“My, you have been busy. Did you also learn the name of Mr. Dashwood’s favorite hunting hound?”
“Rex.”
He smiled at her thoroughness. When his wife undertook a mission, she saw it to completion.
“I also heard that he has a few more relations through his grandfather’s second marriage, all quite respectable. One of them is married to a colonel,” she said. “So much for his fortune and family. What have you ascertained about the man himself?”
Darcy leaned back in the chair. “Lord Phillip’s intelligence, shallow though it was, unfortunately forms an accurate summary of Mr. Dashwood. Never serious in his studies, he attended Oxford only at the insistence of his parents. Now that his father’s death has granted him complete independence, he spends all his time gadding about town with his friends. When not otherwise engaged, he can be found lounging on Bond Street from one to four o’clock, riding in Hyde Park at five, then off to some social affair or the theatre.”
“So, he wants seriousness and meaningful occupation. But then, so do most of his peers. Dissipation is an epidemic among gentlemen in town. Have you heard any real ill of him? Is he a drunkard? Does he have debts? Does he treat ladies as a gentleman should?”
“By all reports, his reputation is sound in those respects.”
She sighed and rose to prepare for bed. “Then I think we ought not interfere with any courtship between Mr. Dashwood and Kitty.”
He caught her by the hand to stop her as she passed. “You would see her marry a man of so little substance?”
“I’d hardly consider six thousand a year ‘little substance.’”
“His material circumstances are, of course, beyond objection. I was speaking of his character.”
“He comes from a respectable family. He seems to have few real vices and the ability to regulate them himself. More important, he has already engaged Kitty’s affections, and I believe his regard for her is sincere. Add to that his generous income, and a young woman of Kitty’s fortune cannot realistically hope to do better, nor, at this point, do I expect she wishes to.”
“But his idleness! Could you be happy with a man whose idea of an afternoon well spent is selecting the perfect fob chain?”
“No. But I am not Kitty, and what makes me happy would not satisfy her.” Still holding his hand, she came round to settle on his knee. “Indeed, that I found happiness with such a serious man continues to baffle most of my family.”
“I promised you that I would protect Kitty’s interests as if she were my own sister. Your father is relying on my judgment.”
“Then let that judgment derive from a better observation of Mr. Dashwood himself. He returns to town tomorrow. Why don’t you call upon him? Invite him to dine with us.”
It was a sound idea. Darcy would not have wanted his future with Elizabeth decided upon the basis of public impressions and reports in general circulation about him when they had first met.
“I will,” he agreed. “Perhaps I will also suggest that a young man wishing to pay addresses to Miss Bennet would do well to conduct himself in a more useful manner.”
“Now Darcy, don’t go scaring him.”
Five
“My protégé, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me.”
—Elinor Dashwood to Mr. Willoughby,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 10
Harry Dashwood possessed an address as fashionable as the rest of his accoutrements. Upon coming into his inheritance, he had taken a townhouse in Pall Mall from which he could enjoy his new independence free from his mother’s watchful eye. From what Darcy had heard of Mrs. John Dashwood, Harry need not have bothered. By all accounts, Fanny was an indulgent mother unlikely to curb any pleasure of her only son, so long as he did nothing to seriously jeopardize his own or the family’s reputation.
Darcy handed his card to the servant and waited patiently at the door while it was determined whether the master was at home. Mr. Dashwood’s voice emanating from the hall indicated that he had indeed completed his journey back to London, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was receiving visitors. A few moments, however, brought the servant back with an invitation to step inside.
“Mr. Darcy!” Dashwood exclaimed upon sighting him. “You honor me with this visit.” He paused to direct three footmen who carried a large looking glass. “Put it in my dressing room.”
The servants ascended the stairs with the mirror. Darcy noticed a pair of trunks also awaiting relocation.
“Forgive me,” Mr. Dashwood said, gesturing toward the baggage. “I’ve just arrived home.”
“Perhaps I should return at a later time.”
“No—do stay! You must, however, allow me to change my shirt. This one is travel-worn.”
“Of course.”
“Come along, then. This way.”
Harry took the stairs two at a time, forcing Darcy to trot to keep up with him. At the landing Darcy paused, presuming he was to wait in the drawing room. Mr. Dashwood, however, urged him up the next set of stairs. “You must see the looking glass I brought home with me. Found it in Norland’s attic.”
Darcy followed Mr. Dashwood to his dressing room, where the servants were propping the mirror against the wall.
“Leave it for now,” Harry instructed. “You can mount it when I’ve decided exactly where I want it.” The servants departed.
The mirror was indeed a striking objet d’art. The glass itself was perhaps five feet long and two feet wide, with a heavy gold frame that added another six inches to the sides and bottom. Intricately carved images of nude athletes stood out in bas relief, laurel leaves entwining their muscular forms. At the top, a twelve-inch crown boasted a man’s face at its center, his features perfectly capturing the classical ideal of male beauty.
“What do you think?” asked Mr. Dashwood. “It has to be centuries old, at least—a real antiquity. Looks to me like it could have come from ancient Greece.”
Darcy paused before replying. Though he appreciated its artistry, he doubted the treasure could be as old as Mr. Dashwood believed. To his knowledge, the ancient Greeks had made only hand mirrors of polished metal; the techniques used to fashion a looking glass of this size and construction were much later developments. This mirror, therefore, must be a relatively modern creation, designed to appeal to the current vogue for classical art and architecture.
Yet the mirror seemed older. Despite the differences in construction, somehow it could stand among other ancient artifacts in the British Museum and not be out of place. He supposed Elizabeth would say it had the character of a genuine antique—an aura of history about it. “How long has the glass been in your family’s possession?” he asked.
“I have no idea. My housekeeper thought it belonged to Sir Francis Dashwood, an ancestor, but where he got it from, I don’t know.”
“You are descended from Sir Francis Dashwood?”
Mr. Dashwood grinned. “Heard the shocking stories, have you? The Hell-Fire Club and all that? Yes, he occupies a branch somewhere in my family tree, but he died childless, so I’m uncertain exactly how he fits in. I also don’t know how this mirror found its way to Norland, as his main estate was in Buckinghamshire. But when I saw it, I simply had to bring it back here with me.”
His valet entered. The servant removed Mr. Dashwood’s coat and started to unfasten his cuffs.
Darcy took this as his cue to leave. “Shall I await you in the drawing room?”
“No. Do stay! I’ve always aspired to be like Beau Brummell, entertaining visitors while completing my toilette.” He shed his rumpled shirt for a clean one.
“Quite a lofty ambition,” Darcy said dryly.
“I wish I had but half his skill with cravats.” The valet offered a highly starched neckcloth. Harry stationed himself before the mirror. “What do you think, Mr. Darcy? Should I try the mathematical today? Or settle for the Napoleon? Which does Miss Bennet prefer?”
“I am not
privy to Miss Bennet’s opinions on the subject of gentlemen’s neckwear.” Darcy ardently wished for another topic of conversation altogether. To emulate the vain Brummell’s practice of holding court in his dressing room seemed the most ridiculous form of idolatry. A rooster imitating a peacock.
Mr. Dashwood attempted the mathematical, fumbled its folds, and had to discard the cloth for a fresh one. “I’m told Brummell often goes through stacks of neckcloths before achieving perfection.”
“Such a practice sounds like an incredible waste of his own and his servants’ time.”
Mr. Dashwood met Darcy’s gaze in the mirror. His natural exuberance dimmed at the disapproval he detected in Darcy’s eyes. “I suppose you are right in that.” He began tying the next cravat in the simpler Napoleon style.
Darcy studied Mr. Dashwood’s reflection. He was so very young—not only in age, but also in knowledge of the world. In many ways, Darcy had never been that young. But he also recalled his own sense of lost direction in the period following his father’s death. Harry Dashwood was even younger than he had been, and Darcy suspected his own foundation was steadier than Dashwood’s to begin with. Perhaps cravats and looking glasses claimed Harry’s attention because he did not feel adequate to the responsibilities he had just inherited along with John Dashwood’s estate.
Darcy regretted the mild criticism he’d tendered. “Forgive me. I meant only that an intelligent man benefits from devoting his resources to more worthwhile endeavors. And you strike me as a man possessing the potential to do much more with his life than Mr. Brummell ever will.”
Mr. Dashwood turned from the mirror to face Darcy directly. “I do?”
“Did you not, I would never have come here today bearing an invitation. If you are not previously engaged, Mrs. Darcy would be pleased to have you at her table tonight for dinner.”
“Tell her I am most gratified and look forward to her hospitality. Will Miss Bennet be among the party?”
“Assuredly.”
“Then I can think of no pleasanter way to spend an evening.”
Seven o’clock had been the appointed hour for Mr. Dashwood to present himself at the Darcys’ townhouse. He arrived at half past six, bearing flowers for Kitty and a bouquet of apologies for his hostess.
“Pardon my untimely appearance,” he said as Elizabeth received him in the drawing room, “but the anticipated delight of seeing Miss Bennet this evening caused the day to grow unbearably long. At last I found I could not wait thirty minutes longer.”
“You may have to,” Elizabeth replied, “as my sister is still readying for dinner. But I will tell her you are come.”
In truth, the announcement was hardly necessary. Like a thunderclap proclaiming the arrival of a spring storm, Mr. Dashwood’s presence reverberated throughout the house, sending Kitty into a flustered frenzy of preparations she’d thought she had more time to complete. Elizabeth had left her upstairs rushing to make up her toilette, torn between equally violent desires to perfect her appearance and have done with it.
Elizabeth believed, however, that she could forgive Mr. Dashwood nearly anything with an earnest devotion to Kitty as its motive. She gestured toward the flowers. “Shall I deliver those to Kitty now, or would you prefer to present them to her yourself?”
“Oh, please take them now, with my most sincere compliments.”
“Those I will leave you to tender yourself, as I surely possess neither the inspiration nor the eloquence of their true author.”
She was spared the trip by the immediate entrance of Kitty herself, wearing an entirely different gown than the one in which Elizabeth had seen her just minutes earlier. Her hair was attractively arranged, though swept into a much simpler style than the maid had been working on when Elizabeth left to greet their visitor.
Mr. Dashwood presented his flowers and compliments to the lady, who accepted both with equal delight.
“I adore daffodils! Are they from Norland’s gardens?”
“Covent Garden, I’m afraid. My trip to Norland did, however, inspire the gift. The daffodils and crocuses were in bloom, and as I walked the grounds, I found myself thinking of you and wishing you could see them. I consulted my gardener about bringing some back for you, but we both doubted they would survive the journey from Sussex.”
“If they arrived utterly wilted, I should have valued them. But I do appreciate these.” She admired the bouquet again before relinquishing it to a servant for placement in a vase.
They were joined presently by Darcy and Georgiana, and soon went down to dinner. Mr. Dashwood enquired how Kitty had kept busy in his absence. She rattled off their list of entertainments.
“I declare, Miss Bennet,” he said when she’d finished, “you have been more engaged in a single day than I was the entire se’nnight.”
“Did you conclude your business at Norland?” Darcy asked.
“Yes and no. I handled the affairs that originally took me there, but it seemed that with every dispatch, another item of business arose to take its place.”
Darcy nodded, his eyes reflecting perfect understanding. “As your father no doubt taught you, proper management of an estate requires constant vigilance. Even when in town, I maintain close communication with my steward. Rarely do more than two days pass without a letter between us.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Dashwood appeared surprised by the revelation. He seemed about to say more, but Kitty spoke.
“I hope these new matters won’t force you to leave again?”
“Actually, I intend to return to Norland three weeks hence.”
Disappointment clouded Kitty’s face. “So very soon?”
“Yes, but for another reason entirely. My twenty-first birthday approaches, and I’ve decided to celebrate with a country house party at Norland. It is my dearest hope, Miss Bennet, that you and your family will honor me with your company.”
“Lizzy, may we go? Do say we might!”
Elizabeth cast Kitty a mild look that bade her show a little restraint.
“The grand fête will be Friday the thirtieth,” Mr. Dashwood continued. “I am inviting most of the guests to arrive on Wednesday, but I would be delighted if you could come on Tuesday so that I might show Miss Bennet—show all four of you—Norland before the house becomes crowded.”
Kitty held her tongue but now begged just as passionately with her eyes.
Of course they would attend. Elizabeth would hardly deny Kitty the opportunity to see the home of a man with whom she seemed to be forming an attachment. But, wanting to keep her younger sister in suspense a bit longer, she glanced to Darcy “That is after Easter. Does not the London season pick up once Lent has passed?”
“It does. There will be balls, and masquerades, and many more routs.”
She nodded gravely. “Perhaps we ought not leave town just as much of the ton is arriving.”
Kitty appeared ready to burst. “Oh, forget the silly ton!”
Elizabeth raised her brows, her astonishment only half-exaggerated. That statement would never have issued from her sister’s lips two weeks earlier. “Are you not afraid of missing something momentous in our absence?”
“For heaven’s sake, Lizzy! What could be more exciting than visiting Norland and celebrating Mr. Dashwood’s birthday?”
Mr. Dashwood, who had been following the exchange with amusement, seemed gratified by Kitty’s eagerness.
“I cannot imagine.” Elizabeth, unwilling to prolong Kitty’s torment further, smiled. “We happily accept your invitation, Mr. Dashwood.”
Harry’s face broke into an expression of elation. “I hope Norland offers much to interest you all. And should its pleasures prove insufficient, Brighton is not far.”
“Brighton? I have always longed to go to Brighton! Lizzy, might we—”
“Norland, yes. Brighton, no,” Darcy declared.
Elizabeth concurred. As far as she was concerned, their family had experienced quite enough of Brighton, the scene of Lydia’s disgrace. Thou
gh the Prince Regent’s fondness for the seaside resort drew the fashionable to it in flocks, Elizabeth had no desire ever to lay eyes on the place.
Kitty released a sigh of resignation. “I suppose it is too cold yet for seabathing anyway.”
“Perhaps on a future visit,” said Mr. Dashwood.
The implication that Kitty would be spending more time in Sussex eradicated her remaining disappointment. Anticipation lit her features once more. “I should like that.”
Mr. Dashwood, his attention now focused entirely on Kitty, failed to notice Darcy studying him. Darcy’s countenance was open, yet assessing, and Elizabeth wondered how Mr. Dashwood was faring in the evaluation. She rather liked him herself, and wanted to distract Darcy before their guest sensed he was on trial.
Playfulness still dominating her mood, she turned to Harry. “Mr. Dashwood, my husband has developed quite an interest in hunting of late. Since meeting Lord Hartford, he simply cannot hear enough sporting talk. Does Norland offer good quarry?”
She felt Darcy’s gaze shift to her. His expression thanked her profusely for reminding him of the longest social call he’d ever endured, and promised she’d pay for her raillery later. She responded with wide-eyed innocence.
“Yes, indeed! In fact, I plan numerous hunts and shooting outings during the week of the party. Are you partial to any particular game, Mr. Darcy?”
“No,” he said, his eyes still on Elizabeth. The slightest smile played at the corners of his mouth. “But apparently my wife is.”
Mr. Dashwood, mistaking Darcy’s meaning of “game,” regarded Elizabeth with surprise. “Do you hunt, Mrs. Darcy? We shall be too late for prime fox season, of course, but the pack will still give us a good run.”
She laughed. “I find it difficult enough to maintain my balance in a sidesaddle on flat ground.”
“You are a better rider than that,” Georgiana asserted.
Elizabeth realized Darcy’s sister had said little during the meal. Though handsome and accomplished by even the strictest standards, Miss Darcy disliked drawing notice and participated in many conversations primarily as an attentive listener. Some erroneously perceived her silence as arrogance, but Elizabeth recognized it as simple shyness.
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