“Can I help you in some way, Mr. Glover?” asked Darcy.
Glover flinched visibly under the cold politeness of his tone. He turned to Elizabeth, who gazed back with no trace of expression.
“Pray, give me the honour of a brief interview, Mrs. Darcy.”
“I am engaged at present.”
“When may I speak to you?”
Without reply, she turned back to the window. Glover turned on his heel and stalked away. They waited in silence as his footsteps receded.
“Elizabeth, I must ask you—”
“This place is too public.”
She turned and walked away down the gallery, and he followed. They walked two long corridors in silence until they came to her dressing room. As they went in, Wilkins, who was preparing Elizabeth’s evening clothes, said: “Madam, the marchioness has sent a message that she would like to see you in her sitting room.”
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. Wilkins started. She had witnessed evidence of the odd quarrel, but this moment frightened her and she scurried out. Elizabeth was reminded of Darcy’s expression many months before, when they hardly knew each other and she had arrived at Netherfield Hall, with her petticoat muddied. He was judging her.
“You had something you wished to ask me?” she said coolly. In the proud carriage of her head, he read scorn.
“I believe I know all I want to know.” He bowed curtly.
“Excuse me.”
She went slowly along the corridor, composing herself for the interview to come.
She sat down, folded her hands in her lap and silently faced the marchioness, who began: “I see you are angry, my dear. Will you tell me the reason?”
“In April, your Ladyship assured me that Mr. Glover would not continue with his play. He has broken his word; and I know not how you can have invited me here, with my family, to have it thrust upon us without warning. You could hardly imagine I would be pleased.”
“I cannot understand your objection. It is a flattering portrait, and few will know the identity of the original.”
“All your friends will know and that is too many for me,” said Elizabeth.
The sharp blue gaze of the marchioness’s eyes softened.
“I am fond of you, my dear, as I believe you know.”
“I have always been grateful for your Ladyship’s kindness.”
“Tush, my dear. I do not care a fig for gratitude.” She paused. “My reward is in seeing the success of those whose talents I recognise and nurture.”
“I should have thought that Mr. Glover has reaped reward enough to preclude all need for him to promote himself at my expense.”
“I was not speaking of Glover’s talent, but your own!” cried Lady Englebury. “Mr. Darcy would seek to keep you from all the world when you might, under my guidance, bring his family renown.”
Elizabeth jumped up. “What if we, neither of us, desire that renown? In regard to Mr. Glover’s intrusion into my life and his impertinent curiosity concerning my character, it is my own resentment you face. You will never conquer my opposition.”
The old lady looked up at the younger one. How splendid she looked in all the bloom and fire of youth, and with such a proud tilt to her chin!
“The theatre has been bereft of great playwrights for many years. Mr. Glover is one of few with any promise; and I believe that you will one day be celebrated as the inspiration for one of his greatest works.”
“I utterly refuse Mr. Glover my permission to ever refer to me, in any public way, no matter how indirectly he makes his reference. No one can persuade me otherwise.”
“No one, my dear Mrs. Darcy?
“Nobody, in all the world.”
“I am mentor to some of the greatest minds in England.”
“I have enjoyed enough of your Ladyship’s society to have no doubt of your abilities and influence.”
The old lady looked at Elizabeth narrowly. Admiring the girl for her wits and confidence, she had not understood the depth of this pride. It was not vanity, nor pride of position. Though coming from the lowest rank of gentility, Elizabeth could scorn the assistance of a peeress equipped to advance her to its heights. She had unparalleled self-respect; and her ladyship was awed by her.
“I dread the thought of a quarrel with you, my dear,” she said. “You have become indispensable to me.”
“I do not seek a quarrel, madam. I do not know that we can understand one another,” Elizabeth said, and she turned to the door.
Lady Englebury reached out and took her hand. “I care for you as I would a daughter. It is a feeling I have not known since being robbed of my own.”
“I pity you for your loss, Lady Englebury, but I cannot take her place. I am a ‘daughter’ who will not suffice as she is. I feel that you have prepared a mould for me into which I do not conveniently pour.” Sadness crept in at the edges of her words. “I beg to take leave of you now.”
The marchioness sat quite still for several minutes.
“I shall give this matter careful thought,” she declared, looking up. Mrs. Darcy had left the room.
Elizabeth gazed into the mirror absently as Wilkins finished dressing her hair. Darcy knocked and came in.
She said, “I will come down in a few minutes.”
“I shall wait for you,” he said, and sat down.
She felt acutely irritated by his presence. She glanced at him in the mirror; he was gazing at her steadily, an expressionless examination. She looked away.
“Are you intending to wear that gown to dinner?” he asked.
She turned gracefully on the stool and he looked at her. Her favourite yellow, the silk of the gown seemed to cling about her figure.
“I had thought you liked it.”
“That was in London. I do not wish my wife to appear so here.”
“Many fashionable women wear gowns more daring than this.” He shrugged, with a flicker in his eyes she read as contempt. She turned back to the mirror.
“You wish me to change into something else?” He had not wished to prevail at the price of this coldness.
“I cannot comprehend that you have cause for complaint,” he said.
She turned her eyes to the maid’s, in the reflection of the mirror. “Wilkins, bring me something Quakerish, will you?”
“Quakerish, madam? Shall I bring the white braided silk?”
Elizabeth, without turning her head, said: “Pray, allow me five minutes.” Dismissed, Darcy left the room. Georgiana was waiting by the door of her room, afraid to go down alone. They walked the length of the corridor together. Georgiana looked up at her brother furtively. He was absorbed in thought, eyes impenetrably dark.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said. He looked at her in surprise, having forgotten she was there. They had walked back past Elizabeth’s door.
“You will not fight him, will you?” she whispered.
“I would dearly like to thrash him, but one only fights with a gentleman. I would not duel with the son of a tradesman!” Elizabeth was standing in the doorway. Georgiana blushed as deeply as though those words had been her own. Elizabeth took Darcy’s arm.
“I am so pleased you will not shoot my Uncle Gardiner, sir. Shall we go down? I fear we may be late.”
That evening, the ladies seemed only too happy to leave the gentlemen to their port. They played duets and sang together, even Georgiana joining in. The marchioness put some energy into entertaining and had them all laughing over her caustic wit. Elizabeth sang her ladyship’s favourite song.
When the gentlemen came in, they were delighted to find the ladies so light-hearted. The marquess chuckled happily, so sick he was of politics.
Elizabeth met Darcy’s moody glance and shrugged inwardly.
‘Let him sulk, if he enjoys it so,’ she thought. Glover had been watching her, too, with his unfathomable smoulder. ‘What a pair of blockheads they are.’
“Let us have glees!” his lordship quavered. “Pray do not get up, Mrs. Darcy. You shall sing.
We heard you piping away as we came from the dining room.”
Sir Beau was to provide his rather thrilling baritone and Whittaker the tenor. Amelia rose. “Arabella, pray take my place. I am sure everyone wishes very much to hear you sing.”
“Thank you, but I decline,” she replied, with her languid smile. “I should spoil the tableau, for you all look so very well together!”
There was a general murmur of concurrence, for they did look well. Whittaker stood at Elizabeth’s side, his blond good looks complementing her brunette prettiness and sparkling dark eyes; and Sir Beau’s great size and leonine locks making an impressive foil for Amelia’s impish charm.
“Oh, Darcy,” said Courtney, with an air of tragedy. “I feel that we are become a surplus commodity.”
From Darcy’s expression, Elizabeth feared a sarcastic reply. It was cut off by Lady Hunt’s exclamation: “Sir Beau, you look like a lion alongside a dear little elf,” she said. “Beware, for I shall turn Delilah in the night if you do not call for the hairdresser soon.”
“Madam, I beseech you to stay your hand. I am remaking myself as an interesting personage. You may find you admire the result.”
He produced laughter, for poseurs were, in fact, the favourite butts of Sir Beau’s humour. Elizabeth looked questioningly at Darcy. He met her gaze with no warmth in his expression. Elizabeth’s eyes wandered on to Georgiana, who sat in a still daze. Lord Bradford, sitting at her side, leant towards her.
“Miss Darcy?” he said softly.
She turned to him. She had only known one man as gentle as this.
“I hope I have not offended you in some way,” he said.
“Oh, no, my Lord!” she said. “I do not think you could ever offend anyone.” He was touched to the core by the innocence of this remark.
“Then why will you vouchsafe me no conversation tonight?”
“I am so sorry. I did not know.”
“You appear troubled. You would do me the highest honour if you could let me help you.”
Georgiana’s eyes stung with tears repressed. “Thank you. You are very kind, but I have no troubles.”
Amelia noticed them deep in conversation and gave her husband a conspiratorial glance.
At last, Lady Englebury rose to retire and many of the company seemed inclined to follow. After seeing those guests on their way upstairs, her ladyship turned back to the room.
“Nephew!”
“Yes, Aunt?”
“Come! I wish to speak with you.” At the door he turned and rolled his eyes at Arabella, then followed the little round figure into the library.
As soon as he closed the door, she turned on him sharply, and said: “Peregrine, you seem determined to stir up trouble for Mr. Glover over his present work. Do not imagine your spiteful little manoeuvres are lost upon anyone.”
“You know I cannot resist it at times, dear Lady Englebury. Glover, dear man, has a fit of passion over some trivial event every ten minutes. One so enjoys helping him along. Then there is the challenge of trying to get a spark of feeling out of Darcy.”
“You are jealous, Peregrine.”
“Jealous? My dear Aunt, you greatly mistake the case. She is very charming and so forth, but—”
“I speak of Glover, Nephew. I believe you are jealous of his success. You have always mocked him for his failure to produce a serious work. Now that he seems set to do so, you are sick with envy.”
Her nephew opened his mouth to speak, and stopped. Then: “You paint an ugly picture of me, Aunt.”
“If I am wrong, show me I am so by more gentlemanlike behaviour. This present work of Mr. Glover’s was of great importance, to the Theatre, as to me.”
“Forgive me, madam.” Then, with a wry smile he added, “Pray, do not send me away.”
She took out her handkerchief and waved it, in jest. He was all but paralysed by the sudden musky scent of her perfume. She patted him on the arm and smiled. He bent and kissed her cheek.
“Goodnight then, dear boy,” she said. “Remember my words.”
He stood alone in the darkened room for some time.
He heard the rustle of silk, and Arabella was beside him.
“What are you doing here, so solitary, Perry?”
“Do you know, Bella, I sometimes swear I smell still the scent of Nurse’s clothing?”
“Lavender? The slightest whiff of it and she is before me.”
“I mean that I smell it, when it is not there. For a mad moment, just then, I felt her iron claw plucking my fingers from our aunt’s gown. Do you recall the way she would haul me into the carriage to go home?”
“The power of aromas to recall the past to mind! Four delicious years have passed since our father’s death freed us, Perry; and still I cannot abide the smell of a library.”
“Poor Bella.”
“He was harder on you.”
“Yes, but then I’d go away to school. Blessings on that wondrous institution! I used to wish I could take you with me.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I suppose you will leave me soon for some noodle with a large estate.”
“I doubt I will come to such a pass. Husbands are very like fathers, so wretchedly difficult to get away from.”
“Then remain with me, Lovely One. Remain with me.”
He slipped his arm to her waist, and together they ascended the great staircase.
Georgiana lay in the darkness, her warm tears spilling steadily. She recalled the day her brother had first left her at school, three months after their father’s death. They had toured the building with the headmistress. He had said goodbye to her in the hall, and, as he was getting in the carriage, Georgiana’s little figure in black hurtled down the steps and clung to him.
“Oh, fie, Miss Darcy! Is this any way for a great girl of eleven years to behave? I hope to see more ladylike conduct in the near future.”
Fitzwilliam wiped her tears and said: “I will come and see you very soon, Georgiana.”
“Not before half-term, Mr. Darcy. We find that is best in a girl’s first year. I am sure you will find we are correct.”
She felt now precisely eleven years old. ‘I am but a babe, really. How am I ever to grow up?’
Why did Elizabeth not see the danger she was in? Why did she not simply ask Fitzwilliam’s pardon for whatever it was? Then he would deal firmly with Mr. Glover, take them away, love Elizabeth again and they would all live happily together forever.
She thought of Lord Bradford. She guessed that Fitzwilliam hoped she might marry him. She pictured the marchioness and trembled at the notion she might be expected one day to fill that place. Then she thought of the present marquess. Perhaps she would be more like him, and wander about lost in this vast palace with its perfect proportions and incomprehensible paintings hanging side by side with the ancestors. If he were plain Mr. Joseph Bradford, not Earl thereof, let alone his grander expectations, and if he loved her, which was most unlikely, then she might have been able to gratify her brother’s wish one day. ‘Joseph.’ It was a nice name. He had almost the kindest eyes she had ever seen. He had looked so happy when she said she did not think he could offend anyone. She blushed in the darkness. What a thing to say! How Elizabeth would laugh at her! Yet he had blushed too. She recalled the way he leant towards her. She was leaning towards him now, falling against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder, nestling there. His arms were holding her, and she felt her own arms creep up around his neck. She started awake and blushed again, hotly, in the darkness.
Darcy was lying on his back when Elizabeth came in. He watched as she took off her wrap and draped it over a chair, but he saw she remained in her secret cloak. She walked over to the bed and lay beside him.
“Goodnight, Fitzwilliam.”
He turned on his elbow and reached across her to blow out the candle. Despite his sullen mood, he felt the stirring of desire. He wanted to talk, but he wanted this first. The smell of the wax was in her nostrils, and his face was above hers in the darkne
ss. She felt the rage of impotence and wanted to push him away. She felt a convulsive shock at the touch of his hand in her hair and his mouth on her mouth. Then his lips on her throat, with no word of apology or endearment! She felt a crawling of repulsion through her body; he must have felt it too.
“Goodnight,” he said and turned on his side away from her.
She stared into the darkness. Outside, the storm was raging. At last, she slept.
CHAPTER 32
THE SKY WAS CLEARING AND the sun shone weakly over Deepdene. Elizabeth eluded the others and went for a solitary walk. The ground was too wet for exploring the woods, so she passed through the arch in the high enclosing hedges and went into the rose garden. The flowers drooped their heads with the weight of the water and petals lay everywhere upon the ground. She moved towards the centre and came to the pool that two days before had sparkled at the sky.
A gardener and boy were raking leaves and other debris from the water. All that remained of the muse, who had stood on her rock in the middle of the water, was the broken hem of her garment.
“What happened to the statue?” she asked.
“It is here, ma’am.” The gardener indicated the wheelbarrow, filled with broken pieces of stone. She looked across the pool to the back of the rose garden. An ugly gash was torn through the hedge where the top of an old cypress had come down in the night. She had been too occupied to notice. Leaves and branches were scattered over broken rose bushes on the far side of the pool.
“Oh.”
She turned back into the avenue of roses and, filling the archway darkly, was Mr. Glover. She averted her head and passed silently, but he spoke.
“Listen to me for a moment, I beg you.”
She turned.
“Mrs. Darcy, pray believe that I never intended to cause you the least discomfort or annoyance.”
“I cannot believe in your sincerity, Mr. Glover. In March I told the marchioness that the work she sent was unacceptable to me, and she undertook to convey that information to you.”
“She did do so. Pray do not blame her. I found I could not abandon the work. I truly believed that, with your courageous disdain for the hypocrisy of our world, you would rejoice in my celebration of your spirit when you saw it finished.”
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