Chapter IX
The evening at Pemberley passed with all the outward propriety and elegance which Miss Bingley particularly valued in society, and which Darcy, on this occasion, more than most, found himself enduring rather than enjoying.
Tea had long since been removed. Georgiana sat near the instrument with her work neglected in her lap; Mrs. Hurst reclined indolently upon a sofa; Bingley, whose good humour no change of company could ever materially disturb, attempted conversation alternately with his sisters and with whoever seemed least inclined to answer him.
Miss Bingley, having declared the evening intolerably dull unless music were introduced, had at last seated herself at the pianoforte.
Darcy occupied a chair somewhat apart from the others, a book open before him.
At least, it was open.
For some time, his eyes had rested upon the same page without advancing beyond it.
Miss Bingley played brilliantly. Of that there could be no question.
Her execution was rapid, fashionable, and technically exact; every difficult passage was overcome with an ease intended very much to be observed.
Under ordinary circumstances, Darcy would have acknowledged the performance politely and thought little more of it.
Tonight, he did not care about any melody.
His thoughts, in spite of every effort to govern them, had returned continually to Lambton.
Elizabeth Bennet.
The astonishment of seeing her still lingered with almost undiminished force. Even now, seated quietly within the familiar security of Pemberley, he could not persuade himself that the meeting had truly occurred.
She had been there.
She had spoken to him.
She had accepted his invitation.
And perhaps most extraordinary of all, she had not seemed displeased by his presence.
He closed the book slightly against his hand and looked down without seeing it.
Again and again, his mind returned to small particulars which would once have appeared insignificant, yet which now possessed the power to disturb every attempt at composure.
Her smile when speaking with Georgiana. The gentleness with which she had encouraged her shyness.
The seriousness with which she had listened while he spoke at the inn.
And above all, those few quiet words spoken at parting:
So am I.
He had repeated them inwardly more times than prudence justified.
Miss Bingley, concluding at last a piece of considerable length and difficulty, turned partially upon the music stool with the air of one conscious of deserving admiration.
“Well, Mr. Darcy?” she said lightly. “You have not once looked up. I must conclude either that I played very ill, or that your book is exceedingly entertaining.”
Darcy raised his eyes at once, as though recalled from a considerable distance. “You played very well.”
“Very well!” repeated Miss Bingley with playful reproach. “That is praise one might bestow upon a diligent schoolgirl.”
Bingley laughed. “Take care, Caroline. Darcy is the last man from whom you should expect enthusiasm about music. Unless Georgiana plays.”
Georgiana smiled faintly.
Miss Bingley rose gracefully from the instrument and crossed the room towards Darcy.
“Then perhaps,” said she, seating herself beside him, “I ought to resign all hope of distinction.”
Darcy made no answer.
Her eyes fell upon the neglected book in his hand. “You cannot have read three pages all evening,” she observed. “I suspect your thoughts are elsewhere.”
Had she known how true the observation was, she might not have spoken so lightly.
Darcy closed the volume at last and set it aside. “Yes,” he said calmly. “They are.”
The quiet gravity of his tone caused Miss Bingley to look at him more attentively.
Bingley, meanwhile, had approached the fire and was attempting unsuccessfully to persuade Georgiana to sing.
“You are all conspiring against me tonight,” said Georgiana, smiling.
“At least,” returned Bingley, “you refuse with civility. Caroline merely punishes us with Italian songs nobody understands.”
“Charles!” cried Miss Bingley.
The room’s momentary liveliness subsided again into easeful disorder. Darcy remained silent for another minute before speaking with an abruptness which attracted attention.
“I met Miss Bennet today.”
The effect was instantaneous.
Bingley turned around so quickly that he nearly overturned a chair. “Miss Bennet! Jane Bennet from Longbourn?”
Georgiana looked up at once. Miss Bingley became perfectly still.
At the mention of Jane Bennet, Darcy’s expression altered almost imperceptibly, and for one brief moment Elizabeth’s accusations at Hunsford returned to him with uncomfortable clarity. “It was Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” said Darcy, with studied composure. “In Lambton.”
“Oh. Still… When? How?” cried Bingley. “Good God! Is she in the neighbourhood? Is her sister with her?”
“Miss Elizabeth has been at Lambton for several days with her aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. Her family… indeed, I neglected to ask.”
“Then perhaps Miss Bennet is nearby too.”
“I do not know.”
“You did not ask?”
“No. I think they would have mentioned it.”
“Darcy, you become astonishingly impractical in moments of excitement.” Bingley’s disappointment was visible, but he shook himself. “And you never sent for me? Darcy, this is abominable. Why was I not informed instantly?”
The faintest shadow of a smile touched Darcy’s expression. “The meeting was unexpected.”
“Will they remain long?”
“One more day. I have invited them to spend the day here tomorrow.”
Bingley looked delighted. “Excellent! What a marvellous accident.”
Miss Bingley recovered herself sufficiently to say, with an affectation of indifference which deceived nobody entirely, “Miss Eliza Bennet at Pemberley? How very… unexpected.”
Darcy’s eyes moved towards her calmly. “I hope,” he replied, “that the society of my guests will not prove disagreeable to anyone present.”
The civility of the words only rendered the reproof more complete.
Miss Bingley coloured slightly. “Oh! Certainly not. Miss Bennet is always very entertaining.”
Darcy made no reply.
But though outwardly composed, inwardly his thoughts had already escaped them all once more.
Tomorrow.
Elizabeth Bennet would come to Pemberley.
And for the first time since leaving Hunsford, the prospect of tomorrow no longer appeared entirely without hope.
***
Darcy awoke earlier than was his habit.
For some moments after opening his eyes, he lay still beneath the pale light of morning with that peculiar sensation of expectation which belongs less to certainty than to hope.
The recollection returned gradually – Lambton, Elizabeth, her acceptance of his invitation – and with it a restlessness of mind which rendered further sleep impossible.
She was coming to Pemberley.
The thought, even now, retained something almost unreal in it.
He rose sooner than usual and dressed with more care than he would willingly have acknowledged, though not, perhaps, with greater success; for twice his valet was obliged to repeat some question to which Darcy had given no attention whatever.
The morning itself appeared singularly favourable. The heat of the preceding days had softened into a clearer freshness; the windows stood open upon lawns still touched with dew; and the distant hills, faint beneath the early sun, gave to the whole scene an uncommon tranquillity.
And beneath every wounded reflection remained one hope, stubborn and difficult to extinguish. Yet hope, once admitted, proved difficult to govern.
His thoughts returned to Lambton – to every word Elizabeth had spoken, every look, every alteration in her manner which memory could persuade him to examine.
He recalled their conversation at the inn with a minuteness he would once have despised in another man and now practised upon himself without mercy.
Had she merely been civil? Or had there truly been something altered in her manner?
At moments, hope rose so strongly that he did not know how to suppress it. Then prudence – and memory – intervened.
She had refused him.
Nothing which had passed since then could entirely erase that fact.
Nor did he wish to deceive himself again through vanity or impatience.
If her opinion of him had indeed improved, it was enough – more than enough – to be received without displeasure where once he had been regarded with open resentment.
And yet…
One unguarded expression, one renewal of former presumption, might again render them both uncomfortable. He must not risk disturbing the ease which had so unexpectedly arisen between them.
Still, the possibility of seeing her again – of receiving her at Pemberley not merely with civility, but with something nearer ease – awakened hopes he barely trusted himself to examine too closely. If this visit passed well, perhaps their acquaintance need not end at Lambton.
He dared not pursue the thought further.
By the time he re-entered the house, breakfast had already begun. Georgiana sat near the window, arranging flowers with an earnest attention which suggested the occupation had been assigned greater importance than flowers generally deserved.
“You are early this morning, brother,” she said, smiling.
“So are you.”
Georgiana glanced down at the table before her. “I thought perhaps the blue room might look prettier if fresh flowers were placed there.”
Darcy paused slightly.
“The blue room?”
“Yes. Mrs. Reynolds thought Mrs. Gardiner would prefer it.” She hesitated a moment. “And I wondered whether Miss Bennet might like roses better than lilies. The lilies seemed too formal.”
Something in the anxious sincerity of the remark affected him unexpectedly. “I believe,” he said gently, “Miss Bennet would admire whatever was chosen with kindness.”
Georgiana coloured with pleasure.
Before more could be said, Bingley entered with his usual cheerful rapidity, followed more slowly by Mr. Hurst, whose appearance suggested that no anticipation of guests could entirely compensate for the hour at which breakfast occurred.