“Are you?” he said. In the wavering light of the candle, he watched the movement of her mouth as she said: “That is for you to discover.”
“How did you do it?” Darcy asked her. “I rode into the battlefield, sword drawn ready to defend you, and you slew the archenemy with a word and enslaved her followers with a look.”
“I hope you do not call the marchioness the archenemy. I cannot imagine you mean that I have conquered your aunt.”
“Mine is a metaphorical archenemy, the illiberality and cruelty of the Ton.”
“Did you truly feel that you may have to defend me?”
“When we were first in London, very much so.” He raised a long curl to his lips.
“Pray do not imagine that I doubted your reception among those I count as friends. However, I was aware of the prejudices of some among my acquaintances and prepared to cast off any who offended.”
“Really? At first, I felt a little nervousness, but not fear. Since childhood, I cannot recollect feeling real fear of another person.”
“Your courage was one of the first things I admired in you.”
She turned her face from the light of the candle.
“Although I never felt afraid …” she began.
He wrapped her in his arms. “Well?”
“Well, what?” she laughed.
“Although you never felt afraid—what follows?”
“It is well for you that my papa has enjoyed such good health.”
“This is a change of subject.”
“Is it? If my father had died before any of his daughters had married, we should never have met. I would be living in a pinched way in a cottage with Mama and all my sisters. Bingley’s sisters might have heard of our plight and sent us some of their old gowns.”
“They would have enjoyed that, I should think,” he laughed.
“So they ought.” She raised herself onto one elbow. “Virtue should have earthly as well as heavenly rewards.” She blew out the candle.
“Is it your design to bestow upon me an earthly reward, madam?”
She laughed softly in the darkness.
CHAPTER 12
LADY CATHERINE MADE ARRANGEMENTS TO receive various guests in the spring, and went home to Kent. Colonel Fitzwilliam returned to his regiment. Kitty Bennet languished in Hertfordshire, vainly importuning her papa, at every turn, for permission to return to London.
Their absence did nothing to dampen Elizabeth’s pleasure in her first London season.
She took great delight in her opportunities to be with her sister Jane, now Mrs. Bingley. Bingley’s friendship with Darcy ensured that there was pleasure for all in their frequent meetings. She also enjoyed the society of the Foxwells and their circle, albeit that it was diminished by the loss of Lady Catherine’s notice.
By March, it became clear to all of fashionable London that Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy was firmly established in the esteem of the Marchioness of Englebury. If one or two of Darcy’s former acquaintances had been somewhat cold when first introduced to Elizabeth, she knew nothing of it. Darcy suspected his aunt’s influence and dismissed them from his thoughts. Elizabeth’s success coincided with a change of attitude in some of those bigots. Their overtures were met with Darcy’s well-known frigid politeness.
Elizabeth had learnt long ago to employ her wits to distance herself from the powerless position life thrust on her at birth. Ladies who had been prepared to be kind to the provincial girl to whom Darcy had so inexplicably lost his heart (and sense), found their condescension not required. She was sought after—not seeking others—initially for her success with the marchioness, but later equally for her charm and wit. Yet one could not say whether others would have valued these assets had she not been so fortunate as to gain the esteem of Lady Englebury.
Her ladyship’s circle inevitably became a part of their lives. However, Elizabeth knew how little Darcy liked his house filled with strangers, and entertained them there only as frequently as politeness required. Thus those friendships took on a degree of separateness.
Elizabeth went with Mrs. Courtney to visit Miss Whittaker, with the express purpose of singing to both brother and sister. Mr. Whittaker declared himself inspired by the experience of hearing her. His eyelids barely open, he gestured elegantly towards his sister.
“Beloved Bella, my spirits require support! I am overpowered by sensation.”
Arabella rang for tea.
Elizabeth said, with that sweetness that softened the edges of her barbs, “I shall, on future occasions, be more careful of the sensibilities of my audience,” she said.
Miss Whittaker smiled her slow, knowing smile and carried the conversation forward, without reference to her afflicted relative.
“I found your performance delightful, Mrs. Darcy. I do hope I shall have further opportunities to hear you.”
“You are very kind, Miss Whittaker. I do not deserve the kindness of my hearers, as I have so rarely taken the trouble of practising.”
“Pray do not become too perfect. The charm of your performance lies in your naturalness.”
They continued to talk of music, while the gentleman maintained an artistic silence. Elizabeth asked Miss Whittaker to play for her.
“No, Arabella!” cried her brother, falling back on the settee. “I hear a plaintive cry; my muse calls. You must not interrupt my suffering with the pleasure produced by your tinkling fingers.”
“You really are ghastly, Peregrine,” said his sister.
“Am I, Sister?” he asked, unperturbed. He turned to Elizabeth. “You shall be my muse. You recollect that poor Glover has written the words for two songs for his next comedy?”
“Why poor Glover? There can be few playwrights who enjoy such popularity as his, and at a young age.”
“I acknowledge that he can write a tolerable play, in the comic line, but he is totally devoid of musical talent. From you, madam, I have received the inspiration for a line of melody, enabling him to turn his latest poems into song. I shall have to rework his lines a little to make them fit.”
“Mrs. Darcy can have no interest in your inspirations, Peregrine,” said Amelia.
“Amelia, dearest, you cut me to the quick,” he said, stifling a yawn. He leant back, eyes closed, one hand beating a slow rhythm in the air. Elizabeth could not but smile, and stored up her impressions for when she next wrote to her father.
In Elizabeth’s mail, at breakfast one morning, came the result of Whittaker’s inspiration: two songs, dedicated to her, and called ‘Songs of the Birds’.
“His impertinence is beyond belief,” she murmured. In glancing at the lyrics, her eyes fell on the phrase, ‘My wings are broke against these bars,’ among others tending along the theme of the caged bird, and she whitened in anger.
“What is wrong, Elizabeth?” asked Darcy.
“Mr. Whittaker has sent me some songs, composed with help from Mr. Glover, and he is impertinent enough to dedicate them to me.”
“Is it your desire that I attend to this matter, my dear?”
She scarcely hesitated to say: “Pray do.” As she handed them to the footman to give to him, she added: “They really are not worth a glance, Fitzwilliam.”
“I shall rely upon your taste and not waste my time.”
She dismissed the matter from her mind.
That afternoon, Mr. Whittaker picked up the packet as he came into his house. He went to show it to his sister, who was lying on a settee in her sitting room.
“Look at this note, Bella, written in an ominously masculine hand. How horridly neatly the man writes. I don’t believe he has a soul.”
“Perry, dear, not everyone can boast your poetical scrawl. The ability to produce a legible hand does not of necessity place one on the level of the beasts.”
“Hear it, Arabella, then speak,” replied her brother.
“‘Sir,
I enclose your songs. I am sorry for your wasted effort, as Mrs. Darcy declines to receive them.
&nbs
p; F. Darcy’”
“What a charming little epistle. I believe he rather likes me.”
“I would differ from you on this occasion, Peregrine.”
Whittaker draped himself elegantly across the back of her settee. “Think you that she even saw my songs?” he asked.
“I imagine she did. This is one campaign I feel you must abandon, dear Brother.”
“I can hardly bear to give up such a challenge.”
She reached up and touched his face, and said:
“She is much too clever to flirt with you, dearest.”
“Come, Bella! I need her cleverness. It is only clever women who appreciate me!”
“Perhaps she is in love with her husband.”
“With Darcy?” Perfume wafted in the air as he waved his handkerchief. “What a disgusting notion!”
Arabella gave her brother a long cool look.
“Take care you do not fall in love with her, Perry.”
“If I but could, dear Bella, the endless tedium of existence would be in hiatus for a time.”
“Content yourself with gazing with longing upon her portrait, for which the lady is sitting, perhaps even as we speak. Our aunt has plans to see the likeness exhibited at the Academy and all London agog.”
“Arabella, you would not have your brother stand amongst all the world and his wife! Imagine my suffering. I must confine my adoring glances to the original.”
The portrait was, in fact, completed. The marchioness visited her favourite with the express purpose of viewing the painting. Her attention was arrested the moment she entered the hall at Brougham Place.
“This is just such a success as I predicted,” she said.
“Indeed, it is,” said Darcy. “I am very grateful to your Ladyship for your recommendation of an artist I had not considered. The painter has captured my wife’s spirit.”
“Exactly. There is playful intelligence in the manner in which she looks over the edge of the book, with that smile.”
“I shall remember those words, Lady Englebury,” said Elizabeth. “How often should I look over the top of my book, think you? Is every five minutes excessive?”
“Ha! Ha! Once will serve for always, for this picture will make a decided impression at the Portrait Exhibition.”
Darcy was taken aback. “I had not thought to enter Mrs. Darcy’s portrait in the exhibition,” he said. “It will leave London with us, and hang in the gallery at Pemberley.”
“Your lady will not be on display in person!” she replied. “It is my wish to promote both sitter and painter.”
“Madam,” he said, “I am most reluctant to deny you, after your kindness to Mrs. Darcy, but I feel an abhorrence of the very notion.”
“Mrs. Darcy, pray add your opinion,” said the marchioness.
“That yellow silk is my favourite, Lady Englebury. How shall I ever wear it again, if half of London gazes upon it?” she said, with a laugh.
When the Darcys attended the exhibition, Elizabeth felt her husband was vindicated. The walls of the long gallery were plastered from top to bottom with the latest portraits and the floor equally crammed with visitors. Small children and even a dog or two darted about beneath the elbows of the spectators, many of whom aimed their eyeglasses upon the crowd, seemingly more intent upon locating their friends than on looking at the pictures. Were it not for her urgent desire to see Jane’s portrait hanging there, Elizabeth would have found the crowd too insufferable to be endured.
At last, greeting some acquaintances and avoiding others, they managed to move through the press of people to the far wall, where they stood looking at the portrait of Jane, whose loveliness was a work of art in itself. Jane, pictured in an elegant white gown with green ornaments, radiated virtue as well as beauty. Elizabeth could have wept with pride in being her sister.
Then she caught a whispered comment on the sitter’s figure, an appreciative comment, but spoken in such a tone that Jane may have been nothing more than a horse. She turned her head towards Darcy, but did not raise her eyes. He squeezed the hand lying on his arm, and they went away.
How glad she was the marchioness had not persuaded her husband to enter her portrait. Already she was finding that the marchioness’s view of the world did not always quite coincide with her own. Despite her enjoyment of Lady Englebury’s society and the value of her influence, Elizabeth was determined to employ her own judgment on matters concerning herself and her family.
CHAPTER 13
AS THE SEASON PROGRESSED, Elizabeth could not warm to the Whittakers. However, their cousin, Amelia Courtney, was quite another case. Elizabeth had been for some time disillusioned with the notion of intimate friendships. Her dearest friend in Hertfordshire, Charlotte, had disappointed her by marrying Mr. Collins, whom Elizabeth deemed ‘one of the stupidest men in England’. Having thought she knew her friend well, she had been shocked by Charlotte’s pragmatic view that marriage was solely a means to ensure one’s comfort. Elizabeth had sworn to herself that she would not be drawn into so close a friendship again.
Mrs. Courtney was wooing her away from her reticence. She was witty, charming and playful. Elizabeth sensed Darcy’s dislike of this friendship. He may have liked to condemn Amelia for flippancy, but she was like Elizabeth in reserving her witticisms for ridiculing folly.
“She flirts!” he said. “Even in her husband’s presence.”
“Not with universal success,” said Elizabeth, looking at him pointedly. Indeed, there had been a change in Amelia’s manner towards Darcy.
“I cannot imagine you wish me to behave towards other women in a manner that suggests I am susceptible to their charms.”
“No, indeed.” In fact, Elizabeth was not sure that he knew how to convey this susceptibility. “Nevertheless, Fitzwilliam, there was a time when you thought I was playing the coquette with you, and I understand you found that enticing.”
“That was a different circumstance altogether. The repugnant aspect of flirtation is its essential dishonesty, in the implication of false promises. I believed that the manner in which you addressed me, in Kent, promised a favourable response; and yes, it was, indeed, enticing.”
“Do you fear Mrs. Courtney will teach me to flirt, dearest?” Her lips were pursed, almost to a kiss.
“What? I should not permit it.”
“Really? Should you not?” The free playfulness of her eyes danced against the stoniness of his.
“I hope you do not wish to try me, Elizabeth.”
She did and she did not.
“It is not in my nature to flirt,” she said, “but if you understood what it is to be a woman, you might see Mrs. Courtney’s behaviour as nothing more than seeking the approval of men.”
“She should pay more attention to seeking her husband’s approval,” said Darcy.
“He dotes upon her. Had you not noticed?”
“It seems to me that we have a sufficiency of friends precluding the necessity for you to seek more.”
“I do not seek Mrs. Courtney’s friendship; she offers it. I like her. As for our friends, they were not of my choosing. They are your friends.” Then hastily, at the sight of his expression, “I do not mean that I do not like them, for I do. Yet I have never met with anyone like Mrs. Courtney before.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lost all their seriousness and came alive with laughter at some elusive absurdity. She was not with him, in spirit, at that moment. She added, “To converse with her is … a frolic in words.”
He was silent.
“Do you not yearn to frolic, on occasion, Fitzwilliam?”
“I am sorry, indeed, that my character is found to be so deficient in conversational worth,” he said.
She laughed. “Mrs. Courtney is not so blessed with good qualities that I desire to have her for my husband!”
He winced. How she caught him out, before he even knew his own feelings!
By the middle of March, Elizabeth was making out her invitations for entertainment at Pemberley
in the summer. She brought her list into the library to discuss the contents with her husband. He rose, half bowing, from his seat at the desk, indicated the chair opposite and quickly perused the list. Seeing him frown, she said: “I hope I have not forgot anyone you would particularly like to have with us.”
“You think to invite Mr. and Mrs. Courtney to Pemberley?”
“Certainly. They are acquainted with many of our other friends.”
“I do not wish it.”
“Why not, pray?” He walked across to the window, and stood there, looking out.
“I do not feel bound to explain myself.” He turned and looked at her, eyes coolly veiled. She drew breath sharply and, pale with anger, said: “Are you saying that you forbid it?”
“I am saying I do not wish it.” In his tone, the words were indistinguishable in meaning.
“For no reason but to thwart me; and to deny me pleasure.”
She turned to the door.
“Elizabeth, wait.”
She turned back and looked at him, her face white marble, dark eyes unfathomable. The set of her mouth almost seemed to border on scorn. He shrugged. She left the room.
He walked up and down. He was an expert in rational thought, in reason unpolluted by emotion. Yet, try as he might, he could not form a satisfactory intellectual appraisal of this situation, in which reason could be reconciled with his feelings.
They were to dine that evening with Lady Reerdon and some of her friends, before going on to the theatre. Mr. Glover’s new comedy was to open.
Wilkins so enjoyed turning her lady out well. Tonight, though, she found her mistress a little hard to bear with. She was angrily preoccupied and would not take any interest in her dress. She had come from her bath, and stood, eyes smouldering, as Wilkins adjusted her petticoat.
She was rehearsing a little speech, but could not feel satisfied with it. The foundation of her esteem for her husband was his sense of honour, and she believed he had transgressed that now. Wilkins slipped the new gown over her mistress’s head. Of the palest silvery silk, it was so cunningly trimmed that Elizabeth was distracted by her own reflection. She sat and watched as Wilkins drew up her thick hair into a smooth roll, then artfully teased out curls around her ears and onto the back of her neck. The maid picked up her mistress’s hair ornament, a recent gift from Darcy.
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