Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

  “How can you manage anything if you are insensible?”

  “I have managed my life very effectively, thank you, or do you find fault with that as well?’ She threw her hand in the air, an elegant practiced motion. “I am finished with this conversation. I will not stand here and be insulted at every turn by the man who is supposed to—”

  “Do not change the focus of this discussion. I will not be baited into that game.”

  “Enough. I am finished!” She balled her fists and stormed out the door, slamming it behind her.

  He clutched the desk and sank down into the chair behind it.

  What had just happened?

  And what was he to do now?

  ∞∞∞

  A full week now, Elizabeth had been in London. A week of rain and fog and strangeness that would have to become as familiar to her as the wilds of Derbyshire had been. The city air smelled odd, heavy with smoke. The sheer number of people one encountered simply walking past on the streets—would that ever feel less smothering?

  She sat in the lyre-back wooden chair near the dainty oak writing desk and pressed her cheek to the window’s cool glass. Aunt had given her the second-best bedroom near their own despite there being an available guest room on the floor above near the nursery. It was Aunt’s way of making her feel wanted and welcome. Pale green paper hangings with tiny vines of climbing roses covered the walls, and matching fabric dressed the windows and the bedcurtains, reminding her of the rose-covered vicarage.

  Just a week away from there—she missed everyone so, especially those she had no right to miss. Papa was right. She could not go back. What was the point in clinging to the possibility? She would never get on with her life if she had hope of seeing him again.

  It should become easier, should it not? But her hands trembled, and her mouth went dry at the prospect of reading Jane’s letter that mocked her from the writing desk.

  Enough of such silliness. She snatched up the letter and broke the seal. The red wax cracked and fell away, several fragments bouncing on the desktop. There, the worst was over, and she could read it comfortably now.

  More or less.

  She slid her chair into a bright sunbeam. Jane’s hand was so delicate and thin. The perfect penmanship was sometimes difficult to read without sufficient light.

  My dearest Lizzy,

  Is it selfish of me to tell you how much you are missed? I am sure that it is. I know you must be such a comfort to Aunt Gardiner that it is wrong of me to wish you were here with us.

  And yet I do.

  What had Papa told Jane and the rest of her sisters about her new residence in London? Certainly not the truth. That was something that would never again be spoken of, not even between Papa and herself. He had probably intimated that Aunt was increasing again and could not manage by herself any longer. At least half of that was true. It was difficult to imagine any one so capable as Aunt Gardiner.

  It will come as no surprise that Lydia and Kitty are jealous that you are in London and they are not. They come occasionally to Pemberley on Miss Darcy’s invitation, to help in the painting of scenes for the theatrical. I am surprised by Kitty in particular. She is a far better artist than any of us knew. Mary has made herself useful sewing costumes. All three of them have been very well-behaved, I am pleased to say. I suppose Papa’s preventing them from acting has had its desired effect.

  Good, he did not need her sisters to be difficult to manage on top of her absence. She leaned back against the chair and turned her face into the warm sunlight, but the warmth did not penetrate. She reached behind her to the dresser and retrieved a shawl. It was good that they did not need her—surely, it was.

  Miss Darcy misses you tremendously. Although any of us who are available work with her to learn yet more new lines—yes, Sir Alexander continues his endless revisions—I think Miss Darcy would rather have your help. The way she looks at me, sometimes, I think she wants a sister to confide in and is wondering if I will do.

  So far, she has always decided that I will not and keeps her own counsel. I think that is for the best as I do not have your capacity for insight and wisdom. But with Miss Garland available, I have no doubt she will soon find the guidance she needs.

  I cannot say too much right now, but Mr. Bingley has gone this afternoon to talk to Papa. I can only hope that you might guess what they are to talk about. I can hardly breathe, hardly think, waiting to hear the results of their talk. You told me before you left of what you expected and how you anticipated Papa would react. I do so hope you are correct. But then, I should not worry so, for you are very often—almost always, really—correct. So instead of being all aflutter, I should rejoice. I should, and yet I still will not breathe again until he has returned, and I know that you might wish us joy.

  Elizabeth, closed her eyes, sighed, and let her chin fall to her chest. Good news at last.

  As distracted as Mr. Bingley could be, it was difficult not to wonder if he would forget that he had not made an offer to Jane and leave without ever saying a word about it. Who had reminded him? Colonel Fitzwilliam? Sir Alexander? Mr. Darcy himself?

  That hardly seemed likely. He did not like to interfere in the affairs of others.

  The only thing that mars my hope is my observation of Mr. Darcy and Miss Garland. Since they announced their own happy news, neither one has been well. Miss Garland hardly ever joins us in the drawing room after dinner and only rarely appears when Mr. Darcy might be present. As for the man himself, we only see him at dinner and when Sir Alexander insists that we all rehearse the theatrical together. Mr. Darcy performs his part with perfect memory but with no emotion and excuses himself as soon as might be arranged.

  Miss de Bourgh has whispered that now he is betrothed, he has no further reason to keep up the thin veneer of sociability he wore. But I think that a very cold estimate of him. Still, though, I wonder what might have changed.

  Papa is very well these days ….

  Elizabeth laid aside the letter and pressed her hands to her cheeks.

  Mr. Darcy rarely became taciturn without some clear reason. Not all would necessarily consider it a good reason, to be sure, but there was always a reason. She chewed her knuckle.

  Something had happened with Miss Garland. He was too sensitive to how it would look if he avoided her company to do so easily. Perhaps she had learned of Georgiana’s difficulties and spoken ill of her. That would certainly upset Mr. Darcy. Or perhaps he had—

  A knock, Aunt Gardiner’s, sounded on the door.

  “Pray come in.” She placed the letter, face down, on the writing desk.

  Aunt Gardiner opened the door, peeked in, then finally entered with soft, purposeful steps. “Is everything well with your family?” She glanced at the letter.

  “Everyone is well, thank you. My younger sisters are even making themselves useful, which, to be honest, is quite the news. One might wonder if my absence has done them good.”

  Aunt Gardner sat on the bed near Elizabeth. Sunbeams shone off blonde curls that escaped her mobcap. Despite four children and a decade of marriage, her complexion remained the same peaches-and-cream it had been when she had married, and her figure was straight and trim. Her sweet temperament helped allay some, but not all, of the inevitable jealousy in her circles that surrounded her good fortune. She smoothed her dark pink muslin skirts over her lap as though collecting her thoughts to speak. “Have you thought about what we talked about when you arrived?”

  Elizabeth looked through the window; the children played in the mews garden below, their nursery maid watching over them. Laughter filtered through the open window on the same breeze that fluttered the edges of the rose-printed curtains. “I have.”

  “And have you come to any conclusions?”

  “I have.”

  “Pray do not play this game with me. If you do not wish to talk, I will not pry. You know that. Simply say so, and I will leave the topic be.” Women were rarely so direct as Aunt Gardiner—a trait which had lo
st her more than one friendship—but at times like this, it was refreshing, if challenging.

  “I am not unwilling, just, it is difficult. I had never thought about leaving Papa or Lambton until I actually did so. Finding myself here is an abrupt change, and as much as I love you and Uncle, it does require getting accustomed to it.”

  “Is there anything else we can do to help?”

  “No, I cannot imagine anything you could do to make me feel more at home. I suppose it is upon me to take the next step. I will do as you advise. Pray help me to engage in London society. I know better what I am facing now, and I think I can manage it with far greater equanimity than before.”

  “I cannot pretend not to be glad to hear that. I have not stopped feeling guilty for—” Aunt Gardiner squeezed her hand softly.

  “Would it help you to know that he was one of the guests at Pemberley just before I left? He made a point of seeking me out and apologizing for his boorish behavior.” Aunt definitely did not need to know the full story.

  “I am all astonishment. I would not have expected such a man to realize, much less repent of his errors.”

  “As far as I am concerned, the matter is finished. And nothing remains for you to feel guilty for.”

  “Your uncle and I have some introductions in mind to make for you, if you are amenable. We know a young barrister who has told your uncle many times that he has yet to find a woman who can talk enough sense to hold his interest for more than five minutes. I think he would find you a very refreshing change of pace.” Aunt Gardiner lifted an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth.

  “You think I would like him?”

  “His manners are excellent. He is known for his kindness toward his old mother who lives with him, and he is a very good dancer.”

  “All equally excellent qualities I am sure, though perhaps his dancing is the most important among them.” Elizabeth chuckled, and it was not entirely forced.

  “It is a joy to hear your sense of humor has finally returned. We have been invited to a card party on Thursday night to which I believe he has also been invited. Will you join us?”

  “I will.”

  “Good, good. You will permit me one more indulgence? Come to my sitting room. I have several gowns that have not fitted me well since little Thomas was born. But I think with just a few alterations, they will do very nicely for you. I have a lovely box of trims that your uncle has brought home from his warehouse. With a little clever needlework, I think we can craft some lovely new things for you. There is nothing like a new dress to set one in the right frame of mind for an outing.”

  “May I finish my letter from Jane first? I have just a bit more to read.”

  “Of course. I will see you in a few minutes.” Aunt Gardiner left.

  Elizabeth stood and leaned against the window frame. The children still played in the garden below.

  No, this wasn’t Pemberley, or even the countryside. But if those things were closed to her now, she would make the best she could of the opportunities she had. Maybe there was a barrister who would find a clever woman more agreeable than a stupid one.

  Chapter 15

  Darcy stood beside the window of his chambers, peering down on the lawn below. The breeze from the open window teased the heavy blue curtains into a fickle dance against his cheek and shoulder. Behind him, the room was neat and tidy, the heavy dark oak furnishings dusted and polished until they shone. Every shelf, every drawer, even the closet was in order—he could have laid hands on anything he wanted with his eyes closed.

  If only the rest of his life might be so easily ordered.

  On the lawn below, Blanche instructed the ladies of the house in archery, whilst the men looked on, appreciating the pleasing show of their figures in the late morning light. Georgiana was much improved and even Miss Bennet now attempted the activity. Since Miss Elizabeth’s departure, Blanche had rallied the ladies to engage in the sport several times. No doubt she was aware of how well the activity made her appear, especially in comparison to the other ladies.

  Thirteen days. It had been thirteen long, difficult days since his world upended itself and began its descent into chaos. Blanche had mentioned it during the few minutes she spent in the drawing room last night.

  “It has been close to a fortnight.” She stood behind him, leaning her back and shoulder into his. “I should wonder that you are not quite put out and tired of it all.”

  “Who is to say that I am not?” He shifted his weight to his injured foot, away from her.

  “So, you do have a limit after all.”

  “Everyone has their limits.”

  “I was beginning to wonder.” She pressed into him a little harder.

  He stepped away, and she nearly stumbled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It is all in your hands you know. I am quite willing to end this stalemate.”

  “Then you agree—”

  “Once you have provided me with a properly pretty apology, we can end this ridiculous state of affairs.”

  “An apology? You expect an apology?” He clenched his fist.

  “That is the conventional mode when one has been wrong.”

  “I am quite willing to apologize on those occasions when I have been wrong. But this is not one of them.”

  “You treated me horribly.”

  “Requiring that you behave in a manner befitting the mistress of Pemberley is not treating you horribly.”

  “You have no right—”

  “I have every right.”

  “Not when you are wrong.” She stormed out of the drawing room and slammed the door behind her. Everyone in the room stared at him as though he might have an explanation.

  He turned his back and perused the shelves for a book. A few minutes later, he quit the room entirely.

  How was he to bring her to understand? Richard’s tales of opium-addled soldiers would hardly affect her. Neither would Garland be of any help. Clearly, he knew of his sister’s tonics and made no effort to address the matter.

  Her laughter wafted up through the open window. Georgiana had hit an inner ring of her target—her best performance yet. It was good to see her succeed—she needed successes in her life. Miss Garland could certainly help her find them—if she did not ruin Georgiana with her tonics.

  He would not marry Blanche without her capitulation and safeguards in place to ensure she did as she promised. Yet she seemed equally determined to have her way. That might have worked with other men, but not here.

  It was possible to break off the engagement. No announcements had yet been sent to the papers. Miss Bingley and Anne might still talk, though, in such a way to damage Blanche’s reputation. That would not do.

  If only he had been more prudent, more careful before he had offered for her. He had been far too impulsive. He should have talked to … to Miss Elizabeth before making any decision.

  Oh, dear God. The room spun.

  He grabbed the window frame for balance, dizzy and ready to cast up his accounts. No, that was not enough. A chair! He must have a chair. His hand landed on a small wooden chair. Skidding back, it groaned as it caught his weight.

  Oh, dear God.

  He knew exactly what Miss Elizabeth would say. She had already told him when she had been quite as compromised by his tonic-addled behavior as Blanche. Even more so, as she had spent the entire night in the parlor with him. With his foot propped in her lap no less! How much more improper could it have been? Bennet would have had every right to demand he make his daughter an offer of marriage if he had found out.

  But he did not. No one had.

  Because she had wanted it so.

  He laced his fingers behind his neck and braced his elbows on his knees. Even when he had asked her what he might do to make things right, she asked nothing for herself. She forgave him the entire incident and promised that she would think of it no more.

  It was what a friend would do, she said.

  What did that make Blanche? How coul
d he marry a woman who was neither his friend nor someone he loved?

  And what would he do without the friend whom he loved?

  Stomach still churning, Darcy presided over that evening’s dinner that included the entire Bennet family, save, of course, the one Bennet he longed to see. The room glittered with the reflected light of many candles, bouncing from mirrors, to crystal, to polished silver. The rich aroma of roasted veal rose up from the platter before him. Abundant dishes demanded mirth and good will from the company.

  Everyone but him seemed to oblige.

  Once he had carved the joint, Darcy pushed food around his plate and avoided being part of the conversation.

  After the wine was poured and the dessert course served, Bingley stood, wearing an entirely self-satisfied expression.

  “Are you planning on leading the ladies out?” Richard lifted his glass toward Bingley.

  “We civilized folk permit the hostess to do that, you know.” Garland added with a smirk toward his sister.

  Darcy worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “Mock me all you will. You shall not stay me from my happy announcement.” Bingley looked down on Miss Bennet and offered her his hand.

  She stood beside him, blushing, hand in his, even more lovely than usual in the flickering candlelight.

  “Miss Bennet has made me the happiest of men, accepting my offer of marriage and consenting to become my wife.”

  “Jane!” Miss Mary squealed, clapping her hands to her mouth.

  Suddenly, all the Bennet sisters crowded around Miss Bennet, chattering and chittering.

  “Charles? You never mentioned such a thing,” Miss Bingley said through a forced smile.

  “A brother hardly needs a sister’s approval of his plans, now does he?” Garland winked at Blanche. “On the other hand—”

  “No, no, no.” Blanche waved a finger at Garland but looked directly at Darcy. “Do not try to perpetuate the myth that you are in any way in charge of me.”

  Garland lifted hands in surrender. “Far be it from me to suggest such a thing. Besides, it is no longer my problem now, is it, Darcy?”