said, will have to be more
reverent and more rude, more absolute,
more convincing than these five jays
who have become the five wheeling spokes
and stays of perfect lament, who, without knowing
anything, have accurately matched the black
beaks and spread shoulders of their bodies
to all the shrill, bird-shaped histories
of grief; will have to be demanding enough,
subtle enough, shocking enough, sovereign
enough, right enough to rouse me, to move me
from this window where I have pressed
my forehead against the unyielding pane,
unyielding all morning long.
After this extraordinary recitation the girl sat down again without ceremony. To Darcy it was as if she had stripped naked and run through the room—and he was mortified to find himself dwelling on this analogy rather longer than was necessary—but he could not entirely convince himself that he was outraged. No sooner had he gotten it clear in his mind that she was outré, a philistine, than his thoughts returned to dwell on the recollection of her intensity, hypnotized by the little breaths she took between lines, the concentration in her dark eyes. And he could not ignore the inconvenient truth that after the first major loss of his own life—that of his parents—he had felt the same intractable pain, the same stubborn tenacity of grief that echoed through her words. The readings went on, but not even Shelley’s “Adonais,” Whitman’s “Last Invocation,” or the stray Psalm could fix his attention.
At last the final reading was complete, and Darcy found Caroline Bingley at his elbow. “I can guess what you’re thinking,” she said.
“I certainly hope not.”
“You’re congratulating yourself on your good fortune in never having been so foolish as to join the Live Poets. Can you imagine spending many evenings in this fashion? The insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of these people! I must hear your thoughts on the subject.”
“You’re doomed to disappointment, I’m afraid. I considered it a very appropriate way to honor a friend’s memory; and my thoughts were running on more agreeable lines. I was meditating on how the honest expression of authentic emotion can enhance a woman’s beauty.”
Caroline immediately demanded to know who had inspired these reflections.
Still in the grip of poetry’s enchantment, Darcy replied, “Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Elizabeth Bennet! The passionate little birdwatcher! You astonish me. Maybe you’re smelling the roses because your inamorata is a gardener. Did you know that Lizzy Bennet is a gardener? She’s working for some friends of mine. When you’re married, she can re-landscape Pemberley Ranch—tear out all your mother’s beautiful flowerbeds.”
“A woman’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, and from love to marriage, in a moment.”
“Oh, I think it was your imagination that did that,” said Caroline. But seeing him retire behind his habitual wall of indifference, her fears were allayed, and she continued to indulge her wit at the expense of the Bennets and the neighborhood at large.
Chapter Ten
At breakfast the next morning John had some news to impart. “I’m starting a job today. Charley Bingley—” he colored slightly as every eye at the table turned his way—“is opening a chocolate shop in a few weeks, and he wants me to work there. He thinks I’ll be good with the kids. He says there are too many places in town that cater only to adult tourists—the wine-tasting rooms, galleries, and stuff—and Lambtown needs more family-friendly businesses. I’m going over there this morning to help with decorating ideas and taste the varieties of hot chocolate that are going to be served.”
The entire Bennet family dived enthusiastically into speculation and suggestion. Were pastries going to be sold? Lunches? Was it more gourmet shop or teddy-bear tea room? But Kitty, everyone agreed, came up with the best idea. “I remember once eating in a restaurant that had children’s advice painted on the walls. Things like ‘Never trust a dog to watch your food.’ Maybe you could collect chocolate sayings and use them for decoration, or print them on the table mats or something. They would be good conversation starters, and would put people in the chocolate mood.”
Not even Mary could find any harm in this, and everyone immediately began to throw out suggestions.
“It’s never a bad time for chocolate.”
“The future is uncertain: eat the chocolate first.”
“If you have melted chocolate on your hands, you’re eating too slowly.”
“Forget love—I’d rather fall in chocolate!” cried Lizzy, getting up to find a pad and pencil so she could record their ideas.
“Save the Earth—it’s the only planet with chocolate,” said Mr. Bennet, emerging momentarily from behind the paper.
“Some things in life are better rich: coffee, chocolate, men,” said Mrs. Bennet.
Mary, blushing at her own audacity, proposed, “If God had intended us to be thin, he would not have created chocolate.”
“Why should I have only one piece of chocolate when I have two hands?”
Soon they were waving off the eldest-born for his first day of work armed with two pages of sayings. Lizzy accompanied John on his walk because she needed to buy a hoe in town. Before they reached the town center, they were joined by Bingley and Darcy, also making for the chocolate shop. As John regaled Charley with the list of epigrams, Lizzy was left to walk behind with Darcy. He appeared disinclined to speak, so she didn’t trouble herself to propose a topic of conversation, until they came to the middle of a block, where she noticed a broad dirt track running through a gap between two buildings. She stopped and peered down its length, observing that it continued for a considerable distance in either direction, interrupted only by the paved streets.
“This was originally the route of the narrow-gauge railway that ran through the Santa Ynez Valley in the 1870s,” explained Darcy. “When the tracks were torn out, the right-of-way became a bridle path.”
To Lizzy’s horticultural mind, any stretch of bare dirt was a wasted opportunity. She asked, “Do people still ride on it?”
“Not to my knowledge. None of the shops have hitching posts any longer, so there would be no convenient place to tie up in town.”
“So it’s derelict space.”
“Long-term residents would probably prefer to regard it as a historical landmark,” he said quellingly.
Indifferent to Darcy’s
