CHAPTER 54 #3
Elizabeth did not explain.
“I perceive,” he said at last, “that you are determined.”
“Yes.”
“And that my call has not had the effect I intended.”
“No.”
He rose then. Elizabeth rose also.
He was not humbled. Elizabeth did not flatter herself with so great a victory. He was too proud for humility and too long accustomed to command for easy correction. But he was discomposed; and in a man so well furnished with consequence, discomposure was no small achievement.
“I see,” he said, though his manner suggested he saw nothing he liked.
“I am glad of it,” said Elizabeth, with a civility so perfect that it could not be complained of.
His bow was correct and very cold.
Hers was equally correct and much less troubled.
He went out with all his consequence about him, but not, Elizabeth thought, with all the comfort in it he had brought in.
When the front door had closed, Mrs. Doddridge entered with the quietness of a woman who had heard nothing and understood everything. Lord Pomington came with her, borne in her arms, his wrapper half altered and his expression full of severe inquiry.
“Well,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Doddridge looked at the abandoned plate. “He did not care for the biscuits, madam.”
“No. They had not been trained to admire him.”
Lord Pomington gave a soft, approving growl.
Elizabeth rang.
When the servant came, she said, “Ask Mrs. Albright for fresh tea.”
“Yes, madam.”
“And the better biscuits.”
“For the gentleman, madam?”
“Good heavens, no. For me.”
Mrs. Doddridge lowered Lord Pomington onto his cushion with care. “His lordship will be relieved.”
“Lord Pomington?”
“Yes, madam. He dislikes seeing the good biscuits misapplied.”
Elizabeth sat down and laughed, not because the visit had been harmless, but because Portman Square had survived it without offering the best biscuits; and that, in the present state of the world, was no small domestic triumph.
Mr. Darcy returned later than usual, and with the tired look about the eyes which still had the power to move Elizabeth’s hand before her judgment had fully approved it.
He found her in the drawing room, with the lamps lit, a book open beside her, and Lord Pomington asleep in a coil of offended dignity beneath a shawl.
She had meant to begin lightly. She had even arranged the carriage first, the biscuits second, and his father’s presumption third, because a man should not be struck at once with every instrument available.
But he looked first, as he always did now, not at the room, nor at the fire, but at her; and the order altered.
“You had a long day,” she said.
“A tedious one.” His expression softened at once on seeing her. “Yours?”
“Informative.”
That arrested him. His gloves were still in his hand. He stopped just inside the room, as if the word had closed the door behind him.
“Informative?”
Elizabeth rose from the sofa and crossed to him. She took the gloves from his hand before answering and set them on the table beside her book.
“Your father called.”
The change in him was immediate. He went still from head to hand, as if some old command had entered the room before the man himself.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“You received him?”
“I did.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Do not look like that. I am not injured, converted, overawed, or in need of smelling salts.”
His mouth moved, but not toward a smile. “What did he say?”
“That he came from concern, which I found generous, considering how many years concern had apparently been saving its strength.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I am sorry.”
“You are not allowed to be sorry for his carriage.”
His eyes opened.
“For his carriage?”
“Yes. Though I must say it deserved apology.” She slipped her hand through his arm and drew him toward the sofa. “Come and sit. The horses cannot reach you here.”
He obeyed, though not easily. She sat beside him and took his hand before he could decide whether he had permission to offer it.
“The carriage and horses offer him half his consequence,” Elizabeth said. “The rest, I believe, is supplied by expecting everyone to notice them.”
Despite himself, Mr. Darcy’s expression altered.
“The harness alone,” she said, “had the air of an argument.”
“Elizabeth.”
“There. That is better. You are nearly breathing.”
His thumb moved once against her hand. Not quite amusement yet; not quite ease. But he was in the room with her, and that was the first requirement.
“What did he say?” Darcy asked.
“That I might not fully understand the circumstances of my marriage.”
His hand tightened.
“And then?”
“And then he discovered that I understood them well enough to be troublesome.”
“Elizabeth.”
“He said you had always known how to appear honourable.”
Mr. Darcy’s face lost the little colour it had.
Elizabeth shifted closer. “So I told him that I had seen you under circumstances arranged by my trustees.”
He looked at her.
“I told him you came into my affairs under examination, not indulgence. That you had been recommended, tested, watched, restricted, and still behaved better than many men behave when trusted freely.”
His eyes lowered to their hands.
“And that if he meant extravagance, I had seen none of it; if idleness, less; and if fortune-hunting, you had chosen a remarkably inconvenient method of pursuit.”
For a moment there was silence.
Then he bent his head and pressed his mouth to her knuckles.
It was not a courtship gesture now, nor even quite a lover’s one. It was gratitude, grief, and a kind of homecoming, all contained in one restrained movement.
Elizabeth let him have the silence.
When he lifted his head, his expression was still grave, but no longer remote.
“I believe,” she said, “that he has the air of a man asking to be cheated.”
That startled him from the older pain.
“Cheated?”
“Not because he lacks sense. Because he announces too clearly where his vanity may be approached. A man who insists that his consequence must be visible saves rogues a great deal of labour.”
Mr. Darcy was silent.
“No wonder the Wickhams could not hold back.”
There was a pause.
Then, very slowly, and with the air of a man surprised into it against several years of sorrow, Mr. Darcy laughed.
It was brief. It was not light. But it was real.
Elizabeth, who had been waiting for just that, leaned closer and kissed his cheek.
“There,” she said. “Now I may tell you the rest without being obliged to fetch wine, Hartwood, or a physician.”
“I am not certain I like your order of remedies.”
“You like me.”
“Yes,” he said, and turned his face enough to look at her fully. “I do.”
The simplicity of it moved her more than she had expected, and for a moment she let the answer rest between them without wit.
Then Lord Pomington shifted beneath his shawl and sighed like a dowager disappointed by the clergy.
Elizabeth reached for the plate on the table and offered it to Mr. Darcy.
“You may have the better biscuits,” she said. “Your father was not offered them.”
He looked at the plate, then at her.
“I am honoured.”
“You should be. In this house, consequence must be earned.”
This time his smile came more easily.
A note arrived just as the better biscuits had begun to do their work.
Mr. Darcy broke the seal, glanced first at the signature, and then gave the whole of his attention to the page. Elizabeth watched his face as he read. The first stillness returned, but not in the same form. It was attention, not shock.
“Richard?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He passed her the note.
Darcy,
I called at Darcy House this afternoon with my mother. We were received with every civility, and with rather more attention than was convenient. I did not contrive to speak with G. alone. Your father remained with us throughout, perfectly polite and perfectly present.
G. looked well enough in health, though quiet. She answered me with composure. That is something, though not enough. I could not judge Mrs. Y. to advantage, but I had little opportunity to judge her at all.
Your father asked after Mrs. Darcy. I gave her as good a recommendation as conscience, affection, and prudence permitted. I may have overpraised her sense, which I fear made him curious. If he calls, I beg you will remember that I warned nobody in time.
I am ordered away within days, but will attempt one more opening if I can make it without alarming the house.
R.
Elizabeth lowered the note slowly.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam’s call came first.”
Mr. Darcy looked at her. “Why?”
“Because your father did not enter this house like a man in quiet possession of himself. He entered like a man whose judgment had been questioned where he had expected it to be trusted.”
Mr. Darcy took the note back, though he did not immediately read it again.
“And because Colonel Fitzwilliam recommended me,” she added. “A recommendation from a man he cannot wholly dismiss must have made me inconvenient.”
“You are not inconvenient.”
“To you, no. To your father, I believe I am almost designed for the purpose.”
He was silent for a moment.
“He thinks himself right,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “That is why he is so difficult. A man knowingly wrong may sometimes be frightened out of it. A man certain he is doing good must first be made uncertain.”
The note lay between them, not comforting, but not empty of comfort either. Georgiana had been seen. Richard had not been satisfied. Mr. Darcy Senior had been disturbed. None of it was safety, but all of it was motion.
Elizabeth put her hand over her husband’s.
“Then the day has been odious,” she said, “but not wholly unproductive.”
Lord Pomington sighed beneath his shawl, as if productivity were a vulgar standard for any gentleman after dinner.
Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth, and after a moment — tired, troubled, and no longer quite alone with either — smiled.