CHAPTER 54
A Carriage Intended to Be Read
April had made a second attempt upon London that morning and had very nearly succeeded.
The air was still cool, and the pavements kept a dark memory of last night’s rain; but there was sun upon the upper windows, a little green insistence in the squares, and enough brightness in the shops to make bonnets appear less an article of defence than of hope.
Elizabeth went to Brook Street with Mrs. Doddridge and Lord Pomington, who had recovered from the stationer’s errand sufficiently to consider another outing a severe but not impossible demand upon his constitution.
Brook Street had the air of a house recovering its own habits after invasion.
Mrs. Bennet had returned to Longbourn; Kitty with her; Lydia remained under the Gardiners’ more practical discipline; and Mary had come back to Jane with music enough to occupy every spare surface.
Jane did not look newly happy. She looked restored to happiness — which, after the last weeks, was perhaps better.
Miss Bingley was present, not in command of the room, but certainly unwilling to leave any room wholly unmanaged. She had taken possession of the chair near the window and was examining a length of ribbon intended for Mary’s evening gown with the grave attention other women gave to treaties.
Lord Pomington was placed upon a cushion by the fire, where he accepted Jane’s admiration with the composure of a creature long accustomed to tribute and not yet persuaded by the sincerity of any of it.
Mrs. Doddridge took her chair near him, with her work-bag at her feet and the air of a woman prepared to outlast any call, provided his lordship’s wrapper was not insulted by draughts.
“You look extremely well,” Elizabeth said, after the first embraces and inquiries had been made.
Jane coloured. “So do you.”
“That is no answer. It is only evasion prettily dressed.”
“Then I shall answer better. I am very well.”
“And London still pleases you?”
“Yes. More than I expected. Charles likes it very much, of course. He likes everything which contains people, and London is very rich in them.”
“And houses?”
Jane smiled a little, for this had plainly become a subject of some delicacy. “We continue to look.”
“With hope?”
“With patience.”
“That is less promising.”
“Not entirely. There are several houses Charles likes, and several I think might do very well. We are not hurried.”
“And Netherfield?”
Jane folded her hands in her lap with an expression of such mild guilt that Elizabeth immediately understood the answer.
“Ah,” said Elizabeth. “Netherfield has declined in favour.”
“It has many advantages,” Jane said.
“It has Mama.”
Jane’s mouth trembled. “Yes. That is among the difficulties.”
Miss Bingley did not look up from the ribbon. “Netherfield has several good rooms and one insurmountable disadvantage.”
“Mama?” said Elizabeth.
“I should never name so near a relation as an architectural defect,” said Miss Bingley. “But I may think it.”
Jane tried to look reproving and failed. It was an excellent sign.
“Then Mr. Bingley’s judgment improves,” said Elizabeth.
“He now says Netherfield may be held in reserve.”
“For famine, flood, or universal want of roofs?”
“Something of that nature.” Jane’s smile turned rueful. “After Mama’s visit, I think even Charles understands that convenience is not the same thing as peace.”
Elizabeth laughed, and Jane laughed too, though softly; and the sound of it was one of those small domestic victories which no one outside a family would ever think to record. Jane could laugh at Mama without guilt making the laugh cruel. This was progress of the most excellent kind.
“And you?” Jane asked. “What are your plans? Will you remain in London?”
“For the present. Though I have been considering whether we might take a house somewhere quieter for the summer, if I can persuade Mr. Darcy to leave his papers in London.”
“Would that be difficult?”
“The papers are numerous, and he is attached to being of service.”
Jane smiled. “And you are attached to him being idle?”
“Not idle. Merely less surrounded by ink. London is not pleasant in the summer, and I do not mean to discover that marriage consists of watching one’s husband melt over leases.”
Miss Bingley glanced up. “A gentleman may be persuaded from papers by better occupation.”
“Miss Bingley,” said Jane softly.
“What? I said nothing improper.”
“You seldom do,” said Elizabeth. “That is why your meaning has to work so hard.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth curved. “Mrs. Darcy, marriage has not made you more obliging.”
“No. But it has made me harder to return.”
That pleased Miss Bingley enough to restore her attention to the ribbon.
Mary entered shortly afterward, carrying music under one arm and an air of grave industry about her whole person. Elizabeth saw at once that improvement had not confined itself to Jane.
Mary looked better in London too. Not transformed; that would have been suspicious.
She remained earnest, straight-backed, and inclined to meet conversation as if it were a printed examination.
But her seriousness had acquired occupation.
She no longer seemed to be searching for a subject on which to be severe. She had music enough to discipline her.
“You are come at a fortunate moment,” Mary said. “Miss Carr has given me a new exercise, and Mr. Pratt has given me a warning against impatience.”
“How generous of them both.”
“Miss Carr improves my skill,” Mary said, with solemn satisfaction, “and Mr. Pratt my patience. I had not known patience required separate instruction.”
“Most virtues do,” said Elizabeth. “That is why so many people avoid them.”
Mary accepted this as almost certainly true. She crossed to the small table near the pianoforte and laid her music down with great care, as if it might resent rough handling.
“Mr. Pratt is composing now.”
“Is he?”
“Seriously.”
“A perilous advancement.”
“Miss Carr says criticism is often cured by composition.”
“And is Mr. Pratt cured?”
Mary considered. “Not cured. But chastened.”
“Then his education proceeds.”
Jane, who had taken up some sewing, bent her head over it in a manner Elizabeth did not trust at all.
Mary continued, unaware or pretending to be so. “He says I am of service to him because I do not praise what I cannot understand.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister more closely. “And do you understand him?”
Mary’s eyes lowered to the music in her lap. “More than I did.”
There was a little silence.
Miss Bingley drew the ribbon through her fingers and said, without looking at any of them, “Mr. Pratt will be fortunate if his compositions receive so much honesty from every quarter.”
Mary looked pleased and alarmed by this, which was often the best state in which to receive Miss Bingley’s approval.
Elizabeth, who had no intention of frightening a possible attachment into flight by staring at it too openly, said only, “Then Miss Carr is improving more than one pupil.”
Mary nodded. “She is very severe.”
“In music, that is often the same thing as kindness.”
“I begin to think so,” said Mary, with the surprised gravity of a woman discovering that correction might be a form of respect.
A little later, when Mary had gone to fetch the exercise in question — which, Elizabeth suspected, she wished to show and feared showing in equal measure — Jane came to sit nearer.
Miss Bingley remained by the window. Mrs. Doddridge had bent over Lord Pomington’s wrapper, and Pom-Pom himself had turned his back upon the room in a manner intended to suggest both sleep and judgment.
Jane lowered her voice.
“I shall not ask how your marriage does.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “No?”
“No. You look much too well pleased with yourself to require inquiry.”
“Jane!”
“I am very glad of it.”
“That is not the tone of a modest elder sister.”
Jane’s smile deepened. “I am married too. I have lost some modesty in the cause.”
Elizabeth stared at her for half a second, then laughed so warmly that Jane laughed too, and for a moment they were not Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley, not two young wives arranging new households, but simply sisters enjoying the absurd discovery that happiness had not made either of them less impertinent.
Mary returned with the exercise before anything more could be said.
It was shown, examined, praised in moderation, and corrected by Miss Bingley on the subject of how music ought to be carried when one expected to be seen with it.
Lord Pomington objected to the rustle of paper too near his cushion and was assured by Mrs. Doddridge that no one had meant him personal disrespect.
Elizabeth left Brook Street with more cheerfulness than she had brought to it.
Mary had promised to send the revised exercise; Jane had promised nothing at all about Netherfield, which was almost as good; and Miss Bingley had promised, by expression alone, to prevent any gown in her circle from disgracing London.
By the time Elizabeth reached Portman Square, Lord Pomington had decided that the whole excursion had been fatiguing enough to require public recognition.
He was carried inside by Mrs. Doddridge with great ceremony and deposited before the drawing-room fire, where he arranged himself in the attitude of an invalid who had been conveyed against medical advice.
Elizabeth gave Mrs. Albright a favourable account of Brook Street, then stood removing her gloves while Mrs. Doddridge settled his lordship’s cushion.
“You have been overtaxed,” said Elizabeth.
Pom-Pom opened one eye.
“Cruelly transported across London,” she added.
He yawned, stretched one leg, and closed the eye again.
Mrs. Doddridge said, “His lordship has borne the journey with composure, madam.”
“So I see. How fortunate that composure requires cushions.”
Everything had the settled aspect of a house going on exactly as it ought.
Then a carriage of remarkable consequence stopped before the door.