CHAPTER 32 #2
Jane’s blush deepened, and Elizabeth, seeing it, felt a small pressure beneath the ribs that was not pain, not envy, and not simple pleasure.
Jane’s happiness came into rooms before her and took up space without offending anyone.
Mr. Bingley did not seem to fear that happiness might be made evidence against him, or turned by family into a weapon.
He only loved his wife with the easy openness of a man who had never been taught to distrust affection in public.
Elizabeth looked away first.
Miss Bingley was watching Lord Pomington.
“And his lordship?” said she. “Must we attempt the honour of his company also?”
“I believe Lord Pomington would not appreciate the opera.”
Mr. Bingley turned at once toward the chair by the fire. “Does he dislike music?”
“No. Only applause, strangers, late hours, strong voices, and not being the principal object of attention.”
Miss Bingley glanced toward the dog. “Then his lordship is very like half the audience, though more honest.”
Elizabeth laughed before she could prevent it. “Miss Bingley, that is unjust to Lord Pomington. He is honest only when concealment would require effort.”
“Then he is exactly like half the audience.”
Mrs. Doddridge, without lifting her eyes from her work, said, “His lordship also dislikes being waked after ten.”
“Then,” said Mr. Bingley solemnly, “we must spare him the opera and preserve his good opinion for another occasion.”
Lord Pomington blinked with the air of a creature whose good opinion was not so easily preserved as gentlemen liked to imagine.
There was talk of Saturday. Miss Bingley had secured the box through an acquaintance whose claims to elegance were apparently sufficient to satisfy her.
Mrs. Hurst would attend, provided the evening did not turn cold enough to make sensibility fashionable; Mr. Hurst would attend, provided dinner was early, adequate, and not spoken of as a mere preliminary to music.
Mr. Bingley thought of asking the Gardiners, if Elizabeth liked the idea and if space could be contrived; Jane hoped they might join on some future occasion if not this one.
Elizabeth approved the thought, but not the necessity.
There was no need to bring every portion of her life into the same box merely because Mr. Darcy had warned her that one man might misuse connection.
Connection, she was beginning to see, had a vulgar habit of multiplying itself.
Miss Bingley’s civility throughout was of a new and interesting kind.
She did not soften into affection, which would have been alarming.
She did not condescend, which would have been tedious.
She addressed Elizabeth as a woman whose presence altered the balance of a party and whose house could no longer be dismissed as a comfortable eccentricity inherited from an elderly aunt.
Portman Square had done what no argument could have done.
It had become visible to Miss Bingley as consequence.
Elizabeth did not dislike the improvement.
She did not entirely trust it either.
“You are very generous,” said she, when Miss Bingley described the box and its arrangement with more care than contempt.
“Not generous,” said Miss Bingley. “Accurate. Your dinner was better than most dinners, and not merely because it was well served. There are houses where one eats excellently and leaves with no wish to repeat the experiment. Yours is not one of them.”
This, Elizabeth understood, was praise in Miss Bingley’s language, and not an inconsiderable amount of it.
“I am overcome,” said she. “Mostly.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth altered. “Then I am satisfied. Mostly.”
Jane smiled between them as if this exchange represented harmony of the warmest kind. Mr. Bingley looked positively radiant.
They remained nearly half an hour longer.
Jane spoke of settling into town, of calls already paid, of Miss Bingley’s opinions on curtains, and of Charles’s belief that any chair became excellent if Jane happened to sit near it.
Mr. Bingley accepted this accusation as no more than justice and added that chairs, houses, tea services, opera boxes, and London itself were all improved by the same principle.
“You see,” said Jane, half-laughing and half-reproving, “what I endure.”
“I do,” said Elizabeth. “And I admire your fortitude. It must be very severe to be adored through all the furniture.”
“Not severe,” said Jane, so simply that the jest softened in Elizabeth’s hands. “Only new.”
For one moment the two sisters looked at one another, and the old affection between them passed through the room like a light not quite strong enough to remove every shadow, but strong enough to show what remained.
Then Mr. Bingley, who had been attempting to persuade Lord Pomington that a gloved finger was not an insult, was rejected with such finality that all serious feeling had to give way.
When at last Jane rose, Elizabeth walked with her a little apart while Bingley received Miss Bingley’s reminder that hats, gloves, carriage timing, and human gratitude must all be assembled before they could depart.
“Lizzy,” Jane said softly, “are you quite well?”
“Perfectly.”
Jane did not believe her.
Elizabeth smiled. “I have only had a morning of too much sense.”
“That does not sound like a complaint you commonly make.”
“No, which is why I am bearing it badly.”
Jane’s eyes searched her face. “You will tell me, if I may be of use?”
“I know.”
It was an answer and not an answer. Jane understood both. Her hand found Elizabeth’s for a moment and pressed it.
Elizabeth was glad it was not the hand Mr. Darcy had kissed.
She was immediately ashamed of the thought.
Then Jane was called back into Bingley’s orbit; there were final arrangements to settle, a promise to send the exact hour, and Mr. Bingley’s renewed declaration that Saturday would be a triumph if only no one allowed Caroline to manage the entire world out of pleasure.
Miss Bingley turned at the door.
“Saturday, then, Miss Bennet.”
“Saturday.”
“And do not dress as if we are dragging you out of retirement. My brother will only take encouragement from martyrdom.”
“I shall endeavour to appear rescued without seeming grateful.”
“Excellent,” said Miss Bingley. “That is exactly the tone.”
The door closed behind them, and the house altered again.
It was astonishing how quickly happiness could leave evidence and absence behind it.
The drawing room remained warm. Two teacups bore proof of use.
A cushion had been displaced by Lord Pomington’s movements.
Jane’s laugh seemed still to linger near the chair she had occupied; Mr. Bingley’s voice, with all its friendly confidence, had only just withdrawn from the air; and Miss Bingley’s civility had left behind it the faint impression of a door opened because the lock had been judged good enough.
Elizabeth stood in the centre of the room and let silence return.
Then she looked down at the glove still in her hand.
Mr. Wickham had not yet done her any harm.
Elizabeth was fair enough to admit it.
It did not matter nearly so much as it ought.