To Teach the Admiring Multitude

by Eleanor Wilton

  Elizabeth turned to her husband with a welcoming smile, an impertinent reflection regarding his demeanour on the tip of her tongue, but checked herself, decided against such teasing in front of her maid. Instead she thanked Evans and waited for her to retire and leave them in privacy. She rose from her dressing table and stood next to the chair, her hand resting on its back, her expression overflowing with evident good humour. “You did not knock. Was not that easy enough?”

  He smiled, but did not directly respond; he was too captivated by her appearance, her expression. He wondered how he had ever thought it possible to ignore her charms and continue on with his life as though he had never known her. Vitality and joyfulness seemed to flow from her person perpetually—she was all lovely, artless grace. If he were a poet he supposed he could conceive some eloquent manner to describe the power her presence had upon him, but he found he had only the most common of tributes to offer. “You are very beautiful this evening, Elizabeth.”

  She turned to the glass and examined her reflection. She saw that in appearance she was no longer the same Miss Elizabeth Bennet she had been but a fortnight ago. She was wearing one of her new gowns—a splendid dark aubergine-toned silk creation. The gown flattered her slim, attractive figure and more particularly the creamy, even tone of her skin. Her hair was adorned with a delicate diamond hair comb that had been a gift from her husband when they were engaged, and was arranged by Evans with a dexterity none in Longbourn could have equalled and in a manner most becoming. When they had dined with the Gardiners on the prior evening her aunt had remarked how obvious was her happiness, that is was apparent in her countenance. Indeed, her happiness imbued her always fresh and pretty countenance with a further radiance. The effect of all such improvements in her complexion and hair and dress was not unremarkable. This is Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, she thought to herself, and she was pleased, for this evening was her presentation as such.

  She had very briefly been introduced to two or three of her husband’s acquaintances at church the prior Sunday, and as well to friends they had seen when they had gone out one evening to a concert hall to listen to a performance of Handel concertos. Otherwise they had kept very much to themselves—the damp, cold days encouraging their desire to remain home in delightful intimacy. She knew this evening was not simply a family party; it was one of Lady Richmond’s renowned monthly affairs. Elizabeth had every wish to be a credit to herself as much as to her husband.

  “I shall do,” she remarked quietly as she saw in the glass Darcy rise and approach her.

  “Something is missing.” He placed the box he had been holding upon her dressing table. Opening it he lifted out a delicate diamond and amethyst festoon necklace and clasped it around her neck. It was a very graceful piece and it lay beautifully against her creamy skin.

  She exclaimed in surprise, reaching up and touching it almost timidly. Never had she possessed an object so fine, so striking.

  He removed her hand. “Let me admire you,” he said quietly as he gazed approvingly at her reflection in the glass. “Is it to your liking?”

  “To my liking? It is exactly to my taste.”

  “I knew it would suit you the moment I saw it. It has your same effortless loveliness.”

  Elizabeth turned to him, rested her hands against his breast and played with the elegant folds of his cravat. “It is a beautiful piece. I shall wear it with pride and gratitude, but darling, I do not require gifts of jewels and other fine things. I am not covetous for what objects you can gift me.”

  “What do you covet?”

  “Your devotion,” she replied sweetly.

  “You have that.”

  “What more could I desire?”

  “As long as you had enough to live on and lanes to walk, I believe you could be happy anywhere.”

  “Once, perhaps; no longer. Your companionship has become my one requirement for happiness.”

  “And yours my own,” he replied, lifting her hand and kissing it tenderly.

  With each new quiet confession they felt such an increase in harmony that when they walked into Lord and Lady Richmond’s drawing room some time thereafter, all the anxious desire for approbation on the one hand, all the desire to please on the other, was calmed to a reasonable wish for nothing more than a proper civility.

  ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖

  As Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were announced into the room, Elizabeth felt more than a few pairs of inquisitive eyes upon her. She comprehended she would need to grow accustomed to being an object of curiosity and that she would remain under scrutiny until the time she would relinquish such attentions to another, more novel subject. She took a deep breath and reminded herself, before intimidation could take possession of her, that no harm could come to her from discourteous welcomes or looks set askance. She was Mrs. Darcy. Nothing any person in this room might believe of her could alter the powerful understanding she and her husband had discovered in these first days of matrimony.

  Lady Richmond approached from across the room and had opportunity to inspect her nephew’s wife before an introduction was made. She confessed herself surprised. She did not know if she had been anticipating a great beauty or a slightly awkward and unrefined country girl, but she had certainly not been expecting this: an unexceptionally pretty young lady who was neither too humble, nor too grand. This entirely pleasant looking young lady in no way seemed to meet the description Lady Catherine had offered of an impertinent, artful upstart who had lured Darcy away from his obligations and into perfidy.

  When the introductions to Lord and Lady Richmond and the Viscount Highpointe had been made, Elizabeth was perfectly satisfied. She desired to establish relations of civility and amiability with Mr. Darcy’s family, for his sake, but for her own dignity had no intention of seeming to beg for attention or approbation. They had greeted her much as she had anticipated—with a civility that did not pay her undue favour or disfavour. She was greeted with the civility due any guest in their home. She did not desire more, for the moment.

  Mr. Darcy, however, was irritated and displeased by the same. For the affection and good-will that had long existed between the Darcy and Fitzwilliam families he would have hoped for his uncle and aunt to welcome his wife with at least a modicum of more than common civility. Of his cousin Edward he never expected overmuch. Elizabeth and Lady Richmond both surmised his displeasure, but neither felt the moment propitious for correction and they were both soon enough distracted by other matters.

  Elizabeth’s attention was drawn to the room—ample, uncommonly elegant and refined—everything about the sumptuous space spoke to good taste, with no evident subjugation to the merely fashionable. The large assemblage of guests offered for observation an array of ages and a notable variety of beauty and homeliness, but no variation in the uniform superiority of attire of the assembled party. The room was filled with a quiet, even hum of voices, with not a one seeming to stand out for shrillness or excessive energy. It was all a perfection of decorum and civility, and devoid of any potentially troublesome spontaneity or animation.

  As she moved through the room at her husband’s side and he introduced her to one and all, Elizabeth did not know if it amused her or dismayed her to find how perfectly easy Darcy was with the stilted propriety. She considered now that the boisterous familiarity of the country ball where they had first seen one another must have been a terrible shock to him, if this was his accustomed milieu.

  They were seated to dinner soon after being received, for they had been among the last guests to arrive. Elizabeth was too interested in all that was around her, in discovering the world in which Mr. Darcy lived, in which she would now live, to be overly conversational. She was quieter than usual, but showed no displeasure or discomfort. She spent a good deal of her attention on observing her husband’s relations, and left inquiry regarding the other guests for another opportunity.

  Lord Richmond—finding his new niece suitably handsome, easily conversational, and not unduly desirous of attention—
was mollified. He still maintained his nephew had made a careless choice, but the choice had been made and he considered further antagonism a wasted exertion of his limited energies. At the very least Darcy’s wife was no obvious embarrassment, indeed, in her own right appeared to be as much a credit to her sex as any other young lady might be. He turned his attentions to other matters and other guests of more standing, exchanging barely a word with her for the entirety of the evening.

  Elizabeth was amused by Lord Richmond’s haughty, imposing tone—it seemed a family trait—and was entirely indifferent to his own indifference towards her. She held no unreasonable expectations of success amongst her husband’s relations. She sensed immediately he was not a man who bestowed a great deal of attention upon the fairer sex. If his conversation this evening was indicative, he was mostly interested in fox hunting and other comparable entertainments, which his middling health unfortunately impeded him from any longer fully enjoying.

  Darcy’s cousin Edward, the Viscount Highpointe, was entirely unlike his amiable brother, Colonel Fitzwilliam, both in appearance and manner. He was the far more handsome of the two, but also colder and more aloof. He reminded Elizabeth a little of her own Darcy when she had first known him in Hertfordshire, albeit more acerbic and bitter. His conversation seemed to search too often for the most mordant turn possible and his entire manner had a restless, unsettled quality. He seemed not quite a perfection of civility and probity.

  Lady Richmond appeared the most promising avenue for amiability. An exceptionally elegant, though not handsome woman, she had an intelligent face and a penetrating gaze. She was certainly the more appealing of the three. The gentlemen reminded Elizabeth too much of Lady Catherine.

  Mr. Darcy was seated directly across from Elizabeth and it did not escape Lady Richmond’s observation how frequently her nephew’s gaze would linger affectionately upon his wife. When dinner was over, she found it endearing to see him follow his wife with his eyes as she rose and left the room with the other ladies. She herself exited the room on his side of the table and patted his shoulder gently as she passed. She could not recall when last she had observed such an expression of contentment upon his mien; she could not be unmoved.

  She arrived in the drawing room to find her old friend Mrs. Greystock had swiftly engaged Mrs. Darcy into conversation. Mrs. Greystock was a plump woman, the mother of six grown children, who had retained all the good looks of her youth, as well as all her inquisitiveness about the lives of acquaintances and strangers alike. Her husband was a well-respected judge, as had been her father. Her greatest satisfaction was the excellent marriages secured by all her children, and her favourite entertainment was to assist her friends in securing equally excellent marriages for their own children.

  “I was astonished when I learnt from Lady Richmond that Mr. Darcy was to be married. I was certain he would hold off for some time yet. He appeared in no hurry to marry. I had introduced him over the years to many particularly eligible young ladies and he never seemed inclined to abandon the bachelor state.”

  “How fortunate for me that he did not,” Elizabeth replied sweetly.

  “Where did you say you became acquainted? I do not recall having seen you before in town. I am sure I would have recalled if I had. I never forget a face or a name. I am acquainted with everyone worth knowing.”

  The lady’s inquisitiveness was just shy of offensively provocative, but having been informed when introductions had been made earlier that Mrs. Greystock was Lady Richmond’s oldest friend, Elizabeth determined that calm indifference was her best defence. “I come to town infrequently, so the pleasure of your prior acquaintance would indeed be unlikely.”

  “Who did you say is your father? Lady Richmond did not say.”

  “My father is Mr. Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire. He has no taste for London and so you are unlikely to be acquainted with him.”

  “Ah yes, unsullied country gentlemen,” Mrs. Greystock intoned mildly, if not inofficiously. “They can be such a singular lot.”

  “Indeed,” was all the reply Elizabeth made.

  “And your mother?”

  “My mother is also from Hertfordshire.”

  Finding she could garner no information, Mrs. Greystock did not pursue the topic further. For the moment she was satisfied to have a report to make on the next day when she called upon Mrs. Strathmore for tea. Ever since the wedding announcement had appeared in the paper the curiosity to see the mysterious Mrs. Darcy had run high. Almost nothing was known of the woman who had succeeded in capturing the gentleman so many accomplished and handsome ladies had attempted but failed to secure for themselves. Mrs. Greystock was pleased to be amongst the first to have something to report—a handsome, well-dressed young lady, but nothing London had not seen often and better. Mr. Darcy having shown no interest in her own preferred candidates, Mrs. Greystock expected he would have settled at last on a lady of more significant station or beauty. She was disappointed and would certainly be liberal in sharing her opinion, should Lady Richmond so approve.

  Lady Richmond heard enough to know her friend had been inelegantly forward in her inquiry and Mrs. Darcy forbearing. But she was an attentive hostess and so could not linger to consider it unduly. If nothing else, the young lady clearly required no defence and that was gratifying, for she could not abide timidity or trepidation in any person with whom she was by choice or circumstances required to be intimate.

  When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Mr. Darcy went directly to his wife’s side. From the moment their engagement had become known he had relished how liberating it had felt to no longer be required to demure regarding his intentions. It was no less so now, for in the room was more than one person who had gently pressed the cause of one unattached young lady or another, to say nothing of a few young ladies who had themselves been equally eager in presenting their own merits. He recognized now how suffocating had been that constant, quiet pursuit, year over year. It was rather amusing to him that the one young lady who had addressed him with no desire to please should be the only one that had succeeded in so doing.

  Mrs. Greystock having abandoned her seat to refresh her cup of tea, he immediately availed himself of the same. “Dearest, is all well?”

  Elizabeth rested her hand on his arm. “All is well. How could it be contrariwise?”

  “Indeed,” he replied, as they smiled in agreement, for they were learning to speak in silences.

  Edward observed the couple from across the room and could not but regret Miss Lucy Vye. Entirely different in looks and manners from Darcy’s wife, she would have been an equally unwelcome choice for the family. He had considered such a step, but when her brother had ruined and disgraced the family and they had retired to such a diminished, relatively impoverished existence in the country, he had not had the courage to proceed to an obligation not yet established, if perhaps implied. He did not know if he watched his cousin now with envy or with disdain for not having done as he had—put family interests before personal preference.

  Seeing Mrs. Greystock returned to reclaim her chair and Darcy retiring to stand by the mantel, he approached his cousin. “Darcy, I do not believe I have wished you well. Do overlook the neglect.”

  “Consider it overlooked,” replied Darcy dispassionately.

  Darcy and Edward maintained a rather changeable relationship. They had moments of intuitive, profound understanding, but at times they were wholly incompatible, and a balance never had been struck. It was nothing like the easy, constant intimacy he shared with Edward’s younger brother, nor the genial rapport he had shared with their sister, Alice. Nevertheless, as with Edward’s elder sister Edith, they shared an active sense of deference towards the family’s prestigious history and the burden of its continuation.

  “Your wife seems a very amiable woman,” Edward offered indifferently.

  Darcy merely bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the tepid compliment.

  “I am to be engaged forthwith. Did you know?”
Edward continued. “To Lady Patience Faircloth of Goodstone Park. It is past time for me to be married; Father insists and Edith has been most persuasive. It is all arranged, nearly. Or so I believe.” His voice expressed neither enthusiasm nor concern.

  “I wish you happiness equal to my own, Edward.”

  “Is that why you married, Darcy? Happiness? Is that what you desired?”

  Mr. Darcy paused before responding. He knew enough of Edward’s history with Miss Lucy Vye to understand his equivocality as regards his foreseeable marriage to Lady Patience Faircloth. He knew enough to feel sympathy.

  “What I wished for upon entering the marriage state does not much signify to any other man. We must all keep our own counsel in matters so private. Whatever it is you desire, I hope you will find it with Lady Patience. After all, Edward, we can merely wish each other well. The results of our choices are all our own to enjoy or to lament.”

  “Yes,” Edward intoned thoughtfully. “So they are, cousin.” He patted Darcy on the shoulder and walked away.

  Mr. Darcy watched him depart with feelings of great sympathy. He had been as likely as Edward to make a marriage that first satisfied expectations of rank and family. It had long been his intention. He had not understood there was another, far more advisable course.

  He glanced at his wife who was in conversation with Mrs. Palmer—a respectable, sweet-tempered if rather dull older widow. His aunt never failed to include Mrs. Palmer as a guest for her dinners although she offered nothing to a gathering but her impeccable connections of both birth and marriage. Mr. Darcy had never been able to abide her company beyond a few curt expressions of civility. Her dullness was legendary amongst the younger members of his uncle and aunt’s circle and she was often left unattended in a quiet corner of the drawing room. Yet here was his wife, so vivacious and so little disposed to suffer fools, attending to the respectable old widow with a graciousness and kindness that Mrs. Palmer had surely not enjoyed in ever so long a time. He took note and promised himself that in future he would not be so unfeeling.