The thickset man waved this away. "It began with a B, that is the point, and she was sitting at cards with Mr Derby when he took hold of her hand thus…"
There followed a dramatic reenactment of romantic hand grasping which caused jeers and laughter to break out around the room. The farmer looked close to toppling off his stool.
"At cards?" said one at last.
"At cards."
"Well," said another, after some thought, "that is unusual."
"Unusual? It was bold as brass. Not in a corner, not in a passage, not out walking where a man might make a lovestruck fool of himself privately if he must, but at Mrs Purvis’ own table with half the town looking on."
"Was Miss Bucket unwilling?"
"That is the difficulty. She told him to let go after a fashion, but she did not look as though she disliked him taking hold in the first place."
Several heads nodded at this, as though it was the sort of distinction upon which civilisation depended.
Mr Bennet’s fork paused only briefly before continuing its journey. Miss Bucket was an excellent name for an indiscreet young woman, he thought.
The story expanded. Mr Derby grew taller and richer with every telling. Miss Bucket became lively and coquettish, though whether she had encouraged him, rebuked him or done both in the same breath varied according to the speaker. By the time Mr Bennet’s plate was cleared, the young couple had passed from hand-holding at cards to a state of emotional entanglement so advanced that even the cattle-dealer at the end of the far table, who had walked in halfway through the telling, felt qualified to give an opinion.
Mr Bennet looked at the fire and felt his amusement becoming rather less pronounced. He thought of how much gossip Mrs Bennet would once have rung from such a silly tale. And then he thought of the silence between them.
There had been a time when his wife could fill four pages with the conduct of a neighbour at dinner and leave him with the impression that civilisation itself had narrowly escaped collapse. Lately there had been almost nothing. Jane wrote that sheimproved. Lizzy wrote that the change of air suited her. Mrs Bennet did not write to say whether either was true.
At first he had been relieved. Then puzzled. Then irritated by his own puzzlement. He had admitted his behaviour was poorly done, which had seemed to him, at the time, as close to apology as any reasonable person could require. Yet Mrs Bennet had left Longbourn and stayed away. Mrs Bennet, who had once filled every room by entering it, was apparently sitting by the sea and becoming quiet, or cheerful, or altered, depending upon which daughter was reporting and how much she wished to spare him.
The men at the neighbouring table had returned to Miss Bucket, which was a relief. Other people’s follies were always more comfortable than one’s own.
"I say they will be engaged before the week is out," said the thickset man.
Tomorrow he would continue to Lyme. Tomorrow he would see Jane and Lizzy. Tomorrow, also, he would see his wife.
The men beside the fire began to argue over whether a gentleman ought to marry a woman after holding her hand at whist, and Mr Bennet allowed the discussion to occupy him as fully as possible. It was a foolish question, but it had the considerable advantage of not being one he had brought with him from Longbourn.
Chapter Nineteen
Mr Bennet arrived in Lyme three days later than he had originally intended, though this delay was not entirely his fault. Some portion of the blame certainly belonged to the roads, which had shown a remarkable tendency to become slower the nearer he came to Dorset. Some belonged to the weather, which had presented several mornings so damp and disagreeable that no sensible traveller could reasonably be expected to begin a journey at the hour originally proposed. A very small amount perhaps belonged to his horse, which had developed a reluctance to proceed at any speed that suggested urgency. Most of the responsibility, however, belonged to Mr Bennet himself.
Not that he would have admitted as much.
He had set out from Longbourn with every intention of joining his family. Indeed, he had informed himself several times each day that this was precisely what he was doing. Any husband might travel to see his wife. Any father might wish to see hisdaughters. There was nothing unusual in such behaviour and certainly nothing emotional about it. Unfortunately, the closer he came to Lyme, the more attractive every possible delay became.
Close to the guesthouse he had stopped at a coffee house and remained there considerably longer than was strictly necessary. The coffee itself was mediocre and the room unremarkable, and eventually there was little choice but to resume his journey.
Thus it was that, shortly after three o'clock, he found himself standing outside Mrs Makepeace's lodging house and wondering whether a man might reasonably pause for a few moments before entering a building without it appearing suspicious.
The house itself was pleasant enough. It stood on a narrow street overlooking a small sweep of rooftops and sea, its pale stone front catching the weak sunshine the afternoon had produced. Somebody had planted flowers beside the path and the windows were open. From somewhere inside came the sound of conversation.
Mr Bennet remained where he was. There could be no harm in observing the place before announcing himself. A minute passed. Then another. He suddenly found himself quite unequal to the task before him.
The sound of shuffling feet came from behind him, and an elderly woman carrying a basket looked at him with undisguised curiosity.
Mr Bennet immediately walked up the path. One could only loiter outside another person's house for so long before attracting comment, and he had no wish to become a topic of local discussion before he had even arrived.
The door opened before he could knock.
Mrs Makepeace regarded him steadily. "Mr Bennet."
