A Private Performance

by Helen Halstead

  “Not that one, Wilkins.”

  “Have you changed your mind, madam? I recall you chose the colour of the gown for its match with this light-coloured silver.”

  “I did, indeed. Go ahead.”

  Elizabeth indicated her velvet wrap, and Wilkins held it while she slipped it on.

  Wilkins watched as her mistress descended the stairs. Darcy emerged from the drawing room and bowed. She inclined her head.

  “You look … enchanting,” he said, his mood very formal.

  “I thank you, sir.”

  He offered his arm. She took it. They turned and went down to the hall, acknowledged the footmen but slightly, and went out to the carriage.

  Wilkins turned as Darcy’s valet appeared on the landing, at her side.

  “Dear, dear, Mrs. Wilkins, a black humour tonight!” he chuckled.

  “I do not understand your meaning, Mr. Benson.”

  “Do you not? You have not been with your lady long. I have been with my gentleman since he first went up to Cambridge.”

  Wilkins bridled up. “I know my mistress every bit as well as you know your master, Mr. Benson, even if you have been with him since the days of Cromwell.”

  “You fear your lady will get the worst of it? Let’s put a sixpence on it.”

  “Mr. Benson! Gamble on our employers’ quarrels? Sixpence, indeed! You must have sixpences aplenty.” She stalked off upstairs.

  “Thruppence?” he called up after her.

  The atmosphere in the carriage was thick with silence, but the ride was short. Lady Reerdon’s peerless grace smoothed their entrance wonderfully. Elizabeth had not imagined how easy it could be to put anger aside for an evening. The moment his mother turned to her next guests, Lord Reerdon carried Elizabeth off to introduce her to a cousin who was eager to meet her.

  At dinner, Elizabeth and Darcy were seated in reasonable proximity, but both were caught up in conversation with others. When the ladies withdrew, Lady Reerdon insisted on Elizabeth sitting by her, and the countess’s discreet warmth of manner was very soothing to her young guest’s feelings. The gentlemen did not tarry over their port, as the play was to start at ten o’clock, the last presentation of the evening.

  The theatre was full and noisy with the chatter and movement of so many people. In the pit, the lower orders scanned the gentry in the boxes and gallery, nudging their friends and pointing out the sights to each other. From those lofty seats, opera glasses and glances were discreetly employed for much the same purpose. Every seat in Lady Reerdon’s box was taken. They had an excellent vantage point, both to see and be seen.

  Opposite, the marchioness was seated in the front of her box. She bowed to Lady Reerdon; then, quite pointedly, to Elizabeth, an honour noted by many. Elizabeth turned to Darcy, with a smile, but she could not tease much of a smile in return. Darcy would be saturnine, but Elizabeth could not quell her excitement for the play to begin.

  “This is the first public performance I have seen of a work by one of the marchioness’s protégés,” she said to the countess.

  “Has Mr. Glover discussed the play in your presence?” Lady Reerdon replied, entering into her pleasure.

  “Indeed he has. We have heard much about it, and the playwright has read extracts of it at Lady Englebury’s Tuesdays.”

  Several of the countess’s friends looked at Elizabeth with wonder. Neither the fortunes nor connections of any of this group had secured for them the privilege Mrs. Darcy had gained without effort. She was unaware, watching for the play to begin. Then thunderous applause broke out as a woman strolled onto the stage, a great bunch of dark curls piled on her head. Mr. Glover would have been highly gratified to obtain Mrs. Jordan for the leading role in his play.

  At interval they received a note from the marchioness, desiring Elizabeth and her husband to join her in her box.

  “You must go. I insist,” said Lady Reerdon. “I shall not be quite bereft of company.” After a polite exchange, the Darcys left her.

  Frederick leant forward to whisper: “Mother, Mrs. Darcy would be an ornament to a coronet.”

  Behind her fan, his mother said: “I like her exceedingly well, Frederick, as you know, but I would not have you marry one such, though she came with a million pounds.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Hush, my dear. You are dazzled by her wit and charm. Behind them, she possesses an intelligence so keen it would cut you.”

  “What of Darcy, then? Will it not cut him?”

  The countess looked at her son. All the maternal fondness in the world could not blind her to the disparity between Frederick’s intelligence and Darcy’s.

  “If he is cut, it will not be by her wits,” she replied. “However, he has met his match, I believe.”

  His lordship’s reply was buried in the applause that met Mrs. Jordan’s return to the stage.

  The marchioness had seated Elizabeth near her, and Darcy took a seat behind her, where he had a view of his wife’s profile. The rest of the play was very humorous; even Darcy was heard to laugh. At the end, Mr. Glover came onto the stage, to the great appreciation of the audience. He had an announcement to make.

  “Mrs. Jordan is to pay me the great compliment, and us all the delight, of singing a new song.” Enthusiastic applause broke out. “While the words are my own …” he bowed in response to another noisy accolade, “I am indebted to an anonymous composer for the music. I have called it: ‘The Captured Bird’. Together, we dedicate it to ‘The Lady with the Dark, Dark Eyes’.” Elizabeth paled. She felt her husband’s scrutiny and glanced over her shoulder, but did not meet his eyes.

  Mr. Glover bowed deeply in the direction of the marchioness’s box, and her ladyship nodded.

  “Wot lady wiv dark eyes, Mr. Glover?” came a call from the pit.

  “What lady, sir? That I cannot say.” Dark hair flopped in his eyes as he looked down to the crowd.

  “The one wot ’e sees in the looking glass,” cried another. Guffaws broke out from below, while titters could be heard from the gallery. Glover stood motionless, dismayed. A missile landed by his feet.

  “Come off, Mr. Glover,” hissed the manager. He stumbled into the darkness of the wings as Mrs. Jordan swept past him.

  “She’s plump li’l bird,” laughed someone. “She’d not be ’ard to catch.”

  “Hush!”

  In no time the little round actress on the stage had two thousand souls mesmerised and weeping for her, as she sang:

  “My wings are broke against these bars.

  Release me, from my prison,

  Set me free.”

  In the crush of people leaving the theatre, Elizabeth and Darcy were forced to spend long minutes standing, together, her hand on his arm, while they waited for an opportunity to descend the stairs. The touch between her hand and his arm seemed almost irksome, as acquaintances pressed around them; the silence between them heavier for the constant necessity of conversation with others. At last they went down.

  Darcy got in beside her and sat as motionless as the carriage, which could not move in the crowd of vehicles. All her anger over his refusal to receive her friends at Pemberley came rushing back. It was doubled, nay tripled, by the reaction she sensed in him, to Mr. Glover seemingly dedicating his stupid song to her, though no-one else in all of London could have known to whom the buffoon referred. She stifled a yawn. These last several evenings seemed very long.

  He glanced at her, barely visible in the dark of the carriage. It occurred to him that he knew as little of her manner at Lady Englebury’s as he could see of her now. How did she look, in that salon? What did she say? Did she look open and happy, as she seemed when talking with Lady Englebury in the theatre? Or was she brittle, and teasing? What need had she of those people?

  “What do these people mean to you, Elizabeth?” he asked. His question was abrupt, even to his own ears.

  “Of whom do you speak? Lady Reerdon? Mrs. Foxwell?”

  “You are perfectly aware of
whom I speak; I refer to the marchioness and all her cronies.”

  Her answer came, not like a slap, but a cold touch. “Given that you all but ordered me to seek Lady Englebury’s regard, I would have thought she meant a good deal to you, at least.”

  There was certain justice to the facts of her reply, but no justice at all to his feelings.

  “I desired you to accept her friendship, certainly. I acknowledge that the marchioness has been of use to you, Elizabeth, to us both.”

  “Fitzwilliam, perhaps the favour is to be reciprocated. It seems the marchioness wants me to be of use to her, although I cannot imagine in what capacity.”

  “Be of use to her, by all means. It is for the satellites who dance attendance upon her that I feel the deepest suspicion and disapprobation.”

  “How am I to have one without the others? The marchioness is very fond of her protégés, although she does not train them to lick her shoes as other titled ladies have been known to do.”

  “Since I have forfeited my aunt’s regard on your account, I see no justification in this attack upon her,” he said stiffly.

  “I did not name her, although I own that my remark could be construed as a reference. She is a distraction just now.” She turned to him in the darkness.

  “Who or what is at the core of your disapproval?” Her words knifed through the heaviness.

  He thought for a moment.

  “I wish to know what it is in your deportment towards Mr. Glover and Mr. Whittaker that gives them licence to take the liberties that they have.”

  “Their liberties have been very minor. Are you accusing me?”

  “No. That would be absurd.”

  “Then what?”

  The carriage gave a little jolt forward, then stopped.

  Every reply he thought of seemed too preposterous to voice. How could he say that he felt the marchioness sought to take Elizabeth from him?

  “I find Glover’s behaviour abhorrent. Firstly, he sought to link your name with the theatre and I am sure Whittaker is his ally in that regard. Secondly, he was so undignified about it in answering that insolence from the pit. He appeared no gentleman and a complete fool.”

  “‘Buffoon’ was the word that came to my mind,” she said.

  “Elizabeth!” He felt for her hands and raised them to his lips. She was perplexed.

  ‘Is this all?’ she thought. Aloud, she said, “We can agree that Mr. Glover is a buffoon and Mr. Whittaker is laughable in his own way. I long to see Papa again for I cannot convey the whole impression of Peregrine and Arabella Whittaker by letter.”

  He laughed, in relief. “If ever a woman was her father’s daughter, it is you.”

  She did not laugh with him. He fell silent, waiting.

  “And what of Mrs. Courtney, Fitzwilliam? What is her crime?”

  “I have no particular objection to her. I had wanted, assumed, that we would spend the summer free of all those new friends.”

  “Free of my particular friends, you mean.”

  “That is one conjectural position, I suppose. Elizabeth, I am withdrawing from my opposition to including Mr. and Mrs. Courtney in our party at Pemberley.” She felt too weary to respond. He continued: “I am now assured that my house will not, in future, be filled with Glovers and Whittakers.”

  The carriage jerked into motion again, and this time, continued a gentle roll into the street.

  She yawned.

  “I am sorry to have been so tedious.”

  “I am merely tired, Fitzwilliam, tired to death.”

  He was silent for a moment, too shocked to speak.

  “Elizabeth, are you not well?”

  “I long to walk in the fresh air, and to run among the trees.”

  “Have you tired of London so soon, when the season has yet to reach its zenith?”

  “I have enjoyed all this dissipation immensely, but it is enough for now.”

  Hope leapt up in him. “You would find the air of Derbyshire fresh indeed at this time of year.”

  “I am not afraid of it. Fitzwilliam, shall we go home to Pemberley?”

  “There is nothing that would give me more pleasure. Here we dine alone barely once in ten days.”

  “We shall experience solitude aplenty in Derbyshire.”

  “Bingley and his party will be with us in June. Can you pass the time that intervenes, with only Georgiana and your dull husband for company, until then?”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  If he found this reply a little lacking in flattery, he soon forgot it. She leant towards him and kissed him, a tiny kiss that pulled at his lip.

  In the morning, he said: “We ought take in Hertfordshire and visit your parents before returning home.”

  He was surprised by her look of dismay. For all her love of her father, her natural affection for her mother was much tempered with embarrassment for her indelicate behaviour.

  “If neglected, your mother will conclude that I do not permit you to visit her,” he said.

  “I do see that, of course.” She thought for a moment. “If we delay our departure for two weeks, Jane and Bingley will be returning to Netherfield. I am sure we will be welcome to stay with them. I shall call upon Mama every day that we are in the district. She will be content with that.”

  “If you prefer then, we will stay in London, until the beginning of April.”

  CHAPTER 14

  ELIZABETH CAME DOWN THE STAIRS at Netherfield, and stood in the doorway of the library.

  Darcy looked up.

  “Should you be out of bed, Elizabeth? You still do not look well.”

  “I cannot lie down all day: I wish to walk. Will you come with me?”

  It was weather that could get Elizabeth skipping, the air cool and soft on her face, leaf buds unfolding on the trees. Yet she walked quite slowly, her arm through his. He thought back and realised it must be a fortnight since she had seemed really well. Was it his imagination that her cheeks had lost fullness? She seemed to suffer an unfamiliar debility. This, with the duskiness beneath her eyes, led him to a sudden thought, so painful that fear was reflected in his expression. He stopped and looked down at her.

  “You are not fearful for me?” she asked.

  “For a moment, yes, I was.”

  She dropped his arm and turned towards him.

  “Fitzwilliam, dear, I am not ill. Just a little tired. Can you not guess?” Unconsciously she was smoothing the faultless lie of his sleeve, touching the cuff of his shirt. “I am increasing, my dear.”

  A momentary confusion clouded his countenance. She looked down at her slender figure and said, laughing: “I do not display a great talent for it just yet, but I think you might see some improvement, by and by.”

  “We are to have a child?”

  She looked up at last. His delighted smile, which so became him, suited her more, meant more to her than whoops of joy could have from any other man.

  When Elizabeth had not arrived at Longbourn by midday the next day, Mrs. Bennet set off at once for Netherfield, accompanied by Kitty and Mary. Not for the first time, she looked out of the window with great satisfaction as the carriage entered the drive.

  “It is an excellent prospect, and no mistake, girls. One day I hope to see each of you with an establishment equal to this.”

  “What fun that would be, Mama,” cried Kitty and her mother laughed with her. Mary sniffed.

  After greeting the gentlemen, they went upstairs with Jane. Mrs. Bennet sailed into Elizabeth’s room, Kitty and Mary in her wake.

  “Mama,” sighed Elizabeth. “How are you? Mary, Kitty.”

  “Never mind our health! What is this?” said Mrs. Bennet. “You used not to lie abed all morning.” Indeed, Elizabeth, who boasted the most robust health of all five daughters, presented a sight unusual to her mother’s keen eyes. She was pale, and her slenderness seemed to be wearing to thinness about her face.

  “I am very tired, Mama, as I am sure anyone ought to be if they spent the last
weeks in such relentless pursuit of pleasure as I have.”

  “Mr. Darcy seems his normal self.” She smiled broadly. “What a delightful bed-gown! Later you must show us all your London fashions.”

  “Oh, do, Lizzy,” begged Kitty.

  “I care nothing for such frippery,” said Mary. She could not approve of Elizabeth’s appearance, in a wrap that was near transparent, all muslin and lace. There almost appeared to be nothing beneath, if one looked closely. Her luxuriant dark curls, instead of being covered, were decorated by a tiny cap. ‘One scarcely knows where to look!’ Mary thought. ‘How can a gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s dignity tolerate seeing his wife in this state?’

  “What is this?” Mrs. Bennet’s train of thought returned to the business of her visit. She picked up the tea cup from the tray on the bed, and examined the dregs suspiciously.

  Elizabeth moved to take it from her.

  “It is some concoction of Wilkins’s making. She delights in having me prostrate. I tell her she should have been much happier as a nursery maid.” Mrs. Bennet determined on a little private conversation with her daughter’s maid, and bustled into the dressing room in search of her.

  “O, Lizzy, how I should adore to wear something like this,” said Kitty, stroking her sister’s sleeve.

  “That would hardly be appropriate in your situation, Kitty,” replied Elizabeth, drawing her arm away.

  “I am determined to have such things when I am married.”

  “I certainly should not,” put in Mary. “A wife has a sacred duty to always encourage her husband’s thoughts to adhere to a lofty sphere.”

  “Get the husband first; then tell Lizzy how it’s done!” said Kitty. Miss Bennet did not dignify this impudence with an answer.