Chapter 25 #2
The dinner continued. Mary spoke once on the moral dangers of flattery, but the next course arrived before she could enlarge upon them.
Lydia whispered to Kitty that Mr. Denny's new sash was finer than any in the room, a statement which she could not prove and did not need to.
Kitty answered without spirit, although Elizabeth saw her glance toward Mr. Darcy, then away again as if she feared he might know too much.
He did not look at her, and his restraint was another thing Elizabeth did not wish to admire.
When the ladies withdrew, Caroline took immediate possession of the sofa nearest the fire and drew Louisa beside her.
Mrs. Bennet sat with Jane, wishing to discuss nothing but Bingley's appetite, which she considered promising.
Elizabeth moved to the pianoforte with Mary, to escape her mother's satisfaction and prevent Mary from choosing anything that would turn the evening into a sermon.
“You see it,” Caroline said to Louisa, low enough that Mrs. Bennet would not hear, but not low enough to escape Elizabeth where she stood near the instrument. “You cannot pretend not to.”
“I see that Charles is happy.”
“Happy? He is bewitched by a pretty face and a manner so artless it is almost refined.”
Louisa's fan opened and closed once. “Jane Bennet is beautiful, well behaved, and kind. Charles has done worse than admire such qualities.”
“Admire, yes. Marry, no.”
“He has not asked our permission.”
“He may yet need our influence.”
“For what purpose? To make him unhappy?”
Caroline stared at her. “You speak as if the connection were acceptable.”
“I speak as if Charles is not a child.”
Elizabeth turned a page of Mary's music without reading it. She should not listen, but moving away would reveal that she had heard them.
Caroline's voice sharpened. “And Miss Elizabeth? Is that also to be accepted?”
Louisa waited to answer. “Mr. Darcy's choices are not ours to arrange.”
“You cannot think he is serious.”
“I wish I knew.”
“Then observe him.”
“I have.”
The two words silenced Caroline better than arguing would have. Elizabeth felt heat rise into her face, though Louisa had not addressed them to her. Louisa had not said Darcy loved her or that he admired her. She only refused to pretend that nothing was visible.
When Mary began to play, Elizabeth welcomed the distraction, though Caroline’s silence was difficult to ignore. Louisa’s warning stayed with her.
In the dining room, the gentlemen did not remain long over their wine. Bingley returned first, as if every minute away from Jane needed an apology. Hurst came contented, Bennet entertained, and Darcy last. His entrance brought Caroline to her feet, and she spoke before he crossed the room.
“Mr. Darcy, we were discussing the dangers of country attachments and we need your opinion. Are they durable, or the effect of too little variety?”
Bingley frowned. “Country attachments? What a strange subject.”
“Not strange at all,” Caroline said. “One must account for the speed with which people in small neighborhoods attach consequence to every politeness.”
Darcy's eyes moved to Elizabeth, then back to Caroline. “While I cannot speak for every neighborhood, I think whether an attachment is durable or not depends on the people concerned, not the number of houses within visiting distance.”
“How fair-minded,” Caroline said.
“Not fairness, caution. General rules applied to particular affections are seldom exact.”
Bingley laughed. “Darcy makes affection sound like a matter for surveyors.”
“Surveyors might do it more justice than gossip,” Bennet said.
Caroline’s smile thinned. “So we should draw no conclusions from what we observe?”
“We should draw fewer for other people than for ourselves.”
The answer was calm, but it struck home.
Caroline understood it as reproof. Elizabeth understood it also, and could not decide whether to resent his presumption or approve his restraint.
He had not defended Jane in terms that would expose her or defended Elizabeth at all; he refused to accept Caroline’s contempt as judgment.
Bingley, innocent of half the conversation and uneasy with the rest, went to Jane and asked whether she would play but she declined. Mary offered to continue, and Mrs. Bennet praised her daughter's accomplishments until Bennet asked whether one song might satisfy both talent and mercy.
While Mary played, Lydia whispered to Kitty, who sat too subdued to enjoy it and too proud to leave. Caroline kept her attention on Darcy, though he gave her nothing she could challenge, while Louisa watched her sister with growing fatigue and Hurst slept.
The evening should have ended there, in music and small discomforts, but Mrs. Bennet, eager to improve what she believed already prosperous, began to speak of future visits.
“We shall be very dull when the regiment leaves,” she said, “though I am sure Netherfield will never lack society. Mr. Bingley is too agreeable not to be invited everywhere.”
“I hope Netherfield may also invite,” Bingley said. “I have been thinking of a small dinner next week, if my sisters approve.”
Caroline’s permission was the last thing he had considered until he said it, and alarm crossed her face before she could hide it. “A dinner?”
“Yes. Nothing large. The Bennets, the Lucases perhaps, and whoever else makes the party comfortable.”
Mrs. Bennet looked triumphant, while Jane lowered her eyes.
Louisa answered before Caroline could refuse. “We can arrange that, Charles.”
Caroline turned on her. “Can we?”
“Yes,” Louisa said. “If Charles wishes.”
Hurst opened one eye. “A dinner at Netherfield is always possible. The cook knows her business.”
“There,” Bingley said, pleased. “That settles it, then.”
It settled nothing, but Caroline no longer controlled the direction of events. Elizabeth almost pitied her, though not enough to forget the contempt behind her alarm.
When the Netherfield party rose to leave, Mrs. Bennet detained Bingley as long as she could without seizing his coat.
Jane stood nearby, listening to every promise of another visit while hiding her hope.
Bingley promised all that he could without offering marriage.
To Mrs. Bennet, that was all but the same thing.
To Jane, it was enough to keep her silent.
Darcy came to Elizabeth as the others gathered their wraps.
“I hope Miss Kitty is well,” he said.
The question asked nothing of Wickham and accused no one. Elizabeth appreciated the restraint more than she wished.
“She is not ill.”
“I am glad of it.”
Elizabeth might have left it there. A week earlier, she would have done so and counted the silence a victory.
“My father wrote to Colonel Forster,” she said. “There was some truth in the business that detained Mr. Wickham. Not your truth. A truth of his own making.”
Darcy's expression shifted in the smallest degree. “I am sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Miss Kitty did not deserve to be involved.”
The answer displeased her less than it ought to. “No. She did not.”
“Nor did you.”
Elizabeth could not tell whether he meant the note, the warning, or the larger confusion into which Mr. Wickham had drawn them all.
“I am not so innocent,” she said. “I believed what pleased me.”
“Most of us do.”
It was not absolution or triumph, and that made it harder to resist.
Caroline called his name from the door. She did not need him as much as she needed Elizabeth to know he was being summoned.
Darcy bowed. “Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
The carriage left amid thanks and promises, much to Mrs. Bennet’s satisfaction.
When the door closed, Lydia complained that the evening had contained too much music and too few officers, Mary defended the music, and Kitty went upstairs.
Bennet returned to the library, where Elizabeth suspected he would find more amusement in the evening than she could permit herself.
Jane remained standing where Bingley had last spoken to her.
Elizabeth joined her. “You are happy.”
Jane's answer came too late to deny it. “He is very kind.”
“That was not what I said.”
Jane smiled. “No.”
Elizabeth took Jane’s hand. No promise had been made, but Bingley’s intentions were no longer difficult to read.