“Leave the children. We have no time for children,” she said, entering the small but elegant parlour of the apartment and hastily placing a letter in her hand.
Elizabeth’s heart contracted painfully; the last message she remembered, the one her uncle had received in London, had concerned her father.
“Do not alarm yourself,” said Mrs Cooper, observing the colour which had risen to her face; “you had better read.”
Elizabeth recognised the hand at once; she had read his letter so often that she would have known, anywhere, the elaborately formed ‘E’ with which he wrote her name, the hand a little formal and proud, like himself, yet in truth exceedingly elegant.
“He invites us to dine,” said Mrs Cooper, but Elizabeth scarcely seemed to hear her, since she continued,
“The children are perhaps awake.”
“Leave the children, my dear Elizabeth. We have at this moment other matters to consider.”
As they descended the stairs towards the drawing room, Mrs Cooper explained with animation, “I believe you have entirely mistaken the situation. I am glad, certainly, that from time to time you instruct the children; but the truth is, I had need of someone.”
“A companion?” asked Elizabeth, somewhat disconcerted; as indeed, had such a thing been proposed to her, she could not be certain she would have accepted it.
“What are you saying?” returned Mrs Cooper, with the same cheerful reproof. “I had need of someone near me, someone of the family; here, as you have seen, I have friends, but no more, and I am often alone.
“And on the other hand,” she added, taking the letter from Elizabeth’s hand, “I truly do not know which of us is companion to the other; without you, I should never have been invited to Pemberley…and do you know what?”
Elizabeth shook her head, seating herself opposite her, somewhat more at ease.
“All the ladies in this street—my friends, that is—would do anything to receive such an invitation to Pemberley.”
As Elizabeth remained silent, Mrs Cooper continued, “When Maddy and I resolved to invite you to Derby, I thought chiefly of myself, of the pleasure of having someone like you to remain here, with me. The notion of the children came later.”
Elizabeth coloured slightly, perceiving that Mrs Gardiner had laid a graceful snare, in which Mrs Cooper had been a willing accomplice. Yet she still disliked the position she found herself in, that of requiring assistance in the difficult situation they were in. It was absurd to feel so; in this house she was treated as a valued guest, she occupied the most agreeableapartment she had ever known, and Mrs Cooper treated her as a sister; yet in the depth of her heart she felt only that she was the girl who, after her father’s death, had required a roof above her head since the Bennet family no longer had a home.
And her meeting with Mr Darcy, in these altered circumstances, had been far from a pleasure.
“When I spoke to you of his proposal, I told you only part of what he said to me. In truth, his proposal was little more than a censure of my family,” said Elizabeth suddenly.
“Do not ask me to refuse!” cried Mrs Cooper, understanding something of her agitation.
“No; that it should be such a pleasure to you signifies a great deal to me. It is as though I, too, might do something to give you pleasure.”
“Pleasure?” exclaimed Mrs Cooper. “You still do not understand. To be invited to Pemberley is a privilege. Mr Darcy belongs to the nobility, not only through his mother, Lady Anne, but because his family possesses one of the greatest estates in Derbyshire; that house rivals any palace in London, which one visits as a museum.”
“I understand,” said Elizabeth, though she did not truly understand. To her, there would have been no privilege in being invited into the house of any duke in London. She did not praise such things. Still, for Mrs Cooper, it signified something…and that, in truth, was what mattered.
“Then we go?” asked Mrs Cooper, already thinking of how she should dress, or what jewels she might wear.
“We go,” Elizabeth agreed, with a slight grimace, which, strangely, was not of displeasure at the visit to Pemberley, but directed against herself. She would have wished to remain angry with him, and yet her meeting with him had disturbed her—and not in an unpleasant way. She had spent many days endeavouring to preserve her resentment and to takesatisfaction in the abruptness of her refusal, but, in truth, a curiosity had stolen into her heart. She would have liked to believe it concerned his much-praised house, or the park said to rival those of Paris, but she resolved not to deceive herself. She was curious to see what she might read in his eyes when they should meet there in his world.
“I should like to ask you something,” said Mrs Cooper suddenly, with some hesitation.
“Ask me anything,” Elizabeth replied, with firmness.
“It is a question that may be disagreeable to you, but it comes from the girl I once was, whose parents chose her husband…as they did for Maddy.”
“You wish to ask whether I would marry him without loving him, now that my situation is so difficult,” said Elizabeth, understanding her meaning, though she coloured because it was indeed an awkward question.
“Yes—though perhaps not so directly,” returned Mrs Cooper, with a faint, embarrassed smile.
“The question is whether I would marry without love, whoever the man might be.”
“No; in truth, they are two different questions, proceeding from different principles. The first would indeed be this: would you marry an unknown man without loving him as we did, because such were the times?”
