Chapter 24
Mr. Darcy was to call on Thursday at one.
Elizabeth had overheard only Mr. Darcy repeating the hour at the exhibition, standing near her aunt with a catalogue she had given up reading.
She had waited the whole way home for the intelligence to be shared.
Her aunt had spoken of the Derbyshire paintings, the flower studies, the crowd, a woman wearing a bonnet that had blocked her view—but had said nothing at all about a visit.
The announcement had come at breakfast this morning instead, and it was addressed not to her, but to her uncle.
Her aunt set her spoon down and said, “Mr. Darcy will be calling tomorrow at one. I have told Cook to use the good tea, so you may wish to bring home a little more.”
“Does he want to buy something?” Uncle Gardiner did not look up from his newspaper. “Men only call on me at one o’clock when they want prices, credit, or something from my warehouses.”
“He is coming to drink tea, my dear.”
Now he lowered the paper. “At whose request?”
“Mine.”
Elizabeth had been trying not to think of Pall Mall, or Derbyshire views, or Mr. Darcy standing beside a painting explaining how the colour of the bluebells changed depending upon the light.
She did not want to hear what he wanted to tell her, for she feared it would be to inform her that he and Miss Finch were to be married.
But surely he owed her no explanation. And even if he felt them friends enough to require it, he certainly would not come all the way to Gracechurch Street to do so.
No. He was coming because her aunt had asked him to come. That was all. But why would her aunt issue such an invitation in the first place? Elizabeth applied herself to her eggs and toast.
Beside her, Jane set the honey next to her without being asked. “Do Lady Anne and Miss Darcy come with him?” she asked.
“No.” Her aunt poured for Uncle Gardiner. “He comes alone.”
“Then he is certainly intending to buy something,” said Uncle Gardiner, and turned his page. “Perhaps a gift for his mother or sister.”
Her aunt lifted her teacup. “Mr. Darcy is coming here, and you will be at your warehouse, my dear.”
Uncle Gardiner paused. “Will I?”
“Yes. I have confirmed it with your clerk.”
Her uncle lowered the paper again and met his wife’s gaze. “My clerk is turning out to be a very managing sort of fellow.”
“He is a treasure,” said Aunt Gardiner, “and very obliging.”
Jane’s foot brushed Elizabeth’s beneath the table. It was only the lightest touch, conveying a silent question. Her sister wished to know that Elizabeth was well.
But Elizabeth did not know. She only knew that Mr. Darcy was coming to visit. Alone.
Yesterday he had been all civility and attention in Pall Mall, and it had been difficult enough to remain proper with him there. Tomorrow he would be in her aunt’s drawing room with no possibility of avoiding a real conversation.
She felt the same foolish little pang she had felt on Thursday. That is, until she remembered Miss Finch, Lady Anne, Lord Matlock, and the very sensible truth that a man might be kind and attentive without meaning anything more by it.
Across the table, Uncle Gardiner shook his newspaper straight again.
“Well,” he said, “if Mr. Darcy does not want tea, cloth, or credit, I shall leave you ladies to discover whatever it is he does want.”
Aunt Gardiner stirred her tea. “Thank you, my dear, that is very considerate.”
The post was brought in then, ending the conversation and saving her from running mad with speculation. Uncle Gardiner stacked his letters to take to his office, and Elizabeth was handed one.
It was from Mary, whose letters had become a family entertainment that nobody wished to miss.
“Do read it out if you would, Lizzy,” her aunt said.
Elizabeth broke the seal and unfolded the paper. “‘My dear sisters,’” she read. “‘The house is much as you left it. The militia are still at Meryton, but Kitty and Lydia no longer walk into town every morning upon errands no one can name.’”
“The haberdasher and the milliner will feel the loss of their pocket allowance,” said her uncle.
“‘Mamma has now told them they may not go into Meryton unless she or I accompany them. She says they are not to squander themselves upon officers who cannot support them.’”
She and Jane shared a look of surprise.
Uncle Gardiner set down his paper. “My sister has forbidden her girls to speak with the officers,” he said. “I would have paid the coach fare to see that.”
A breathy laugh escaped as Elizabeth read the next line. “‘I was as astonished to hear her say it as I am sure you are to read it. I had always understood the regiment to be Mamma’s particular field of study.’”
“Go on, Lizzy,” said Aunt Gardiner.
“‘Lydia complained at first that she was to be so restricted but then decided that none of the officers were very handsome after all. Instead, she began complaining that Mamma has changed. There she is correct, for Mamma is not herself this month, or else she is some other self I have not been introduced to. She keeps to her room until noon, and when she comes down she is gentler than I can ever recall. She and Papa sit together of an evening, and Papa reads to her. Mr. Jones has called twice and gone away looking very pleased.’”
Aunt Gardiner set down the teapot. For a moment she and Uncle Gardiner looked at one another across the toast, and something passed between them that had nothing to do with the militia. But neither of them spoke.
“Read on,” her uncle said.
Elizabeth had already read a little ahead. “‘You will hardly credit it, but she has not mentioned Mr. Collins or Mr. Bingley in a fortnight.’”
Jane looked down at Mr. Bingley’s name, and Elizabeth hurried on.
“‘I do not know what has become of my mother, but I find I rather like this version of her, and Papa too.’”
Mr. Gardiner was quiet a moment. “She was a sweet, cheerful girl, my sister,” he said, “before there were five of you and an entail to fret over. I am glad to hear a little of it has come back to her.”
“‘For your improvement, I had copied out two extracts from Mrs. More. Upon consideration, I send only one, having discovered that the copying gave me a great deal of pleasure, which is very likely the wrong reason to have done it.’”
Elizabeth laid the page down.
“Mary is coming along,” Aunt Gardiner said with satisfaction.
“Being the eldest at Longbourn has been good for her,” Elizabeth agreed.
“It has been almost three months since we came to London,” Jane said. “That is not very long at all to have made such strides. I am proud of her.”
“I think we might have Mary come to stay a while,” said Aunt Gardiner. “She has earned a little time in town, and someone really ought to persuade her that pleasure is not always the wrong reason to do a thing.”
“Excellent idea,” said her uncle. “Mary shall come to town and be shocked in the most improving manner, for there shall be nary an extract to be found.”
“You will have to send Jane and me back first, Aunt,” Elizabeth said. “At the moment Mary is the only sensible one left at Longbourn.”
“Your parents,” her aunt said, her voice rather arch, “seem to be getting on very well on their own.”
Mr. Gardiner choked a little on his tea. He stood and tossed his napkin on the table. “I am off, my dears.”
Elizabeth folded the letter with care. Mary’s news was extraordinary.
But even if her mother was with child, it was too early to know whether anything would come of it.
Jane gave her a little nod, obviously having performed the same calculations, and just like that, Elizabeth knew there would be no conversation on the matter until there was more certainty about it.
Soon, her uncle had gone, the children were at their lessons, and the sitting room had settled into its morning quiet.
Jane sat by the window reading the first volume of Tom Jones, which Mr. Aldridge had left for their uncle on his second visit and which their uncle had left on the sitting room table ever since.
“You will ruin your character,” Elizabeth said, waggling her eyebrows at her sister. “Mrs. More would have a great deal to say about that book.”
“Then it is fortunate Mary sent only the one extract.” Jane turned a page. “It is not so wicked as I was promised. It is mostly kind, underneath. I think the author likes people rather more than he trusts them.”
Elizabeth, who had already read the entire story, shook her head.
There were times when Jane had a way of seeing clear through to the heart of a matter, and Elizabeth admired her for it.
“You should tell Mr. Aldridge you think so. He told me that he is scolded for Fielding at least once a fortnight. I am sure he will appreciate an ally.”
“You may tell him yourself. He said he would be back before the month’s end.” Jane found her place again. “It is already the nineteenth.”
“So it is,” said Elizabeth. She found it interesting that Jane was watching the calendar.
Mr. Darcy visiting tomorrow, and alone, was what concerned her most, though, for Elizabeth did not know what she wanted him to say. She wanted him to prove her wrong but feared that he would not. And how could she ask for an explanation of what she had heard, without revealing how she had heard it?
Elizabeth had always known her own mind. This irresolution, therefore, was galling to her. She tried to put it out of her mind and work on her letter for Mary.
She worked for an hour.
Dear Mary, the letter said. The weather continues cold.
The second post brought nothing, but a footman delivered a note from Upper Brook Street.
Miss Darcy wrote to thank Elizabeth for the pleasure of the morning at the Institution, confessed that upon reflection she had come round to her cousin’s opinion of the Night-Blowing Cereus, and hoped Miss Elizabeth might one day be persuaded to attempt duets with her.
There was not one word in it about Thursday.
Either her brother had said nothing of his call, or Miss Darcy had been asked not to mention it.