CHAPTER 43 #3
“With Mr. Pratt,” said Miss Bingley from the sofa, where a piece of embroidery appeared to be suffering from neglect and disapproval in equal measure. “He heard Miss Mary Bennet had arrived and was interested in music. It seems the temptation was irresistible.”
Mr. Bingley, standing by the fire with all the open good humour of a man delighted to have another Bennet sister under his roof, smiled. “He brought his variations.”
“All of them?” said Elizabeth.
“Several,” said Mary, with the gravity of one who had survived examination materials.
“How brave of you.”
“The first is overburdened,” said Mary. “The second does not quite know where it means to go. The third is much improved, and the fourth shows real attention to the theme.”
“Then Mr. Pratt has had an education in four movements.”
“Musical,” said Mary.
“Of course. I stand corrected.”
Jane laughed, and came forward to take Elizabeth’s hands.
“Lizzy! I am very glad you came. I did not know whether to expect you today.”
“I did not know it myself until the morning improved.”
Jane’s eyes went to Elizabeth’s face and stayed there. This was one of the inconveniences of being loved by Jane: concealment became ungenerous almost before it became useful.
Elizabeth glanced at the room and understood that no private disclosure could be contrived without first making everyone conscious that something had been withheld. Better, perhaps, to be brave at once. There were very few circumstances in which delay made astonishment more manageable.
“I came to tell Jane something before it becomes general,” she said. “But as I find myself among family, and those nearly family, I may as well be courageous.”
Jane’s hand tightened around hers.
“Lizzy?”
Elizabeth smiled. She could not help it.
“I am engaged to Mr. Darcy.”
The room fell into a silence so complete that Pom-Pom, in Mrs. Doddridge’s arms, sneezed upon it and made no apology.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of perceiving, within half a minute, that nobody in the room understood the matter at all.
Jane looked astonished. Mary looked intellectually displaced. Mr. Bingley’s face brightened by degrees, surprise giving way to benevolence before comprehension had fully arrived. Miss Bingley became polished into a stillness which suggested violent internal rearrangement beneath the surface.
It might have been alarming, had Elizabeth looked uncertain.
Unfortunately for alarm, she looked delighted.
“Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Bingley at last. “Then—that is—I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I mean only that I am very happy for you. I cannot claim a long acquaintance with the gentleman, but I liked what I saw of him very much.”
“You spoke with him for perhaps twenty minutes, Charles,” said Miss Bingley.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bingley. “And some men improve a room much faster than others.”
Jane’s eyes filled.
“Oh, Lizzy.”
“That,” said Elizabeth, “is very nearly the reception I had hoped for.”
Mary was still staring. “You are to be married?”
“Yes.”
“To Mr. Darcy.”
“I believe so. Unless there are several gentlemen of that name being processed through Mr. Hartwood’s office this week, which would be inconvenient.”
Mary did not smile. “I had not considered you likely to marry.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “I had not made myself generally available to the idea.”
Miss Bingley’s eyes sharpened. “I confess I had not understood matters to be so advanced.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “That was one of their chief conveniences.”
A small colour touched Jane’s cheek, though whether from amusement, surprise, or the effort not to cry before company, Elizabeth could not tell.
“Lizzy,” she said softly, “will you come with me a moment?”
Mary rose, then paused, uncertain whether sisterhood gave her rights in astonishment.
“Come, Mary,” said Elizabeth. “You look as if you have several objections arranged in proper order, and I would not deprive you of the use of them.”
“I have not arranged them as objections,” said Mary. “Only as difficulties.”
“Then you must certainly come. Difficulties are more respectable than objections.”
Jane led them into a smaller sitting room. Mrs. Doddridge remained in the drawing room with Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley, where her silence could be of greater public service.
Jane shut the door and took Elizabeth’s hands at once.
“Lizzy, I am very happy for you,” she said. Her eyes searched Elizabeth’s face as if happiness, once found, still required confirmation. “You are happy?”
Elizabeth’s answer came before wit could improve it.
“Yes.”
Jane’s expression softened so quickly that Elizabeth felt the force of it almost like an embrace.
“Then I am glad.”
“You are also astonished.”
“Very much,” Jane admitted.
Mary, who had taken her place near the mantelpiece as if steadier furniture might assist rational inquiry, said, “It is not an unreasonable astonishment. You refused Mr. Collins with great force.”
“I refused Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth. “That is not the same as refusing marriage.”
Jane’s mouth trembled into a smile. “And Mr. Pratt was directed toward composition.”
“A much safer destination for all concerned.”
“It was not without result,” said Mary, who would not let music be reduced to mere comedy. “His fourth variation is much stronger than the first.”
“Then I have improved a gentleman by refusing to marry him. That is perhaps my finest social contribution.”
Mary considered this, not as a joke exactly, but as evidence behaving improperly. “Aunt Gardiner also wrote of Mr. Clark.”
“Aunt Gardiner wrote of Mrs. Westbrook’s intentions. Mr. Clark had the misfortune of being attached to them.”
Jane squeezed her hands. “Then what is different now?”
That question, because it was Jane’s, could not be answered only with nonsense.
Elizabeth looked at her sister, and for once did not try to escape into cleverness.
“I chose him,” she said. “And I am happy in the choice.”
Jane’s eyes filled again, but this time Elizabeth did not mind it.
“Then I have nothing to object to,” Jane said.
“I have not objected,” said Mary. “I have only not yet understood.”
“That is very Mary of you,” said Elizabeth. “What remains obscure?”
“The process.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “That depends upon what you mean by process.”
Mary folded her hands. “When you first understood your object.”
“Oh, my object was very respectable at first. I wished to take care of him.”
Jane’s smile warmed. “At first?”
“And then repeatedly.”
“By what means?” Mary asked.
“Gratitude, baskets, trustees, leases, silver, cheese, dinner, curtains, rooms, and Pom-Pom.”
Jane laughed.
“That is not an answer,” said Mary.
“It is a list of evidence,” said Elizabeth. “You should approve of it.”
Mary inclined her head in reluctant fairness.
“I fed him, employed him, consulted him, contradicted him, defended him, and placed him wherever I could best see whether he had eaten.”
Mary looked grave. “That does sound like a campaign.”
“Thank you. I should hate for my industry to go unrecognised.”
Jane’s smile softened. “But did you know it would end in marriage?”
“No.” Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands. “I knew I wanted him safe, and near, and less alone. I did not at first understand that I wanted the right to make it permanent.”
Jane made a small sound, not quite a sob. Elizabeth looked up at once.
“Jane, if you cry, I shall be obliged to say something very foolish.”
“I am not crying.”
“You are preparing to cry.”
“I am happy.”
“That is often how it begins with you.”
Mary, who had been watching Elizabeth with an expression of serious discovery, said, “Then the campaign was deliberate in conduct, but not in declared object.”
Elizabeth turned to her. “Mary, that is so nearly correct that I am tempted to resent it.”
Mary looked satisfied. “I am glad.”
“So am I,” said Elizabeth.
Mary did not embrace with Jane’s ease. She came forward after a moment and took Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers, formally, awkwardly, and with feeling that had not quite learned its own manners.
“Then I am glad,” she said.