CHAPTER 46 #3
“My wife has nerves,” he said. “Jane has nerves. Mary has nerves. Elizabeth has nerves, though she has learned not to make them another person’s employment. You must respect that other women may be distressed without making a display of it.”
Mrs. Bennet’s mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. This was unusual enough that Mr. Gardiner made full use of it.
“I have written to Jane and to Elizabeth. I have told them I do not recommend they call here until Bennet arrives, unless they particularly desire it. They are not to be brought back to manage you.”
“So now I am to be abandoned by my own children!”
“No. You are to be attended by your husband.”
“My husband never understands me.”
“Then I hope the journey will improve him.”
Mrs. Gardiner made a small sound which might, in less disciplined company, have become laughter.
Mrs. Bennet turned toward her at once. “Sister, surely you cannot approve this. You know what it is to be a mother.”
“I do,” said Mrs. Gardiner, her voice tired but clear. “And I know that one may be anxious for one’s children without making them afraid to enter the room.”
Mrs. Bennet flushed deeply.
Mr. Gardiner was sorry for that. He was not sorry enough to stop.
“If you wish to attend Elizabeth’s wedding,” he said, “you must behave as a guest, not as the main event. Being mother of the bride gives you a proper place; it does not give you a privilege to command the day. If you cannot accept that, you cannot attend.”
Mrs. Bennet rose half from her chair, then sat again, either overcome or uncertain how best to display it.
“You would keep a mother from her daughter’s wedding?”
“No,” said Mr. Gardiner. “I would keep a mother from spoiling it.”
“This is monstrous.”
“It is practical.”
“It is unnatural.”
“It is necessary.”
“I have never been so insulted in my life.”
Mr. Gardiner suspected this was not true, but as Mrs. Bennet’s acquaintance with insult had always depended upon her freedom to define it, he did not argue.
“You may think me hard,” he said. “I hope you will later think me useful. Elizabeth is to be married. Jane is married. Mary is in town under Jane’s care. These are not injuries to you.”
“They are my daughters.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gardiner. “They are. And you will have a better chance of keeping their affection if you stop treating their happiness as a theft from your own.”
Mrs. Bennet stared at him, tears rising now in earnest rather than display.
For a moment, Mr. Gardiner saw the frightened woman beneath the noise: five daughters, a foolish husband, an entailed estate, years of being told she was ridiculous while also being left to feel every danger alone. He felt pity.
Then he thought of what his wife had told him of Elizabeth’s white face, Jane’s pallor, Mary’s cold silence, and of his wife’s own closed eyes over untouched tea.
Pity could not be permitted to do all the work of judgment.
“I do not ask you to be indifferent,” he said, more gently. “I ask you to remember that your fears do not give you the right to wound everyone who loves you.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed the handkerchief to her mouth.
Mrs. Gardiner leaned forward. “Fanny, stay with us quietly until Bennet comes. Rest. Take some tea. Do not send for the girls. Do not send messages to Portman Square. Let one day pass without making Elizabeth answer for it.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a sob, but it was a smaller one than before.
“No one understands,” she whispered.
“Then give us the opportunity,” said Mr. Gardiner, “by not explaining yourself again until tomorrow.”
That, perhaps, was too much.
Mrs. Gardiner looked down.
Mrs. Bennet did not seem to know whether she had been comforted or suppressed. Mr. Gardiner was willing to accept either result if it produced quiet.
He left the parlour some minutes later, after Mrs. Bennet had consented to drink fresh tea, to take a headache draught, and not to write to anyone until Mr. Bennet arrived. Consent, in Mrs. Bennet, did not mean permanence. It meant the next quarter hour had been purchased.
Sometimes that was all good order could achieve.
In the hall, Mr. Gardiner paused. From behind the door came Mrs. Bennet’s low, wounded murmur and Mrs. Gardiner’s softer answer.
Above stairs, a child laughed and was quickly hushed by a nursemaid.
Somewhere below, the kitchen continued its work, indifferent to nerves except where they delayed dinner.
Mr. Gardiner returned to his counting room.
His desk was clear. The letters were gone. Mr. Darcy’s card still lay near the blotter.
He picked it up, considered it once more, and placed it carefully in the drawer.
By rights, Elizabeth’s wedding ought to have been a simple happiness. It would not be. There would be Longbourn, and money, and reputation, and a groom whose father’s house was not open to him, and a mother who could turn a blessing into an accusation before the second cup of tea.
But there would also be people who meant to keep the day from being devoured.
Mr. Gardiner had written. He had spoken. He had summoned Bennet.
If Longbourn wished to keep making daughters answer for parents, it would have to do so somewhere other than Gracechurch Street.