Suspense and Sensibility

by Carrie Bebris

  “I pray they are up to the charge.” He looked again at the clock, then cast an impatient glance toward the staircase. “She shall not meet anyone if we never leave our own townhouse.”

  “The soirée will last for hours, and I am certain we will not be the only guests to arrive late. Most of the ton does not share your strict definition of punctuality.”

  “They might form a more tolerable group if they did.”

  “But then who would take note of them? One cannot make a grand entrance to an empty room.”

  “Precisely why I prefer to arrive in a timely manner, before an affair becomes crowded.”

  Her husband, she knew, did not care to draw attention to himself, nor to endure the tiresome company of those who did. He favored small gatherings of intimate friends over large assemblies of near-strangers, intelligent conversation over mindless gabble. His willingness, therefore, to sponsor Kitty for a full London season demonstrated affection for Elizabeth surpassing any that mere diamonds or other baubles could represent.

  Tonight’s event, she suspected, would be just the sort of crush Darcy dreaded. She’d heard that the Middletons’ parties were always crowded affairs, the length of the guest list inspired more by the baronet’s gregarious nature than a realistic understanding of how many people his rooms could comfortably accommodate. Sir John, who had eight children of his own, took great pleasure in gathering young people together and wanted to include everybody in everything. Upon meeting Darcy and learning that he and Elizabeth had two young ladies in their charge, the baronet had insisted that the four of them attend Lady Middleton’s soirée.

  She wondered whether Darcy realized what he had gotten himself into by accepting the invitation. “Have you any idea how many guests the Middletons expect?”

  “Sir John called tonight’s party a small get-together, so I anticipate a pleasant evening.”

  Poor Darcy.

  She wrestled a few moments with her conscience over whether to warn him of the probable scene ahead, but decided against spoiling his night any sooner than necessary. “Did Sir John say whether his eldest sons would be there?” The Middletons had two sons in their early twenties—John, named after his father, and William.

  “They will. They have no titles, however—will Kitty still wish to meet them?”

  “Kitty wants to meet every eligible young gentleman in attendance.”

  He regarded her warily. “Elizabeth, I trust your sister will comport herself in a dignified manner?”

  “Of course she shall.” She prayed.

  Since the elopement of their youngest sister, Lydia, last August, Elizabeth and Jane had worked hard to curb Kitty’s more foolish tendencies and check the undisciplined behavior in which she’d been allowed to indulge with Lydia. Kitty now, her sisters hoped, comprehended the difference between cream-pot love and genuine regard, and understood that genteel conduct solicited more respectable attention from gentlemen than did brazen flirtation.

  “Kitty has learned from Lydia’s poor judgment, and benefits from the steadier influence of our company,” Elizabeth added. “Sometimes entire weeks pass without a single mention of officers or red coats.”

  “Yes, it seems she has moved on to dukes.”

  “You cannot fault her for harboring the same aspirations as every other young lady in town.” A servant arrived with Elizabeth’s wrap and helped her drape it over her arms.

  “Georgiana anticipates the evening more soberly.”

  “Your sister has experienced previous London seasons, so the prospect of a society affair does not hold the novelty it does for Kitty. Yet despite her natural reserve, I believe Georgiana, too, looks forward to increasing her limited acquaintance this evening.”

  “Her present circle is quite large enough.”

  “Darcy, you have shielded Georgiana from the fashionable world since the day she came out. You cannot sequester her forever.”

  He turned, avoiding her gaze by inspecting his appearance in the trumeau mirror. “I do nothing of the sort.”

  Behind him, she raised a brow. He saw the accusation in her reflection.

  “I merely restrict her exposure to men whose motives or merit I question,” he clarified, setting his hat down on the table to adjust the shoulders of his coat.

  “That is to say, any men at all.”

  He faced her and shrugged. “Am I to blame if all the gentlemen one encounters these days are rowdies who lack purpose? Or worse—rakes and rogues who engage in less than noble behavior?”

  She sighed, knowing that a single conversation could not surmount Darcy’s natural protective instincts toward his sister, nor his self-reproach for what he considered an inexcusable failure of watchfulness on his part. When Georgiana was but fifteen, even before she was officially out in society, she’d almost eloped with a fortune hunter—the same ne’er-do-well who had eventually seduced Lydia. That another, more sophisticated friend of theirs recently had been similarly deceived by another “gentleman” only increased his mistrust.

  “Not every potential suitor is a secret scoundrel, Darcy. Honorable men yet exist.”

  “I should like to know where.” Though he spoke lightly, she could read disillusionment in his eyes.

  “I found one.”

  She crossed to the table, lifted his hat, and placed it on his head. As she met his gaze, she offered a playful smile. “Unless you really married me for my vast fortune?”

  “Nay,” he said, taking her hands in his as she lowered them.

  “My superior connections?”

  “Mistaken again.” He held her gaze and returned her impish grin. “In fact, I believe it was you who drew in me.”

  “Indeed? I had no notion of my own talent for scheming. To what do I owe my success?”

  “Your honeyed tongue. Who could resist being told that he was full of arrogance, conceit, and selfishness? Or that he was the last man in the world whom you could ever be prevailed upon to marry?”

  “With enticements like that, you must have wondered that no one had whisked me to the altar already.”

  “I wondered only whether I could change enough to lure you there myself.”

  She studied him a long moment, grateful that they had found their way past early misunderstandings and to each other. “First impressions are not always accurate reflections of one’s character, are they?”

  “No. Thank heaven.”

  _________

  They arrived at the Middletons’ quite late, even by fashionable standards. Kitty practically leapt from the carriage when it came to a stop in Conduit Street. They entered to find the formal receiving line ended and their hosts circulating among the guests.

  To Kitty’s obvious delight and Darcy’s equally evident despair, the event was indeed a squeeze. The rooms were packed so full of people that Elizabeth wasn’t sure how anyone managed to converse, let alone dance. Yet strains of music from the next room indicated that couples made a noble attempt amid all the noise and heat.

  “Have you ever seen so many people of consequence in one place?” Kitty exclaimed. “And so many gentlemen! Elizabeth, surely there is someone here to whom you can introduce me?”

  Elizabeth scanned the room but saw not one familiar face. Luckily, she was spared the necessity of replying with a disappointing negative by the approach of an older man with a ruddy, genial countenance. “Is this our host?” she asked Darcy.

  “Indeed.”

  “Mr. Darcy! I’m glad you are come!” Sir John clapped Darcy’s shoulder heartily, suggesting an acquaintance of years rather than barely a se’nnight. “I was just talking with Carville and Hartford about organizing a shooting party, and you must promise to be among our number.”

  “I would be honored, though my skills could but poorly complement any party led by you.”

  “Nonsense! I can tell by the look of you, you’re a fine shot.”

  “Fair,” Darcy demurred. Though he enjoyed shooting and hunting, he was not a man who liked to boast o
f his skills or recount every detail of his last chase. “However, they tell me at the club that you are a sportsman without equal.”

  “Whether that is true or not I shall leave to the judgment of others, but I can think of nowhere I would rather be than out of doors with my hounds.” He smiled broadly at the women. “These lovely ladies must be your wife and sisters.”

  “Sir John Middleton, may I present my wife, Mrs. Darcy, her sister, Miss Catherine Bennet, and my sister, Miss Darcy.”

  “Charmed!” The baronet, to Elizabeth’s relief, bowed rather than offer the same effusive welcome Darcy had received. “Please, you must come with me to meet Lady Middleton. She will not want to defer the pleasure of your acquaintance another moment.”

  They found their hostess in the card room, attempting to complete a rubber while half-listening to the whines of a girl about six years of age. A flustered nursemaid was trying to discreetly steer the girl from the room, but Lady Middleton’s distracted murmurs only encouraged the child to continue her campaign to be allowed to remain.

  “Marguerite, what are you doing out of the nursery?” Sir John gave the child a playful pat on the head as if rewarding one of his hounds. He turned to the Darcys with a smile. “My youngest,” he said, as if birth order provided sufficient explanation for the child’s presence.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The nursemaid tried to take Marguerite’s hand, but the child jerked her fingers away. “She dashed out the door and down the stairs before I could stop her.”

  Sir John rubbed the underside of Marguerite’s chin. “Don’t want to miss the party, do you, little dove?”

  “Let me stay, Papa! I want to stay! Make Mama let me stay!”

  Elizabeth generally liked children—indeed, she cherished hopes of having her own before long. But allowing such a young girl at a formal society function was an indulgence she’d never witnessed before, and for good reason. Marguerite’s pleas and cajoles so distracted both parents that Lady Middleton could scarcely focus as Sir John made a rather disorganized introduction to the Darcys.

  “It is a pleasure—hold still, please, Marguerite—to meet you, Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Middleton finally said to Georgiana.

  “No, no, my dear,” Sir John interjected. “That’s—in a moment, dove—that’s Miss Darcy. The other ladies—I said one moment, my little angel—”

  “Lovely to meet you all. I have been dying to make your acquaintance for ages, ever since Tuesday.” Lady Middleton turned her attention back to her cards. “Marguerite, do cease tugging on my arm.”

  Whilst the Middletons were thus besieged, three gentlemen entered the room. Two of them appeared very much alike: large, athletic young men who looked like they could sit a horse or box in Jackson’s Rooms with equal skill. They wore close-fitting single-breasted coats—one claret, one brown—and fair hair carefully styled to appear as tousled as if they had just come in from a foxhunt. The third gentleman wore his dark locks in the same mode, as deliberately arranged as his cravat. He had a more slender but no less vigorous build, his broad shoulders and narrow waist shown to advantage by a blue dress coat so up-to-the-minute in fashion that it could have been cut that morning. Tight-fitting pantaloons and silk stockings revealed muscular legs, and his polished shoes competed with the chandelier for shine.

  By all appearances, they were typical London bloods, all three—aristocratic gents with too much time and money, and little ambition to do anything productive with either. Elizabeth dismissed them without another thought, until she heard Kitty sigh beside her.

  “Look at them, Lizzy—pinks of the ton if ever I saw one.” She sighed again. “Oh, they’re coming this way!” Kitty looked as if she might swoon with the effort of keeping her excitement in check. “Quickly—is my hair still in place?”

  “At least as well as theirs.”

  The gentlemen reached Lady Middleton’s table. “Mother,” said the young man in brown, “Lady Carrington is looking for you. We left her in the dining room.”

  “Thank you, William. I shall go to her directly I finish this rubber.”

  “William, tell Mama to let me stay!”

  William looked somewhat amused by his sister’s demand, but the other fair-haired gentleman cast her an impatient glance. “Marguerite, ought you not be in bed?”

  “Go away, John. You are always such a spoiler!”

  “A soirée is no place for children.”

  Marguerite was on the verge of another retort when the third fellow intervened to diffuse the family squabble. “Miss Marguerite, if I asked your mother very sweetly, do you think she would honor me with an introduction to this gentleman and the pretty ladies with him?”

  “They are only a Mr. Darcy and his sisters. Mama, if you do not let me stay, I shall scream. I shall!” Her shrill voice already carried above the din.

  “Nonsense, child. You will behave like a proper young lady while Nurse escorts you back upstairs.” Lady Middleton turned to the Darcys as the nursemaid stepped forward once more to take her charge. “Forgive me. These are my sons, John and William Middleton, and their friend Mr. Harry—Henry—Dashwood. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, his wife, and their sisters—”

  “Nooooooo!”

  Marguerite’s shriek brought the burbling room to abrupt silence. Lady Middleton gaped at her daughter, her expression flashing from horror to embarrassment to anger to self-consciousness in rapid succession. Marguerite regarded her mother warily, realizing too late that even mothers worn down by the demands of seven previous children have thresholds of tolerance that cannot be crossed.

  “Now that you have caused a scene, we need not indulge you further to avoid one,” Lady Middleton said quietly.

  The young nurse, whose further attempts to lead her charge away had occasioned the outburst, apologized profusely to her mistress and reached for Marguerite.

  “I think you have sufficiently exhibited your ability to control the child,” Lady Middleton said to her servant. She took her daughter by the hand. “We are going upstairs. Now. And if you want Nurse to keep her position, you will stay in the nursery and behave yourself for the remainder of the night.”

  Those at the card tables went back to their games of whist and lottery, but awkward silence lingered in the air.

  “Mr. Darcy, was it?” Mr. Dashwood stepped toward them. “I believe I’ve heard of you down at White’s. You have an estate in Derbyshire, do you not?”

  Darcy bowed. “Yes, Pemberley. Near Lambton.” He studied Mr. Dashwood. “Your name sounds familiar to me, as well.”

  “Perhaps you are thinking of my father, Mr. John Dashwood—a longtime member of White’s.”

  “Of course. How is your father?”

  “He passed away last autumn.”

  After Darcy and the rest of their party offered condolences, Sir John cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Darcy, if your wife will excuse us, Carville and Hartford are in the billiards room, along with some other gentlemen I would like you to meet. You must hear Hartford recount his last foxhunt. What a tale! To tell it properly takes a full half-hour.”

  “Half an hour?” Darcy stammered.

  “At least.”

  He turned to Elizabeth, his expression revealing to her alone the felicity he anticipated. “Can you get on without me for a while?”

  “We can survive.” She suppressed a wry smile and lowered her voice so that it reached only his ears. “Will you?”

  Before Darcy could respond, their host addressed his sons and Mr. Dashwood. “I’m sure you fellows will attend to the ladies?”

  “Of course, Father,” answered William.

  Darcy departed with the baronet to enjoy Hartford’s regaling account, and William immediately fulfilled his filial obligation by asking Georgiana to dance. She accepted, and the two went to join the reel just beginning.

  John Middleton suggested that perhaps the two remaining ladies might care for some refreshment. Though not hungry or thirsty, Elizabeth welcomed the opportu
nity to move to another room of the house. No sooner did the party pass through the doorway, however, than Mr. Middleton spotted a chap he simply had to speak to about a horse, or a hound, or something or other, and would the ladies please excuse him? He abandoned them before they could answer, leaving Elizabeth and Kitty in the sole custody of Mr. Dashwood.

  Elizabeth half expected him to drop them as quickly as Mr. Middleton had, in search of more fashionable people with whom to while away the night. However, he offered his arm to Kitty, who almost tripped over her own feet in her eagerness to accept it, and proved himself most attentive as he steered them through the crowded rooms.

  “So, why haven’t I seen you at Almack’s yet this season?”

  “We have only just arrived in town,” Kitty replied. “And Mr. Darcy doesn’t like Almack’s.”

  Mr. Dashwood laughed. “None of us likes Almack’s.”

  “Then why does everybody go there?”

  “Because everyone else is there. And to talk about how much they dislike it. The only thing more fashionable than being seen at Almack’s is complaining about it.”

  “Oh.” Kitty’s gaze bordered on worshipful every time she looked at Mr. Dashwood. “Well, then, if I am fortunate enough to go, I shall object the whole while.”

  Mr. Dashwood laughed again. “I should wait until afterward, were I you. The last feathers you want to ruffle in London are those of Almack’s patronesses.”

  “Why is that?”

  He stopped, regarding her with a look that was half surprise, half amusement. “My—you are new in town, aren’t you? Admission to Almack’s is decided by seven ladies who guard its vouchers more fiercely than dragons their gold. Their influence in society extends well beyond the walls of their assembly rooms. Cross one of them, and you might as well go back to the country for the rest of the season.”

  Kitty absorbed this intelligence with the solemnity of an acolyte being indoctrinated into a new religion. Had Mr. Dashwood revealed that the beau monde subscribed to an official creed, she would have memorized it.