by CE Murphy
Mr Cox, however, showed no such discretion, and began a sermon on the value of the wedded state and how a suitable husband might elevate the females in his life to a station, whether emotional, intellectual or social, that otherwise lay beyond their reach or indeed, he concluded, their capability of desiring. There were, of course, certain females to whom this did not apply, he said with an ingratiating bow toward his patroness, who, it seemed to Elsabeth, was not immune to flattery, however badly presented: rather than express her disgust at his belittling of the female half of the race, she gracefully allowed as how she was of superior breeding, and thus of more ambitious and clever mettle than most. This last was spoken with a sharp glance at Elsabeth and a far softer one for Annabel, for whom she had the kind words of “but there are those, of course, whose physical frailty cannot withstand the fire of their ambition; that is why we must marry well even if we are of unusual quality.”
“And what of those whose breeding is less superior but whose hearts burn as brightly with desires?” Elsabeth, thinking of Hartnell, asked. “Are they to be condemned to a lower class forever due to the unfortunate circumstance of their birth?”
“A person of truly superior make would never permit himself to be born into a family that could not support his ambitions.”
“Surely,” came a startling and familiar voice, “that cannot be entirely true, Aunt Beatrice.”
“It is,” Lady Beatrice proclaimed. “Ambition in the lower ranks leads only to trouble. Come here, Gerry, and give me a kiss.” She presented her cheek for this display of affection, then, without much changing her petulant tone, continued, “And now I suppose I must introduce you to this opinionated young lady.”
Mr Fitzgerald Archer, with a flash of pain in his gaze at the diminutive used by his aunt, obediently kissed her cheek before saying, “Not at all, Aunt. I am already quite acquainted with Miss Elsabeth and her opinions. Miss Elsabeth.”
Elsabeth had, without knowing it, stood; now, when Archer offered a precisely proper bow of greeting, she returned it with a properly downcast gaze and curtsey of her own. Her laughter at Archer being his aunt’s Gerry was well smothered by the time she lifted her eyes. “Mr Archer. What a surprise to see you again.”
“Indeed, I had no notion you were at Charington. I have only lately seen your sister; had I known I would be seeing you, I am sure I would have offered to carry a letter or a greeting from her.”
“Oh! How is she?”
Archer had not, in fact, imagined to encounter Elsabeth Dover in his aunt’s sitting room; had, indeed, fled London in order to avoid the eldest Dover sister, although he would have claimed familial duty, not discomfort or alarm, had sent him from his friends’ bosom to his aunt’s estate. Given by nature to an honesty he felt was only appropriate for a gentleman and surprised by Elsabeth’s presence, he responded, “Unfashionably thin,” without considering the effect such an assessment might have on the second Dover sister.
On both Dover sisters: Mr Cox’s new wife looked up sharply to reveal a vaguely familiar countenance: the third Dover sister, although looking far more handsome than Archer’s faint memories of her could conjure. “How thin, Mr Archer?” Ruth Dover—Ruth Cox, now!—rose in clear concern and took Elsabeth’s hand, the two of them gaining strength from one another as Archer looked between them in consternation.
“Mrs Cox. Forgive me, I had not realised—I had not recognised—she is highly coloured and quite slim; I am sure she is entirely well. I meant to cause no alarm.”
“Where did you see her, Mr Archer?” asked Elsabeth.
“At—with—with Miss Enton, at the Webbers’ Town residence. They were visiting.”
He did not imagine that he saw a spark of triumph in Elsabeth Dover’s eyes, although her tone was perfectly demure. “How lovely for them all. I am surprised, Mr Archer, that you did not stay on in London, if my sister is visiting with the Webbers.”
“I have no especial interest in Miss Dover.”
“Of course not.” Elsabeth glanced toward Annabel Derrington, whose lovely face was turned toward the fire as if she had no interest whatsoever in the conversation betwixt Archers and Dovers. “I am given to understand that your interests lie here,” Elsabeth went on, sounding blithe now, “although I am sure you are greatly missed by the Webbers. How very pleasant it is for all of us, to find such a wide range of amiable acquaintances in so many places.”
“Pleasant indeed,” Archer said in a voice that allowed no pleasure at all. His cousin Annabel looked toward him then, a finely sculpted eyebrow lifted in silent commentary, but if she intended to speak, her intentions were quashed by Lady Beatrice.
“I am sure I do not understand you,” that lady put forth forcefully. “What nonsense young people speak. But there is the dinner bell: we need no longer dwell upon these absurd topics.”
“Surely our sister’s health cannot be regarded as absurd,” Elsabeth murmured, and, for her troubles, earned a glance of horror from Ruth.
Lady Beatrice sniffed. “If she is so fragile as to be worthy of comment, then she is sure to die soon and will be of no further use to the conversation. Gerry, you may escort me.” The great lady arose with no visible concern for her appalling statement, though even Archer found himself hesitating in shock. Lady Beatrice delivered him a blistering glare and he stepped forward, offering his arm, but could not help casting a look at the Dover females.
Neither had moved; indeed, neither looked as though she could move, and Archer thought it was not his imagination that saw Elsabeth’s pulse fluttering irregularly in her throat. But his chance had passed: he could not possibly disengage from his aunt to offer Elsabeth support, and Lady Beatrice showed no intention of waiting on the others. She sailed forward, Archer both at her side and in her wake as Mr Cox lumberingly arose to offer Mrs Cox his escort.
Annabel stood as well, putting forth a hand to Miss Elsabeth, who, provided with the impetus to move, did so; Archer, seating his aunt in the dining room a moment later, saw how they supported one another, as if neither quite had the strength to move on her own. A footman held their chairs for them before Archer had time to do it himself, and he sat at Lady Beatrice’s right with a feeling of discontent. There were not enough men to balance the table; Mrs Cox sat at his right with Annabel beside her, and Mr Cox sat across from him with Elsabeth at his left. Archer could think of no arrangement that would please him less, save that Cox should be beside him, but that would never be permitted at his aunt’s table. Mr Cox addressed his wife only to be silenced by Lady Beatrice’s opinion that a man should never speak to his wife while dining; there were many other opportunities for them to converse. Mr Cox rightfully concluded his duty was to speak to, and about, Lady Beatrice in sufficiently admirable terms that their mutual pleasure carried the conversation for some time. Archer made a few polite comments to Ruth, who responded in kind, and Elsabeth, despite the awkwardness of speaking across the table, seemed to enjoy her talk with Annabel until Lady Beatrice, quite suddenly, said, “Mrs Cox is quite old enough to be well married, but I am given to understand she is the third in your family, Miss Elsabeth. Am I to believe you are her elder?”
Elsabeth appeared to consider that comment a moment before giving in to speech. “You may believe what you wish, Lady Beatrice. It is fact that I am Ruth’s second-oldest sister.”
“I do not understand,” Lady Beatrice proclaimed. “How came Mrs Cox to be married first, then? She could not possibly be out, not with two unmarried older sisters.”
“Ah.” Elsabeth cast a glance toward Mrs Cox, whose gaze was quite fixed on her dinner plate. “Well, you see, Lady Beatrice, with five daughters, my mother did not feel it was kind to bring us out one at a time.”
“You cannot mean to say you are all out.”
“That is precisely what I mean to say.”
“No wonder you are unmarried, with so much competition. Are you the plainest of the lot?”
Elsabeth cleared her throat. “Our older sister Ro
samund is much considered to be the fairest of us, Lady Beatrice. Beyond that, I could have no opinion toward ranking our beauty, save to say we are all satisfied when we look in the mirror.”
“What utter vanity you possess,” Lady Beatrice said incredulously. “To sit here before me and say without shame that you are fond of your own face? How dare you; it is not that remarkable of a face.”
A look that sent a frisson down Archer’s spine came into Elsabeth Dover’s eyes. Rather than fill his gaze on that look, he turned his attention to his aunt, the better to see her expression as Elsabeth’s rejoinder settled in, and he was not disappointed. In a tone of sweetest supplication, Miss Elsabeth replied, “Perhaps you might teach me the art of looking into the mirror and being distasteful of what one sees there, Lady Beatrice, for it seems to me that even remarkable beauty might be difficult to look upon with admiration when venom lies beneath the surface.”
Lady Beatrice turned quite sallow and she stared, unspeaking, at Elsabeth for a full half-minute, during which time Elsabeth retained an expression innocent of guile. “You are rude,” Lady Beatrice finally proclaimed.
Elsabeth allowed herself the smallest smile possible in response, and her gaze darted to Archer so briefly he could hardly be certain she had looked at him until she spoke. “But not without pride, Lady Beatrice.”
Archer locked his own gaze on his plate, much as Ruth Cox was doing, and held his expression tightly in school. When he dared lift his gaze, Lady Beatrice had set aside her napkin. “I believe my appetite has gone. Gerry, you may escort me to my rooms. I require a rest.”
“Of course, Aunt Beatrice,” Archer murmured, and, squiring Lady Beatrice, departed.
(37)
A pall might have settled in the wake of Lady Beatrice’s departure, had not Mr Cox had something to say regarding Elsabeth’s manners. Elsabeth, who felt no shame in defending herself to Lady Beatrice, took a kinder stance with Mr Cox, not for his sake, but for Ruth’s, and sat unprotesting beneath the wash of Mr Cox’s words. She could not, it seemed, be expected to know better; she was of too country a family, of which only Mrs Cox had elevated herself through solemnity and education. She would, of course, tender apologies to Lady Beatrice as soon as the great lady was enough recovered, an opinion which caused Elsabeth to lift her eyebrows if not her voice, and, in so doing, she caught an ill-concealed trace of amusement on Miss Derrington’s face.
That amusement held a familiar note, though it was some moments before Elsabeth recognised that it brought a likeness to Mr Archer into Annabel’s features. Once seen, though, the likeness could not be unseen: they were both stamped with Lady Beatrice’s mark, or, Elsabeth supposed, the mark of the grandfather they both shared. Archer had more of Beatrice’s nose, but Annabel had her cheekbones and jawline, and their mouths, while not like Lady Beatrice’s at all, were like one another’s, particularly when quirked with humour. How must other people see her and Ruth, Elsabeth wondered: they were sisters, not cousins, but surely an outsider might take their features apart and put them back together again to find the likenesses and dissimilarities. This thought kept her occupied until Annabel announced, with no evident sign of fatigue, that she felt faint and ought to retire to the sitting room at once.
Mr Cox’s lecture instantly flowed into a solicitous parade of words that saw Miss Derrington out of the dining room and into a chair by the sitting room fire. He showed every evidence of intending to continue to scold Elsabeth once Annabel was properly settled, only to be thwarted by the arrival of Mr Archer, whose countenance was immoderately cheery for a gentleman who had just observed his aunt come out on the losing end of a tête-à-tête. “Lady Beatrice is certain she cannot rejoin us this evening. I think, though, that if we might commence to enjoy ourselves, the sounds of gaiety might bring her from her rooms even yet. Miss Elsabeth, perhaps you would play the pianoforte for us.”
“Have I not told you, Mr Archer, that my talents at the pianoforte are limited?”
“You have, but, surely, you know me well enough to realise I should like to judge that for myself.”
“Surely, you know me well enough to trust that I am an accurate judge of my own skills,” Elsabeth said shortly, “and that I do not require a gentleman’s opinion to verify my own. Indeed, Mr Archer, any woman of confidence should say the same, and any true gentleman would never think to contradict her on the topic of her own strengths.”
“Perhaps there are many women who lack confidence” was Mr Archer’s rejoinder, “for there are innumerable ladies who wish nothing more than to decry their own skills and then be pressed into showcasing them under a guise of false modesty.”
“And why would they not, when they are met with the supposition that they cannot themselves judge their own talents and must have a man speak for them? How should women be able to trust themselves, when they are constantly undermined by the men around them? I do not play well, I say; nonsense, you say, let me be the judge. And then, heaven forbid, Mr Archer, that I should actually play as poorly as I say I do: then will you not be disappointed in my qualities as a lady? Yes, as we have already heard your thoughts on what an accomplished young woman must be able to achieve. But will you voice that disappointment, or will you insist that I play beautifully after all, thus confusing my original belief and perhaps ultimately causing me to believe I am far more skilled than I know myself to be? No, Mr Archer, I will not play that game with you. I will instead be confident and comfortable in my judgement of my own talents, and you will be obliged to accept my assessment without rendering your own.”
Long before the end of Elsabeth’s speech, Archer sat, as if with stunned admiration, and only smiled as she went on. “I ought to have known that,if you would not back down to my aunt this evening, I should be no more than a leaf in the wind of your opinions. Forgive me, Miss Elsabeth. I ought not have pressed you.”
Elsabeth was about to fully agree with this statement when Ruth put forth, “It is true that while Elsabeth doesn’t practise nearly as much as she ought, she has a much lighter hand at the pianoforte than I do. I practise but admit to playing somewhat didactically, so perhaps you might grace us with your limited talents tonight regardless, Elsa.”
Elsabeth bestowed a look of rueful betrayal upon her middle sister, although any true exasperation could only be mitigated by the surprise of hearing Ruth acknowledge that her playing was stiff. “You are not helping, Ruth. And now you have put me in an ungainly position, for the only other person we might ask to play is Miss Derrington, and it would be impolite to presume upon our hostess. Unless you play, Mr Archer,” she added pointedly. “That would be a treat indeed.”
“If you will play us a song,” Archer replied, “I shall follow valiant suit.”
Astonishment pulled laughter from Elsabeth’s throat and she rose to attend the pianoforte. “I have been defeated,” she announced as she sat there, “but I believe in defeat I have achieved victory.”
“Indeed you have.” Archer and the others, even Miss Derrington, gathered around the pianoforte, whence Elsabeth commenced to play with as much skill, and no more, than she had claimed was her own. She had, as Ruth observed, a light touch, but little smoothness to the flow of notes, and, after a full half hour of playing, lifted her hands from the keys to announce, “I have emptied my repertoire. You, Mr Archer, may take my place and astound us with your skills.”
A brief smile bent Archer’s lips. He settled into place, casting what could only be considered furtive glances at each of the gathered listeners, and then, somewhat to Elsabeth’s astonishment, began to play with as light and flowing a touch as could be desired from any musician. A spate of surprised laughter and applause rose from the audience, and Archer, too, played undisturbed for a full half an hour before letting his hands fall from the keys.
“I have been had, Mr Archer,” Elsabeth reported with delight. “You play extraordinarily well. How came you by it?”
“And you,” Archer replied ruefully, “play passingly we
ll, but no more. I shall endeavour not to question you again, Miss Elsabeth. My own skill comes from my sister Persephone, whose talents at the keyboard are unparalleled and who could not bear for me to play badly, much less not at all. She has spent innumerable hours at practise, and at least that many again as my own fierce taskmistress.”
“She is to be commended if she can persuade one such as you to the practise of anything until you have mastered it. Perhaps she ought to next teach you the art of dancing, Mr Archer. Your cousin,” Elsabeth said to Miss Derrington, “is most difficult to engage in dancing. I have watched him stand aloof in the midst of a ballroom full of ladies in need of partners, and refuse any more than four dances, all of those with those with whom he is already closely acquainted.”
“That is a pity,” Miss Derrington conceded, “especially as I know Gerry to be as accomplished a dancer as he is a pianist.”
“Oh, but he is not,” Elsabeth disagreed. “For to be an accomplished dancer, one must converse, and he will not; I know this from experience.”
“I am not good at holding conversations with those with whom I am not well acquainted,” protested Archer.
“And yet you will not practise and therefore gain more acquaintances,” Elsabeth responded, by now enjoying herself thoroughly and not even loath to admit it. Archer was a fine partner in wordplay when he cared to be; such quick wit coupled with excellent features made it possible to think well of him, when she had been so long determined not to. “It is not, after all, as though it is impossible to meet people at a ball.”
With a sigh more theatrical than sincere, Archer enquired, “Are all my flaws to be laid out before us this evening?”
Elsabeth offered him a fulsome smile. “I am sure we could not possibly touch on all of them in the course of a single evening, Mr Archer. Now: be so good as to play for us again, as I think we can safely agree that you are by far the most talented musician in the room, and I shall escort Miss Derrington back to the fire, as she is trying hard not to shiver.” With an arm looped through the other lady’s, Elsabeth did just as she intended, and together they spent some cosy little while listening to Archer play.
