An Assembly Such as This fdg-1

by Pamela Aidan

  Thy perfection, to seek for truth and to rejoice in beauty:

  Illuminate and inspire us, we beseech Thee…

  Rejoice in beauty. Darcy looked unseeing out the carriage window, the countryside obscured by a pair of fine eyes and a beguiling smile that warmed him considerably in the silent and chill autumn morning. To rejoice in her beauty…Would I wish that intimate right? He sighed to himself and addressed the text again. Inspire us…He sank back then into the cushions under the troubling conviction that he was suffering from a surfeit of inspiration rather than its lack. How strange that, after having spent the last two years reacquainting himself with the pleasures of London Society and surrounded by the most handsome, refined, and eligible young women in England, he should find the beauty and inspiration that set his pulse racing and disordered his composure in an obscure corner of Hertfordshire.

  …that in whatsoever is true and pure and lovely,

  Thy name may be hallowed and Thy kingdom come on earth;

  through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

  Darcy gently closed the book. True…pure…lovely. In all honesty, what better prerequisites were there for the woman one spent one’s life with? His memory harkened back to Miss Bingley’s long list of talents for the truly accomplished woman and his added requirement that she be well read. Would the embodiment of that list offer a better surety of his future happiness than a woman who was true, pure, and lovely?

  The carriage slowed as the driver turned the team in to the churchyard and then brought them to a stop at the walk to the main door. Darcy waited for Hurst to descend and hand down his wife before he moved to the door himself. He grimly noted that Miss Bingley lingered behind the others in hopes, no doubt, of sitting by him in the pew. Duty bound, he offered her his arm, which she accepted with a proprietary air that was directed at Elizabeth primarily but included all of Meryton in general. As Darcy escorted her to the church door, he discovered a theretofore unrealized artistic sensibility that was quite pained by the clash of Miss Bingley’s purple with his own green, and the question flashed through his mind whether Fletcher had had, in some devious way, a hand in this as well.

  About to follow Miss Bingley through the door, Darcy stopped short as Elizabeth met him going out, a wry smile of apology on her lips. As he sat down on the end of the pew, he leaned forward and turned a questioning brow down the line at Bingley, who mouthed back “shawl” and shrugged his shoulders. The choirmaster then rose and signaled his boys to begin the processional. The dozen-member choir began their solemn pace up the aisle, followed by the vicar and his young assistant. A few heartbeats after they passed him, Darcy felt a swoosh of warm air and looked down to find Elizabeth standing beside him, a heavy woolen shawl in her arms.

  “Please, sir, if you would be so kind? Pass this to Jane,” she whispered breathlessly. Darcy took the shawl and passed it on to Miss Bingley, discreetly observing Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye as she watched it make its way down the pew. He knew the exact moment Miss Bennet received her shawl by the tender smile that illuminated her sister’s face and felt his own begin to answer it when the choir ended its hymn and the vicar called them to prayer.

  The familiar words of the invocation flowed over Darcy, their currents witnessing to him of a higher order of majesty that rarely failed to compel his attention, although Miss Bingley’s whispered complaints of the cold and the length of the prayer were formidable obstacles. The “Amen” was sounded, echoed thankfully by several in their party, and the first hymn announced. It was one not known to Darcy, so he elected to listen rather than pick his way through it. That his tutor would be the lady whose song had so enchanted him the week previous was further inducement to hold his peace. He was not disappointed; Elizabeth’s voice swelled in sure tones, with feeling and a grace that moved him deeply. At the last verse he joined his baritone to her soprano much to the giggling delight of a pair of very young ladies in front of them. As they resumed their seats, Darcy suffered their backward glances only once before treating them to a brow lifted in freezing censure, which served only to send them again into paroxysms of silliness. To his further indignation, Elizabeth seemed unable to resist joining, quickly clasping a gloved hand over her mouth and peeping up mischievously at him. Darcy petulantly ignored her and sternly directed his attention to the vicar.

  Sunday’s confession was assigned. Darcy murmured the lines from memory without undue contemplation, the phrases concerning disobedience and ingratitude being, he believed, of little application. When the sin of pride was added to the catalog, Elizabeth stirred beside him and delicately but distinctly cleared her throat, giving him, he was persuaded, perfect justification for laying emphasis on the following transgression, of willfulness, in a manner she could not mistake.

  When the second hymn was announced, they were at point non-plus, and Darcy steeled himself against the effects of her voice on his clearly traitorous senses. This one he knew quite well. Turning slightly in Miss Bingley’s direction, he succeeded in avoiding Elizabeth’s amused eyes, but with the unfortunate effect of giving the other lady renewed claim on his attention. It was a poor scheme withal. As Elizabeth’s voice still filled up his senses, he now had Miss Bingley’s comments and compliments to deal with as well.

  “Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” the Reverend Mr. Stanley grandly intoned the Scripture. “Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” Darcy drew out his prayer book and swiftly turned the pages to those passages.

  “Tch!” Darcy looked down at the sound into Elizabeth’s rueful countenance as she bit her lower lip in consternation at her empty hands. Hesitating only a moment, he gallantly nudged the left side of his prayer book into her hand and bent his head to accommodate her view of it.

  “Almighty God, give us grace…,” they read together. Bent as he was over the passage, Darcy’s every breath set the curls at Elizabeth’s ears and temple to dancing, distracting him mightily from the page they shared. “…that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light…” With great effort of will, he set himself to concentrate on the text and was able to finish without his mind wandering into perilous byways. Beside him, Elizabeth settled back into the hard pew, unconsciously searching for a comfortable position from which to apprehend the Reverend Mr. Stanley’s sermon. Darcy’s attempt to do likewise was a dismal failure. Neatly sandwiched as he was between two ladies, he dared not let any part of his person rest too near theirs, so he was reduced to sitting absolutely erect in a manner horribly reminiscent of the schoolroom. There was nothing for it, so resigned to his lot, he crossed his arms closely over his chest and trained his gaze on the vicar’s face.

  Providentially, Mr. Stanley was a vigorous sermonizer, catching Darcy’s interest well enough to allow him to disregard, for the most part, the discomfort of his constricted limbs and his tense awareness of the maddening female on his left. However, when the service concluded and the last hymn was sung, he was more than ready to rise and seek in the outdoors an opportunity to work the stiffness out of his back and the lady out of his mind. “Mr. Darcy” came two voices, one from either side of him.

  “Miss Bingley, Miss Elizabeth?” He waited, curious to see who would defer to whom for his attention.

  “Please, Miss Bingley, you were before me.” Elizabeth curtsied and moved away to link her arm with that of Squire Justin, assuring him as she did so of her sister’s full recovery to health. Unreasonably disappointed, Darcy turned to Miss Bingley and asked how he could be of service. Smiling triumphantly, she took his arm, giving Darcy no choice but to escort her down the crowded aisle.

  “No foot warmers, Mr. Darcy, in this weather! It is not to be believed! Next week, I promise you, I shall order the bricks from the carriage to be brought in, warmers or no.”

  “As you will, Miss Bingley,” he replied, distracted by a flurry of movement in the section of pews reserved for servants.

  “Perhaps Charles should demand the sexton do somethin
g about it. How can one be expected to attend to the vicar while turning to ice?”

  “Hmm,” Darcy replied, only half-listening. Mildly curious, he searched through the crowd of servants until he found the locus of the disturbance and then was shocked to see at its center his own valet.

  “What the d ——!”

  “Mr. Darcy!” exclaimed Miss Bingley. “Whatever can be the matter?” Receiving no response, she followed Darcy’s rigid stare into the face of his valet, who with a hand resting protectively on the arm of a young woman, returned his regard with a flustered hauteur the equal of his own. Behind them stood a rather tall, solid-looking footman possessed of a glower that could likely kindle a blaze at twenty paces.

  “Is that not your valet?” Miss Bingley demanded. Darcy choked out an affirmative, his jaw clenching and unclenching dangerously. Caught between two dangers, Fletcher dropped his eyes in deference to his master, whose look in reply promised a future reckoning. The footman, seeing himself caught out in his loutish behavior by a gentleman, backed away from Fletcher and the girl, and exited the church in the opposite direction.

  Darcy resumed his way down the aisle, Miss Bingley, now silent, on his arm. “Your valet…he has been with you long?” she inquired finally.

  “Quite,” Darcy replied stiffly.

  “He serves you well? No freaks of distemper or problems with color?”

  “Certainly not! At least…” Darcy paused, considering what he had just witnessed. “He is usually completely reliable. I wonder what could be your interest in my valet, madam?”

  “Oh, merely idle curiosity, sir. But tell me, have you ever known him to mistake green for gray?”

  After handing Miss Bingley into the carriage outside Meryton Church, Darcy went to Hurst’s conveyance and returned to Netherfield as he had come. The ladies were mounting the stairs to their rooms by the time he laid aside his hat and gloves and shrugged off his greatcoat in Netherfield’s entrance hall. Talk of the Bennet sisters’ imminent return to Longbourn drifted down upon him as he paused and, with concern, observed the wistful way Bingley gazed after them.

  “If you cared to offer me something warm to drink, old man, I daresay I would agree to it,” Darcy proposed carefully.

  Bingley came back to himself and, with an apologetic shake of his head, replied that of course he would order something up immediately. Would chocolate be agreeable?

  “Excellent! In the library? You must hear the account I read yesterday of the breaching of the walls of Badajoz.” Bingley weakly smiled his assent and wandered off to request the desired refreshments while Darcy headed for the library, eager to be absent from any public room that might attract Bingley’s sisters or, more particularly, their departing guests. His prolonged nearness to Elizabeth in church had unsettled him and certainly thwarted his plan to stay aloof from her until her departure. This little time remaining, he knew, must be put to good use. His best course lay in safeguarding himself from any contact with her until propriety demanded his presence. If his plan required Bingley’s distraction from the eldest Miss Bennet, so much the better.

  They spent a companionable hour “taking” Badajoz from the comfort of chairs set before the library’s hearth. The author’s suspenseful narrative, coupled with Darcy’s talent for infusing the account with a sense of immediacy and heroism, quite captured Bingley’s attention. Looking up from his text, Darcy was pleased to see his friend’s countenance gradually change from that of polite interest to eager anticipation so that, by the time Stevenson apprised them that the Misses Bennet were about to take their leave, he congratulated himself upon detecting in Bingley a momentary disappointment for the interruption.

  Accompanying his friend to the front hall, Darcy was careful to remain in the background and kept his gaze traveling indifferently among the participants in their farewells. Miss Bingley’s relief at the ladies’ departure was almost palpable, her sister’s scarcely less so. Hurst had wandered out of the hall as soon as was decently possible, leaving Bingley alone to express a sincere sense of loss for the ladies’ company. Coming forward at last, Darcy bowed briefly to Miss Jane Bennet and wished her a pleasant journey home and continuing good health. He then turned to her sister with similar words at the ready but was almost startled out of his studied gravity by the intense examination he met in her eyes.

  “Miss Elizabeth?” he questioned.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she responded in a voice that necessitated he take a step closer to hear her better. “Mr. Darcy, I assure you that I have no desire to intrude into your domestic affairs or embroil you in local matters.” She paused in obvious discomfort but, gathering herself, plunged on. “I fear that you will find this an intolerable sort of imposition, but please allow me to acquaint you with the great service your man performed this morning for little Annie Garlick.”

  “Mr. Fletcher is quite aware of the behavior I expect of those in my employ,” he replied haughtily, yet curious about her interest in the incident.

  “Oh, I am so pleased to hear it, Mr. Darcy!” was her disjunctive rejoinder.

  She has done it again! he thought, not knowing whether to smile or frown at her. Now what, exactly, does she mean me to have said?

  “How is that, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Why, knowing that he had your complete support and your high expectations to bolster him, he did what none in the servant class was willing to do, nor any of the local gentlemen were pleased to do.”

  Darcy decided against obtuseness. “The hulking footman,” he supplied.

  “Yes” — she smiled up at him — “he has been pressing poor Annie in a most inappropriate manner. Your man was a knight in shining armor to her.”

  The impression of Fletcher, so clad and accoutred, presented itself for Darcy’s inspection and threatened to send him into a state of amusement he had rarely enjoyed at a lady’s instigation. He masked his laughter by clearing his throat. “Hmm, a knight! Well, I shall keep your words in mind when next I speak to him.” He bowed with slow grace before her. “Good day.”

  “Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied and was gone.

  Later, when Fletcher quietly entered his master’s rooms to prepare him for dinner, Darcy greeted his arrival with far more interest than he imagined the man desired. “Fletcher, I wish to speak to you about this morning,” he began.

  “Yes, sir, one moment, sir,” the valet replied and disappeared into the dressing room. Darcy paused, quirking an eyebrow in surprise. When Fletcher did not reappear after a few moments, Darcy started toward the dressing room door, only to collide with the man, causing him to drop the black evening breeches in his arms. As Darcy quick-stepped, Fletcher swooped down to retrieve them, only to catch them under his master’s boot, nearly tripping him as he tugged. The sound of ripping fabric rent the air, causing both men to cease their movements. “Mr. Darcy, sir. Your breeches!” Fletcher cried. The horror-stricken look on Fletcher’s face contrasted so ironically with the heroic image conjured earlier by Elizabeth’s words that Darcy’s lips began to twitch. Soon a grin pulled at the corners of his mouth; then unalloyed mirth followed hot on its heels as Fletcher displayed the ruined breeches and regarded him in confusion. At this juncture, Darcy could only collapse into a nearby chair and press a hand to his eyes in an attempt to recover himself.

  “Mr. Darcy? Sir?” Fletcher’s voice held a note of concern as Darcy continued to try to choke down the laughter that threatened every time he looked at his valet or the breeches.

  “Mr. Fletcher,” he finally managed, “I remember distinctly that I had something of import to discuss with you, but on my life, I cannot recall what it was. You probably know better than I what I should be saying to you at this moment; so if you would be so kind, consider it said! And do not grieve over the breeches, man!”

  “Yes, sir. Certainly…I shall find another pair immediately. Thank you, sir!” Fletcher stammered and was as good as his word.

  In a record twenty minutes Darcy was ready to leave his chambers. A
s the valet began picking up his discarded clothing, Darcy paused for some moments. The plottings of last evening, crowned by the scene at church, required at least a show of displeasure on his part. Though for the former he had no real proof and for the latter…Well, the man had garnered praise from a considerable quarter. Pulling out his watch, Darcy fiddled with the stem and checked its time against the chamber clock. Finally, he replaced it in his waistcoat pocket. “Fletcher, a moment.”

  “Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher’s demeanor told Darcy he had regained a measure of his usual aplomb.

  “I mentioned a matter of importance, you may recall?” Fletcher stilled his movements and looked apprehensively at his master. “I do not know why or how, but it must not be repeated. Do I make myself clear?”

  Fletcher nodded.

  “Miss Bingley very ably communicated her annoyance, and I do not wish to entertain it again.”

  “Miss Bingley, sir? What has Annie done to Miss Bingley?” Fletcher’s puzzlement matched Darcy’s.

  “Annie and Miss Bingley? Why, nothing!” Darcy replied.

  “Then you are not displeased about Annie, sir? Truly, what else could a Christian do but defend the little innocent against that great —”

  “I speak not of the young woman, Fletcher, but of Miss Bingley! Although I cannot be pleased to see someone so intimately in my employ involved in such an altercation.”

  “Mr. Darcy, I swear on my life that I never altercated with Miss Bingley,” Fletcher averred in horror.

  “No, no, not Miss Bingley.” Darcy was close to despairing of making himself understood. “Fletcher, listen…” The chamber clock struck eight, which meant he should be downstairs that very moment. “I am convinced you understand my meaning,” he pronounced in frustration, “and I expect your entire compliance.”

  “Of course, sir.” Fletcher bowed. Darcy nodded, incompletely satisfied but at a loss as to how to obtain that satisfaction or now even identify what exactly would. With another nod to Fletcher, he hurried down to the dining room.