by J P Christy
“I did not expect you to be so well informed about your sister’s companion,” Elizabeth said.
My reputation for arrogance again, Darcy thought. “Lately, I have become better acquainted with Mrs. Annesley. In addition to her being an excellent model for Georgiana, she is an informed conversationalist and a skilled chess player.”
“You should play against Lizzy,” Kitty said. “When she and Papa play chess, we can never predict which of them will win.”
“Perhaps one day soon, Miss Elizabeth, you will do me the honor of a game.”
“I would be happy to oblige, sir,” she said.
After a silence, which, by its duration, became awkward, Fitzwilliam pointed to a lane that intersected with their path. “I feel like doing a bit of exploring, Miss Kitty. Will you show me where this lane leads? I assure you we will stay in sight of the others.”
“Of course, sir, though I hope you will not be disappointed when we find nothing of note.” After a quick glance at Elizabeth and Darcy, Kitty followed Fitzwilliam down the lane. When she knew only he could hear her, she said, “I cannot make out your cousin at all. Will he speak to my sister or merely scowl at her?”
“Does Darcy scowl at her?”
“Have you not noticed? Everyone who has seen them in the same room, whether at Lucas Lodge or some other gathering, has mentioned it.”
“May I tell you a secret, Miss Kitty?”
“Yes, please!” she said, fascinated. No man had ever offered her a secret before.
“And I give you leave to tell one other person—but only one.”
“One other person? Who?”
“That is for you to choose, and I am confident you will choose wisely.”
Kitty gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Tell me a secret, sir.”
“Darcy is very fond of your sister Elizabeth.”
She frowned. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Why?”
“I do not wish for him to be disappointed, as Lizzy does not much care for him.”
“Then he must show her his better self.”
≈≈≈
After walking wordlessly for a short distance, Elizabeth said, “This will not do, Mr. Darcy; we must have some conversation. Ah, here is a topic—have you found Hertfordshire or Netherfield much changed since you were last here?”
“As we only recently arrived, I have had little time to make an assessment. Hertfordshire is a … a pleasant place in springtime.”
Well, he is trying, Elizabeth told herself. “If you were not here, would you be at your estate in Derbyshire?”
“Yes, spring planting. However, my steward and I had many discussions over the winter. He knows my mind on these matters.” Good lord, could I make myself any less interesting?
She gave him an arch look. “It amazes me how young gentlemen can have the patience to be so accomplished as they are.”
“Do you find all young gentlemen to be accomplished?” Darcy asked in surprise.
“Yes, all of them, I think. They ride well and pilot a variety of carriages. They fence, box, gamble—within reason—dance, make a fine leg, and tie an elegant cravat.”
“As to the latter, most of the credit likely goes to the gentleman’s valet.”
“Are you so severe on your own sex, sir, as to doubt their ability to tie their own cravats?”
Nagged by a shadow of a memory, Darcy gently caught her elbow, turning her to face him. “Have we had this conversation before?”
“Not precisely this conversation, but we had a similar one last October when Jane was recuperating at Netherfield.”
At once, the recollection came to him: Caroline Bingley’s voice remarking with her usual sugar-coated spite, “Eliza Bennet is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own.” Then the conversation preceding Caroline’s remark rushed into his thoughts.
With a grin, Darcy tucked Elizabeth’s hand into the crook of his arm and said, “All these qualities must a gentleman possess, yet he must add something more substantial.”
“So true. Ideally, he will have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, and languages.”
“Did you know that I speak French?”
“So does Jane and, I suspect, everyone in France.”
“I daresay you are correct, madam.”
“But besides these qualities, a gentleman must possess a certain something in his air and manner of walking, the tone of his voice, his address and expressions. Else, the word ‘gentleman’ will be but half deserved.”
“I rather wonder at your knowing any truly accomplished gentlemen. I confess I am not such a fellow.”
Elizabeth gave a delighted laugh at his self-deprecation. “You do remember the conversation with Miss Bingley! Well, sir, I approve of your embellishments.”
“Yes, I remember.” He gave her a regretful look. “I should have given Miss Bingley a set down when she unleashed her jealousy on you while you were caring so tenderly for your sister.”
“I did not need protection against such an inconsequential adversary as Miss Bingley. Do you see much of the lady when you are in town?”
“As little as possible. If Bingley had wanted her to come to Netherfield, I would have demanded that he choose between his sister’s company and mine.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Fitzwilliam called as he approached with Kitty on his arm. “But you asked me to remind you of the time.”
Darcy half-turned to face them. “Yes, you must excuse me so I may farewell Mrs. Annesley.” Smiling at the lady on his own arm, he asked, “May I walk you back to Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth?”
“You are a true gentleman, sir!”
≈≈≈
This was Anne De Bourgh’s first Thursday night ball since arriving in Bath, and she was miserable. Lady Catherine, who had again dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson for the evening, swanned about the crowded ballroom greeting a few old friends, while her daughter sat with the other ladies who had no partner.
As social protocols demanded that a lady could only dance with a gentleman to whom she had been formally introduced, Anne turned an unfocused gaze toward the dancers. Having spent the past decade avoiding introductions to eligible gentlemen, she knew that if she joined them tonight, her partner was certain to be the son or grandson of some friend of her mother’s.
Anne mused, If only Nora were here—or Elizabeth. What would the gloriously impertinent Elizabeth Bennet do in this situation? Recalling their conversations brought out Anne’s first smile of the evening.
“Miss De Bourgh? Is it you?” asked a deep, masculine voice.
Noticing for the first time the blond man in his mid-thirties who now stood before her, she replied with forced friendliness, “I am she, sir. Please remind me, how we are acquainted.”
“I am Mr. Whitney Stafford; my father is Sir Walter Stafford. My mother is there,” he nodded toward a matron who was conversing with Lady Catherine.
“Of course, Mr. Stafford. My apologies for not recognizing you. It has been several years since our last meeting, has it not?”
“About seven years, I believe. May I have the honor of this dance?”
“It would be my pleasure.” As Stafford led Anne onto floor, she asked in her best Elizabeth Bennet imitation, “Tell me, sir, had my mother not pointed me out, would you have recognized me?”
Stafford reddened. “I cannot be sure.”
“Well, my apologies for not immediately recognizing you, Mr. Stafford. I confess I have not been to a ball here in some time.”
“Nor I. The last time I was here, I was with my beloved wife,” he said. In response to Anne’s surprised look, he added, “No doubt your mother told you I … I lost Belinda.”
“Yes, my condolences, sir,” Anne said, having no recollection of hearing such news.
“It has been two years, although it often feels as though it was only yesterday my wife and I .…” Stafford’s voice trailed off, and his eyes
held an intense sadness.
What a curious topic for a ball, Anne thought as they parted in accordance with the pattern of the dance. When Stafford took her hand again, his eyes shone with unshed tears, and she realized that here was someone more miserable than she. “I will not pretend to understand your grief, sir,” she said gently, “but you have my sincerest sympathy.”
Following the steps, they separated, and when they came together again, anger had replaced the sorrow in Stafford’s face. “I do not wish to be in Bath, much less at a ball, but my father insists I marry again—and soon.”
“Parental interference,” is all Anne had time to murmur before they parted.
When next they joined hands, Stafford said in a strained voice, “I am a third son. My elder brother has two boys and three girls—all healthy. What difference does it make to anyone but myself whether or not I am married?”
Anne could think of nothing to say, so she squeezed his hand, and for the remainder of the dance, they were silent. After the set ended, he escorted her to her chair. “I spoke inappropriately,” he said. “I have embarrassed you—and myself.”
Anne stopped walking, forcing him to stop as well. “I feel no embarrassment, Mr. Stafford, and neither should you. I admire your courage, and I wish you peace, which is something you will find in your own time and not on a schedule dictated by others.”
“You are very kind, Miss De Bourgh.” Stafford bowed over her hand, and when he raised his head, she saw the trail of a single tear glistening on his cheek.
“Thank you for the dance, sir. Perhaps you may wish for some fresh air.” Stafford bowed again and walked away briskly.
≈≈≈
May 24, 1811
On the afternoon following the ball, Lady Catherine entered the room where her daughter and Mrs. Jenkinson were playing backgammon. “I have been looking for you, Anne.”
“Good afternoon, Mama.”
“What did you say to Mr. Stafford last night?”
“Merely the sort of polite conversation one typically makes while dancing.”
“Well, after your ‘polite conversation,’ Mr. Stafford left the ball. If the effect you have on eligible men is for them to rush away as quickly as they can, it is no wonder you are not married.”
Good for you, Mr. Stafford! Meeting her mother’s annoyed gaze, Anne said, “Mama, the gentleman and I danced but one set at a public ball.”
“It is not as if Stafford is a suitable match; he’s a widower and the third son of a baronet. Still, the fact that you danced so little reflected badly on me. Well, it can’t be helped now. On Sunday evening we will go to a card party at Lady Russell’s.”
“Will Mrs. Jenkinson be joining us?”
“I suppose so.” Lady Catherine’s eyes flickered over her daughter’s companion. “But you must preserve the distinction of rank in your dress. Mrs. Jenkinson, you will wear something simple and subdued, gray or brown, I think. Anne, you will wear the red silk and, yes, and the garnet-and-pearl necklace. You must shine—after all, you are a Fitzwilliam and a De Bourgh!”
After Lady Catherine turned on her heel and left, Anne looked at her companion. “I must shine, so apparently you must not.” The ladies burst into laughter. “As you advised, Nora, I am biding my time. But, oh, the foolishness of it all!”
“Poor Mr. Stafford. He was fortunate to dance with you. Your words to him about the loss of his wife were not only kind, they were wise.”
≈≈≈
May 26, 1811
In the churchyard following Sunday services, Georgiana and Bingley talked with Jane, while the colonel and Darcy stood a short distance from the others. Fitzwilliam smiled and returned nods to those who nodded a greeting at him. Darcy, however, his stern expression in place, watched as Elizabeth and Mary spoke with a red-headed man. When Kitty and Lydia joined their sisters, it was clear that the man shared a friendly connection with all.
“Who is that fellow?” Darcy asked.
“The nephew of one of Longbourn’s tenant farmers, the Laidlaws. His name is Allen Ainsworth.” Noting his cousin’s surprised look, he added, “Oh, you didn’t expect me to have an answer, did you? Collecting this sort of intelligence is all part of getting the lay of the land.”
“Very commendable,” Darcy muttered, watching Ainsworth closely for any sign that he had an interest in Elizabeth.
After a brief conversation, Lydia skipped away to join her mother, who was talking with two other matrons. Nudging Darcy, Fitzwilliam said, “Now that Miss Lydia is elsewhere, shall we escort Miss Kitty, Miss Mary, and Miss Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“And with which of the ladies would you prefer to walk?” Fitzwilliam teased.
Mary was the first to notice the gentlemen approach, and she touched Elizabeth’s arm to alert her. After Mary introduced Ainsworth, Darcy acknowledged him with a shallow bow and left Fitzwilliam with the task of providing the requisite social niceties. Darcy felt he had scarcely seen Elizabeth, and each encounter left him eager for their next meeting. Since returning to Hertfordshire a week ago, he could count on one hand their visits: the day after his arrival at Netherfield; the next day when the Bennet daughters came to Netherfield; the day after that, when he, Fitzwilliam, and Bingley went to Longbourn; and yesterday when he and Georgiana had called on the family.
During Saturday’s visit, Darcy felt Georgiana had monopolized the conversation, spending far too much time talking about a letter she had received from Anne. As much as he wanted his sister and Elizabeth to become friends, he longed for the private walks he had shared with her at Rosings. How can I convince Elizabeth I am changed if she has no opportunity to know me?
Speaking to all, Elizabeth said, “Mr. Ainsworth reports that there are ripe blackberries on the bushes by the stream which runs through Longbourn, so I propose we have a berry-picking party on Tuesday. Will you join us, Colonel Fitzwilliam? Mr. Darcy? And Miss Darcy, of course.”
“Do you promise us plump, sweet berries?” Fitzwilliam asked. “Else, I cannot be convinced that picking them is worth the effort.”
“You will not be disappointed, sir,” Elizabeth assured him.
Darcy said, “I shall speak with my sister and Bingley, but I’ve no doubt we will all be happy to attend.” This little party may be my best chance to speak with Elizabeth alone.
After a brief discussion of when and where to meet on Tuesday, Mary and Ainsworth went to converse with Mrs. Laidlaw, and Fitzwilliam and Kitty joined Georgiana, Jane, and Bingley.
“May I walk you to the crossroads, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked.
“Walking, sir? Have you lost your horse?”
“I exercised Pegasus this morning; he is now relaxing in the Meryton livery stable.”
“Then I am happy for the escort.”
As they walked side by side, Darcy said, “You are looking well, madam.”
“Happily, no disasters befell Longbourn since you and I were in company yesterday.”
Darcy grinned. “We were equally fortunate at Netherfield.”
When he said nothing more, she asked, “What did you think of Mr. Gannett’s sermon?”
“Alas, he does not have Lady Catherine to inspire him,” he said in mock disappointment. Elizabeth laughed, and Darcy delighted in the sound. In hopes of making her laugh again, he said, “You may be amused to learn that I have recently taken lessons in social conversation. Upon my return from Rosings, Mrs. Annesley instructed Georgiana and me over tea. One of her most useful suggestions was for us to prepare three topics to discuss in the event the conversation lapsed.”
Elizabeth did not laugh; instead, she gave him look that was almost as charming. “In truth, I have not found your conversation lacking when you wished to make an effort.”
So, you did enjoy some of our talks, he thought, pleased. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.”
“You, sir, may be horrified to learn that I have been giving lessons in impertinence. And before you demand to know who would want s
uch instruction, I assure you my students come from the upper echelons of society.”
Darcy chuckled, and when Elizabeth met his gaze, he felt happily lost in the moment. “I feel I have scarcely spoken to you,” he said quietly.
I feel that, too, she almost replied. “Well, we will have our berry-picking party in two days. Shall we each bring three topics? I do think Mrs. Annesley’s advice is wise.”
“I do not wish to disappoint. I shall bring three topics.”
≈≈≈
On Sunday night, as Anne followed Lady Catherine into the large drawing room at Lady Russell’s where card tables were arranged, she murmured to her companion, “I feel overdressed.”
“You look beautiful!” Feeling decidedly underdressed, Mrs. Jenkinson unconsciously smoothed her plain lilac muslin dress.
After greeting their hostess, Lady Catherine left Anne to introduce Mrs. Jenkinson. Then, as their ladyships conversed about the news of the day, Anne unobtrusively retreated, pulling her companion with her. Assuming her usual reserved smile, Mrs. Jenkinson followed Anne to where Mr. Stafford stood alone near one of the room’s two fireplaces. Following introductions, the three spoke pleasantly until Lady Catherine appeared at Anne’s elbow to command that she join her in greeting the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, who had just arrived.
When Anne left, Mrs. Jenkinson expected Stafford to depart; she was, after all, merely “the companion.” Instead, he gestured at an empty settee in a quiet corner. “May we sit, madam?”
“Certainly.”
After she had settled herself comfortably, Mr. Stafford sat at a polite distance. “I believe you are a widow, Mrs. Jenkinson.”
“I am.”
“May I speak to you about the loss of a beloved partner, or is the subject too painful? I do not wish to distress you.”
