CHAPTER 43 #4
Elizabeth squeezed her fingers. “I shall accept that as solemn approval.”
“It is affectionate approval also,” said Mary, with effort.
“That is better still.”
When they returned to the drawing room, the air had altered.
Jane’s happiness was visible enough to govern the room, and Mary’s solemn acceptance stood beside it like a supporting affidavit.
Miss Bingley looked first at Jane, then at Elizabeth, and appeared to understand that whatever objections might exist in the world, none would be permitted to take root in Brook Street.
Mr. Bingley came forward at once.
“I am very happy for you, Miss Bennet. And for Mr. Darcy too, though I have not the honour of knowing him well enough to say it as loudly as I should like.”
“I believe he would be grateful for the moderation.”
“Then I shall be moderate with great enthusiasm.”
Jane smiled at him with such affection that Elizabeth thought, not for the first time, that her sister had chosen very well.
Miss Bingley folded her embroidery. “And Mr. Darcy’s family are pleased?”
Elizabeth did not miss the delicacy with which the blade was wrapped.
“The necessary persons are being informed.”
“How prudent.”
“Happiness does better when protected from unnecessary persons.”
Mr. Bingley looked slightly uncertain whether this applied to anyone present. Jane put her hand on his sleeve, and he sensibly decided that happiness required no further inquiry.
Mary asked whether Mr. Darcy liked music.
“He listens as if it matters,” said Elizabeth. “Which is more than can be said for many gentlemen who like it.”
Mary received this with approval.
Pom-Pom, restored to Mrs. Doddridge’s arms, regarded Miss Bingley’s carpet, sneezed once, and was removed before he could make a second comment.
By the time Elizabeth left Brook Street, the engagement had ceased to be an astonishment contained within Portman Square, Hartwood’s office, and Mr. Darcy’s careful note.
It had acquired sisters, witnesses, questions, Mr. Bingley’s benevolent confusion, and Miss Bingley’s polished calculation.
It had been misunderstood and approved in nearly equal measure.
This, Elizabeth thought, was perhaps as much comprehension as any engagement could reasonably expect on its first day abroad.
At Portman Square, she handed her bonnet to Evans and went directly to the morning room. Mrs. Doddridge followed with Pom-Pom. Mrs. Albright was summoned.
“The third week of March,” Elizabeth said, drawing the calendar toward her.
Mrs. Albright stood opposite the table with the composure of a general receiving confirmation of battle.
“If everything is to be ready,” said Elizabeth, “we must name the latest day which is still early enough to prevent the world from becoming imaginative.”
Mrs. Albright looked at the calendar with the severity of a woman measuring time against paper, paste, linen, shelves, and tradesmen.
“Can the rooms be ready?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, miss.”
“Comfortably?”
“Not quite.”
“Respectably?”
“Entirely.”
“Then respectability must carry us until comfort catches up.”
Elizabeth studied the calendar. The first week was too soon.
The second might be managed, but only by making Hartwood, Beaker, Mrs. Albright, every tradesman in London, and possibly the Church itself wish her less happy.
The fourth week had the air of yielding too much ground to letters, objections, relations, and all those social forces which thrive when given time to assemble.
Her finger rested upon the third Thursday of March.
There.
It was an ordinary square. Ink, paper, a number, a day like any other to anyone who did not know that rooms upstairs were being remade, that Mr. Darcy’s hand had gone still beneath hers, that Jane had cried, that Mary had identified a campaign, and that Pom-Pom had inadvertently recommended a husband.
“Mrs. Albright,” she said, “can the house obey that date?”
Mrs. Albright looked at it.
“It will be close, miss.”
“Then we shall be punctual.”
“Yes, miss.”
Elizabeth sent a brief note to Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker naming the third Thursday in March, and then took a fresh sheet for Mr. Darcy.
My dear Mr. Darcy,
I have examined the calendar, consulted the house, and found them both capable of obedience.
If you remain of the same mind, I should like the third Thursday in March.
Yours, Elizabeth
She sat for a moment after sealing it, looking at the date.
The third Thursday in March.
It appeared, in ink, a very ordinary day. There was nothing in the shape of the number to suggest altered households, legal papers, sisters astonished into approval, or a gentleman who looked as if affection were both his greatest wish and his last permitted luxury.
Elizabeth touched the square with one finger.
“There,” she said to Pom-Pom, who had fallen asleep on Mrs. Doddridge’s shawl and could not be expected to bear further responsibility. “You began it. You may consider yourself consulted.”
Pom-Pom did not stir.
This was perhaps approval.
Elizabeth rang for James and sent the date.