6. Promises of Return
six
Promises of Return
During the fortnight that followed, Elizabeth came to know a new species of London pleasure: the pleasure of expecting Mr. Darcy and being rewarded for it.
He was not always with them. That would have been improper, and Mr. Darcy, even when most inclined to forget himself, never forgot propriety long enough to make her do so.
But he appeared with sufficient frequency to make absence noticeable.
One morning, they met at the British Museum, where Mr. Gardiner admired coins, Darcy discussed Roman roads with more interest than Elizabeth had suspected any gentleman could possess, and Georgiana stood with her hands folded before a case of antiquities, whispering to Elizabeth that she preferred objects whose former owners had not been dead quite so long.
Another evening, they attended Vauxhall with Mrs. Gardiner, Mr. Gardiner, Georgiana, as she had begged Elizabeth to call her, and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had arrived in town for several days and declared himself morally obligated to prevent Darcy from behaving too solemnly beneath colored lamps.
Elizabeth had been pleased to meet more of Darcy’s family.
Darcy had not behaved solemnly. Not completely.
He had walked beside Elizabeth through the illuminated grove, his height and gravity drawing the eyes of several ladies who must have known him, or wished to know him, or wished to be seen wishing it.
He did not notice them. Or, if he did, he gave no sign of it beyond the occasional contraction of his brow when some gentleman laughed too loudly or some party of young men jostled too near.
Elizabeth had teased him for policing the whole of Vauxhall with his countenance.
“I have no authority here,” he had replied.
“No, but you look as if you expect to be obeyed.”
“That is different.”
“Very different. One is arrogance, and the other is merely hope.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam had laughed so violently that Georgiana had covered her face with both hands and declared she could not be seen with either of them.
There had been walks in Hyde Park, too, and one rainy afternoon spent almost wholly indoors at Gracechurch Street, where Darcy allowed the youngest Gardiner boy to explain a battle between two wooden soldiers, a chipped teacup, and a dragon made from folded paper.
The dragon had won, though only after Darcy suggested that its wings would be of little use if the infantry seized the hill first. Elizabeth, watching from across the room while hemming one of her aunt’s handkerchiefs very badly, had pricked her finger and said nothing about it.
By the middle of May, the approaching journey to Ireland had become an object every person mentioned and no one quite liked.
Mrs. Gardiner spoke sensibly of trunks, shawls, traveling cloaks, and the advantage of bringing fewer books than Elizabeth believed necessary.
Mr. Gardiner spent more time at the warehouse and less in his own parlor, though he always had some cheerful report meant to persuade his wife that the business would not overtake the pleasure.
Georgiana made Elizabeth promise to write.
Darcy said little of the matter, which, from Darcy, meant a great deal.
On a bright afternoon, when a warm wind moved the curtains in Mrs. Gardiner’s front parlor and the sounds of Gracechurch Street entered whenever a carriage passed too near the open window, Darcy called alone.
Mrs. Gardiner was at home, though presently occupied with a letter from Hertfordshire and a dispute over whether a particular ribbon ought to be packed or left behind.
Mr. Gardiner had been detained at the warehouse.
The children were in the nursery. Elizabeth sat near the small table with a basket of mending, though she had made no greater progress than three uneven stitches and one knot she did not wish her aunt to discover.
Darcy had been speaking of Mr. Bingley, whose name Elizabeth had heard several times but whose person remained unknown to her.
“He returns from the North just after you leave town,” Darcy said, accepting tea from Mrs. Gardiner before taking the chair she indicated. “He has been visiting relations near Durham, though I believe the sisters remained in London for the season.”
“His sisters did not accompany him?” Mrs. Gardiner asked from her desk.
“No. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst prefer town when town is available.”
“That sounds very reasonable of them,” Elizabeth said, drawing her needle through the linen and discovering she had not improved the handkerchief. “Or very fashionable.”
“Both, perhaps.”
“And is Mr. Bingley fashionable?”
Darcy considered the question with more gravity than it deserved. “Not by design. He is too eager to be pleased to manage it well.”
“That is a fault I can forgive.”
“One is inclined to forgive it in him.”
Elizabeth lifted her eyes from the mending. “You say that as though others might make cheerfulness oppressive.”
“Many do.”
Mrs. Gardiner made a sound from the desk that might have been amusement, though she did not lift her head.
Darcy, perhaps aware that he had sounded severe, adjusted his cuff and continued, “Bingley is a good-natured man. Generous, open, amiable. He has more feeling than judgment at times, but his errors are seldom selfish.”
“Then I shall be sorry to miss him,” Elizabeth said.
“I am sorry you will.”
The answer was too plain for the lightness of the conversation. Elizabeth bent over her sewing again, partly because the needle required attention and partly because her aunt had ears, eyes, and an inconvenient amount of affection.
Darcy took a sip of tea. “His sisters have expressed regret as well, though Miss Bingley will regret the loss of a new acquaintance more in theory than in practice. She is fond of collecting people when they reflect well upon her taste.”
“How very fatiguing for the people collected.”
“It can be.”
“Does she collect Miss Darcy?”
Darcy’s cup paused before he set it down. “She attempts it.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked up then, her letter forgotten.
Elizabeth’s mending slipped into her lap. “That sounds less agreeable than collecting china.”
“China has the advantage of remaining where it is placed,” Darcy replied. “Georgiana is civil to Miss Bingley, and Miss Bingley takes civility for encouragement.”
“Poor Miss Darcy.”
“Poor Miss Bingley, perhaps. She has chosen an unpromising method if her object is my favor.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Is it?”
Darcy gave no immediate reply. Outside, a cart rattled past, and the driver called sharply to another man blocking the way. Darcy’s eyes moved briefly toward the window, then back to Elizabeth.
“It has been before,” he said.
Mrs. Gardiner resumed folding her letter, perhaps to grant them the charitable fiction of privacy.
Elizabeth set her sewing aside, abandoning any pretense of industry. “Is it always thus for you?”
He understood her. She knew he did by the way his fingers closed once around the arm of the chair before relaxing.
“Not always.”
“That was a very gentlemanlike evasion.”
“It was meant to be.”
“Then it succeeded.”
Darcy’s mouth formed no smile, but there was something in the severe line of it that she had learned to distrust. He was amused; he simply refused to assist her by displaying it.
“A man with an estate, a large fortune, and a younger sister who will possess her own considerable portion must expect certain calculations. Some are harmless. Some are merely tiresome. A few become impertinent.”
“And Miss Bingley?”
“Tiresome,” he said, then seemed to regret the bluntness. “At least in this matter.”
“You are charitable to distinguish.”
“I try to be fair.”
“Do you?”
His attention fixed upon her with interest. “You doubt it?”
“I doubt everyone who claims fairness too readily. It is often another word for judging with excellent posture.”
Mrs. Gardiner did not succeed in hiding her laugh. She covered it with a cough and reached for the sealing wax.
Darcy’s lips moved, though he brought them back under command. “Then I must revise my statement. I try, at intervals, to be fair. At other times, I am resentful and call it discernment.”
Elizabeth’s delight in this confession nearly overcame her. “Mr. Darcy, that is wonderfully honest.”
“Do not praise me yet. It may grow worse.”
“I live in hope.”
He leaned back in his chair, his dark coat severe against the pale upholstery. The breeze shifted one corner of the paper upon Mrs. Gardiner’s desk, and she set a silver weight upon it without disturbing the conversation.
“I do not easily forgive a serious wrong,” Darcy said. “My good opinion, once lost, is very difficult to recover. Perhaps impossible, depending upon the offense.”
Elizabeth’s needle remained idle in the basket. “That sounds dangerously permanent.”
“I know.”
“And you say it as a fault?”
“Yes.”
“But one you have no intention of mending?”
This time he did smile, though reluctantly. “You give no quarter.”
“I am considering the case. A fault should be examined from every angle before it is condemned or excused.”
“Then you are in a generous mood.”
“I am in an inquisitive one. Generosity may follow.”
Darcy’s gaze lowered to the tea table, where Mrs. Gardiner had arranged cakes, biscuits, and a small dish of sugared almonds.
He took none of them. “When I decide a man has acted dishonorably, I cannot easily separate that act from his character. I know people may change. I have seen very little to persuade me that those who profit by wrongdoing are eager to become better.”
“That is severe.”
“It is.”
“And true?”
“I believe so.”
Elizabeth studied him. The remark had not been formed for display. He had retreated somewhere while saying it, though he remained in the same chair, in the same room, with the same afternoon light crossing the carpet.
“You are thinking of someone particular,” she said.
Darcy’s hand moved once across his knee, smoothing fabric that did not require attention. “Yes.”
“A gentleman?”
“He was raised as one.”