It was something that she was now well used to.
“Do you think Jane actually likes Mr. Bingley that much?” Elizabeth asked Mary.
“Female modesty is often silent; female decorum is never bold,” Mary intoned, with her hands folded together as though she were a child of eight whose ability to memorize a poem was being trotted out to impress the guests. And then she grinned at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth found it very hard not to laugh, and Mary shrugged, not bothered that Elizabeth didnotfind her use of a quote from one of her books enlightening.
Mr. Darcy as always, still looked at her.
Zounds, she would grow quite frightened of him if he continued in this way.
“I cannot tell,” Elizabeth said. “Sheoughtto like Mr. Bingley. He is handsome, he is rich, which a young man ought to manage if he at all can, and he has an open and generoustemperament. Yet her expression is quite calm. I cannot estimate upon it.”
“It always surprised me,” Mary said in reply, “that you and Jane were never closer friends.”
“Jane and I!” Elizabeth replied with some surprise. “Our characters are so wholly opposite. Besides she has always been very much Mrs. Bennet’s favorite.”
Mary made a small face. She nodded her head side to side indecisively. “Jane always says what she thinks she ought to say—she hasn’t studied morality, she does not read serious books, and she makes a pretense of believing that everyone is filled with goodness. The Holy Book is quite clear upon the opposite point:Allhave sinned and fallen short of the goodness of God.”
“I do not think,” Elizabeth said smiling at Mary being very much like Mary, “that Jane would ever admit to irreligious opinions.”
“She has no deep sense of theology. One can have opinions that are objectionable, incorrect, and unserious due to a failure to think rigorously about what is implied by all that one thinks.”
“You mean to say that by mastering the art of decorating her hair, of walking prettily, of talking prettily, and the particularly difficult art of making excellent rose water your sister has misused her time terribly.”
“See you do not like her either—There is a falsity to Jane. She is too much like Mama.”
“I like Jane well enough. I only cannot understand her. But Mary, is there not a Biblical injunction to honor your father and mother?” Elizabeth smirked. “This is my advantage, I have none, so I cannot transgress in this point.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Mary replied, but she smiled back at Elizabeth. “You are too contrary. Much like Papa. I do not insult Mama, I only say something she would admitto freely: That her chief concerns are gossip and seeing us all married.”
“And her nerves,” Elizabeth replied. She then looked about her, as though Mrs. Bennet may have heard what she had said.
Her eye fell upon Mr. Darcy once more.
He watched her.
“Why can he not find some other person to stare upon?” Elizabeth exclaimed.
Mary looked at Mr. Darcy and then looked down. “You must hope that he remains quiet in his admiration, Mama would not like it if she noticed.”
“I am full aware,” Elizabeth replied. Then she added, “He only looks at me to study the imperfections in my dress.”
“As always, your dress is a masterful work of imperfection,” Mary agreed with one of those dry smiles that proclaimed that despite her tendency to sermonize, she was in fact the daughter of Mr. Bennet. “As Doctor Johnson said, ‘He that has abilities to conceive perfection will not easily be content without it’. The imperfection of your dress is a perfection of imperfection, and well worth looking at if one finds such things of interest.”
Elizabeth pushed Mary’s arm and laughed. She looked at Mr. Darcy again as she did so.
Perhaps perceiving them both perceiving his interest in them, he approached the two girls.
As he did Elizabeth felt very aware of the imperfections of her own dress. And of the elaborate effort she went to with it.
This dress had fit fairly well when she inherited it from Jane, and she had needed to modify it so that the bosom looked uneven and unflattering. No rouge or powder of course, and the usual severe bun. A shawl draped all wrong over her shoulders. And another ink stain, this time on the stomach of the dress.
He bowed. “Might I ask what your conversation is upon?”
Mary had become shy at Mr. Darcy’s actual approach, so it fell to Elizabeth to provide the requisite liveliness. She already knew Mr. Darcy’s character well enough to confidently state thathewould not. “We were speaking aboutyou, Mr. Darcy.”
He blinked at this, but then seriously said, “But that is a subject upon which many things might be said. What specifically about me did you speak of?”
