CHAPTER 55
A Proper Use for a Calling Card
For some weeks after Mr. Darcy Senior’s visit, nothing happened at Portman Square which could properly be called an event.
This did not mean that nothing happened.
There were callers and calls returned; invitations accepted, refused, and weighed with all the gravity due to other people’s dining rooms. Jane came with house particulars, Mr. Bingley with cheerful confidence in every inconvenient address, and Mary with new opinions upon composition, patience, and the unreasonableness of hands which would not yet obey judgment.
Lydia remained with the Gardiners, where her improvement was understood to consist chiefly in finding fewer occasions to be unimproved.
May came in softly enough to improve even Lord Pomington’s temper.
He was grateful to the month, or appeared to be, for allowing him to venture out without the heavy wrappers which had oppressed his dignity all winter; and he showed his gratitude by walking half the length of Portman Square on his own feet before requiring James to admire him.
There were also, Elizabeth discovered, many ordinary forms of married happiness; though ordinary was perhaps not the word she would have chosen for them while Fitzwilliam’s hand was at her waist before breakfast, or while his hair was still disordered from her fingers, or while he looked at her across the library table with such grave attention that the most innocent paper became difficult to read.
Marriage had begun to make habits of them, but not yet old ones.
His hat had a place in the hall; his gloves had twice been found beside hers; his books had begun, cautiously and without permission, to colonise the table in the small workroom Mrs. Albright now called Mr. Darcy’s as if the matter had been settled by Act of Parliament.
Yet there were still moments when Elizabeth came upon him in a doorway and was newly struck by the fact that he had no reason to leave.
There were still mornings when he smiled before he remembered moderation; still evenings when an argument over a paper, a curtain, a servant’s phrasing, or Lord Pomington’s outrageous demands ended not in victory but in a kiss which made both parties forget what principle had been defended.
The Marwood leases, too, reached a kind of conclusion.
What had begun with Cotton Lane and spread, by degrees, through Manchester Square, the smaller houses, and the less picturesque parts of Mrs. Marwood’s property, had at last been drawn into order.
Mr. Hartwood had the legal forms, Mr. Beaker the figures, Mr. Terling the daily complaints and repairs, and Mr. Darcy the satisfaction of having made several hundred pages less foolish than he found them.
“I believe,” Elizabeth said, watching him tie the final packet, “you have removed your best excuse for spending mornings in my library.”
“I had understood marriage to have made excuses less necessary.”
“Less necessary, perhaps. Not less entertaining.”
He looked up then, and the warmth in his face was still new enough to disturb her. The packet lay between them, finished and respectable. Elizabeth found she preferred him unfinished and nearer.
“Then I must contrive another,” he said.
“You may begin,” she said, coming round the table, “by not calling this one work for another quarter of an hour.”
The packet, at least, had the decency to remain tied. Other matters proved less governable.
Mr. Hartwood’s inquiries into Mr. Wickham had produced little that was useful.
Wickham had not pressed himself upon Mr. or Mrs. Darcy, had not appeared where they were likely to be, and did not seem, for the present, to be aiming his mischief in their direction.
What he was doing instead was harder to learn.
The only new particular was that he had been seen in the company of Sir Edmund Wester, a baronet of respectable family and embarrassed estate; but as Sir Edmund was known for no particular vice beyond having inherited debt, even Mr. Hartwood did not yet know whether the connexion meant anything at all.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s intelligence was hardly satisfying.
Mr. George Darcy had left London. The fact came to them not from Darcy House, nor from Pemberley, and certainly not from any paternal hand, but through Richard, who had made what observation he could before being obliged, shortly afterward, to rejoin his regiment.
Georgiana remained at Darcy House with Mrs. Younge.
That was all Richard could tell them.
Other intelligence arrived by less friendly roads.
Mr. Hartwood wrote that Mr. Darcy Senior had called upon him with several questions concerning Fitzwilliam’s professional conduct, present employment, and the manner in which his name had become connected with Mrs. Marwood’s affairs.
The questions had been cold, the temper colder, and the departure abrupt.
Mr. Brentwood wrote to Fitzwilliam the following week. His account was brief, dry, and not reassuring. Mr. Darcy Senior had called upon him also; he had been grim, exact, and in no humour to be pleased. Mr. Brentwood had answered what he could, and nothing he ought not.
Uncle Edward’s account reached them two days later and did not improve the picture. Mr. Darcy Senior had asked directly, listened badly, and left with no appearance of satisfaction; yet he had asked, and he had listened, which was more than could have been said a month before.
It was not repentance. It was not reconciliation. It was only inquiry; and inquiry, in a man who had so long preferred sentence, was enough to disturb the air without clearing it.
It was not enough to accuse anyone. It was not enough to act upon. It was only enough to dislike.
Elizabeth did not speak of Miss Darcy every morning.
She had never discovered that anxiety became more manageable by being granted a regular place beside the butter.
Fitzwilliam did not speak of her often either; but there were mornings when a certain absence settled upon his face, and Elizabeth knew better than to ask whether he had forgotten his sister. Forgetting was not his failing.
The card given at the stationer’s had not returned.
No note had followed it. No message had come by servant, friend, or accident.
Elizabeth knew no more of Miss Darcy’s thoughts than she had known on the day of their meeting, except that the girl had once chosen to speak when Mrs. Younge had not wished it, and had taken the card with a hand that trembled.
That was something.
It was not enough.
The rain began a little after three on a Thursday afternoon, first as a soft darkening upon the glass and then with such steady determination that Portman Square emptied of all but servants, necessity, and the very ill-advised.
Mr. Darcy was at chambers. Mrs. Doddridge had spent the earlier part of the day supervising some mystery of linen in tones too low to be properly heard and too decisive to be interrupted.
Lord Pomington, having objected to damp on principle, had withdrawn to his basket with the air of a nobleman betrayed by climate.
Elizabeth had settled in the drawing room with every intention of a quiet hour when James came to the door.
“Miss Darcy, madam.”
Elizabeth rose at once.
“Miss Darcy?”
But the young lady who entered did not look like any caller whom May rain, propriety, or common sense ought to have permitted abroad.
Georgiana Darcy stood just within the door, pale beneath the brim of a bonnet darkened by wet.
Rain had loosened the smoothness of her hair and clung to the ribbons beneath her chin.
Her pelisse was good, but the shoulders were soaked; her gloves were marked by street mud; the hem of her gown had suffered from more than the short passage between carriage and door.
She held herself with an effort at composure so severe that it looked almost painful.
Elizabeth crossed the room before civility could make the scene worse.
“Miss Darcy.”
“I beg your pardon,” Georgiana said. Her voice was low, hurried, and not steady. “I know I ought not— I did not know where else to go.”
That was enough.
“My dear Miss Darcy, you are very welcome. Come to the fire directly. You are cold.”
Georgiana made some movement as if to explain, but Elizabeth put out one hand, not touching her yet, only stopping the speech.
“Not now. You shall not tell a hard story in wet gloves.”
The girl stared at her.
“Tell me only this: are you safe to remain here until my husband comes?”
Georgiana’s lips parted. For one instant the whole frightened labour of her face seemed to depend upon the answer.
“If you will let me.”
“Then that is settled.”
Elizabeth rang.
Mrs. Albright came with the promptness of a housekeeper who had heard distress in the bell before any servant had named it. Her eyes took in Miss Darcy’s wet pelisse, muddied gloves, white face, and trembling self-command.
“Mrs. Albright,” Elizabeth said, “Miss Darcy requires dry clothes before she requires explanations.”
“Yes, madam.”
“The blue room. A good fire. Pray have Evans open the cedar press in the west dressing-room. There are gowns and wrappers from my younger years that should suit Miss Darcy tolerably well, and linen enough besides. Dry stockings first. Tea in the small drawing room when Miss Darcy is warm enough to come down, and something hot with it.”
“Yes, madam.”
“James is to go at once to Mr. Darcy’s chambers.”
Georgiana looked up at that.
Elizabeth saw the alarm and softened her voice. “He will come directly. You need not tell me everything twice.”
“And Mrs. Doddridge, madam?” Mrs. Albright asked.
“Yes. Ask Mrs. Doddridge to attend Miss Darcy upstairs.”
“Very good, madam.”
“One more thing,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Albright paused.
“Portman Square is not at home to anyone this afternoon. No caller is to be admitted. No inquiry is to be answered beyond that Mrs. Darcy is not receiving, and no message is to leave this house except by my direction.”