Before she could, they were all overtaken by Bingley’s sisters. They were not a welcome sight to anyone there, but they were in want of an audience and any three people would do. Elizabeth braced herself for Caroline’s cackling and Louisa’s dull-witted snipes. Elizabeth often wondered how they could be siblings to sweet Charles Bingley.
Most of the county knew that Caroline had clung to Darcy’s coattails for a half a year hoping to secure him and was barely able to contain her joy when he asked for Elizabeth’s hand instead. Despite that, Elizabeth had never rejoiced in her triumph. That would have been unkind. Caroline, however, did not recognise kindness as a viable social strategy. Indeed, Caroline had devoted much of her time to looking down her nose at the situation and conduct of others.
Upon this occasion, the sisters were flushed with excitement. They had not only Mr. Hurst in tow, but also Sir Winton Beecher. As Mr. Hurst was in want of wine, he left his party directly. (They did not seem to notice that he was gone.) The Darcys knew Mr. Hurst and his proclivities, therefore made no inquiry of him. At the end of an evening he could often be found asleep in odd places, but so far as Elizabeth knew, he had never caused any harm.
As innocuous as was Mr. Hurst; Caroline, Louisa Hurst, and Beecher were the triumvirate of vulgarity.
Beecher’s marriage to poor Lady Anne had been a mockery of true love. Their nuptials were hasty. The birth of their daughter (hastier still) was more than Anne’s poor constitution could stand and she had not survived it. Beecher’s grief was easily consoled at the gaming tables in London. As he was no better a widower than husband, he was seen with Miss Bingley gracing his arm before the month was out. After attaching herself to Beecher, Caroline found it more and more difficult to locate persons morally inferior to her.
Despite the talk, Caroline held fast. Some matches were meant to be and she was not one to deny fate its due. (Beecher disliked petty trials like death and she liked nothing more than a widower with a title.) With the leading lights of propriety glaring at her through their quizzing glasses, she bowed at the altar of her own one true love—the latest fashions. The grand gowns, trimmings, trappings, and accoutrements soothed her in ways that might have given regular folk pause.
Having made her rounds in London, Caroline had deigned to enjoy her brother’s new country house. Her attendance at Pemberley that night was less to greet old friends than to assess their frocks. What had once been a favourite occupation now filled her waking hours. Louisa happily accompanied her on these stalking excursions about any gathering. They liked to titter behind their fans when they spied a truly tragic gown. The Pemberley ball had left them breathless with anticipation as country frocks were rarely tolerable and therefore always good for a giggle.
If they were critical of the lack of invention in the gowns, they drew a few odd looks in return. Both of the sisters had their hair combed down around their faces. Caroline had a long nose and the effect softened the outline of her face. Louisa’s round face, however, was not improved. They were quite pleased with themselves regardless. No other lady at the ball dared such a coiffure. Nothing was more rewarding than to know oneself above one’s company.
Having learnt that the incomparable doyenne of hairstyles and mode, Lady Howgrave was in attendance, the sisters had breathlessly sought her ladyship out. Once they had her in their eye, her ensemble left them all but giddy with adulation. Anxious to share, they had hurried to the nearest group of persons to exalt in the details of the lady’s fallals. Regrettably, those they happened upon were the ones least likely to be in want of hearing them.
Caroline announced, “We have seen Lady Howgrave!”
A pause gave Elizabeth leave to understand that it was hers to reply.
She said, “Indeed?”
“Have you had the privilege of observing her costume?” Caroline queried.
Elizabeth replied in the negative (having had only a glimpse of the lady when receiving). In fortune, Louisa was there, else Caroline would have been loath to find someone to participate in the conversation.
“Her gown is far and above every other attempt in the room, Louisa! The skirt is bell-shaped, the shoulders... dare I say it? Dare I say it?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” said Louisa.
Louisa gasped with such inflection that had one heard her from the other side of a door, her utterances might have suggested something unseemly was in progress. As Caroline and Louisa gushed, Beecher engaged in his own separate discourse, wholly indifferent to theirs.
“Ah Darcy,” he said, “I am happy to see that your fine repast includes French fare. Some of society believe that it should no longer be done. I say, pish-tosh. When it is done well—as your table attests—our palettes enjoy all its many pleasures.”
Without drawing a breath, Beecher said, “I spied Colonel Fitzwilliam’s brother just across there. Matlock, is it not? The man has grown quite stout. I must give him my man’s name. He does wonders with a Cumberland corset. It is altogether miraculous. I fancy it is the whalebone back and what has been come to be called the “Brummell” bodice.”
When Beecher addressed him, Darcy’s lip curled ever so slightly (betokening his particular dislike).
Unwilling to stand next to anyone conversing about undergarments, Darcy said, “Desist, sir.”
Obtuse with wine and ego, Beecher was unwitting that Mr. Darcy was deciding whether to have him led away or simply ejected. Whilst he pondered each possibility, Mr. Darcy’s gaze remained somewhere in the mid-distance, just above Beecher head. He took a sip from his cup of punch. It was his habit to ignore all discourse other than that of the weather and condition of the roads.
Beecher was still determined to speak of corsets.
“Mr. Brummell had nothing to do with that particular model, I promise you. You are a fine, tall fellow, Darcy. However, if you are to retain your figure you must wear your stays on the hunting field.”
When Beecher put forward his forefinger as if to poke Mr. Darcy’s middle for emphasis (or to determine if his lean figure had the help of a corsetière), it was unsurprising that Mr. Darcy was displeased. Only the inebriated or the truly stupid dared to touch Mr. Darcy’s person. With great economy of movement, Darcy positioned the back of his hand so as to parry Beecher’s finger.
Ignoring the deflection, Beecher snickered on, “Caution to the unwary—when Lord Fiddleback’s wife dropped her glove and he, the gentleman, stooped to retrieve it the thing gave way....”
“I say, belay that, sir!” Darcy very nearly barked.
Startled, Beecher bowed into retreat. His boorish remarks were hastily over-spoken by Caroline who was still crowing over Lady Howgrave’s gown. In a quandary as to whose conversation was least pleasing, Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, searching for escape. Regrettably, Elizabeth was (much to her personal dismay) intent on hearing the particulars of Lady Howgrave’s ensemble without having to trouble herself with conversing with the woman whilst she did.
Caroline’s praise was effusive.
“The shoulders of her gown are dropped! We shall not see them in La Belle until next season. To think we were here to observe it first....”
Into this confabulation stumbled Lydia Bennet Wickham Kneebone. Her husband, Major Kneebone and Colonel Fitzwilliam were sharing accounts of the Peninsular Campaign and war stories bored her to tears. Finding the wine punch to her liking, she tarried at the bowl long enough to leave a bit tipsy. When she found Elizabeth, she wobbled noticeably. Darcy introduced her to those who were not of her acquaintance (admittedly leaving them to extrapolate that Lydia was his sister-in-law). Already acquainted with Lydia and her indiscretions great and small, Caroline was gleeful at the prospect of obtaining fresh gossip.
Beecher returned to their party, having trailed Lydia from the punch bowl. He took her hand and said, “Charmed beyond measure, I am sure.”
“Why, hello little man,” Lydia replied.
Although he had not had the pleasure of understanding Mrs. Kneebone’s connect
ion to the esteemed Mr. Darcy, Beecher did not respond to her affably gauche greeting. Vain in many things, Beecher was especially miffed by her reference to his lack of height and might have taken greater offence had she not displayed an alarmingly bounteous bosom. As his short stature made him eye-level with her décolletage, he took his time assessing it. However, he had firmly held prejudices against portionless creatures of inferior connections—at least in the presence of ladies of condition. Hence, his eyes soon quit her. Still gazing at the top of Beecher’s head, Lydia swayed ominously.
In all ways alert to her youngest sister’s indecorousness, in the faint hope of circumventing it, Elizabeth bid, “Shall you not sit down?”
“I think not,” Lydia replied merrily. “I have already landed in more laps than a napkin.”
As he put the back of his hand to his lips, Mr. Darcy coughed once.
Thereupon, he leaned over to his wife and said, “I shall locate Major Kneebone.”
In the intervening time, Elizabeth took Lydia’s elbow. She was much in want of leading her away from the Bingley sisters and Beecher. They were happy to have someone else to natter on about, and Elizabeth happier still to leave them to it.
All the tugging of a team of oxen couldn’t have hurried Lydia on her way, but Elizabeth refused to admit defeat. Somehow, Lydia seemed smitten with the diminutive Beecher and looked upon him as if a poppet sitting on a children’s bench. Caroline refused to relinquish the floor to Lydia regardless, and continued to expound upon her very favourite subject—fashion and its victims.
“Lady Howgrave’s gems are exquisite. She wears a single strand of pearls offset by rubies, for anything above a single strand is tres passe. Still loops of them are seen everywhere—even in the most fashionable of neighbourhoods.” Not so vain as to care for the opinion of someone she disliked, Elizabeth was uninjured by Caroline’s comment disparaging her double-strand of pearls. They had belonged to Darcy’s mother and she treasured them. She thought no more of the information than she did the source. Other ladies seemed uncomfortable at the slight and shuffled their dancing slippers a bit. Caroline was undeterred.
“Ladies of no taste are everywhere. Indeed, if every vulgar girl in Bath were laid to end—“
“I shouldn’t be surprised!” Lydia snorted.
Those who could disguise their guffaws did. Beecher was particularly amused and Caroline shot him a glare of reproach—one he felt free to ignore.
Turning on Lydia with a withering gaze, Caroline bid, “Where, pray, is your husband?”
Tittering, Lydia responded, “If you see two people talking and one is bored senseless—he’s the other one!”
Elizabeth refused to have the good Major Kneebone maligned, especially by his wife.
She said, “I believe Major Kneebone is a most agreeable and estimable man.”
With precision, she then clasped Lydia’s hand firmly in hers and dragged her away.
Suddenly aware that the size of Elizabeth’s bosom now nearly rivalled her own, Lydia loudly declared, “Why, Lizzy, you are so fat!”
Once they were out of earshot, Elizabeth pinched Lydia hard on the inside of her arm. At this offence, Lydia yowled.
“Quit it, Lizzy! You shall leave a bruise!”
Fortunately, another allemande was in progress and Lydia’s outrage went unnoticed. Behind her fan, Caroline whispered to Beecher, advising him of Lydia’s unlikely connection to Elizabeth Darcy. He raised an eyebrow at the information, reassessing Lydia’s worth in the world. Indeed, his West End pretensions could be put aside with utmost haste when it suited him. He only quit his observation of Lydia’s strut when her sister had her well out of sight.
Lydia was so often in want of conduct, Elizabeth had very nigh given up defending her. If she were to embarrass herself, Elizabeth would have much preferred that she would not do so in front of the worst magpies in Christendom. Yet, Lydia’s silliness did one good—it ridded Elizabeth of unpleasant companions. It was her sisterly obligation to chastise Lydia despite that, so she did.
“Really, Lydia!” she whispered. “Why must you insist on bringing us all to ridicule?”
Lydia whimpered, “What do you care, Lizzy? You hate Bingley’s sisters. ”
“It is unChristian to hate. That is too harsh a word. Everyone has some disposition to admire.”
“And what, pray tell, do you possibly find to admire about Caroline Bingley?”
“She does her hair well,” Elizabeth replied evenly.
Lydia was unmoved.
“You hate her and that is a sin—although not one of the “thou shalt nots.”
“You mean the Ten Commandments?”
Elizabeth was incredulous to find herself standing in the middle of a ball, conversing in such a stupid manner. However, speaking of the Bible and its admonitions sobered Lydia a bit.
She observed, “Say what you shall about the Ten Commandments—there are but ten of them. Think of what other evil deeds that could be added... thou shalt not speak ill of Caroline Bingley; thou shalt not break wind at the supper table; thou shalt not overspend one’s purse... oooh, there’s the punch bowl.”
She turned in that direction as if caught by a spell. Elizabeth caught her hand and redirected her. The last thing Lydia needed was further libations.
“Your strict integrity and delicate sense of honour astound me,” Elizabeth said as she pushed her towards the door.
To her great fortune, Darcy had found Kneebone and Kneebone then found them.
“Perchance, she needs fresh air,” Elizabeth suggested.
“Perhaps we shall retire for the night,” he wisely proposed.
In this, they thought quite alike. Lydia looked as if all the spirits she drank were to be cast out. As she was in grave danger of soiling a very fine Aubusson carpet, Elizabeth handed her to her husband. He nodded gratefully. With good fortune, Lydia would sleep until noon.
Happy at last to know Lydia was no longer a danger to their dignity, Elizabeth was much in want of sharing that intelligence with her husband. He could not be far, she was certain. After being delayed to speak and be spoken to by several guests, she eventually saw him.
He was not alone.
Chapter 19
Posit and Presumption
Charles Bingley believed his wife was the handsomest lady in England. There were those who agreed with him—especially if goodness had its say. Yet, Bingley was all but rendered a gibbering schoolboy under lovely Lady Howgrave’s alluring gaze.
Another wife might have been piqued. Jane, of course, was not. Indeed, she found Bingley’s befuddlement adorable. (Granted, there was little that Jane did not find charming of her husband.) After all, Bingley was not forward in his admiration. It was a matter of judgement. Effusiveness was not frowned upon as long as he did not fall headfirst into her ladyship’s bountiful cleavage.
Juliette’s special gift was attracting attention from both sexes and she revelled in that notice at Pemberley. Her severest chore was finding discretion. When need be, she was mistress of heedfulness. Those who clamoured for her eye and hearkened her every sigh were unhelpful. Therefore, she had become adroit at pretending to be engrossed in conversation without actually having to participate. A nod here, a smile there and those in her company were happy to know that she was entertained by them. Albeit, she did smile more brilliantly at Mr. Bingley. Even after his reversals, he remained a man of financial consequence—and of happy temper, not that she had any designs on him. To her, he was a bit of a buffoon.
Some innate instinct told Juliette that Bingley knew nothing of her long passed association with Darcy. Bingley was some years younger than Darcy and they became acquainted when the affair was on the wane. As they were both gentlemen, Darcy would never have told him of it regardless. Darcy, terse on all matters, was silent as the grave when the subject was intimacy. Had there been any question, Juliette learnt the truth absolutely when their paths crossed upon the steps of Howgrave’s apartments in London. When she
spoke to Darcy, Bingley’s expression had been exceedingly inquisitive. He had wanted to know of their connection, but was far too daunted to inquire.
Shaking away such recollections, Juliette’s gaze expertly swept the room. It was important to have Darcy in her eye and gauge those about him before she bechanced him. Her initial objective of simply being an observer had been set aside for the possibility that she might gain a private word. To do so, it was important that he believe that accident brought it about. Was she seen to go to him, scandal would ensue. (In truth, she would have adored scandal, but a whiff of it would turn Darcy away.) In order to achieve that specific conjunction, she knew she must continue to oblige herself to the Bingleys’ company.
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