Chapter 30
LADY CATHERINE’S CARRIAGE was gone, yet the words spoken outside remained with Elizabeth, stripped of the noise that had surrounded them.
Darcy had defended Longbourn without denying its faults, and when Lady Catherine used Kitty’s foolish remark against the family, he refused to let one mistake define her character.
He had also named his own error without excuse.
I have become less careless. The admission did not erase the assembly or the contempt with which he had judged Elizabeth tolerable, but it forced her to reconsider the man who had spoken.
She had taken him for someone who looked down upon others because he enjoyed the height.
Pride still governed much of his conduct, yet the weeks since the assembly suggested armor, habit, and expectation rather than pleasure in another person’s humiliation.
The distinction did not excuse the insult, but it made Darcy harder to dismiss.
Across the room, Mrs. Bennet questioned Bingley about which rooms Georgiana and Anne would have at Netherfield and whether the housekeeper understood the needs of young ladies.
Bingley answered with patience as Mrs. Bennet proposed fires, supper trays, and changes of linen for rooms she did not manage.
“Mama,” Jane said, “Mr. Bingley’s housekeeper will know what is required.”
“Of course she will, my dear, but one cannot leave such matters to chance when Miss Darcy has chosen to remain among us.”
Georgiana glanced at Darcy. “I shall require very little.”
“You shall require whatever makes you comfortable,” Bingley said. “My sisters will see to it.”
Anne sat beside the window with Mrs. Jenkinson, her fatigue plain after the journey and the confrontation.
She had chosen to remain for one night, but Lady Catherine’s departure had left her with freedom that seemed to puzzle her.
Mrs. Jenkinson fussed over a shawl until Anne took it from her hands and placed it across her own knees.
“I am not cold.”
Mrs. Jenkinson looked bereft of purpose. “The air may change.”
“Then I shall tell you.”
Bennet turned a page. “Rebellion appears to be catching.”
Darcy’s mouth moved, though the expression vanished before anyone could call it a smile, although Elizabeth noticed.
She had begun noticing too much: the patience with which he let Georgiana answer for herself, the care he took not to direct Anne, the glance he gave Bingley when gratitude would have embarrassed them both.
None of these gestures carried the force of his defense outside, but together they made it less exceptional.
He had not become another man for the purpose of defeating Lady Catherine.
He had acted from qualities Elizabeth had refused to place beside his pride.
Sarah settled at Georgiana’s feet after receiving Elizabeth’s permission. Georgiana rested one hand between the dog’s ears and spoke to Kitty, who had taken a chair near her and remained grateful for Darcy’s defense but unsure how to thank him.
“Does Sarah always wait before approaching?” Georgiana asked.
“When she is unsure,” Kitty said. “Lizzy taught her.”
“Sarah learned because she wanted to,” Elizabeth said.
“Most of us learn for less flattering reasons,” Bennet observed.
Kitty looked toward Darcy, gathered courage, and crossed the room. “Mr. Darcy?”
He turned to her. “Miss Catherine.”
The formality steadied her. “Thank you for what you said.”
“Lady Catherine had no right to use your mistake as a measure of your sister.”
Kitty’s color rose. “It was still a mistake.”
“Yes.” His answer held no cruelty. “That does not grant others the right to make it your whole character.”
Elizabeth received the words as though he meant them for her.
She had allowed Darcy’s first mistake to define his character because it confirmed her opinion of him, while Wickham supplied a history that made every later fault seem inevitable.
Darcy had given her reasons to distrust him, but she had arranged them with more confidence than care.
Kitty returned to Georgiana with relief on her face.
Darcy did not watch for approval. He spoke to Bennet about the carriage Lady Catherine had taken and whether the horses should rest at Netherfield before the return to Rosings.
His concern for his aunt survived her conduct, though he made no attempt to excuse her.
“She will refuse any advice sent after her,” Bennet said.
“She may do with it as she chooses, but I shall send the message.”
“A distinction your aunt may not appreciate.”
“Her appreciation is not required.”
Elizabeth could no longer treat every uncertainty as evidence against Darcy.
His letters had brought Georgiana to Hertfordshire, but Lady Catherine alone was responsible for what followed.
His aid to the Meryton tradesmen did not prove every charge against Wickham, though it deserved more weight than she had given it.
She had demanded certainty from Darcy while accepting suggestion from Wickham because one had offended her and the other had pleased her.
That recognition was uncomfortable enough without replacing one certainty with another.
Wickham had lied, used Kitty’s interest, and traded on Darcy’s name, but Elizabeth still lacked the whole account.
Darcy had judged too quickly and remained too willing to trust his own conclusions, yet he had also shown himself capable of changing them.
She remembered his conduct at dinner, his refusal to join Caroline’s contempt, and the way he had allowed Georgiana to choose for herself despite Lady Catherine’s anger. Elizabeth had once found it easy to call his concern for those he loved pride. She was no longer certain that was fair.
Darcy remained difficult, guarded, and too sure of his own judgment, but Elizabeth could no longer pretend those faults were all she saw.
Jane came to her after they finished the arrangements for Netherfield. “You are quiet.”
“There is enough noise for the entire household.”
“That never stops you from adding sense to the racket.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister. Jane’s concern held no curiosity, so evasion seemed unkind. “I am considering what Mr. Darcy said.”
Jane followed her gaze. Darcy stood beside Georgiana, listening as she described what she had seen Sarah do. “He spoke with courage.”
“He spoke with accuracy.”
Jane waited.
“That may be the more inconvenient quality.”
“Because you expected neither?”
“Because I expected courage on behalf of his family and accuracy when judging everyone else. Today he defended ours and corrected himself.”
Jane’s expression softened. “You have always valued a person who can admit an error.”
“In theory. The practice asks more generosity than I expected.”
“Toward him or yourself?”
Elizabeth gave her a look. “You have become severe.”
“I have five sisters. It comes with practice.”
Jane’s smile spared Elizabeth from answering, but the question remained after Bingley called her to admire some arrangement Georgiana had made for Anne’s comfort. Elizabeth watched her go and wondered when her sister had learned to place a needle with such precision.
They left before dusk. Mrs. Bennet pressed food upon them until Bingley accepted a parcel to end the discussion. Georgiana said goodbye to Sarah at the door, then turned to Elizabeth.
“May I call again?”
“I hope you will,” Elizabeth said.
“Without Lady Catherine, I promise.”
“That would be a quieter visit,” Elizabeth replied.
Darcy’s expression changed, and Elizabeth felt heat rise before turning back to Georgiana to say goodbye.
After the carriage departed, Mrs. Bennet carried the story through the drawing room, the dining room, and halfway up the stairs, revising Lady Catherine’s insults with each repetition.
Lydia insisted that Kitty’s remark had won the encounter, while Kitty denied any intention of wit and grew more pleased each time Lydia praised it.
Bennet escaped to the library, Jane joined Mrs. Bennet in seeing to supper, and Elizabeth found Mary gathering the cups Hill had left on a side table.
“You need not do that,” Elizabeth said.
“Hill has enough to manage.” Mary placed two cups upon the tray. “Lady Catherine left disorder without taking any with her.”
Elizabeth picked up the sugar bowl. “She took a large portion.”
Mary considered the correction. “Then she possessed more than I estimated.”
They carried the tray toward the passage. Unlike Jane, Mary’s silence suggested that she had reached a conclusion and was waiting to test it.
“You may say it,” Elizabeth said.
“I have said nothing.”
“That never discourages you from preparing a speech.”
Mary set the tray on a narrow table and faced her. “You no longer speak of Mr. Darcy as you did.”
Elizabeth had expected a moral observation, not a fact stated so plain. “I spoke of him this afternoon.”
“You answered Lady Catherine. You did not describe Mr. Darcy.”
“There was little need. He described himself.”
“Yes.” Mary adjusted one cup that did not require it. “That is the change.”
Elizabeth leaned against the table. “Please explain.”
“Before, every action confirmed what you thought of him. If he spoke, he was proud, but if he remained silent, he was contemptuous. When he assisted someone, you suspected control, and if he withheld his aid, you called him selfish. You had one judgment and placed each fact beneath it.”
The charge would have angered Elizabeth a month before. Now it struck too near her own thoughts to dismiss. “You make me sound unreasonable.”
“You did not lack reasons.”
“A generous distinction.”
“An important one. He insulted you, and his manners offended many. Mr. Wickham’s account provided an explanation that suited your opinion.”
Elizabeth studied her sister. “When did you become an observer of character?”
“When everyone decided I observed nothing but books.”
The answer silenced her. Mary showed no triumph; she had just named a change Elizabeth could no longer hide from herself.
“What do I do now?” Elizabeth asked.
Mary’s brows rose. “You ask me?”