Conduct too.”
Mr. Gardiner, who had heard enough to understand the outline of the evening, turned smoothly to Mr. Westbrook and asked whether the frost had injured the roads from the north.
Mr. Westbrook seized the subject with pleasure; Mrs. Gardiner moved Elizabeth toward Mrs. Ridge; and for a few minutes Mr. Clark was obliged to be handsome at a distance.
The reprieve was brief.
At dinner, Elizabeth discovered that Mr. Clark had been placed beside her with all the subtlety of a chair set too near the fire.
The table was handsome, the dishes good, and the company respectable.
Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Westbrook did well together, being men who could speak of weather, business, roads, and dinner with equal seriousness.
Mrs. Ridge was sweet; Mr. Ridge agreeable; Miss Westbrook eager to please; and Mrs. Doddridge, placed with proper civility where she could be respectable without becoming central, bore the arrangement as she bore most human contrivances: with the composure of upholstery that had seen worse rooms.
Mr. Clark devoted himself to Elizabeth.
It was a devotion more polished than interesting.
He spoke first of Sussex. Then of turnpike roads.
Then of his father’s tenants, whom he described with the confidence of a man who had never depended upon their good opinion.
He praised London in terms that made clear he preferred the country, and praised the country in terms that made clear he expected London to feel deprived by his preference.
Elizabeth listened, answered, and gradually became convinced that Mr. Clark’s handsomeness would have been far more effective had it been left unsupported by speech.
“Do you ride, Miss Bennet?” he asked.
“When circumstances and horses permit.”
“A lady who rides well is a charming sight.”
“How fortunate for the spectators.”
He accepted this as modesty. “My sisters ride a little. Not boldly, of course. I do not approve of boldness in ladies.”
“Do you not?”
“No. Spirit, certainly. A degree of animation. But boldness is not feminine.”
Elizabeth took a sip of wine and wondered whether Pom-Pom, had he been present, would have growled before or after the word feminine.
“How useful,” she said, “to have the boundaries so clearly marked.”
He inclined his head. “One learns these things in a well-ordered family.”
“Indeed.”
Across the table, Mr. Gardiner’s eye met hers for one brief instant. It held a spark of amusement, apology, and warning. Elizabeth lowered her lashes before she laughed.
After dinner, when the ladies withdrew, Miss Westbrook was persuaded to play.
She resisted prettily, and with evident sincerity.
Her mother encouraged; Mrs. Ridge coaxed; Mrs. Gardiner added a kind word; and Miss Westbrook sat at last with pink cheeks and trembling fingers.
She played a short Italian air, not brilliantly, but sweetly, and with enough feeling to make Elizabeth like her better.
There was a small hesitancy near the close, quickly recovered, and when she finished, Elizabeth praised the piece with honest warmth.
“You have a very pretty touch,” she said. “It suits that air exactly.”
Miss Westbrook looked delighted. “Do you think so?”
“I would not say it if I did not. A false compliment is a very poor reward for surviving performance.”
Miss Westbrook laughed, relieved and grateful.
This, unfortunately, gave Mrs. Westbrook her opportunity.
“Then you must give us something, Miss Bennet. Only a little. We cannot let you escape after such judgment.”
Elizabeth resisted once. She resisted twice. The third invitation had the whole room behind it, and refusal would have made her more important than compliance.
Mrs. Doddridge looked up from her corner. Her expression said nothing. This made it, in its way, encouraging.
“I will play if Miss Westbrook will forgive a visitor for taking possession of her instrument.”
Miss Westbrook declared herself honoured.