by Maria Grace
They shuffled back to accommodate him.
“What amusement might be had that offers no offense to anyone? It is no fine thing to amuse with vulgarities, it has been argued. It requires a superior character to entertain even the most delicate of ears. Only the finest among us might rise to that challenge.” Wickham bowed with a flourish.
“I quite agree, sir.” Miss King edged a little closer to Wickham.
“So then, I issue a challenge to you, my fellow officers and other gentlemen. Let us entertain the good ladies here tonight with an overwhelming show of taste and good breeding.”
Nods and approving grunts issued from the gentlemen, although a few looked less pleased than Wickham over the arrangement. Maria Lucas clapped softly, encouraging the ladies to do likewise.
“Let us add just a small bit of sport to this. Miss King, would you be so good as to judge tonight whom you find the most pleasing. A bit of competition has always been known to bring out the best in gentlemen.”
“And what should the prize to the winner be?” Young Mr. Goulding called from the back of the group.
“A prize, yes a prize...” Wickham paced two steps forward and back, stroking his chin.
“You cannot have a contest without some prize or forfeit.” Lydia batted her eyes.
“Indeed you are correct, Miss Lydia. Since the evening is in your honor Miss King, I say the prize should come from you. Would you favor the winner, with, let us say, two dances?”
Miss King giggled. “I should be quite honored. But who shall play for us?” She cast a quick glance toward Mary, her lip barely curled in a sneer.
Not Mary! Pray, not her! How ungracious to seal her good fortune by showcasing another’s flaws. Thoughtless and small-minded.
Wickham turned to Elizabeth and bowed. “Miss Bennet, would you be so good as to favor us with your playing at the conclusion of our challenge?”
“I ... ah ... certainly, I would be pleased to oblige, but I do not know that my talent is sufficient to the task.”
Miss King brightened visibly. “Not at all, you play delightfully. You must play Lord Byron’s Maggot for us. I declare it is quite my favorite dance.”
Of course that would be her request. What better opportunity to showcase her flirting skills, and her triumph over the other girls, than with that particular dance?
“May we prevail upon you for that favor?” Something about the way Wickham looked at her made it impossible to refuse him.
Mrs. King broke into the group. “Ladies, shall we to dinner now?”
Wickham offered Miss King his arm and followed Mrs. King. The other officers and young men did likewise until Elizabeth was left alone watching the others depart for the dining room.
That there should be gentlemen unequal to the number of ladies in the room was not at all unusual. But to be the one left without an escort was a far more infrequent and uncomfortable occurrence. She had anticipated Mr. Wickham would escort her, but it was Mary King’s night after all.
Still though ...
Best not dwell too much upon it. She followed the rest to the dining room.
The young people clustered together near the center of the table and provided merry conversation. Mr. Wickham deviated from proper decorum, not limiting his talk to Mary King on his left or Miss Goulding on his right, but addressing all who were easily within hearing. As he was easily the most diverting man at the table, no one complained at his rudeness for the general amusement offered them all.
How ironic that such a breach in propriety would make the young gentlemen’s attempts at propriety so very entertaining.
Across the table, Denny could be quite clever when he chose to exert himself. Sanderson’s wit proved somewhat wanting, but he too improved himself with the effort to ape Wickham. Young Mr. Goulding said little, but he clearly made himself a student of the exercise. His quick eyes followed the banter, likely cataloguing it for future use. Wickham seemed to notice and flourish under all the attention, rising to the occasion, providing an exemplar of how to well-please his company.
All told, dinner proved exceedingly agreeable, even if she had been largely left out of the fast moving conversations. One tiny question nagged, worrying at her good spirits like a horsefly in summer. Why had Mr. Wickham chosen this evening to demonstrate such exceedingly good manners?
At the end of the sweet course, Mrs. King escorted the ladies to the drawing room. Mary was asked to favor them on the pianoforte. No doubt she would enjoy the opportunity to display. But, at least this way Mary might make a spectacle of herself to only half as large an audience.
The other young ladies gathered at the far end of the room, leaving Mrs. King and her peers the seats nearer the fire.
Miss Goulding leaned forward and glanced back at the matrons. “I cannot believe how entertaining the gentlemen are tonight. Are these the same ones we have kept company with so many times before?”
“It is an impressive transformation, is it not?” Miss King tittered again.
Would that she would stop that stupid, insipid expression.
“What a good leader Mr. Wickham is,” Lydia said. “See how he has improved them all. I should think he will become a captain soon.”
That was not how militia rank worked. Elizabeth bit her lip. Correcting Lydia in public never went well.
“I think I shall thank him for the improvement he has wrought in our society,” Miss Goulding declared.
“Oh yes, I think we all must do so. How shall we best express our appreciation?” Miss King’s question should have been mild enough, but there was something vaguely bitter in her tone.
Elizabeth rose and left the others to decide best on how to thank Mr. Wickham. She wandered to a bookshelf and picked up a book left open, a bit of poetry, bemoaning the foolishness of youth and love.
“You would not prefer reading to cards, would you, Miss Elizabeth?” Young Mr. Goulding said, peeking over her shoulder.
She jumped and shut the book. “Oh, I did not hear you come in.”
“Would you care to join us at cards? There is a table for commerce forming now.” He gestured toward the center of the room.
Wickham shuffled cards, Mary King to his left, Lydia to his right, chatting contentedly with both.
Lydia certainly could not complain that Elizabeth was taking an unfair share of Mr. Wickham’s attention tonight.
“I should like to join you.” She followed him to the table.
The play was lively, with great good humor shared throughout, but not once did Mr. Wickham look at her. When they game ended, the players left to help themselves to trays of newly arrived refreshments. Wickham lingered behind a moment to arrange the cards and tokens.
“Are you enjoying this evening, sir?” Elizabeth asked.
“Indeed I am. What is there not to enjoy with such good company and so many amusements at hand?”
“This time of year the amusements are many are they not? My father has already set his mind on preparing the house for a New Year’s first footer.”
“Indeed that is a most agreeable custom. I believe not so many participate in it so far south.”
“I think that is true, but he sees to it that the tradition is maintained.”
“How interesting. Pray excuse me. Our hostess is demanding my company. I am loath to disappoint her.” He dipped his head and sauntered off to Miss King.
He was right. He did owe her special courtesy, particularly if he was to win his bet. Surely a dance with Miss King could not be so valuable, could it? His standing among the other gentlemen, though, was.
Of course, it must be so.
The notion became harder to believe when Elizabeth took to the piano to play the promised dances. Mr. Wickham looked so very pleased to take Miss King’s hand to lead her in the dance. Far more pleased than if he had merely been saving face among the other officers. He led Mary away from the dance, toward the pianoforte. For a moment it looked as though he might speak to Elizabeth, but at the la
st moment he turned away from her without a second glance.
It was not a cut, no not at all. But then, why did it feel like one?
Soon after, the carriages were summoned and Lydia squeezed in between Elizabeth and Mary.
“I say that was a fun evening, with all the gentlemen trying so hard to be agreeable and pleasing. See what happens when you stop holding Mr. Wickham’s attentions all to yourself. The whole party was made so happy.” Lydia smiled so smugly.
Elizabeth pressed her lips tight to contain the tart remark that hovered on the tip of her tongue. Several glasses of wine had left Mama quiet and restful. There was little point in disrupting the bit of peace that offered. Besides, it seemed petty and jealous to be so unsettled by one evening without Wickham’s devoted attentions.
Surely he still liked her very well. What possible reason was there for her to have fallen in his regard?
December 31, 1811 London
The next day Darcy arose, more settled and at peace in himself than he had been in weeks. Today he had a purpose, a plan, an intention, a question that must be answered. Why that should be so soothing escaped him, it was enough that it was.
After a cursory check of the previous day’s post and a bite to eat, he set out. The air was bracing, even a mite cold, but in a healthy, invigorating sort of way, reminding him of his own vigor and strength. The long walk would be a welcome opportunity for contemplation and allow him to avoid the notice that the use of his carriage always drew.
Why risk a visit to Cheapside drawing unnecessary attention?
Perhaps, he was being overly cautious. Perhaps, he was far too concerned with what others said about him. Perhaps, it was just his pride grown out of control. All those things were possible, but none were compelling reasons to act any differently.
There was something pleasant about the sharp morning air and getting lost amidst the dense buildings and burgeoning crowds traversing the streets, a strange sense of being an unremarkable part of something larger than himself. Simply not being gawked at was pleasing.
The crowd grew denser as he approached Cheapside. It moved at its own pace, entirely oblivious to the desires of the individual, ebbing and flowing like the waters of the ocean, to its own primal tempo. Trickles ran through the alleys. Groups of shoppers, like sea foam, caught temporarily against the splendidly bedecked shop windows, then splashed away.
A wave held him lingering at a confectioner’s window, displaying Twelfth Night cakes topped with fantastical sugar structures. He might have chosen to loiter there a moment himself. Mother always featured cakes like those at her spectacular Twelfth Night balls. Though he had been too young to attend those balls, she had always permitted him to view the cake whilst it sat in the kitchen, waiting for the ball. She and Mrs. Reynolds always secreted away a piece for him, to be served with his breakfast the next day, with a dainty sugar-work figure to accompany it.
A little sugar-woman on the front-most cake, holding her skirt as if to dance, caught his attention. Something in the figure’s posture, perhaps it was the turn of its head, spoke of Miss Elizabeth. Chin held high, almost impertinent, it seemed to beckon others to join in the dance, just as she had at the Netherfield ball.
He shook his head sharply as his heart beat a little faster.
Forcing himself away from the confectioner’s window, he allowed himself to be caught in the tide of shoppers, pulled back into the main flow. From the corner of his eye, he saw it. Gardiner’s Fine Fabrics painted in elegant letters on the second story brick face. A white sign hung above the door bearing the same moniker in gold letters. Beside the name, a skillfully drawn silhouette of a wigged man holding a length of fabric.
The flow of the crowd tossed him onto the shop’s front steps. He edged back slightly to peer into the shop windows. Lengths of fine silks, linens and even some printed muslins hung in flowing swirls and puddles, intertwined with all manner of trims and feathers.
Even the linen drapers Georgiana favored would be hard-pressed to match the artistry of this display. Here was a shopkeeper who attended to every detail of his business, the kind of man he most respected.
He inched toward the door, but could not move further until the current caught him up again and swept him inside with several society matrons. The warmth of many bodies filled the space. The scents of linen and silk hung on the air, mingled with fresh flowers and expensive perfumes. Customers lined the walls admiring displays that rivaled the shop window and milled around tables bearing more goods carefully placed in the middle of the room.
“Now, you must promise me not to breathe a word of this place back in Mayfair,” a woman with a large matching muff and tippet whispered loudly to the woman beside her.
“You have my word, dear, you have my word,” her companion, wearing an over-large woman’s shako adorned with a sheer scarf and far too many feathers, replied.
“Not a week goes by without someone asking me where I have come by this muslin or that silk, but I never tell them.” Muff-and-tippets tittered into her hand.
Good thing for Gardiner that not all his customers avowed the need for such secrecy. To the contrary, the press in the shop suggested word had spread quite well.
At least four young men—no, six—all neat and smartly dressed, dashed back and forth behind the counters attending to clients. Another younger boy appeared, breathless from the back room. He pulled open a drawer behind the counter, removed several bundles of ribbon and sprinted away.
Was that the sound of someone running up a staircase? How many more customers were upstairs?
“Mr. Gardiner!” Muff-and-tippets extended her hands and cut a swath through the crowd, approaching a well-dressed, well-looking man.
Darcy studied him from the corner of his eye. His smile, his eyes, the line of his jaw, all bore a strong resemblance to Mrs. Bennet, but an even stronger one to Miss Elizabeth.
No doubt he was in the right place. He steeled himself for the vulgarity that must surely come next from any relation to Mrs. Bennet.
“Good day, madam. It is so lovely to see you here.” He bowed.
“May I present my favorite linen draper, Mr. Gardiner,” she gestured to Shako-and-feathers.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She was introducing a tradesman to her friend as if he were a gentleman. Darcy’s eyes widened, and he forced himself not to stare.
Gardiner’s manners were impeccable and his style as gracious as any man welcoming a guest into his home. Nothing like the smooth, slippery air of most shopkeepers and sellers of goods. If it were possible for a gentleman to keep shop, that was exactly what he was seeing.
So, Miss Elizabeth had relations who were quite tolerable and even respectable. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. That was a very good thing indeed.
He tugged his coat and found his way into the flow trickling out of the door.
Outside, he pressed himself against the building’s front wall to avoid being swept up into the current once more. No doubt the Gardiners did not live above the shop as most shopkeepers did. Where might he find them?
He slipped into the alleyway next to the shop and stood just beyond the pull of the throng. He could not ask directly, but there must be some way.
A side door swung open and the young, running boy from the shop tumbled out.
“I’ll get this to missus and bring back her answer directly.” He shut the door and pulled his cap a little tighter down over his ears.
The boy dashed passed Darcy. He waited just a heartbeat and followed. The dense multitudes proved his allies, slowing the boy’s progress and allowing him to follow without being obvious. There was every chance the boy was not going to the Gardiners’ house. Following him might end up on some unsavory street ... No, he would not follow so blindly. He had some modicum of sense and dignity left to him.
The boy led him just a few streets away, to a rank of second-rate townhouses, neat and well-kept. He scampered up to the door of th
e central house, the largest of the set, and knocked. The housekeeper admitted him immediately.
Was this the Gardiners’s home? The paint was fresh and it looked like the elegant, scrolling ironwork was a new addition. It was certainly an acceptable abode.
A flash of movement caught his eye. A woman with several children and their nursery maid approached. Could it be Miss Elizabeth?
He crossed the street and turned his back. She could not recognize him, not now. A hack chaise waiting in front of one of the townhouses offered cover. He ducked behind it, peeking out to watch the parade.
The woman was familiar, very familiar, but it was as Miss Bingley had declared, Miss Jane Bennet, not her sister. She led the children and the maid into the house.
He huffed loudly and the horse chuffed in response. Darcy strode back across the street. He reached into his pocket, found a tuppence and rubbed it between his fingers until it warmed to body temperature.
The front door opened again, and the boy reappeared. He bowed once, mumbled something, and scurried down the front steps.
As he passed, Darcy matched his pace and walked with him. “You work for Mr. Gardiner?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And that is his home?”
“Why do you want to know that? I ... I ain’t gonna tell you nothing that might hurt him. Mr. Gardiner is a good master, and I won’t be letting—”
“You concern is very admirable and speaks well of both you and of him. I have no desire to harm him or his family. I became acquainted with some of his family whilst in the country.”
“One of his nieces stays with him now. You are wanting to call upon her, sir?” The boy stopped and looked up at him.
Darcy started. “Ah, no, nothing so forward. I ... I had thought to leave my card perhaps, but wanted to ensure I had the correct direction first.”
“And have you the direction correct, sir?”
“I ... I do not think so. The man you describe is far different to the one I expected to find. Here, for your trouble.” He pressed the coin into the boy’s hand and strode away.
He avoided Cheapside on the long walk back to his townhouse.
