Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

  I hope that she is still with you when you read this. I hope that you have not taken her friendship for granted or failed to appreciate all that she brings to the shades of Pemberley. I know she is not of our sphere. But that is not the only, or even most important quality in a wife.

  Be patient with your sister for she is like me ….

  There was more—pages more, but his eyes blurred, and the words faded into one another. Mother was like Georgiana? Miss Elizabeth knew?

  “I thought I would find you here.” Blanche’s slow steps whispered along the marble.

  Darcy dropped the letter in the drawer and shut it so hard the candle sputtered. “What do you want?’

  “I need to talk to you. I have the names and directions you wanted.”

  “Give them to me. I am in no mood to talk.”

  “I regret that, but I understand you are leaving first thing in the morning. There will be no opportunity to talk to you later.”

  “I do not wish to discuss anything right now.” He stepped around her, but she cut him off. Flickering candlelight caressed her face. Even now, the image would make a stunning painting.

  “Here.” She pressed a folded paper into his hand. “I hope that it will help.”

  “I do not know how long we will be gone.”

  “I will not be here when you return. I am going to Sicily. My friend has taken a villa there. I would like to see it.”

  Cold suffused through his chest, into his limbs, rendering his tongue nearly too thick to speak. “Sicily.”

  “It is quite lovely, as I understand.”

  “How long will you be there? I thought you did not like to travel.”

  “Send word to your solicitor. There will be no need for—”

  “You are jilting me.” The word fell from his lips and clanked against the marble floor.

  “Jilting? That is a strong word. I thought you did not like the dramatic. No announcement has been made in the paper. There has been no public presentation. I am certain you can keep your friends quiet and pay for your staff’s silence. The whole affair was just a momentary impulse under the influence of too much wine. Nothing more need be said.”

  It had not been too much wine, but what matter whether it was wine or laudanum? The effect—and the emptiness it left—were all the same.

  “I see. Good evening then, Miss Garland. Since I will not see you in the morning, safe travels. Sicily is lovely this time of year.” He did not look at her as he strode past, his footfalls echoing through the long room.

  Eight days after they left Pemberley, London rose on the horizon, encased in a heavy fog. Fitting, considering the final address suggested by Miss Garland proved no more useful than the others. There was no choice but to take refuge at Darcy House and sort out what to do next.

  When they arrived, Darcy stalked to his study—the housekeeper had only just received word of their plans and their rooms were not yet ready—and shut the door behind him.

  The room was just like he left it when they were last in London. Every book in its place, every piece of furniture unmoved, every surface dusted and polished. Everything exactly as it should be. The unmitigated gall of a room to be so perfect when everything else was so completely out of order.

  He fell into the wingchair that matched the one in his study at Pemberley, near the fireplace, head in his hands. The more time that passed, the greater the likelihood that Georgiana’s identity would be discovered, and he would be reading of their elopement in the papers.

  What point in hoping now? She was lost to him, utterly, completely lost. Father had made him promise to care for her, to keep her safe until delivered to a suitable husband and home of her own. She would have none of that now.

  He had failed everyone who depended upon him: his sister, his guests, Miss Elizabeth.

  His entire family would consider him inept. They might speak words that would say otherwise as they condemned Georgiana for her foolishness, but underneath all that, they would think him a failure.

  It was difficult not to blame Richard for bringing the Garlands into his midst. But there were too many instances where his own choices had led to where they were now—teetering on the brink of disaster—so that he could not lay all the blame at someone else’s feet.

  Richard cursed Miss Garland under his breath—he was not one to suffer disloyalty lightly, and Miss Garland’s defection was of the worst sort, second only to Garland’s. Such language! Some of it Darcy had never heard before, which was saying a great deal.

  The only person who might possibly understand, who might be able to offer him solace in this storm, was lost to him because of his own failures, too. Insensitivity, failure to protect her as he had promised her father … and failure to recognize her value, how very essential she was to Pemberley. To him.

  That morning he came across her and Garland on the footpath, he should have been more aware; he should have noticed. She had not been herself; upset and distracted, her color was high. Garland responded like a schoolboy caught where he did not belong. It was all there right in front of him, but he ignored it. He was too occupied with his own concerns to take the time to recognize what he should have.

  Would she ever forgive him for that? Would he ever have the opportunity to apologize?

  How could he face Pemberley without Elizabeth by his side, at his shoulder knowing what he needed, understanding him in his strength and his weakness? No, it was simply not possible. He could not do it.

  And yet, what choice was there?

  The chair beneath him creaked as he rocked, face in hands, barely able to breathe.

  Chapter 17

  Elizabeth sat at the dressing table—again—pretending to adjust the ornaments in her hair. Three and a half weeks she had been in London now, nearly a month complete. This new routine, days filled with her nieces and nephews, social calls and evening entertainments, should be feeling more comfortable now, more normal, more natural. Perhaps it was, but some days it was difficult to tell. All the new places, new people, new experiences while pleasing, sometimes made one wish for home.

  No, that was not a right thought. London was home now; she just needed a little more time, and it would all feel right and natural. Like Derbyshire had.

  The sun danced on the edge of the horizon—just another quarter of an hour and they would be off to the theater again. Her reflection taunted her. When Jane had pinned up her hair, it was always simple—pretty, but simple. Aunt Gardiner’s maid crafted fancy French styles that matched Elizabeth’s lovely new gowns. Yet—she adjusted a floral pin—was it really herself she saw in the mirror anymore?

  Who was she in this place?

  Enough of staring at her own reflection. Elizabeth moved to the writing desk, pale apricot silk swished against her knees and lacy ruffles fluttered with each step. She slipped Jane’s most recent letter out of the drawer and perched on the edge of the cool, green-covered bed.

  Jane had not sounded like herself in her letter. Not that she had said anything was amiss—in fact, the missive contained little information at all, except to describe the pleasure that her engagement to Mr. Bingley brought to one and all. While Jane tended to dwell upon the positive, this seemed extreme, even for her. It was almost as if there was something she had been specifically told not to mention, so she was going out of her way to avoid discussing anything that might be at all displeasing. It was a Jane sort of thing to do.

  But what could be so distressing—

  “Lizzy? Are you ready?” Aunt Gardiner called from the other side of the door.

  “I am coming.” Elizabeth slipped the letter back into the drawer. Whatever was—or was not—troubling Jane would have to wait until after the private theatrical at the Lyceum and the supper party to follow.

  The curtain closed and the principal actor came out to recite the play’s epilogue, but Elizabeth could hardly breathe, hardly think, much less hear, what was going on. The audience murmuring in the pit and the more polite company in the
boxes around her faded into a noisy gray haze. This could not be possible. None of it could be possible. Not even in a novel of fairy-land could this be possible.

  She pressed her temples and sucked in slow deep breaths. The Appearance of Goodness—how could they have performed Sir Alexander’s play? Granted, there were a few differences; some of the changes he had made immediately before she left Pemberley were notable by their absence, but in all essentials, it was the same.

  Uncle Gardiner tapped her shoulder and helped her to her feet. Concern lined his face, but if he had asked after her, his question was lost in the noise of the withdrawing crowd. He took her arm and led her outside.

  “What did you think of the play?” Aunt Gardiner smoothed her skirts and settled back into the soft squabs of their coach.

  Elizabeth settled in beside her, barely able to feel the smooth leather beneath her.

  “As I understand, it is a very recent—some say yet unfinished—work. I am told the playwright does not wish his name revealed because of it,” Uncle Gardiner said. “What was your opinion?”

  “It had its good points, to be sure.” Aunt Gardiner’s tone did not quite match her words. “The heroine seemed too naïve, even for a young girl, and the suitors lacked subtlety. It was far too easy to predict their true natures.”

  “Then you may have some very interesting conversation tonight. I think, and it is only a supposition, that we might have the opportunity to meet the playwright himself at the party. He provided the tickets our hostess gave us for the evening. Perhaps he will give us some additional insight into the drama.” Uncle Gardiner thumbed his lapels.

  “That would be very … interesting,” Elizabeth said. Interesting hardly captured the potential, but what other word might be polite to offer in the circumstance? Distressing, disturbing, and gut-wrenching were definitely not considered polite.

  How could Sir Alexander be here when he was supposed to be at a house party in Derbyshire? And what was she to do if she saw him here?

  A stuffy, silent butler took their wraps and showed them into an equally stuffy, but less silent, drawing room. The floor was filled with fashionable furnishing and the walls covered, nearly floor to ceiling, with a dizzying array of paintings: portraits, landscapes, still-lifes, flowers, and even what appeared to be a map. Clusters of people, many recent acquaintances, milled around half a dozen card tables, talking and sneaking surreptitious peeks at the covered dishes perched on three sideboards that lined the longest wall of the room. A young lady played softly on the pianoforte tucked into the corner farthest from the sideboards, a lovely, lively tune while a pair of sisters—they must be sisters, the way they favored each other so—sang passably on either side of the instrument.

  Mr. Cluett waved from across the room and sauntered to her side. His coat and breeches were exquisitely tailored—it was true, a man of middling looks could be made far more handsome by an excellent tailor. “Were you at the Lyceum as well? I thought I saw you in a box on the right-hand side, but I was on the left.”

  “You were in the third box on the second tier?”

  “Yes, that was the one. I am flattered that you would have noticed.” Mr. Cluett seemed very pleased. He was a pleasant enough fellow. Had she met him prior to knowing Mr. Darcy, her opinion of him would likely have been higher.

  Unfortunately, most men paled in comparison to Mr. Darcy.

  “You must tell me what you thought of the play.” Mr. Cluett’s eyes sparkled as though in anticipation.

  “I have not yet had time to think it over and form an opinion.” Hopefully she could put the entire thing out of her mind and avoid thinking on it at all.

  “How remarkable. Most women I know have a very ready opinion on such things. It is singular that you would have to take time to dwell upon it.”

  “Do you consider it a bad thing that I should not have already formed a judgment?”

  The corner of his mouth crept up, crinkling the corner of his eye. “It is rather pleasing, I think. It certainly suggests an opinion well worth listening to.”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “There’s a thought.” He rubbed his chin as he glanced over her shoulder and scanned the room. “I have an idea to give you further insight into the play we just saw. Come.” He beckoned her to follow him through a milling crowd.

  They broke through the throng to stand very near a very large man wearing an exceptionally well-tailored blue coat, who turned to face them as they approached.

  “Lester! I do say! Come, meet my friend.” Mr. Cluett pushed nearer. “Miss Bennet, may I present my friend, Mr. Samuel Lester.”

  Sir Alexander stared down at her, smiling, though the expression did not extend to his eyes.

  “I am pleased to meet you … Mr. Lester.” She nearly stumbled over the name. What was he playing at?

  “The look on your face suggests you have some acquaintance with my sister, Miss Davis.” Sir Alexander edged closer to a young woman beside him who did not look up.

  Elizabeth blinked several times. “Indeed, I do. It has been sometime since we last met in the countryside. Are you well, Miss … Davis?”

  Miss Darcy, dressed as a young lady out in society, peeked up at Elizabeth, color high. She nodded fractionally and made a tiny curtsey.

  “Well, who would have guessed you might already be acquainted? What a happy coincidence.” Mr. Cluett rocked on his toes as though very pleased with himself. “I shall get us some punch directly, and we may sit down and discuss that play of yours, Lester, what say you?”

  “Capital notion.” Sir Alexander’s eyes fixed on Elizabeth.

  Mr. Cluett disappeared into the crowd.

  “What are you doing here? Where is Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth whispered.

  “He is not here.” Miss Darcy’s voice was almost too weak to hear.

  “You have come without him?” Elizabeth looked up at Sir Alexander.

  “Oh, do not be so stodgy.” He sneered. “You are the one who ran away to London. You cannot blame us for thinking it was a good idea.”

  Hateful man! “How did your work come to be performed at the Lyceum while we thought it had been finished for the house party at Pemberley?”

  “My friends here had been waiting for it. I sent a copy of it to them as soon as it was finished so they could begin work on it.”

  “And you did not think to tell us?”

  “What difference would it have made? It was exhilarating working on it with two different companies, as it were. Did you not notice many of your ideas were incorporated into the production tonight? I often shared your notions with the company here. You were an excellent assistant.” A hint of suggestion quirked his eyebrow.

  “How is it that no one here seems to know you by your real name?”

  “There are times it is convenient not to be a baronet.”

  No, he would not bait her into that conversation. “Who else is traveling with you? I must speak with them.”

  He leaned down and whispered into her ear, “None from Pemberley are with us.”

  “Have you no sense of what you have done?” She hissed the words like an angry goose. If he crossed her again, she might just peck him like one, too.

  “What are you talking about? We are merely acting in a play of our own. You know our roles, Samuel Lester, amateur playwright and his half-sister, Miss Davis.”

  “Your half-sister?” Bile burned her throat until she could taste it at the back of her tongue. Half-sister indeed. “And this is how you have presented yourself whilst you have been … traveling?”

  “Entirely.” Miss Darcy wrung her hands, her voice on the edge of tears.

  “You well know I enjoy my sister’s company.” Sir Alexander lifted an eyebrow and laughed. “I fear, though, my sister does not like travel very well.”

  “That was all I needed to know.” Elizabeth took Miss Darcy’s arm and propelled her through the crowd.

  Miss Darcy stumbled a mite, but managed to keep pace with Elizabeth t
o the brightly lit and mercifully empty entrance hall. Elizabeth called for the Gardiner coach to be summoned and sent a maid to fetch Aunt Gardiner and their wraps. Her heart thundered in her ears nearly loud enough to echo off the marble tiles.

  Aunt Gardiner appeared along with the maid with their wraps. “Lizzy?”

  “Pray, do not make me explain here and now, but trust me, it is imperative that my friend Miss … Davis come to Cheapside immediately and stay with us.”

  “Shall I return with you now?”

  “No, I think it better you and Uncle stay and enjoy the evening. Pray excuse me to Mr. Cluett—you might tell him that I was taken with a sudden headache.” That was entirely true.

  “This is most irregular, but I trust you, Lizzy. You are welcome to stay with us, Miss Davis. I am certain this will all make sense soon enough.” No doubt, Aunt would not rest until it made sense.

  Miss Darcy curtsied, eyes on her slippers. “Thank you, madam.”

  The butler announced their coach. Aunt saw them to the door, watching until the driver handed them up and closed the door behind them.

  Lizzy sat beside Miss Darcy. “Do you wish to tell me?”

  Miss Darcy trembled and burst into tears. All things considered, it was impressive that she had held on until now to do so.

  Elizabeth slipped her arm around her shoulders and held her all the way to the Gardiner’s house. Once there, she instructed the housekeeper to see a guestroom made up and guided Miss Darcy upstairs to Aunt Gardiner’s little sitting room overlooking the mews.

  They sat on the couch, a bright moonbeam streaming over their shoulders allaying the need for candles. With the windows inched open, the smells of the night drifted in—peaceful and soft as the flowers on the upholstery.

  “How long ago did you leave Pemberley?” Elizabeth held Miss Darcy’s hands in hers.

  “Ten days, I think. We were several days in Newmarket to see a little theater there. But he was anxious to be in London for the performance tonight.”

  “Are you pleased with your journey?”

  Miss Darcy stood and paced the length of the moonbeam and back. “I thought so. I was at first.”