A Private Performance

by Helen Halstead

  Elizabeth stood and walked across the room. She turned: “An engagement would not be made public while the family is in mourning.” She skipped across to Georgiana and pulled her to her feet.

  “Let us drive out in the park and amuse ourselves watching the follies of those less dear to us. We can leave my Lord Bradford to make his own mistakes in matrimony, as many another has done before him!”

  The period of mourning passed with no evidence to verify the story of Bradford’s engagement. Georgiana could always count on at least two dances with her friend when they met at balls. How she enjoyed those half-hours, for he did not beleaguer her with clever conversation or terrify her with compliments.

  Two months in London society passed, and Georgiana survived them.

  One morning in April, Elizabeth received a note from Mrs. Foxwell suggesting:

  ‘the opera and a nice little supper at Beau Harry’s—just our little party. Do say you’ll come. Your sister Mrs. Bingley and Mr. Bingley will be there, for I chanced upon them this morning in the park, and asked them.’

  “It is the very thing to most divert me!” cried Elizabeth, “With Jane to add to my delight!”

  “I should enjoy such an evening,” said Darcy. “When is it to be?”

  “Next Tuesday … oh.”

  “You have your Englebury enclave on Tuesday, Elizabeth.”

  “I should infinitely prefer this. You would wish me to come with you, Fitzwilliam?”

  “Naturally. However, I acknowledge the greater imperative of your arrangements with the marchioness.”

  “It is no fixed arrangement. My friendship with her ladyship has no greater importance than my friendship with my husband, I hope. There is no absolute expectation of my attending her gathering every week. I shall explain to her that something quite compelling draws me away. If she is truly my friend, she will understand.”

  “You will be missed, Elizabeth.”

  “Not so very much. Would you miss me?”

  “More than I can say.”

  “I hope my motives are perfectly pure. Mr. Glover is to read a selection of his latest work at Park Lane on Tuesday. It is his sorry attempt to be tragic and I should not have known how to keep my countenance.”

  Their attendance at the opera was a gathering much to Darcy’s taste. An evening of music, followed by conversation over supper with a group of intimate friends, was ideally suited to his temperament.

  In the supper house they had an elegant alcove to themselves, though they passed through the central room to reach it. They seated themselves around the table, ordered their supper and prepared to enjoy themselves.

  They discussed the opera, a new one, flawed, in Mrs. Foxwell’s view, by the questionable intelligence of the hero. She observed that she liked to see “gallantry tempered by prudence”.

  “Which is as it should be,” said Jane. “For of what use is a silly knight?”

  “None,” said Foxwell. “Were it not for the excellence of his singing, I should have had no patience with the fellow at all.”

  “One could hardly rescue a maiden by such impetuous means, were not the villain so puny in his devilry,” added his wife.

  Elizabeth laughed. “The villain was unworthy of his role. One would feel insulted to be his prisoner. Had I found myself so circumstanced in my maiden days, I should have demanded a more worthy oppressor.”

  This gave Bingley an opportunity to contribute, for even he had read Mrs. Radcliffe’s works. “I daresay even the evil Signor Montoni would have little tolerance for the society of one who laughed at his foibles,” he said. “He would not have kept you prisoner long enough to give Darcy the chance of rescuing you.”

  They all laughed.

  “You would have been hurled from the top of the tower by the end of twenty pages,” exclaimed Foxwell.

  “No, sir!” cried Elizabeth. “My threats to laugh at him from the grave would have turned his complexion pale with fear. He would have let me loose, to ride free, with his curses ringing in my ears.”

  “The mountains would echo with your mocking laughter, while he paced the ramparts, gnashing his teeth,” added Darcy. Elizabeth looked at him; his expression was open in his enjoyment of the moment, his manner even lively in his own way. Only certain people saw him thus. How glad she was that she had come!

  They all laughed happily, comfortable in their friendship. Georgiana, though she rarely spoke, contributed a joyful countenance to the conversation. The sound of Mrs. Foxwell’s somewhat masculine chortles and the sight of Jane daintily dabbing at her eyes threatened to set Elizabeth off into gales of laughter.

  Foxwell was the first to see the young man standing a few feet from their table. Elizabeth looked up too, and her laughter was extinguished. She bowed her head before turning back to her friends. He stepped forward.

  “Good evening, Mr. Glover,” said Elizabeth with cool politeness, barely turning her head. Darcy turned sharply in his chair, and everyone looked up, laughter turning to curiosity to see the famous playwright.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Darcy.” He shook back a lock of black hair that had flopped across his eyes. She was turning away again, when he said: “I thought to have seen you earlier. You were much missed at Lady Englebury’s.”

  “I believe you exaggerate, Mr. Glover.” He was biting his thumbnail and frowning moodily. She turned pointedly away, and said to Mr. Foxwell:

  “You cannot imagine what an impostor I feel among Lady Englebury’s literati.”

  “I cannot believe that you mean that!” cried Glover, with a shade of frustration in his voice.

  “You will not address my wife in that manner, sir!” Darcy had risen, and Glover turned to him with a look of bewilderment. He looked back, aghast, at Elizabeth, who said mildly: “I speak as I please, Mr. Glover, and you may interpret me as you please.”

  He stared at her wildly for a second, and mumbled an apology. She gave the slightest of shrugs and turned away from him. He left them.

  “Is this a sample of the elevated conversation to be had in Park Lane?” asked Foxwell. “He seems to be some species of gipsy.”

  “The marchioness would have soon nipped his ankles, had she been with us,” replied Elizabeth.

  “I rather like your Mr. Glover,” said Foxwell. “I should be diverted to meet him at your next party.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed his wife. “When seen from close at hand, he is so gaunt and tortured-looking. I quite adore him,” sounding for all the world like Arabella Whittaker.

  “Do you?” asked Georgiana, in surprise.

  Elizabeth laughed and squeezed her hand.

  “That is the great thing about owning artistic sensibilities, you know,” said Foxwell. “The ruder you are, the more interesting people find you, especially the ladies. Perhaps I should cultivate a little abrasiveness.”

  “You are spiteful enough as it is, Foxwell,” said his wife. “I will thank you to continue to deliver your venom in a gentlemanlike manner.”

  “And pray continue to reserve your wit for those other than ourselves,” said Elizabeth.

  They all laughed again. Elizabeth looked at Darcy. He glowered moodily at nothing.

  The carriages were ordered. Seeing their footman had arrived, Darcy rose.

  “Are you ready to go, my dear? The carriage is waiting.”

  They said their goodbyes. As they walked to the door, Darcy drew Elizabeth’s arm through his. She leant towards him and whispered something. He smiled and touched the hand that lay on his arm. Across the room Glover saw this and felt a despair he knew to be out of all proportion to the act. Whittaker followed his gaze and said: “Ah, there is our lovely truant with her lord, adored and adoring! What an affecting moment. Who among us will use it? I’d give it to you, Glover, except that you’d turn it into burlesque.”

  “I write comedies because they sell, Whittaker.”

  “You are touchy tonight, my friend. You should follow my lead, and treat your muse with less veneratio
n.”

  “You need not make your living by your work, Whittaker. My true work is barely begun.”

  “We hoped to hear a small part of your new work tonight, dear sir,” said another.

  “I had not the inclination when the time came,” Glover mumbled.

  “Did the absence of our sweet lady put you off?” said Whittaker, stabbing in the dark. “Good God, it did! Do not spare her too much of your thoughts, Glover, for I daresay she never thinks of you.”

  “Why should I not value her opinion?” muttered the playwright. “Lady Engelbury says Mrs. Darcy is one of the most original women she has ever met, both for her wit and high principles.”

  “Meanwhile some of us value her sweet teasing ways and her lovely eyes.”

  “You can laugh, Whittaker, a man of your proclivities. I admire the way she thinks.”

  “She don’t give away her thoughts, my deluded friend. No matter, for what she says is amusing enough.”

  Glover looked feverishly around at the table. Most of these men were decent enough to deplore this game, but the vultures of envy and spite hovered behind their shoulders. He thrust back his black hair.

  “We are not all such cynics as you, praise be.” He had risen, so quickly that his chair fell to the floor.

  Whittaker looked up at him, an insinuating expression in his eyes, and said quietly: “If you hope to put horns on her husband, I should give up the idea. She is a deal too clever for that.”

  The dark eyes sparked with such abhorrence that Whittaker almost winced.

  “You disgust me!” said Glover and, throwing some coins on the table, he strode off.

  “Mr. Whittaker, you ought not to have used the lady’s name in such a manner.” Whittaker raised his eyebrows at the speaker, and then looked around at the other men, enjoying their censure.

  He smiled lazily. “Hypocrites,” he said.

  The chamber was lit by the dying fire. She lay beside him and he pushed back the curls from her face.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you have loved me had I been poor?”

  “Not the least little bit.”

  “Truly.”

  “I speak truly. If you had been poor, you would have been delighted to dance with me, when you first saw me at the Meryton Assembly. Instead, you declared that I was not handsome enough to tempt you and I was very cross. I believe crossness to be an infallible precursor to love.”

  “Pray be serious for a moment.”

  “How can I answer such a question seriously? I do not know. Your position in the world has, in part, made you what you are.”

  “It is as though I had everything for a rich life but life itself.”

  “How fortunate you are to have found me.” She softly laughed, pressing herself against him, and kissed him again.

  “Dearest Elizabeth, never cease to love me.”

  “You think too much.” He felt the soft warmth of her lips on his forehead, and on his mouth.

  In the morning Elizabeth was delighted with an early visitor to her dressing room.

  “Amelia!” cried Elizabeth. “How very clever you are to come just as I am thinking of you.”

  “Dear Elizabeth, of course I am clever.” She picked up a length of gold-embroidered silk. “This is lovely. Lady Northby is sick with envy at the way you find these things.”

  “Her ladyship is unfortunate in having no relations in trade. This is the border of an Indian court sari and quite unavailable through usual means.”

  “A present from your uncle, Mr. Gardiner, I suppose.”

  “Indeed it is. It was a gift to his agent and has passed through my uncle’s hands, then mine, until it came to you.”

  “How can I accept it?”

  “In the same happy manner in which I accepted those exquisite feathers from you. Wilkins had the impudence to tell me I cannot put them on a new turban as people will recognise them. As if I cared! In ten years’ time I will tell people that I’ve worn them with pride in thirty different hats.”

  Amelia laughed.

  “I do not expect you to take your gratitude so far as that,” she said.

  The footman entered to present a card.

  “Mr. Glover, at this hour! Evans, tell the gentleman that I am engaged.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Wait, Evans. Take the card into Mr. Darcy.”

  Amelia said, “Do you continue to find Mr. Glover diverting? I own that his conversation can be very amusing.”

  “I begin to weigh his fascination against his eccentricity and find the balance not in his favour.”

  She picked up the braid and draped it over the front of Amelia’s gown. “Now, are you going to wear this braid at the ball, when you go to Gladsmere Park? I want to picture you dazzling the duke and enrapturing the rakes.”

  Mr. Glover did not always accept life’s little reverses philosophically. His barring from the lady’s presence was soon followed by dismissal from the house. He strode off down the road, glaring at the ground.

  Rarely were visitors admitted to Lady Englebury’s dressing room, but the playwright sent so desperate a note that she made an exception. She sat enthroned in her armchair and listened, the frown deepening on her face.

  “I do not see how I can help you, Mr. Glover. What madness caused you to intrude so upon Mrs. Darcy in a public place? You had best make a fitting apology.”

  “I made the attempt, ma’am. I have just come from Brougham Place. Her husband would not permit me to see Mrs. Darcy. I sent up my card to her, but I was ushered into the library.”

  “How did you get along with Mr. Darcy?”

  “I have somehow offended him further. I said I had come to make my apologies to his lady. He said he would convey them to her. He claimed that Mrs. Darcy declined to see me. I did not believe him; she would not be so unkind.”

  There was silence. Glover looked away, towards the window, then to his feet. At last he raised his eyes. Terrible was the marchioness’s look.

  “You have as good as called Mr. Darcy a liar?” He bit his lip, while she watched him.

  She broke the silence.

  “If Mrs. Darcy comes no more to my Tuesdays, I shall be very angry with you, sir.”

  “What! She comes no more? Has she said so herself?”

  “How could that be? Could she write and convey to me a letter in the time it has taken you to hurtle through the streets? Mr. Glover, how do you explain your behaviour?”

  He jumped up and began to prowl the room.

  “I know not how to explain this frenzy. I cannot eat, I barely sleep. I feel that this entire world is an illusion, and the only truth to be found lies in the other world, the world of exquisite feeling, the world of my next work.” He raked his hands through his hair, and then stared sullenly into the fire. The silence settled on them.

  ‘Why do I trouble myself with this madman? He has forgotten I am here,’ thought her ladyship.

  He looked up, stared at his benefactress, a tic working at his right eye.

  “Marchioness, I should call it my first work, for up to now I have been merely playing. Yet I cannot settle to work. Only she can help me; she is my inspiration.”

  She flinched in irritation at his expression of acute sensitivity. The ferocity of her expression silenced even the chatter in his mind.

  “Mr. Glover, are you in love with Mrs. Darcy?”

  “Were it so, I should throw myself into the river.”

  “Kindly speak more moderately. Are you modelling your next heroine upon her?”

  “I cannot pay her a higher compliment than to present the image I have of her upon the stage, your Ladyship.”

  “She has a husband to pay her compliments. Do you not know that Mr. Darcy would not permit his wife’s portrait to be hung in the exhibition last year? Yet you wish to parade an image of her about on the stage! Have a care lest you make Mrs. Darcy wish you would drown yourself.”

  “Marchioness, it is to
your assistance I owe my success. Without you—”

  “Come, come, sir. I am gratified by your success. Thank me by behaving as a gentleman does, and do not cause embarrassment to my friends.”

  He nodded dumbly. “What am I to do?”

  “Go home and work. Have you written anything yet?”

  “I have written but two pages, in a restless night of endeavour, madam. I hoped to show them to Mrs. Darcy this morning.”

  The marchioness was silent. Previously, it had been to her that all his preliminary efforts came. A cold feeling engulfed her for the moment. She thrust it aside.

  “I was afraid you would not like it,” he muttered.

  She looked back into his eyes, keenly but not unkindly.

  He thrust the pages into her hands, bowed, and turned to the door.

  “Mr. Glover! Do you wish me to show this to Mrs. Darcy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear me, what is one to do with him?” she muttered to herself. She walked to the window and watched the young man emerge from her front door, turn abruptly and disappear down the street.

  ‘He is capable of striding along until dark, with no notion of his whereabouts,’ she thought.

  She sank back into her armchair, and picked the papers up again. After some thought, she enclosed them with a note, and rang for a footman.

  In the afternoon, the marchioness sent for her niece.

  “Amelia dear, no doubt you know this lady more intimately than I. How serious is this threat to my friendship with her?”

  Amelia took the letter.

  My dear Marchioness,

  I thank you for your kind note and for entrusting Mr. Glover’s work to me. However, that gentleman has no rational grounds for this averred dependence upon my opinion. Perhaps I ought to feel flattered, but I do not. While this fragment of work is intriguing, I am much disturbed by the suspicion that the author is painting an idealised portrait of myself.

  I should so like to think that this is mere vanity, but fear it is not, given the author’s eccentric attentions towards me. I need scarcely add that these attentions are most unwelcome.