Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

  “I had never considered it so.” Nor had most philosophers he had read.

  “Are they not polar opposites? One extreme does not exist in the presence of the other. So then, I am as curious as the horrid little creature displaying himself for the delight of ticket bearers.” She extended her legs slightly and crossed her ankles. “In a way, I am at a disadvantage, for at least they are able to profit from the uniqueness of their appearance. At least in that manner, it seems they have all the advantage.”

  “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Do you find me beautiful? More so than, let us say, your cousin Anne?”

  He resettled himself in his seat, mumbling, “I do.”

  “Of course, that was an easy question. Your poor cousin carries the look of illness about her. But Miss Bingley is certainly an elegant female. Do I surpass her?”

  “Yes, you do.” Impertinent. Brash. Disconcerting …

  “She is elegant in the way of many, so she is also ordinary. I agree. What of the remaining ladies? The Bennet sisters? Miss Bennet is regarded as very attractive.”

  “This is a most unseemly topic.”

  “I see now I have competition.” She touched her cheek. “I think her a more ethereal beauty whereas I am more classic, timeless, if you will.”

  “I do not know how to answer.”

  “Of course not. Such a conversation with a woman you must consider quite improper. But if I am not uncomfortable, why should you be?” She studied him, challenging him with her gaze. “Are you offended if I declare you less tall than my brother?”

  “No. It is a matter of fact.”

  “So, too, is a woman’s beauty.”

  “Is there not a certain matter of taste to be considered as well? Height is a measurable trait, yet attractiveness is subjective.”

  “After a fashion, I suppose, but it hardly signifies unless one knows a lady well enough to consider her character as part of her beauty.”

  He rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “I noticed you did not make any mention of Miss Elizabeth when we discussed the Bennet sisters.” She pointed with her chin at the little group laughing around the pianoforte.

  Miss Elizabeth was saying something—what, he could not make out—but it made the rest smile and nod. “She hardly rates a comparison to her sister.”

  “In some ways, that may be correct. But Alexander declares her the most attractive woman in the room.”

  He huffed. What was Garland doing looking at Miss Elizabeth? She was hardly of his station—not a woman he should be noticing. “I can hardly consider that a serious statement.”

  “I disagree. Were we in a London drawing room, I would consider her quite my stiffest competition for any gentleman’s attentions.”

  “I cannot fathom why.”

  “She may not have my face or figure, but her wit is as sharp as mine and her understanding as quick. Moreover, she is blessed with what I lack, a warm and nurturing temperament, ready to take care of those around her, even at her own expense. Those are very attractive qualities.” Why was she staring at him again? “It is to my good fortune she has neither wealth nor connections to solidify her position, or I would have to truly despise her. In such an environment, I could even see you—”

  “You jest.” He brushed the idea aside. Would that she would stop looking at him that way. “No. I should like to consider I have more to offer—”

  “Than a woman with no fortune or connections might expect?”

  “Are you jealous, Miss Garland?”

  “Not anymore.” Her cheek dimpled.

  Georgiana and Garland took to the pianoforte. Darcy leaned back and closed his eyes, Joints stiff from enforced quietude protested every command to relax. Was there a single comfortable position on this blasted fainting couch?

  “Are you well?” He opened his eyes into Miss Elizabeth’s face, hovering just above him. “Might I see to anything for your relief?”

  “You are a dear girl.” Miss Garland rose and patted Miss Elizabeth’s hand. “But I have the matter quite in hand. Do not fear.”

  “Of course. Forgive my intrusion.” She curtsied and hurried away.

  “I know just what you need, Mr. Darcy. I will return in a moment.” Miss Garland dipped in the barest curtsey and disappeared from the room.

  “Miss Bingley,” Garland rose from the pianoforte. “Come play us something lively so that we may have a dance.”

  “That is a fine notion.” Bingley moved closer to Miss Bennet.

  “If you insist.” Miss Bingley took her place at the keyboard.

  Richard and Garland moved furniture out of the way.

  Three couples assembled and made their bows and curtsies at Miss Bingley’s opening notes: Miss Bennet and Bingley, Richard and Anne, Georgiana and Garland.

  Miss Elizabeth stood in the shadows near the doorway, not entirely successful at hiding her crestfallen expression. Such was the uncomfortable reality of unequal parties of ladies and gentlemen.

  She watched the dancers, the sparkle gone from her fine eyes. Her smile was entirely for show, nothing genuine about it. But she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin and watched on.

  Miss Bingley finished her set and Miss Bennet was persuaded to play for the next, but none sought to dance with Miss Elizabeth. A few bars into her sister’s first chorus, Miss Elizabeth slipped out.

  Chapter 9

  Elizabeth dashed through the corridor and headed for the gallery. Enough, enough! There was absolutely no need to relive that nightmare again. It had haunted her dreams often enough. Foolish and childish thought it may be, she would never forget a cut like that. Forgive, yes, she must, but forget? Never.

  If she went to her chambers, Jane would find her and insist they talk. Now was not the time for talk. Peace and silence—and perhaps air—were all she required.

  Moonlight streaming through two still-open windows lit the long room. Forgetful maids—Mrs. Reynolds would surely reprimand them. The sunlight would fade the treasured paintings.

  But for now, she would enjoy the silver tendrils streaming past the velvet curtains, turning everything to shades of soft grey, and then close the drapes when she left.

  Had she not already been familiar with the room’s marble and oil occupants, the moonlit effect might have been haunting. But these were not ghosts, rather old friends she met with each time she came to read to bedridden old Mr. Darcy. The old man could not speak much then, but his eyes were kind—like his son’s. How sad the current Mr. Darcy never had the opportunity to see his father that way and the two never came to terms with one another.

  She paced the length of the gallery twice, rubbing her hands briskly along her arms, her slippers whispering along the polished marble. Ridiculous! That is what old Mr. Darcy would have called her could he see her now. It was not as though this were the first time she had been without a dance partner. Most girls took their turns sitting out at Lambton’s public assemblies. Was it really such a trial now?

  Perhaps if Mr. Garland—Sir Alexander it was now—had not looked at her that way, it would have been different. Did he still take such glee in not dancing with her? Then to make such a show of asking Jane to dance with him.

  How horrid and petty to be jealous of Jane. At least Jane never tried to make her feel inferior—no, that was better left to fine ladies like Miss Bingley and Miss de Bourgh. Raw and ill-used, that was how they left her.

  Ironic how the gentlemen seemed to enjoy Elizabeth’s company … at least until it was time to dance. Then beauty and fortune won over wit and clever conversation.

  It always would.

  She sank into a soft chair in a shadowed niche and slid into an ungraceful slump. What did unladylike posture matter when there was no one to notice? What did any of it matter when she lacked the traits that mattered to society?

  The moon rose high above the horizon as she watched the moonbeams and shadows dance along the ma
rble floor. She counted the floor tiles, first by horizontal rows, then vertical, and now diagonal. No one ought to be so expert in the dimensions of a marble floor. But it was soothing.

  A tall figure entered the far side of the gallery, silk skirts swishing as she staggered and tottered.

  What was wrong with Miss Garland? Leaden steps and a crumpled posture replaced her usual poise and grace. She crashed to her knees beside a window bench flanked by velvet curtains.

  “Are you hurt?” Elizabeth dashed to her side.

  “Miss … Miss Elizabeth?” She turned her face toward Elizabeth, glassy-eyed, her features slack, head drooped and bobbing. “Elizabeth, dearest Elizabeth, my friend.”

  No scent of wine or brandy on her breath. She was not in her cups, but she certainly acted that way.

  “I am … am so glad to see you here.” She pulled her head up and fluttered her eyes at Elizabeth.

  “You seem in want of some assistance.”

  “You must call me Blanche, now for you are my very dear friend. Not like those jealous old tabbies around the … the …” she giggled into her hand.

  “The parlor?” Elizabeth crouched beside Miss Garland.

  “Yes, that is the room… the parlor. You are clever and quick and … and … not jealous. No, no, why would you be? We do not walk in the same circles, have the same aspirations. We … we do not … compete for the same attentions.”

  “You need to retire to your chambers … Blanche…. You are not well. Let me help you stand.” Elizabeth tried to pull Miss Garland’s arm over her shoulders.

  She yanked her arm away and sat down hard on the tiles. “No, no. I do not wish to go. It is nice here … here with my friend.”

  Elizabeth sat on the window bench.

  Miss Garland leaned her head in Elizabeth’s lap. “Much better … They hate me, you know. Miss de Bourgh, and Miss Bingley.”

  “Hate is a very strong term.”

  “Hate, definitely hate. I am far wealthier, prettier and have … have … my father … he had a title, you know.”

  “I was aware.”

  “Your sister is scared of me! Can you imagine? Miss Darcy, though, she … she likes me.”

  “She is a dear girl.” How was she to get Miss Garland back to her chambers?

  “I like you Eliza … abeth. A pity … such a pity.”

  “What is?”

  “Mr. Darcy. He would like you very well if you were higher than you are.”

  Enough of this conversation! Elizabeth looked toward the door—surely there must be someone nearby to interrupt this trial.

  “But you are not … and he cannot … and he must settle for me.”

  “You are very much mistaken.”

  “No, no, no, no. I am not. Not a little bit, my dear friend.” Miss Garland wagged an unsteady finger in front of her face. “No, I am not. Men stare at me all the time … all … all … all the time. Fitzwilliam and Bingley, they stare when they do not think I see. They like my bubbies, you see.”

  “This is not proper….”

  “No, it is not … but they stare. But one can hardly miss something of this size, can one?” She looked down into her décolletage as she pushed it up to nearly overflow her bodice. “But you … you have naught but little ones ….”

  Could this become more humiliating?

  “But Mr. Darcy … and Alexander, they … both … stare at you.”

  “They certainly do not.”

  “Yes … oh, yes they do.” She squinted up into Elizabeth’s face. “I know … I see them.” She began to laugh and nearly fell sideways, catching herself on Elizabeth’s legs. “But you have no fortune … not a penny! You have got nothing. So, they cannot have you. And Mr. Darcy must settle for me.”

  “This is not a subject—”

  “I said it because it is true. He made himself stare … at me tonight. I must be sure … to show him my ....” Miss Garland rearranged her bosom. “He likes them … I think he does. He should ….” Tears pooled in her eyes and leaked down her cheeks. “I should not like you very well, you know.”

  How could she escape the gallery before this turned even worse, as it surely would?

  “He likes you … likes you very well … but he will offer for me. I am jealous. I am not used to being jealous. Everyone envies me. Imagine, that I might envy someone like … like you.” Peals of laughter turned hysterical, mixing with sobs. “I want him to like me the way he likes you—not because he thinks he should, but because he does!” Her voice rose with each word and ended with a shriek.

  She fell into Elizabeth’s lap, wracked with sobs, clutching Elizabeth’s waist. She held her breath and fought the urge to push Miss Garland away and run.

  Mr. Darcy’s valet strode up. “Excuse me, Miss. I heard—”

  Merciful heavens, at last! “Miss Garland is quite unwell. Fetch her maid, and see her to her chambers.”

  He returned a few moments later with Miss Garland’s lady’s maid who seemed unsurprised by her mistress’ condition. Lovely, just lovely.

  Together they removed Miss Garland.

  Elizabeth stood frozen. Her sanctuary violated; she smelt of Miss Garland’s perfume. A bath would have been welcome, but it was far too late to make such a demand on the staff. Best find her way back to her chambers and be done with this awful day. Her foot slipped on something small and hard. She barely caught herself against the window frame. Good heavens! What was that?

  Crouching, she retrieved a small, dark bottle. The moonlight played off the label. A Lady’s Soothing Tincture ~ a universal household medicine.

  Soothing, indeed. She shook the bottle. Empty but for a few drops. She poured one out on her fingertip and tasted it. Vile, bitter … and full of laudanum.

  That explained Miss Garland’s state. Why would a woman so well-blessed, so strong and confident, require a soothing tincture?

  She left the gallery. Her stomach grumbled—she had missed supper after all. Below stairs seemed quiet. Perhaps she could sneak into the kitchen for a bite.

  She crept downstairs along the dark stairway. Perhaps she would have to find a candle to assist her upstairs. At the foot of the stairs, she paused, a low moan filtered from the darkness. It must be from the parlor. Mr. Darcy?

  She should not go to him, not like this, with everyone retired for the night. Bother, the valet was likely still upstairs assisting the maid with Miss Garland.

  Another moan.

  No one here had anything to gain by spreading gossip. Pemberley’s staff was notoriously tight-lipped. She headed for the parlor. It was safe to err on the side of compassion here.

  She cracked the door open.

  Mr. Darcy thrashed on the fainting couch, moonlight painting wan shadows along his sweaty face. How had he become feverish? Could she have been mistaken? Had he actually broken a bone and it began turning septic?

  She dashed to his side and laid her hand on his forehead. The skin was cool, not burning with fever.

  He grabbed her wrist. “Must get up. I will die if I stay in bed.”

  “You must not risk further damage to your ankle.” She pressed him back.

  His grip tightened. “Do not leave me. I do not wish to die alone.”

  “You are not dying.” She could just reach a footstool with her toes and pulled it close enough to sit beside the fainting couch. “Most likely, you have had too much brandy.”

  He blinked and shook his head. “Not so much. Only … only two glasses.”

  “That does not seem possible.”

  “One Fitz brought me … and Bingley gave me one whilst we read his lines from that ruddy foolish play. You … you were not here to help Georgiana. Why did you leave? Should have been here for her. She needs your help … and for me. My leg hurts.”

  “Let me help you get more comfortable.” She eased his grip on her hand and helped him settle back, arranging the pillows beneath his injured foot and behind his shoulders. “There now, you should find that more comfortable.”
She wiped the sweat from his face with a napkin left from tea and biscuits and resumed her place on the stool.

  “Wanted your willow bark.”

  “Shall I go and make you some?”

  “The Valkyrie gave me wine instead. Tasted strange … so strange … so sleepy.”

  So, that was why Miss Garland had the bottle of soothing syrup.

  He clutched her hand with one hand and swung at an unseen assailant with the other. “Away! Away!”

  She ducked his failing arm. “There is nothing there.”

  “Cannot you see the Hound of Hell? It comes for me. I must … If I do not get off this bed, it will take me!” He sat upright and swung his feet to the floor.

  She grabbed both his hands. Even now he was so strong. “Calm, yourself. There is nothing here. I promise. You are quite safe.”

  “I will not lay down again.”

  “Then prop your foot on this stool and sit quietly.”

  His bandaged foot landed heavily in her lap. She caught her surprised squeal before it escaped. His head lolled back over the back of the fainting couch.

  “Read to me—as you did to my father. He said it kept the hound at bay.”

  “I cannot read in the dark.”

  “Then sing to me with your pretty voice.”

  “Very well.” Given his state, he would hardly recall her performance in the morning. Even if he did, he could hardly find fault with it, given the circumstances. If it might calm him, it was worth it.

  What did one sing under such conditions? A simple country tune with many verses and choruses. After three such songs, her throat grew raspy and her voice hoarse.

  “She would not sing for me.”

  “Who?”

  “The Valkyrie.

  “I assure you, there are neither hell hounds nor Valkyries in the house.”

  “She was here, in the parlor! She played pianoforte and read lines with Georgiana and wore blue silk.” He waved into the darkness.

  Miss Garland? She was his Valkyrie?

  “She is very lovely, the Valkyrie. I like her. Richard likes her … a great deal, you know. Would even … offer … if he had more. She does not like second sons, you know.”

  “No, I did not.” Not that she wanted to know, either.