“What an interesting choice of menu, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mrs. Hurst, as the second course was laid out before them.
It was in fact an unfashionable menu, as even Darcy (who kept up with fashion only because its dictates were thrust upon him in almost every recent letter he received from his sister) recognized. None of the recipes hailed from the Continent, nor did their Cook or their serving ware. The table was laden only with those staples of English cooking which, when done well were hearty but uninteresting, and when done badly, were all the more reason to move from the dining room to the drawing room as quickly as possible. They were fortunate, at least, to have a competent cook (even if she was English and female), and Elizabeth seemed to know well enough what foods would have the most flavor during these late winter months, when nothing was fresh except the game.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hurst,” replied Elizabeth with a mischievous smile. “With winter upon us, we could only procure pigeons for Mrs. Hodges to stew. It is not white fricassee of chicken, but it is an old country recipe.” She arched an eyebrow at her sister, who tried and failed to hide a laugh. “I hope your husband, Jane, will be satisfied.”
“I once told Elizabeth,” explained Mrs. Bingley to her husband, “how much you enjoyed country cooking.”
“Oh, Charles, you really ought to give up your country habits while in town,” Miss Bingley said before picking up her own fork, trying a piece, and wrinkling her nose. “I am surprised, Mrs. Darcy, that you do not have a French chef.”
Darcy barely kept from rolling his eyes. Now that Elizabeth had wed, the unmarried Miss Bingley had been forced by the rules of precedence to give up the condescending nickname of Eliza, and had instead taken to emphasizing the title Mrs. with a sneer each time she said it.
“We have retained the cook Mr. Darcy has employed since well before our marriage. I believe I heard you tell Jane last winter how very much you enjoyed Mrs. Hughes’ cooking, and so it is I who must express surprise, Miss Bingley, at your wanting us to find a replacement.”
Miss Bingley glared at Elizabeth, who merely smiled in return.
Darcy was torn between laughter and censure. As much as he enjoyed seeing Caroline Bingley receive a good set down, there could be no other positive outcome (aside from a moment’s pleasure) to angering her. What she said during her calls might very well reach Matlock House, and though in most cases, Lord Matlock would pay little heed to the likes of Caroline Bingley, Darcy suspected his uncle might consider criticism from any quarters as having merit in the very particular case of Elizabeth Darcy.
Darcy had seen enough of Richard during their first fortnight in London to know that Lord Matlock was in no hurry to acknowledge him, much less Elizabeth. Even Richard had not called at Darcy House but had confined his visits to the various clubs that, during most winters, Darcy would never have considered attending. This winter, however, was different.
God only knew how much he wished they had stayed at Pemberley. In years past, he had opened Darcy House for a month or two, and for one purpose only: to see Richard and Bingley, who had hitherto resided in London, and to spend time with Georgiana, who had attended a seminary in town for the previous three years. He had belonged to clubs but rarely attended; gone to balls, but only the few where he had believed he could be of service to Bingley as he made his way into society; and visited Lord and Lady Matlock and their closest friends because it was his duty. As soon as propriety allowed, he had escaped the city, grateful to be returning to Pemberley, where he might do what he loved and knew best.
That he had to spend the early months of his marriage in this place would have bothered him less if he and Elizabeth had been free to do as they pleased. Had they spent their mornings reading, their afternoons walking the parks or visiting the galleries, and their evenings at the theater or at home, he would have been willing to revise his opinion of London. But already, after only a fortnight, their days and evenings had a kind of forced-march quality to them, dictated wholly by the whims of those who called and whose calls had to be returned. Only their nights belonged to them, and he took advantage of that time with all the energy and passion of a man who loved his wife.
Whatever his wishes, he was here, in London—and for a very specific purpose. He and Elizabeth both were committed to doing whatever they could to convince Lord Matlock to return Georgiana to their custody without a legal battle. For Elizabeth, this meant spending hours each day in consultation with Mrs. Annesley, the widowed friend of his late mother and Elizabeth’s paid companion. How they filled their time, Darcy was never exactly sure, though he knew the generalities from both Elizabeth’s humorous tales of her drawing room adventures, as well as the many bills he began to receive from the modistes and milliners of Mayfair. The money was, in the grander scheme, hardly worth mentioning, except that Elizabeth expressed regret so often for the expenses that he almost wished he might tell her to stop spending so that he could spare them both the embarrassment of her apologies.
For Darcy, his commitment to Georgiana meant swallowing some of his vaunted pride and making conversation with the kinds of men his uncle considered important: feeble old aristocrats with more teeth than sense (and they had not that many teeth left), coxcombs who might speak for half an hour on the best fabric for waistcoats but looked blank as a slate when asked their opinion on the war on the Continent or the crop-killing frosts in parts of the Midlands, and Members of Parliament who knew all about wars and agriculture, so long as this knowledge gave them an advantage in the latest debates before their peers.
He should have been grateful that, having given up bachelorhood, he could at least avoid these men’s wives and daughters—and he was all too happy to give up being the recipient of the many subtle and not-so-subtle hints he had once received about marriage. Still, at least in these women’s drawing rooms, he had been able to enjoy occasionally intelligent conversations about music and literature. For the most part, though, the drawing room was as ugly a place as the clubs—full of self-serving talk that Darcy would have preferred to do without. And he shuddered to think of how Elizabeth would fare among these people whom he had at one time believed to be superior to the country busybodies he had met in Meryton. Now he had come to understand they were simply the same class of people, except that they ate dinner at different times and wore differing amounts of silk and satin.
Mrs. Annesley, who had joined them for dinner, cleared her throat and said, “I am certain, Miss Bingley, that Mrs. Darcy is grateful for your suggestions about the household. Do you know of any chefs who may be looking for a position?”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, and Darcy waited with as much interest as dread for her rebuttal of Mrs. Annesley’s inquiry, but his wife only reached for her wine and took a long drink from the glass.
Miss Bingley sat taller and gave the widow a simpering smile. “I do not, Mrs. Annesley, but if I should hear of any possibilities, I will be sure to inform Mrs. Darcy, who I know requires a little tutelage in the ways of town life. You must have had a French chef at your family home, Ma’am. I once heard tell that your father, the Viscount Milford, hosted the very best dinner parties.”
Darcy managed to keep his countenance impassive, but Elizabeth visibly winced. Mrs. Annesley’s father had indeed been a Viscount, and it had been his lavish dinner parties, among other things, that had led to a diminished dowry and a rather poor match to the second son of a baron for his daughter. Mr. Annesley had at least had money, but not the sense to know how to keep it, which explained why his good lady now sat at their table as a paid companion after her feckless husband’s death.
Mrs. Annesley, however, gave no sign of pain; indeed, her smile was serene, fixed on her face quite as firmly as her eyebrows and nose. “Yes, but that was a very long time ago.”
Miss Bingley turned to Darcy. “What a very clever idea you had, Mr. Darcy, inviting Mrs. Annesley to be Mrs. Darcy’s companion. I am sure she will be such a help, given your wife’s innocence with the ways of proper socie
ty.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “Given all my time with you at Netherfield, Miss Bingley, I could hardly claim to be entirely innocent.”
Mrs. Annesley frowned at Elizabeth, who in turn blushed and looked down at her plate.
“Excuse me, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said, her eyes still downcast.
Darcy blinked, not quite sure he could believe that this diffident woman was his wife.
“Oh, I understand your ways, Mrs. Darcy, and am too used to them to be offended in the slightest.” Miss Bingley waved a hand in dismissal. “For some, I suppose it takes time to become accustomed to the more polished ways of society, though I must say your dear sister Jane has adjusted quite admirably.”
Mrs. Bingley did not appear pleased with the compliment.
“I am certain,” said Bingley, attempting to sound jolly, “that you will each dazzle the many people you meet while in town. I, for one, can unequivocally declare that the society of Meryton has produced two very accomplished young ladies, and our friends in town will be only too pleased to know you!”
“Certainly your time in town will be instructive,” said Mrs. Hurst. “I expect your younger sisters will benefit from the wisdom you gain here.”
“Indeed, I rather hope so,” said Miss Bingley. “I am certain dear Jane has told you, Mrs. Darcy, of your youngest sister’s behavior these past few months?”
Elizabeth had finally raised her gaze, but upon seeing the pinched look about her eyes, Darcy almost wished she had maintained her abnormally passive bearing.
“I have heard a little of it,” she said. Then, abruptly, she turned to Mrs. Annesley. “I suppose now is the appropriate moment in the conversation to change the subject? Well, you must forgive me, but I will give Miss Bingley what she wants and ask her to elaborate on her rather subtle hint that my sister has acted badly. I am, if nothing else, a generous hostess.”
That silenced Miss Bingley, and brought a deep flush to Mrs. Annesley’s face—a real feat, for Darcy had long suspected that lady had trained herself out of showing any emotion outside the appropriate range of moderately disappointed to mildly pleased.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “Mrs. Annesley, forgive me.” Then, she managed a feeble laugh. “It seems I am bound to apologize to each of you in turn at some point this evening.”
She did not look at him while saying this, for which he was grateful, as he knew he would be unable to keep that nasty combination of confusion, annoyance, and fear from marring his own countenance. Elizabeth—his Elizabeth, who had always seemed equal to any conversation in any company—had lost control of the situation. If she could not handle a dinner party with those she knew well, how would she fare in front of his uncle and aunt?
It was Jane Bingley who took charge then, saying something soothing about the weather and then beginning a discussion of the imminent arrival of spring that managed to bring almost everyone, even Hurst (who disliked mud on his boots, flowers that caused him to sneeze, and wind that misaligned his hat), into the conversation. Darcy and Elizabeth were exceptions, and so it was up to Jane and Bingley to bring the meal to a close and move the group to the drawing room (with only a perfunctory separation of the sexes, and only then for the sake of Mrs. Annesley, who had been shocked quite enough for the evening).
The change of scene seemed to improve Elizabeth’s mood, or at least give her the energy to exert herself, for almost immediately upon entering the drawing room, she managed a smile and a kindly spoken invitation to Miss Bingley to entertain them on the pianoforte.
“I would be only too happy to perform, if only you will turn pages for me, Mrs. Darcy.”
Elizabeth acquiesced and followed her guest to the instrument. Darcy tried not to stare at his wife as she stood for the next quarter hour, silent, grave and entirely focused on her duty as a page turner. Miss Bingley had chosen a long and technical piece, and Darcy found himself comparing her to Miss Mary, who also had a penchant for showing off in the drawing room, and his own sister, who had to be begged to play a piece longer than two minutes before any company other than himself. Caroline Bingley equaled his sister in technical proficiency, and certainly bested Miss Mary in almost all aspects of performance. Yet he could not but wish it had been one of their sisters, rather than Bingley’s, who sat at the pianoforte this evening. Certainly he would have preferred his own sister, but even to have Miss Mary with her obvious striving and awkward assertiveness would have been something of a gift, for she would not have provoked Elizabeth into appearing so serious and sad.
When finally Miss Bingley was finished, the usual compliments were given, and Miss Bingley said, with all the officiousness of a lady too often used to praise, “I am sure my playing is nothing compared to some other ladies’. Oh, Louisa, do tell Mr. Darcy how we saw his sister perform this very sonata just two days ago at Lady Havisham’s? We were of course so pleased to see Miss Darcy, were we not?”
Darcy frowned. “Surely you have mistaken her with someone else. She so rarely plays in public.”
“Oh, no indeed! How could we possibly mistake Miss Darcy for anyone else? There are no young ladies equal to her, to be sure!”
“Indeed there are not,” agreed Mrs. Hurst, “and we had the most pleasant conversation with her afterward.”
Miss Bingley, still at the piano bench, smiled up at Elizabeth. “I do not believe you have met Miss Darcy, have you, Mrs. Darcy?”
He saw how Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, and was inordinately glad for this show of anger. He no longer cared what Caroline Bingley said to other members of the Ton; he hoped Elizabeth would put the dratted woman in her place. Everyone in the room knew by now that the Matlocks had cut Elizabeth and would not see her or Darcy until their daughter Sophia’s marriage to the Earl of Sheffield. Even Mrs. Annesley could not have objected to a sharp retort to such an obvious attempt to wound.
But Elizabeth only allowed her eyes to flutter close for the briefest of moments before forcing a wan smile to her lips. “No, I have not had that pleasure.”
“I do hope you are granted an opportunity to meet her,” replied Miss Bingley. Then, she gasped and said, “Have I kept you standing this entire time? Oh, do forgive me. Allow me to turn pages for you now. I remember how well Mr. Darcy enjoyed your performance at Sir Lucas’s house those many months ago.”
Such kind words—had tone, context, and intentions nothing to do with kindness.
Elizabeth sat down silently, and had only just chosen a piece of music when Miss Bingley said, “Oh, that little air is so very charming! I remember playing it when I began my musical studies.”
Again, he saw the twitch in Elizabeth’s jaw and waited for the insult Miss Bingley so dearly deserved, but no words came. Instead, she propped the music on the stand and placed her fingers (did they tremble, or was that a trick of his imagination?) on the keys. She had not played more than a line or two before Miss Bingley began chattering.
“This reminds me of the jig we heard played at the most recent Meryton assembly, does it not, Louisa? You know, that dance during which Miss Lydia danced her third set with Mr. Wickham?”
“Oh, I know exactly the piece you mean,” said Mrs. Hurst.
She might have said more except Jane Bingley began coughing rather loudly. “Do excuse me,” she said, after catching her breath. “No, Elizabeth, do not stop playing on my account, I am quite well and only too sorry for interrupting your lovely playing.”
The sisters shared the briefest of smiles before Elizabeth resumed the piece.
“Yes, I was quite surprised to see them dance together so often,” continued Miss Bingley, failing to turn the page so that Elizabeth fumbled and had to flip the page herself.
“As was I,” said Mrs. Hurst, “particularly with the rumors of Mr. Wickham’s impending marriage.”
“Oh, you ladies are always predicting marriages,” said Mr. Bingley with a forced laugh.
“I would not say they have a perfect record as far as that is concerned,�
� said Darcy, earning him a flash of those laughing eyes he had missed the entire evening. This was incentive enough for him to continue talking, though he also had no desire to hear anything at all about Wickham’s rumored engagement, or Miss Lydia’s lack of decorum. Having had enough experience with both Wickham’s notions of marriage and Miss Lydia’s impropriety, he much preferred to return to any sort of banter that might bring his wife back to herself.
Yet when it came to devising diverting topics of discussion, he was as inept as he had always been. His wife’s tutoring in the ways of delightful conversation seemed only to apply to their tête à têtes and not to more general conversation. He had almost resorted to discussing Netherfield’s preparations for the planting season ahead—a topic not likely to interest anyone other than himself; even Bingley loathed discussing the actual running of his estate—when again Miss Bingley took the reins.
“Certainly I cannot claim to understand why some men choose the wives they do. Your sister, Mrs. Darcy, has many charms, I am sure, but I do think it would behoove you or Jane to give her a little friendly advice: her charms alone may not be enough for a man in Mr. Wickham’s situation.”
Elizabeth slammed her hands against the keys, the discordant notes causing Miss Bingley to jump back in alarm. “As you are so full of good advice this evening, Miss Bingley, might you tell me how I am to bring this evening to a close without being terribly rude to you? Oh, dear, it seems I have already failed at that.” Standing abruptly, she turned to the rest of the party. “I said I would apologize to each of you tonight, and so I will prove myself true in that respect, at least. Forgive me, and good night.”
Then she escaped the room with all the haste one might expect of a woman humiliated—except if that one were Darcy, who had once believed Elizabeth incapable of ever leaving a room on any terms except her own.
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 30
