“Saw you that look she gave him? She will be laughing at us all tomorrow.”
“Weeping, more like, when she has learnt that Darcy’s money ain’t enough to buy her friends in this company.”
Whittaker shrugged elegantly.
“Lord, if that ain’t Foxwell!” cried the baronet. “He has aged in looks by twice the number of years since I last saw him.”
“We have not all had the benefit of the American climate,” said Whittaker, with a laugh not quite pleasing to the other man.
“We meet again, Mr. Foxwell. Good evening to you, sir,” drawled Sir Graham.
“You are returned to England, Sir Graham.” Foxwell’s coldness caused a lift of an elegant eyebrow from Whittaker and a lowering of that of the baronet. Almost snarling, he said: “Of all men, Darcy is the last I would have expected to be such a fool, Foxwell. Hmm?”
“I am vastly pleased with him, Sir Graham. Mr. Darcy has provided me with possibly the only avenue to meet a very charming lady.”
“Come now, Foxwell. You know him as well as any. Did you anticipate such a caper from Darcy, of all men?”
“You lacerate me, dear sir,” interrupted Whittaker, with a yawn. “Have you no poetry in your soul?”
Sir Graham snorted. “The Italians manage these things better. The arrangement of marrying is often best left to one’s relations.” He allowed a pause, more uncomfortable for Foxwell than he could have known, before continuing: “I hear a whisper that one of Darcy’s relations is somewhat public in her displeasure.”
Foxwell winced. ‘At this moment, Reginald has probably arrived home,’ he thought. ‘Even now, he may be in conference with our father.’
Whittaker cut in on his thoughts. “You have met Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Foxwell? Won’t you be so kind as to introduce me?” Foxwell bowed and even Sir Graham gave an agreeing shrug.
The three men crossed the upper end of the room towards the small group to whom Darcy was introducing Elizabeth. She turned with pleasure to greet Mr. Foxwell, who then gestured behind him.
“Mrs. Darcy, may I present Sir Graham Eston?” he said, but Eston had walked past them. Elizabeth’s colour heightened slightly.
Foxwell added hastily, “This is Mr. Whittaker. Whittaker, Mrs. Darcy.”
She turned a charming smile upon her new acquaintance. Sir Graham Eston seemed forgotten with the flow of Foxwell’s humour, as irrepressible as at their first meeting. Even Whittaker’s foppishness was totally forgiven. Her wit sparkled, and as she laughed the gems in her hair sparkled with the bobbing of her curls. All the while she felt Darcy’s presence as keenly as if they were touching. The baronet’s rudeness she could laugh off for herself, but not for her Darcy. Had she looked at him, she would have seen he was white with anger.
The orchestra’s change of melody signalled the beginning of the dance. She glanced up and Darcy bowed and put his hand out to her, just as Mr. Whittaker bowed and requested the same honour.
“Thank you, sir, but I am already engaged for this dance.”
“Then, madam, will you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”
“With pleasure.”
Elizabeth stood opposite Darcy in the set. As he straightened from his bow, he caught the flash of a question in her eyes before she smiled. As they circled each other, he said:
“You have encountered a man whom I despise. He is beneath your notice and thus lacks the capability to offend with his insults.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Exactly so,” he replied.
They drew more than one curious pair of eyes. In the autumn, rumours of Darcy’s engagement to a girl of insignificant connections and no fortune had astounded his acquaintances. His fastidiousness was well-known and oft-lamented; yet how susceptible he had proved at last.
She smiled at the sight of a cluster of people hovering near a lady of middle years. Their facial expressions were calculated to express infinite boredom, but somehow the anxious hope of being noticed betrayed them.
“Who is that lady, Fitzwilliam?” He followed her glance.
“The Marchioness of Englebury, my love.”
“Truly? That is Lady Englebury?” One of England’s most celebrated characters, a woman of immense intellect and incalculable influence at court, was embodied in a dumpy little form, indifferently adorned.
“A woman of such reputation! She looks so … commonplace.”
“Indeed, yet you picked her out from this crowd.”
“So I did! I shall tell Papa I saw her. He reads out her bon mots from the newspaper.”
They danced on. When they spoke, she felt, in the slight lean of his body, a shift of his whole being towards her in total attentiveness. She felt a lifting sensation in her spine, a sudden pride in this man, in his person, and in the exclusiveness of his accessibility. She was learning, too, that her very manner when passing behind him in the dance, in looking away and looking back at him he found immeasurably erotic.
When the dance ended, a young woman came to the marchioness’s side.
“Dear Aunt, there is someone here I would wish you to know. I encountered her at the Foxwells on Tuesday. Will you meet her? She is wondrous witty.”
“Amelia, I am here for nought but to give countenance to your tedious cousin, Cecile. Mere mention of your Foxwells and those other dull friends of Mr. Courtney adds to my torments.” Amelia took her aunt’s arm and pressed close to her side. Her green eyes looked laughingly into her aunt’s face.
“Don’t give me such looks, pray! Amelia, I would that you abandon these wheedling ways.”
“Will you not do me one small favour, Aunt, when I have always striven to please you?”
“Humph!”
“I will read that book you gave me. There!”
“Introduce her to me then, but be warned, I give her just two minutes of my time.”
Thus, after she had been in London but three days, Elizabeth met the formidable Marchioness of Englebury. Elizabeth, while fascinated by this opportunity, had no more expectation from the exchange than the other lady. Yet something about the girl intrigued the marchioness, who saw that, despite her essential vitality, Elizabeth had a way of holding herself still that spoke of fearlessness. She liked the intelligence in the beautiful dark eyes and a promising piquancy around the mouth.
“I am to wish you joy, I believe,” declared the old lady.
“That is the convention in our present circumstances,” said Elizabeth.
“Then I wish you joy.” Her eyes moved on at last and she nodded up at Darcy. “I hope you will both be very happy.”
A change in the tempo of the music informed the crowd of the beginning of the next dance. Mr. Whittaker appeared at Elizabeth’s side to claim her as his partner. With the extravagance of his bow, scent wafted out, and he said:
“My dear Marchioness,
Tho’ to see you is my heart’s delight,
I now whisk this lady from your sight.”
Lady Englebury snorted.
“Mrs. Darcy,” she said, “Mrs. Courtney may bring you to see me, one morning, when you find yourself at liberty from your wedding visits.”
“I thank you, ma’am.”
The news of Lady Englebury’s invitation whirled around the room much faster than Mrs. Darcy whirled into the dance with her new partner. Elizabeth knew nothing of this. She was caught up by the music, her delight in the dance, and by the entertainment of analysing a new and beguiling acquaintance.
At five and twenty, Mr. Whittaker was a man of virtue. The virtues he possessed consisted of blond good looks and a pleasing financial competency. He provided Elizabeth with some interesting, if not altogether credible, information about their fellow dancers.
At one stage in the dance, a young lady floated past, the epitome of fashionable lethargy. Elizabeth thought she caught the glimmer of a smile flashed to Mr. Whittaker, but it vanished, like a ripple on a still pond, leaving her lovely face as impassive as before.
&
nbsp; “Who on earth was that?” asked Whittaker. “Most people wake up in the morning. She merely opens her eyes.”
Elizabeth laughed, irresistibly drawn in by his venom, and said:
“There is a line with the fineness of a razor’s edge between the states of elegance and unconsciousness. I have not yet dared to tread it.”
She felt his laughing gaze stroke her face. “No,” he said. “I believe that is one fine line you never tread.”
At the end of the dance, he said: “May I have the honour of introducing my sister to you?”
He led her to the very same young lady whom he had affected not to know. Elizabeth gave him an accusatory look, in the face of which he smiled the smile of an innocent. Looking at them standing together, Elizabeth wondered that she had not spotted their relationship. They were both tall, with the same fair complexions and Grecian features. Even in their grey eyes, she detected a similarity of expression.
The evening was crowded with incident. Elizabeth despaired of remembering all the people she met. She danced every dance, and spent little time with her husband apart from a few minutes between dances, when he could find her. As she danced, Elizabeth caught glimpses of Darcy walking about, engaged in conversation, then standing alone. Finally he exerted himself to dance. This was just the behaviour she had found so supercilious in the early days of their acquaintance, and she smiled.
How easy she found it! Every person introduced to her seemed to have another friend longing for her acquaintance. Yet her Aunt Gardiner had warned her not to take it to heart if she found herself snubbed somewhat, at first, by the London Ton.
Lord Reerdon escorted her in to supper, having been her partner for that dance. They sat at the bottom of the second table, Darcy almost opposite her. Fortunately, the aromas of pheasant and partridge soon competed with the odour of Lord Reerdon’s perspiration and Elizabeth found herself to be hungry.
As supper ended, the Twelfth Night entertainments began. To the sound of flute and drum the ‘attendants’ of the court ran in and assembled on the platform at the end of the room. The ‘Twelfth Cake’ was carried in. The sides of this massive concoction were sculptured like desert dunes, and on the top rode a miniature procession of figures representing the three Magi and their camels. A drumming brought silence and a boy unrolled a scroll and read aloud:
“Now the revelry comes.
For in this cake of plums
Is the coin for the King.
For his Queen the ring.
They’ll reign over us here,
Both commoner and peer.”
The cake was carried around in procession, before returning to the dais to be cut.
“Have you ever been King?” Elizabeth asked Darcy.
“Fortunately not. Rumour has it that aspiring kings bribe Lord Misrule for a chance at the coin.”
“Who plays his part?”
“Except for the King and Queen, they are all actors.”
The herald went on:
“So that justice may be,
Let Lord Misrule oversee!”
Through the door by the dais, leapt Lord Misrule. From his noisy welcome, it was clear that not much was expected in the way of justice. A team of footmen served cake first to the ladies, then replenished their trays to serve the gentlemen. Elizabeth noted how many eyes at the table watched the gentlemen pick through their sweet, in hope, or fear, of finding the coin.
Lord Misrule paced fiercely about the room until a shout of “The King!” alerted everyone to the whereabouts of the coin. Three hundred heads turned in the direction of the shout. There was a long drum roll. Nobody claimed the throne, although smothered giggles were heard from the centre table. The drums continued to rattle, rattle, rattle. Elizabeth found she was caught between laughter and a pitch of excitement.
Then, taking his time, Mr. Whittaker raised his hand and clicked his fingers to summon a footman, who pulled back his chair and dusted his lap. He rose, to loud applause.
“Whittaker will give us the best theatre of them all,” said Darcy.
Lord Misrule ran about the room, banging the floor with his staff, drawing attention back to himself. By some trick, he transformed his staff into a banner, and Elizabeth found she was one of many who gasped. Only then did he lead Mr. Whittaker to the dais. Elizabeth laughed at the solemnity with which the ‘king’ allowed the cloak to fall about his shoulders. He seemed almost to groan with the weight of the cardboard crown and braced his arm to receive the orb, made of gilded paste. Elizabeth could not but admire Whittaker’s imperial transformation, as he responded to the salutes of his fellow guests with a flourish of pure arrogance.
“I must say,” said Lord Reerdon, “he is very good.”
Lord Misrule bellowed, “Behold your king!” and the whole assembly rose to bow low.
The King seated himself on the throne, and there was a scraping of chairs as the guests all sat down. The pipers piped up and a little page boy entered. On a massive cushion he carried a ring, the diamonds of which would have been worth a king’s ransom were they real.
Then Lord Misrule spoke again:
“Here is the ring,
The page boy doth bring.
Let the King choose his bride
To rule by his side.”
The king was only expected to name the queen, but Mr. Whittaker had a reputation to keep up. Leaning back in his throne, he produced expectant laughter with a slight gesture of his hand. Then he drawled:
“Too fair to find fit compliment,
Shines a new star in our firmament.”
Several young ladies newly launched upon society were the object of speculative looks, in particular, a young lady with whom Mr. Whittaker had danced twice. He raised one limp hand to his forehead in grief:
“Tho’ first beheld this eventide,
Alas, another’s took her for his bride.”
Elizabeth looked at Darcy, her dark eyes alight with laughter, but she felt that the smile Darcy gave her at that moment was somehow forced, and he was not the only person who looked her way.
“As the colour of her gems, you see,
So glows my heart with jealousy.”
With a true actor’s gift, Mr. Whittaker paused again. Those lacking wit enough to solve the riddle needed only follow his eyes.
“Now I exert my kingly power
And take her from him for an hour.”
Lord Misrule paced across and bowed deeply before Elizabeth.
Before she had a chance to react, an objection was raised from another table. “Unfair! It is too long a parting for newlyweds.”
There were shouts of laughter, buried in coughs as Lady Reerdon frowned, always disapproving of jokes which threatened embarrassment to her guests.
With a shout, Lord Misrule declared:
“Choose again, O Lord my King.
This lady does not want your ring.
Have mercy; they were wed this day,
Another year I think she may.”
Over the top of hoots of laughter, another ‘courtier’ called out, from the dais:
“’Tis a man in haste, or sure of his sway,
Would wed on Topsy-Turvy Day.”
Lady Reerdon moved to rise, and the room fell silent. Elizabeth’s wit rose too quickly to check and she replied:
“It was on Twelfth Day not at all.
For we were wed when leaves did fall.”
This was rewarded with a standing ovation as she rose and followed Lord Misrule to the dais, and accepted her crown, cloak and ring. She turned, took the King’s offered hand and they stepped to the front of the dais; and, in answer to the shout “Behold your Queen!”, she accepted the deep obeisance of her court.
“Oh, Lizzy!” Kitty exclaimed. “Were you not dreadfully embarrassed?” She had come at two o’clock in the afternoon, finding her sister still at breakfast with her husband.
“Why should she be?” asked her brother-in-law. “She looked the part.”
“I own to fee
ling somewhat prominent, but it is remarkable to what one can accustom oneself.”
“How many people were there?”
“Three hundred or so. They next performed the play.”
“Was it very amusing?” asked Kitty eagerly.
“The usual Twelfth Night nonsense,” replied Darcy.
“Were there no more dances? Did you not dance, Lizzy, after they made you queen?”
“There were two more dances. The first I must dance with the king.”
“Did you like him?” Kitty looked guiltily at her brother-in-law, hoping he would not object to this.
“Mr. Whittaker?” said Elizabeth. “I cannot say. He is amusing certainly, but not, I think, altogether sincere. He is of a cynical turn and, I should imagine, very vain. I know not why he chose me. I fancy he would hate to attribute his choice to gallantry.”
Kitty found her eyes again wandering irresistibly to Darcy. His expression was impenetrable. Elizabeth continued: “We walked all the way up the set to the top, with all the other dancers bowing their deepest bows. Some of the ladies are very accomplished, sinking almost to the floor. Were I not so modest, I may have found the experience intoxicating.”
A Private Performance Page 6
