The Matters at Mansfield

by Carrie Bebris

  Poor Miss de Bourgh. The risk of being caught enjoying herself was too great. The colonel escorted her back to Elizabeth.

  “You dance beautifully, Miss de Bourgh,” Lady Winthrop said. “I hope I have another opportunity to observe you this evening.”

  “I thank you for the compliment, but I fear I must disappoint your hopes. I rarely dance, and doubt even my cousin can persuade me to do so a second time tonight.” She looked back at the dance floor, where Miss Winthrop and Mr. Crawford were among a dozen couples beginning a reel. Anne’s expression suggested it was her own desire, rather than Lady Winthrop’s, being thwarted by her abstinence.

  “Perhaps some refreshment would revive your interest,” Elizabeth suggested. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, I have it on good authority that Riveton serves exceptional lemonade. Is that so?”

  “The finest. Would all of you ladies care to determine its quality for yourselves?”

  Lady Winthrop declined, citing the need for a word with her daughter when the current dance concluded, but Elizabeth and Miss de Bourgh accompanied the colonel to the next room, where a table offered lemonade and rout cakes. The beverage was soon pronounced by all three to be without equal. Lady Catherine would have approved.

  But her ladyship remained at cards, anticipating Anne’s imminent participation. Elizabeth wondered how much longer she would play before sending Darcy to fetch her daughter.

  The cessation of music in the ballroom heralded a break for the instrumentalists. Parched dancers took advantage of the lull and crowded the refreshment room. Anne having finished her lemonade, Colonel Fitzwilliam offered to refill her glass. When he returned, Mr. Crawford accompanied him.

  “Mrs. Darcy, Miss de Bourgh, this gentleman has begged an introduction to my fair cousins. May I present Mr. Henry Crawford?”

  “Indeed you may,” Elizabeth said. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Crawford, particularly after witnessing your performance in the ballroom.”

  “I do like a good ball. Have you danced yet this evening?”

  “I have not.”

  “By inclination or happenstance?”

  “My husband is in the card room, and most of the other gentlemen present have engaged unattached ladies for their partners, as they should. A married woman such as myself has no business dancing when there are single ladies wishing to do so.”

  “You are noble to your sex, but even the most altruistic person cannot be expected to deny herself the pleasure of dancing for the entire length of a ball. You must stand up with me for the next set. Surely Mr. Darcy will not object to your enjoying a dance while he amuses himself at cards.”

  Elizabeth suspected “amusement” hardly described what Darcy experienced just now, but she kept that thought to herself. “He would not frown upon my dancing, though he would likely prefer that my partner be someone with whom he is acquainted, and the young ladies present might take exception to my monopolizing one of the most eligible bachelors in the room.”

  “Again, this concern for your unwed counterparts! What is it about marriage that makes people so eager for others to enter that state as soon as they cross the threshold themselves? Very well. I withdraw my invitation, but only if Colonel Fitzwilliam will take it up, for your husband can have no opposition to your dancing with his cousin. What say you, Colonel?”

  “I would be honored to dance with Mrs. Darcy.”

  “There,” Mr. Crawford declared. “I, meanwhile, will satisfy your anxiety for the plight of single ladies in attendance by beseeching Miss de Bourgh to stand up with me. Will you, Miss de Bourgh?”

  Anne flushed. “I—I had not intended to dance again this evening.”

  “I beg you. Or at least, I beg your mercy. Will you not spare me the humiliation of being refused by two ladies in the space of two minutes?”

  Anne glanced toward the doorway. “I do not think it a good idea.”

  Elizabeth resented Lady Catherine anew. Even from another room, she managed to stifle all gaiety in her daughter. Anne deserved a few more minutes of happiness at the ball before Lady Catherine turned her coach into a pumpkin.

  Elizabeth touched Anne’s arm. “Your mother is occupied,” she said quietly. “Seize opportunity while you can.”

  Anne searched Elizabeth’s face, her own eyes reflecting confusion. “I am not certain I understand your meaning.”

  “An amiable gentleman has made you an offer. If it will make you happy, accept him.”

  “I—” She looked at Mr. Crawford a long moment. “I must beg you to excuse me, sir. When you approached, I had just been considering retiring to my chamber, which I now believe I will do.”

  “I hope naught is amiss. Have I offended you? If so—”

  “You have given no offense. I feel a trifle unwell. A headache. I think perhaps from the exertion of dancing earlier.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?” Elizabeth asked. “Or to summon Mrs. Jenkinson?”

  “No, I simply need to rest, and that is better done in solitude.”

  “Is there nothing we can do for your comfort?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said.

  “Please inform my mother and Mrs. Jenkinson that I have retired and wish not to be disturbed. But postpone the announcement if you can—my mother might insist on sending Mrs. Jenkinson to me, and I would rather be alone.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth could well understand Anne’s desire for respite without—and from—Mrs. Jenkinson and her hovering. She herself would have found the constant presence of a companion intrusive and intolerable.

  Anne turned back to Mr. Crawford. “Perhaps we will have an opportunity to dance together in the future, sir.”

  He bowed. “I look forward to it.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam offered her his arm. “At least allow me to escort you out of this crowd and see you safely to your room.”

  As Anne scurried off, the clock struck midnight.

  “Cinderella has left the ball,” Mr. Crawford said. His gaze followed Anne and the colonel until the crowd swallowed them from view, then turned to Elizabeth. “At least she had a chance to dance with one prince.”

  “I believe she would have accepted your invitation, were it not for her headache. Perhaps, as she said, another opportunity will arise. How long do you remain in the neighborhood?”

  “My uncle and I depart in the morning—he for London, I for Norfolk. Indeed, I intend to leave so early that we shall exchange farewells tonight.”

  “Do you return to Everingham?”

  Her question appeared to amuse him. “I do, but as neither I nor Colonel Fitzwilliam mentioned Everingham, I must now puzzle out how you came to know of it. I presume myself the subject of a conversation that occurred before we met, but with whom? Hold! Allow me to guess. Are you acquainted with Admiral Davidson?”

  “Only slightly. It was not he who revealed the name of your home.”

  “My uncle, then?”

  She shook her head. “A much newer acquaintance of yours.”

  “Lady Winthrop? Yes—I see from your expression that I am correct.”

  “Indeed, you are. But how did you know?”

  “I observed your earlier tête-à-tête. And why would I perceive such a thing while occupied on the dance floor? Either I could not help noticing a pretty woman, or I deliberately kept one eye on the mother of my partner. I shall leave it to your vanity to determine which.”

  “My vanity can have no influence on your motives, only on my perception of them.”

  Mr. Crawford had a charming manner, and after a few minutes’ further conversation with him she found herself regretting for Anne’s sake that her headache had forced her to retreat from his company. Conversation with him was easy, and Miss de Bourgh could benefit from greater confidence when interacting with those outside her most intimate circle.

  They parted, and soon after, Colonel Fitzwilliam returned to the ballroom. He reported that by the time Anne had reached her room, she had already seemed improved.

  Elizabeth wa
s glad to hear it. “Perhaps Anne will yet return to the ball tonight.”

  “I hope she does,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “I found her a surprisingly delightful partner, and should like to dance with her again. But in the meantime, I believe you agreed to stand up with me.” He extended his hand. “Unless you think we should go rescue your husband from the card room?”

  “We ought to.” She imagined to herself the conversation at Darcy’s table, and could not quite suppress a smile. “After this dance.”

  Four

  “I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship . . .”

  Mr. Collins, Pride and Prejudice

  Darcy shifted in his chair and stole what he hoped was a discreet glimpse at his pocketwatch. Midnight—a mere six minutes since his last covert glance. His suspicions were confirmed.

  He would die at this card table.

  Before evening’s end, his hair would prematurely grey, his muscles would atrophy in his chair, and his mind would utterly collapse under the exertion of attending Lord Sennex’s play as closely as his own. Quadrille had been the worst possible choice of game; the viscount was incapable of remembering not only the current trump suit for each hand, but also the resulting changes in card rankings. Indeed, his lordship, apparently unable to retain so much as which game they played, repeatedly attempted to capture tricks as if they competed at whist.

  Darcy wished they were playing whist—at the next table, with the viscount’s son. Not only was it a more straightforward game, but Mr. Sennex could have shared the responsibility of keeping his father focused. A son might more easily correct a member of the peerage without constant apprehension over inadvertently giving offense. However, their party had entered the card room while Mr. Sennex was in the middle of a rubber, and Lady Catherine had seized the opportunity to form the only table devoted to the outmoded game of her youth.

  A self-satisfied smile crossed her ladyship’s countenance as she led the final trick of the hand. Everyone waited for Lord Sennex, who sat on her right, to set down his sole remaining card. Play in quadrille, unlike whist, moved counterclockwise.

  When it moved at all.

  After eight hands, one would think Lord Sennex could retain at least that simple fact, but like most subjects, his grasp of it seemed to surface only at irregular intervals.

  “My lord?” Darcy finally prompted.

  “Oh—it is my turn! Of course.” He dropped his card onto the table. “Remind me again—which tour is this?”

  “We are just ending the second.”

  “Of how many?”

  “Ten.”

  Ten tours. Forty hands. Though the players could have agreed upon a shorter game, Lady Catherine had insisted upon the customary number. By the time they finished this contest, Darcy would be hosting Lily-Anne’s betrothal ball.

  Miss Jenkinson played her own remaining card and Darcy quickly followed. He hoped his impatience did not show.

  To compound the ordeal, it seemed Darcy’s lot to repeatedly draw Lord Sennex as his partner. Darcy had been dealt fair hands, but none strong enough to take the minimum six tricks solo. So each time he won the bid, he called a king to form a temporary alliance with whoever held the named card. The unknown ally’s identity was supposed to be revealed through play that supported the caller, but the instances in which the viscount helped Darcy capture tricks were entirely accidental. Lord Sennex’s inattention had caused Darcy to lose three hands—and considerable additional stakes in penalty.

  Lady Catherine and Miss Jenkinson, in contrast, somehow managed to call each other’s kings each time either of them won the bid. Not only were the two ladies more practiced players of quadrille than the gentlemen, but their countless evenings thus spent at Rosings attuned them so precisely to each other’s particular style of play that when partnered they formed an unstoppable alliance. They had declared and won the vole—taken all ten tricks—each time, collecting bonus winnings in addition to the hands’ original pools.

  While the secrecy and changing allegiances of quadrille utterly confused the viscount, Lady Catherine thrived on them.

  Darcy understood why it was her favorite game.

  Her ladyship collected the trick, adding it to the nine in front of her.

  “We won another vole!” Lord Sennex exclaimed. “You may call my king again anytime.”

  “My lord, I named a king I held myself—the king of clubs.”

  “Did you now? I thought you called the king of diamonds.”

  “That was the previous hand, my lord.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, nothing to do about it now. So you called a king to make us think you had an ally, when in fact you secretly played solo? Very clever, I daresay. You are a formidable opponent, Lady Anne.”

  An awkward silence followed. Darcy was unsure whether Lord Sennex had confused Lady Catherine with her sister, the late Lady Anne, or with Lady Catherine’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh.

  His aunt’s expression indicated similar uncertainty.

  No one ventured to correct the viscount outright.

  “You will no doubt find my daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, an able cardplayer. I cannot imagine what prevents her from joining us. I begin to suspect that Mrs. Darcy forgot to inform her that we await her here.”

  “Mrs. Darcy may be relied upon to deliver the message,” Darcy said. Whether she delivered it in a fashion Lady Catherine would consider timely was another matter entirely.

  “Anne is very fond of quadrille. We play at Rosings whenever we can make up a table.”

  “I cannot say that I care for it,” said the viscount. “Never knowing who is one’s ally and who is one’s foe, the rules changing with each hand, and one’s strength dependent upon the random collection of cards one is dealt. Now chess—chess is my game: a clear contest between two equally matched foes, facing each other across a defined battlefield where each man has his role and the challenge ends when one of the primaries falls. My favorite piece is the rook—the only one that can castle with the king. I do not suppose Miss de Bourgh plays chess?”

  “No. But had she learned, I am sure she would be a skillful player.”

  His lordship sighed. “She knows only cards, I suppose. Does she play whist? Neville favors whist.”

  “She does. Mr. Sennex will find her a worthy partner in all respects.”

  Precisely when Mr. Sennex might have occasion to engage in a game of whist with Miss de Bourgh or anyone else in their party, Darcy could not speculate. A match certainly would not occur this evening. He was firmly entrenched at his own table and had not so much as glanced in his father’s direction since they sat down.

  Lady Catherine collected her winnings. While they had agreed to low stakes, bonuses for the vole and solo win had made this a relatively expensive hand. Miss Jenkinson’s previous successes kept her well in the black, but the viscount remitted his fish wistfully, the sting of loss all the sharper for not collecting a partner’s share of the win to which he thought he had contributed.

  Darcy eyed his own dwindling stack of counters. His pocketbook could certainly afford the losses; for that matter, so could his self-respect. This was his aunt’s game, and she had bested him many an evening in her own drawing room. Whatever he might think of Lady Catherine herself, her command of quadrille was without question, and in any contest there was no shame in losing to a superior opponent. He knew he should simply resign himself to an unsatisfying game, execute the motions of play without thoughts of victory. But for Darcy, playing at all meant playing to win. It was not in his character to perform at less than full measure in any endeavor, and he could no more underplay a hand and decline the challenge posed by each fresh round of cards than neglect any other test of intellect that presented itself.

  His aunt placed a counter and fish into the ba
sket and shuffled the cards for a new deal. Darcy and Miss Jenkinson also anted. Lord Sennex nodded and smiled.

  “The opening stake, my lord?” Darcy prompted.

  “What? Oh! Yes, yes.” The viscount dropped his counter into the basket with the others and chuckled. “Cannot have anyone accuse me of being light.”

  Darcy collected his cards. It was a strong hand; if he took the bid he could probably win without a partner. Strategically, the other three players would form a tacit alliance, working together to prevent his success so that they could split the pool if he failed, but that was part of the challenge.

  He waited for Lord Sennex to open the bidding.

  And waited.

  “Your lordship possesses the eldest hand,” Darcy finally prompted.

  Lord Sennex regarded him oddly, then glanced at his own wrinkled fingers. “I suppose I do.”

  “Do you care to bid?”

  “Oh! No, I pass.”

  Darcy won the right to declare trump, and play proceeded to the accompaniment of Lady Catherine’s unremitting discourse.

  “Have you ever visited Kent, my lord?”

  “I do not believe I have.”

  “You will find it beautiful country. I confess that I missed the northern landscapes when I first wed Sir Lewis and moved to Rosings, but now I feel equally at home in both settings. Anne will be the same, when she has been mistress of her own home for a while. A woman adjusts rapidly to new surroundings, provided she marries within her sphere.”

  Darcy heard this last statement as a deliberate slight to Elizabeth, whom Lady Catherine yet resented for her perceived usurpation of Anne’s rightful place as his wife, but he ignored the remark rather than dignify it with the response she sought to provoke. He instead would exact reprisal in the form of a more direct blow to his aunt’s overweening pride. A sound defeat in this hand, delivered while she rattled on about a hypothetical future home of which Anne was in no way of becoming mistress anytime soon, would constitute a fair requital.