And he supposed she had good reason to. He could only imagine what Elizabeth might have told her mother about him. It was actually a miracle that Jane Bingley treated him so kindly; he had tried his best to prevent her marriage. How vastly different the temperaments of the women in the Bennet family were! It confounded Darcy, as both he and Georgiana had always been of quiet, even, staid temperament. The Darcys were steady, and practical, and orderly.
Or, perhaps he had just thought that. Perhaps Georgi had simply followed her older brother’s lead all her life. Darcy thought of her again, in her parlor, confessing her love. Perhaps…perhaps she was not like him, at all.
“What say you, Mr. Jannis? Would you and Mary enjoy an evening of dancing?” Jane asked her new brother.
The young man had just taken a large bite of salmon and looked up, helpless, at Darcy. He chewed as quickly as possible, before wiping his mustache and looking between Jane and Mrs. Bennet. “Of course, of course. We would be honored.”
Darcy watched as the newly married young man looked down the long table, staring hard a moment before catching his wife’s eye. Darcy had remembered Elizabeth’s younger sister Mary as a plain, sullen and overly serious young girl. What a change the years—or perhaps her marriage—had wrought. While Darcy considered Elizabeth the loveliest of all her sisters, Mary had grown up into a striking young lady. Her dark hair was styled in a simple chignon, and though she sat at the center of the lively table, she had a calm air about her. She nodded and smiled at those seated near her but her true smiles were reserved for her husband. When the newlyweds’ eyes met, the emotion between them seemed to shimmer, almost as visible as the candlelight filling the dining room.
Looking at Mary, it felt as if she were encased in…magic. And Darcy was ashamed and mildly horrified to find a feeling very much like jealously blossoming in his empty heart.
Darcy stopped and stared down at his plate, and had to laugh at himself. Magic? An empty heart? He must have had too many drinks with Bingley before dinner. He wasn’t given to emotional histrionics or poetic thinking. He scoffed, studying his roast as he viciously cut into it with a gleaming knife.
Magic, indeed.
More like a trick. A deception. An illusion. All of his own making, but nonetheless, not to be trusted.
He was here for one purpose: to see if he still admired Elizabeth as much as he had when her surname name was still Bennet. If so, he would tackle this issue the same as he would any problem on one of his estates: rationally. If he thought Elizabeth might make a fine wife, the next step would be to see if she might consider him as a husband. Yes, she had once renounced him soundly, but she was older now—they both were—and it might be a highly sensible choice for her to join her fortune to his.
He wasn’t discounting love. He had proposed to her once because he thought himself in love. It had probably been an intense infatuation. Perhaps, if he let himself admit it, he had liked her not only because she was intelligent, had many ideal qualities, and was attractive—but because she had not liked him. It had probably been simply refreshing to find a woman who hadn’t simpered and smiled and thrown herself in his path, all for his ten thousand a year.
Which, of course, he had nearly doubled by now, thanks to sensible, rational investments.
Darcy glanced down the table, his eyes easily finding Elizabeth in her wine-red gown. Her cheeks were pink in the heated room, and one long, dark lock had fallen from her delicate hair. It curled near the column of her milk-white neck, and Darcy had to tear his eyes from her. Some childish part of him still thought he might be able to fall in love with her—
His knife cut through the steak so sharply that it hit the plate, and the woman to his right glanced at him.
He took a deep breath, calming his roiling emotions. All of these feelings were—he wouldn’t call them terrifying. A long war across the sea that had injured his cousin and killed countless men; that was terrifying. Losing his parents to the great beyond. Strife and poverty and the evils of human nature: those were all terrifying.
Admitting to himself that he still fancied a young woman, and wondering if she might ever feel the same? That was not…terrifying.
Darcy took a gulp of air, for the room was suddenly warm and full of the heavy scent of burning candle wax, and people who had been traveling all day and should have bathed.
Elizabeth turned suddenly and looked directly at him.
Their eyes met, and the rest of the dinner party’s conversation fell into a sustained, background buzzing.
She did not smile. But she did not look away.
What are you thinking, you ephemeral creature?
Those were the ridiculous words that came to mind. He bit his cheek and clenched the knife in his fist. How dare he think these thoughts? Was he losing his mind? Instead, he was the first to glance down. When he looked back up at Elizabeth, she had turned away.
She had not smiled once.
It did not matter. He would speak to her tonight, and discover if—
“Mr. Darcy, you look as if you disapprove of my plan.” Mrs. Bennet interrupted his thoughts with a sniff. The woman was in her cups, her cheeks flushed and the feather in her hair askew. Darcy feared she might loose her tongue on him, not because he would care about her opinion, but because it might embarrass her daughters. A glance around the table showed Jane and Mary’s panic at their mother’s thick, clumsy speech.
Darcy cleared his throat, and his thoughts. “Your plan, madam?”
“Yes! To bring out the pianoforte—a very new model, I’m sure even your Pemberley does not boast of such an instrument as Charles has purchased. It’s quite the latest.”
Darcy stared at her wobbling feather. He had, in fact, just shipped a new pianoforte to Georgiana’s home. But Mrs. Bennet was correct: it was not at Pemberley. He said nothing in response, though he was sure it would not have mattered if he did. Mrs. Bennet continued to speak, undeterred.
“I remember you, Sir! From the very first moment that myself and all my neighbors and all my daughters met you—” Mrs. Bennet paused and stared around the room for dramatic effect. Sadly, it worked. Those seated near her stopped talking, and the quiet slowly spread down the long table until everyone—including Elizabeth—stared at her.
And him.
It was a nightmare.
“Yes—from the very first, I remember it well!—you came to Meryton and thought yourself quite high and mighty. Quite above dancing, of all things. I am sure even the king himself is not averse to dancing and innocent fun among loving neighbors.”
Darcy could hear his heartbeat in his ears. The longer Mrs. Bennet spoke—and she would not stop talking—the louder it became. Until, at last, the sound in his ears bore the same ceaseless, hopeless strength as the sea at Ramsgate, on the day he had desperately searched for his sister, going house to house, trying to keep her from ruin.
The crashing of her words, like the loudest waves in his skull, made it so that he could hardly hear her message.
Then she spoke even louder.
“But make no mistake, we shall dance! This is a household—well no, it is not my household—but it is my daughter’s and she believes, as I do, that dancing is a wholesome and diverting activity. I don’t know how you were raised, but here—”
“Mama,” Jane said quietly, delicately trying to catch the drunk woman’s notice.
But Mrs. Bennet ignored her eldest daughter, or did not hear her at all. “Doesn’t dance! What kind of gentleman doesn’t dance? Why, that was bad enough but then you went and insulted my daught—”
“Mother!” Elizabeth stood, holding a wine glass in her outstretched hand. “I do believe at this moment, if dear Papa were here, he would stand and put his arm around you and say, we must make a toast to Mary and her dear Mr. Jannis.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Bennet began to shake and brought her napkin to her lips. “Yes, yes. Your father would be so happy, Mary dear.”
And then the entire table was toastin
g the newly married couple, and the rushing sound receded from Darcy’s ears, and soon dinner ended and Elizabeth came personally to escort her mother from the room.
Darcy stared at her from his seat, unsure of what to say, or how to thank her without offending her mother. He stood and was just about to approach them when Mr. Gladwell appeared, offering to escort the ladies out of the room.
As Darcy moved into the billiards room, Bingley found him and handed him a glass of whiskey. “Sorry about old Mrs. Bennet. She’s a piece of work, but Jane’s worth putting up with her.” He sighed a moment and then clapped Darcy on the back. “But, at least you don’t have to worry about that. Why, in a fortnight you’ll be free of her forever.”
Darcy gripped his glass. How could he admit that being free from the Bennets was exactly what he feared?
8
Elizabeth
“Mrs. Allerton, it is a pleasure to meet you at last! Your doting mother has spoken of you so often, and so highly, that I thought it impossible for you to be as perfect a creature as she claimed. But now I see: Mrs. Bennet is right, always!”
Elizabeth stared at her new acquaintance. Mr. Christopher Gladwell was just as her mother had described: a man of pleasing words and visage with grand golden curls on top of his head. He was pleasant, easy with his conversation and manner…and completely ridiculous.
Be charitable, Elizabeth, she reminded herself. She knew she was wont to find fault with any man her mother presented before her. And though Elizabeth detested Mr. Darcy’s haughty manner and complete refusal to participate in light conversation—she somehow wished that Mr. Gladwell was perhaps a bit more reserved.
Mrs. Bennet had eagerly introduced them before dinner. It was Mr. Gladwell’s coach that had rescued the Potters, and they had all arrived late and in a somewhat damp state.
“I’m so sorry that you and Lizzy were not seated near each other at dinner,” Mrs. Bennet said from the other side of Mr. Gladwell. He had gallantly offered to escort the ladies out of the dining room, and they now stood in a small circle in the hall.
“Jane! Jane dear! Come here this instant!” Their mother called Jane from the ladies’ parlor out into the grand hallway.
“Yes, Mama?”
“You have met Mr. Gladwell?” Mrs. Bennet said.
“Of course!” Jane moved from her post near the open doorways and smiled widely at Mr. Gladwell. “We are all so glad you are here, and so thankful that you came upon the Potters! If you hadn’t rescued them from the wet roads, I don’t know how late they would have been arriving here.”
“Yes, yes, we are so grateful!” Mrs. Bennet cooed. “But Jane darling, for our next dinner we must place Lizzy and Mr. Gladwell closer together. They are two of the only young people who are not married, and they both live in London. They will have much to discuss!”
Elizabeth felt herself blushing at her mother’s obvious machinations. “I do not live in London, Mama. You know that. And I am not—”
“There he is!” A voice even shriller than their mother’s suddenly sounded, and Mrs. Margaret Potter appeared. The first thing Elizabeth noticed was the woman’s expression. Not that fact that she was about fifty and quite handsome, with pale blue eyes and light brown hair—but the affected air with which she walked down the hall. Her small mouth was frozen in a moue of displeasure, and her small nose flared. Mrs. Potter looked about her as if there were an awful smell that only she could detect, and she was determined to find its source.
The second thing Elizabeth noted was Mrs. Potter’s rather garish display of jewels. Her dress was light and summery, as was the style, though she had offset the subdued gown with a thick choker of diamonds around her neck. Mrs. Potter’s earrings also twinkled in the candlelight and hung low and heavy from her lobes, and as she spoke she turned a matching diamond ring around and around her middle finger. “You, Sir! Mr. Gladwell!”
Mr. Gladwell turned and bowed as she approached their small group. “I have told my husband to thank you. I know I was in a state when you first discovered us. I have been told my nerves are like delicate flowers,” she bellowed, “and a broken carriage wheel was more than my gentle soul could countenance after a long day of travel!”
Even Mrs. Bennet was stunned into silence after Mrs. Potter’s very loud and very strong explanation of her fragile nature.
“It was my pleasure and honor,” Mr. Gladwell said gravely.
“Yes! Though you would do well to have someone look after your springs, for it was a jolting ride!”
Mr. Gladwell, to his credit, did not blush or blink. He simply nodded and smiled.
Mrs. Bennet, however, took this statement as a sign of Mr. Gladwell’s income. “You have your own carriage? How divine!” she said. “Jane and Charles have three and I am sure Charles can find someone to look after yours—”
“It is borrowed,” Mr. Gladwell said quickly. He gave her mother a broad, bright grin that softened his somewhat sharp tone. “I agree, ladies, that a carriage should always be looked after. Alas, the friend who lent me his is not as wise as you both.” He bowed, then looked behind them into the billiards room, where the gentlemen were gathering. “Ah! And there is Mr. Bingley now. I must go speak to him about….”
Elizabeth could not quite catch the end of Mr. Gladwell’s sentence, as he had begun to bow again and again and again to each lady. Then he paused and bowed low before Elizabeth. “I do hope we may speak again, Mrs. Allerton. I do so look forward to it.”
“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth said. “We have not yet exhausted the subject of carriage maintenance.”
At her words, Mr. Gladwell’s pasted-on smile faded. But then he met her eyes and true mirth seemed to flare there. “Yes,” he said, with a real grin this time. “Fascinating subject. I await our exploration of traveling coaches with bated breath and whispering humbleness.” He bowed once more and excused himself to find Mr. Bingley.
“See, Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet whispered loudly, as Jane led Mrs. Potter into the ladies’ parlor. “He uses quite large words, just as you do!”
“Anyone can quote Shakespeare, mother,” Elizabeth said, though secretly her opinion of Mr. Gladwell had improved just slightly with his reference to The Merchant of Venice.
“Quote what?” Mrs. Bennet said, but she was soon distracted as they entered the renovated parlor that Jane had named “the green room.” It was a large, airy space that Jane had decorated entirely in various shades of emerald. “It’s meant to bring the outside in, and make you think you’re lost in a forest,” Jane had said when first giving Elizabeth a tour.
Charles had rolled his eyes at the time and sighed, “I’ve lost quite a bit of money creating this particular forest.” Then Jane had grabbed his arm and shaken him, and they’d stared into each other’s eyes and finally kissed, lightly, as if they’d forgotten Lizzy had been standing there.
Elizabeth moved around the crowd of ladies and sat on the comfortable sofa near the windows. Mrs. Graham was attempting to sober up Mrs. Bennet with copious amounts of tea. Jane was speaking at length about the curtains to a group of polite but bored young ladies. And Mary was being teased by Kitty and Lydia, but holding her own. Too soon the gentlemen would rejoin them, and Elizabeth wanted to clear her head before they did so.
Mr. Darcy had watched her all during dinner. She had refused to look up, but she had felt his stare. And then her mother had been utterly rude and fox-drunk and Elizabeth had wanted to melt into her chair with shame.
“Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked up to find Mrs. Graham standing at her side.
“Yes, Mrs. Graham?” she said, moving to allow the woman plenty of room to sit.
“I am about to ask you a most absurd question,” she said as she settled herself and her skirts.
“Oh, I cannot wait. I adore absurd questions,” Elizabeth said. “I am torn, honestly, between which I love more: absurd questions or absurd answers.”
Mrs. Graham smiled. “Impertinent girl! I was much the s
ame when I was young.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I would not call myself ‘young’ now.”
“No,” Mrs. Graham said. “The young never do. Now tell me: do you recall the necklace I wore this morning?”
Elizabeth glanced at the older woman’s jewelry. While the current style was to keep one’s adornment light, minimal and natural, Mrs. Graham prescribed to a different era of dress. Her fingers were covered in rings, diamond-and-emerald girandole pendants hung low from her ears, and her décolleté dripped with necklaces of varying lengths and gemstones.
Elizabeth bit her lip, trying to recall if there had been a fifth necklace on her person this morning.
“Oh, I can see you do not remember,” Mrs. Graham fretted.
“I apologize,” Elizabeth said. “I am afraid I do not.”
“I could have sworn I had packed a very particular necklace that my late husband bought for me. My dear Henry had commissioned Rundell and Bridge to create the design. It was gold—” She gestured at her neck. “—long, with a large ruby at the bottom? And this is the clever part, an ‘M’ was hidden in the golden filigree. My initial, you know? I will never forget when he sent it to me. ‘For my sweet Millicent,’ the card said.”
“That sounds lovely,” Elizabeth said. “Are you saying you lost it?”
“I’m not sure.” Mrs. Graham sighed. “My maid thinks she did not pack it and that it is back in Lambton. This—this—is why one must make paste copies of all one’s jewels. So one does not lose them—or become confused—while traveling!”
Elizabeth nodded and put her hand over Mrs. Graham’s clenched fingers. She knew that for this wealthy woman, the value of the piece lay not in its gold and rubies, but the emotional connection to her late husband. Aunt Gardiner always spoke highly of the Grahams. Both Mrs. Gardiner and Mrs. Graham had been born in Derbyshire, and the Grahams were still leaders of the small but lively Lambton society there.
“You are wise,” Mrs. Graham finally sniffed, “to keep all your jewels at home. Except for that little trinket.”
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