by Maria Grace
Darcy cleared his throat and lifted his wine glass. “I believe a toast is in order ….”
Thankfully, others followed suit, offering many toasts to the happy couple.
Half an hour later, Georgiana invited the ladies to the drawing room. Blanche took Miss Bennet’s arm near the door and followed Georgiana out. Hopefully she would not have too much sage advice for the newly-betrothed lady. Bingley did not need that sort of cunning in his life.
Bennet made Bingley the center of conversation while the gentlemen enjoyed their port and cigars. Neither sat well with Darcy this evening, so he sat back and observed as the rest partook. Little by little, the gentlemen trickled out to the drawing room, until he was the only one left.
Damn it all, every last bit of it.
He should be happy for Bingley—happy that his friend had found what he wanted and that all around supported the notion.
He should be.
Father had warned him to assiduously avoid jealousy—it only led to misery, he said. Obviously, he was right.
Was it so wrong to want to be as pleased in his own betrothal as Bingley was? It seemed a small enough thing to ask.
But no, dwelling on that would not make it any easier to get through the rest of the evening. Best make his entrance into the drawing room before someone came to find him and required an invented explanation for his tardiness.
Few candles lit the long corridor from the dining room to the drawing room. Disapproving eyes glared down at him from the portraits along either side. The darkness, heavy and oppressive tonight, muffled his thoughts and the sounds from the other part of the house.
Wait, were those voices, in the morning parlor? Yes, they were coming from there.
He quietly made his way to the half-closed door of the morning room, stopping just beside the doorway. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he focused on the soft sounds.
“Was that right? Did I deliver that line properly this time?” Georgiana sounded hopeful.
“Almost.” Garland’s breathy whisper was far too intimate. “I rewrote that line two days ago.”
“I had not realized.”
“I specifically remember giving you the pages. Did you not read them?”
“I am sorry. I know I should have. But Miss Bennet has been so busy with Mr. Bingley….”
“What has she to do with any of this?”
“She helps me … sometimes my eyes are so tired—”
“That reading is difficult for you?”
Georgiana sniffled.
“Why should that make you cry?” The rustle of cloth must be a handkerchief being produced from Garland’s pocket.
“I do not think others have such difficulties.”
“Everyone has difficulties, my dear, Miss Darcy. You have no idea what my sister suffers, for she never utters a word of it. She is a brave soul, much like you.”
“Do not call me that. I know it is not true.”
“Of course, it is. I can see it in you all the time. “
“You are merely flattering me.”
“I only speak the truth. One does not flatter his muse. One treasures her, protects her—”
Darcy lunged through the door. Garland and Georgiana stood very close, silhouetted in a silver moonbeam near the window.
“Who—oh Darcy! What are you doing there?” Garland stepped back from Georgiana.
“Perhaps I should be asking that question of you.” Darcy stalked around the table to stand between them.
“We were looking for a pair of chairs to dress a scene.” Georgiana put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. The moonlight painted her as more child than woman.
“Indeed, we were. And these should do very well. There is a particular speech in the third act that must be delivered whilst seated.” Garland manhandled two chairs away from the morning table.
“And just how much longer do you think it shall be before this theatrical is performed?”
“What say you, Miss Darcy? Five days should see us ready?”
Georgiana avoided Darcy’s gaze. “Yes, I think that will do.”
“Perhaps you can press Miss Bennet for help with invitations and publicity, since it seems your good brother has frightened away Miss Elizabeth.” Garland laughed, but there was something about his tone that did not sit well.
“I believe I have already made myself clear on the matter. I will not have my home turned into a public venue. You may invite the Bennets, but that is all.”
“A gentleman’s home is his space within which to interact with the rest of the world. Or have you forgotten that? Which means you must interact! Blanche can assist you. Is that not what the mistress of such a home does?”
“Pemberley is my home, and it will be my say who is to be here. Only the Bennets—do not cross me in this.” He leaned a little closer to Garland.
“Must you be so inflexible?” Where had Georgiana acquired that high and snippy tone?
“Another whine like that, and I will cancel it all together.”
Garland laughed in his face. “It is unbecoming to make idle threats.”
“My words are never idle, sir. Do not test me. Now that you have found your set dressing, it would be appropriate for you to join the rest of the party in the drawing room and wish Bingley and Miss Bennet joy.”
Georgiana huffed and flounced out of the room, Garland sauntering behind her.
Darcy followed, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, squeezing his temples.
First Blanche, now this? What was he to do?
∞∞∞
Aunt Gardiner’s “several” gowns turned out to be three evening dresses, a ball gown, and two half-dress ensembles, one with a matching spencer, the other with a pelisse. An entirely new wardrobe, fitting for a young lady out in London society. Though she protested that Jane should have them as her wedding clothes, Aunt insisted Elizabeth ought to resign herself to the trial of having new and pretty things.
Aunt’s doting attentions were lovely and yet bittersweet. While Mama had tried to conceal her favoritism, Jane, the prettiest, and Lydia, the liveliest, had been Mama’s pets. One did not easily forget being not-the-favorite. But now was not the time to dwell upon such things, not when there was an evening’s entertainment to be anticipated.
Elizabeth slipped on the blue velvet cape that matched the blue silk evening gown Aunt Gardiner had given her and turned this way and that in front of the long mirror in her room. The unique sound of swishing silk would take some time to get used to, but what a wondrous feeling the fabric had as it cascaded to the floor. With a feather and ribbon ornament in her hair and matching reticule and shoe roses, she looked more like a fashion plate than a country vicar’s daughter. Who was that woman in the mirror and did she want to be her?
Uncle called up the stairs. The coach was ready and such philosophical reflections would have to wait.
A brief ride carried them to Bow-Street and the Doric portico entrance of the Covent Garden Theater. Within, four tiers of boxes, painted white with gold and green borders that could seat twelve hundred, and another six hundred seats in the pit greeted her with a cool, impersonal welcome. How could one not feel lost and insignificant within?
The little music room theater at Pemberley was less than nothing compared to this. No wonder Sir Alexander was ever in some sort of pique over the staging of his production.
Despite the production being a comedy and utterly unlike Sir Alexander’s play, the experience rang too much of disquieting afternoon rehearsals at Pemberley with Sir Alexander’s character saying most inappropriate things to Miss Darcy’s. Thankfully, the crisp night air embraced her as they waited at the edge of the street for the coach to come for them, dissolving away the ephemeral illusions of the theater, reminding her of the realities of London.
Much improved, and better still, the night had only just begun. A card and supper party awaited.
The coach stopped at a first-rate townhouse, not unli
ke the Gardiners’, lit by a pair of tall street lamps on either side of the steps. Fresh white paint —very fresh, enough to still smell it—and crisp black ironwork greeted them as they approached the friendly red front door. Elizabeth hung back a little and swallowed hard.
How similar this scene was to that night years ago when she first met Sir Alexander. He had just been Mr. Garland then. Mr. Garland the playwright; Mr. Garland the heir presumptive; Mr. Garland the handsome-not-exactly-a-rake-but-do-be-careful-of-him bachelor.
No, those thoughts were for another time. Best focus on this evening and only this evening. He would not be here, and perhaps, more importantly, she was not a silly girl of sixteen who wore her heart on her sleeve and took overheard remarks to heart.
She followed Aunt Gardiner inside.
A maid stood waiting to take their wraps before they proceeded past the entry hall. The butler led them down the marble-floored passage lined with striped paper hangings, to a winding staircase that finally opened onto a landing and a large drawing room. The room extended the entire width of the house with the left-hand windows facing the street and the right overlooking the mews. The space could have accommodated six card tables, but only four, all matching and delicately painted white with gold scrollwork, were set up. A small pianoforte was tucked in the corner nearest the mews-facing windows. A sofa and several white and gold bergère chairs had been pushed into a tight cluster near the instrument. Two sets of shelves held garniture and objects of curiosity between the street-facing windows. Perhaps she could discreetly make her way to those shelves—what a family collected always revealed much about their character.
“Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet.” Mrs. Lovington, their hostess, a middle-aged mother of five who looked barely old enough to be married herself, hurried toward them. Her ginger hair was plaited and arranged into a deceptively simple style, fixed with pearl pins and ostrich feathers. Her ivory silk gown, elegant and simple, fitted her so perfectly that it was no wonder Aunt Gardiner was the only person with whom she had shared the name of her modiste, lest she be too busy to make Mrs. Lovington’s gowns.
“Thank you so much for inviting us.” Aunt Gardiner extended her hands and kissed Mrs. Lovington’s cheek.
“There is no greater pleasure in the world than having my friends join me. I am so glad you are here, Miss Bennet. Now that my daughter is near coming out, your aunt and I will have so much more to share. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that.” She smiled broadly, her green eyes sparkling.
If Aunt had not warned her that Mrs. Lovington was entirely genuine, it would be easy to distrust her very open, artless manner.
“Your invitation was most gracious. I have been in London such a short time, I have hardly any acquaintance.” Elizabeth curtsied.
“Indeed so. But tonight, we will remedy that. Come, allow me to introduce you to my friends.” Mrs. Lovington took Elizabeth’s arm and headed toward the nearest cluster of ladies.
A quarter of an hour later, Elizabeth could count a dozen new families added to her acquaintance, all of whom were gracious and enthusiastic about adding a new young lady to their circle.
Mr. Lovington burst into the drawing room, his warm baritone filling the room ahead of him. Tall, with a bit of a belly, his unruly dark hair sported narrow streaks of grey. A party of gentlemen, presumably from the billiards room followed, several of them young enough to be in want of a wife.
Elizabeth swallowed hard and forced what she hoped would be a pleasing expression on her face.
“You must be on your best behavior tonight. My wife has a new friend in our midst, and you would not want to miss your opportunity to dance with her.” Mr. Lovington bowed. The two young men with him followed suit.
“Miss Bennet, may I present Mr. Boyle and Mr. Cluett?”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Elizabeth curtseyed just deeply enough. They were all equals here tonight.
Mr. Boyle, on the left, was handsome, but not tall. He resembled Mr. Darcy a bit, except for his coloring, which was very fair. Mr. Cluett, on the right, was very tall, taller than Mr. Darcy, but not particularly handsome. His hair was dark, but his eyes were a most arresting shade of grey.
“It is our pleasure.” Mr. Cluett bowed deeply.
With a flash of his eyebrows suggesting he was not to be outdone, Mr. Boyle bowed more deeply. “We have been anticipating this moment all day.”
Elizabeth cocked her head.
Mrs. Lovington blushed. “I hope you do not mind, but I might have implied that we were much anticipating your company tonight.”
“And you promised us dancing.” Mr. Boyle elbowed Mr. Cluett. “I certainly mean to dance tonight. I would be most pleased if you would dance with me, Miss Bennet. The first dance, perhaps?”
“Then I insist upon the second, if I may.” Mr. Cluett thumbed his lapels.
“I … I … thank you very much.”
“Excellent. I shall find my sister who would be much gratified to be the first young lady to exhibit tonight—she plays a lively reel.” Mr. Boyle hurried away.
“I think I might suggest to my cousin that she take her turn after that. Do you like a country dance?” Mr. Cluett scanned the room, doubtless for said cousin.
“I do.”
“Excellent. Excuse me.” He hurried off.
“Are they always so very enthusiastic?” Aunt Gardiner’s gaze followed both men through the room.
“You know how young people can be.” Mrs. Lovington laughed. “But truly, they are excellent young men. Mr. Boyle has just taken a living in Kent. A lovely parish with a very nice vicarage as I understand. The patron is a friend of his family who has been holding the living until he could take it. He is a very fortunate young man. Mr. Cluett is a new barrister who has some excellent connections, and a very promising career. But do not think me a matchmaker, heavens no. There is far too much mischief in that. I have only introduced you because it would be difficult to have you together in my home and unable to speak to each other. No, if anything comes of this, it is entirely of your own making. Pray excuse me to open the pianoforte.”
“I believe she means it—she is not a matchmaker. I do not want you to feel pressured in any way. This is an evening of pleasure, nothing more,” Aunt Gardiner whispered in her ear.
“I confess, it is strange to have so much attention directed toward me, but I shall find a way to endure it with great equanimity.” And she would do just that.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth found herself claimed by Mr. Boyle, who was a very good dancer and an excellent conversationalist. He was most pleased to discover they shared a taste in novels. He had little taste for Shakespeare, but that was hardly a fatal flaw, even if Mr. Darcy harbored a great fondness for the Bard’s sonnets.
In the next set, Mr. Cluett demonstrated an excellent sense of humor when he found himself turning right instead of left in the first round of the dance. The misstep did not seem to discompose him—his happy confidence saved his dignity—and her own good humor—from the gaffe. Mr. Darcy had always been so serious in everything he did; every mistake was a matter for concern. But considering his father, that was not surprising.
No, he was hardly Mr. Darcy, and this was hardly Pemberley. Still though, Mr. Cluett’s easy humor and composure were most intriguing … perhaps worth getting to know. Mr. Boyle might be as well. So, too, were several of the young ladies Mrs. Lovington introduced her to. Hardly the London she remembered from those years ago.
Perhaps she would be able to adjust to London after all.
Chapter 16
Seven days later, Darcy paced the blue drawing room. The azure walls and furniture chosen by his mother were supposed to calm his rankled nerves. But his injured ankle still twinged despite the boots he wore—improperly—in the house. How galling being forced to dress inappropriately in order to accommodate a foolish injury inflicted by a thoughtless situation. No shade of blue was sufficient to overcome that indignity.
What a
sevenday it had been. Blanche ignored him the whole of it. Her tenacity was as remarkable as her beauty. She seemed surprised that he remained steadfast as well. Apparently, she was accustomed to winning at this game.
What was the line between stubborn and willful? Surely, she was approaching it, if she had not already crossed it. What was he to do about it?
Neither the upending of his peaceful, orderly home nor the turning of the music room into a theater made the matter easier to sort out. Had any room in the house escaped having its appointments pillaged to satisfy the needs of the set? Was a green vase not adequate? Why did the blue one from the library need to be used instead?
He pressed his temples. When was the last time a headache had not been thundering in the background?
Garland had become more and more temperamental—according to Richard, “tyrannical” seemed a better description—particularly as the day of the performance approached. Garland went so far as to punish Darcy’s stance on publicity and a large audience by writing him out of the play entirely. Did Garland realize it was more reward than rebuke?
At least it would all be over soon. In a few short hours, the dreadful home theatrical would be but a memory, and he could begin putting his home and his life back together.
Hopefully.
“The Bennets have arrived,” Mrs. Reynolds announced from the parlor doorway. She stepped aside, and the vicar and his three younger daughters poured in.
“This is so exciting! I can hardly believe the time has arrived!” Miss Kitty clasped her hands before her and twirled.
Bennet lifted his eyebrows and shrugged.
“I still do not understand why we could not have a larger audience. The backboards I painted are so lovely. It is a shame that they will not be seen.” Miss Lydia’s face formed into a pout.
“Another word and you shall go home without seeing it at all.” Bennet glowered at her.
Miss Lydia sniffed and slumped—capitulating but rebellious. So very much like Georgiana. She turned to her sisters, and they spoke softly among themselves.