Elizabeth gaped at him, and managed nothing more than, “Oh.”
“All we know at present is that she accused us of being unpatriotic, which is rather ironic, considering.” He raised the stump of his arm just slightly, indicating the irony.
“That was what I told her,” Elizabeth said. “She and her awful friends were speaking of Marguerite – they called her a frog and questioned why your family should welcome her. Lady Stewart said it was rather unpatriotic, and I reminded her of your sacrifice, and that after such a thing you should not be considered unpatriotic.”
“That does present a clearer picture than I have heard thus far, of what prompted all of this.”
“Edward, I never meant to cause a scandal, or to give our family any sort of notoriety. I merely meant to defend Marguerite – I am sorry.”
“What are you apologising for?” Edward asked. “As I see it, all you did was defend my wife, and I would never fault you for that. Indeed, you have my gratitude. But someone with greater connexions than you must have spread what she said, for it to cross the ton at the pace it has, and to cause Lady Stewart to be cast out with such vehemence.”
“Countess Esterházy,” Elizabeth stated, looking at her husband. “You said there was a spiteful aspect to her nature, and she told me she adored Marguerite.”
“Ah, yes,” said Edward. “Marguerite threw herself into London society, in those months we had before little Andrew was born, and the countess was one who befriended her. And yes, she does have a spiteful streak – she would not take well to having a friend slandered in such a way.”
“That was what she called it – slander.” Elizabeth said, glancing towards the sideboard, a long, elegant piece holding nothing that could appeal to her at present. She drank down the contents of the teacup before her and rose. “If you will excuse me – I thought I had a great many calls I needed to make before I came down this morning, and now I believe I have still more.”
She was excused, although she caught something in Darcy’s countenance which indicated worry over how she had reacted. If they had been alone, and if she could have ordered her thoughts into some semblance of her concerns, she might have shared them, but neither of these things was their situation. What she did know was that her own star appeared ascendant, perhaps at the price of Lady Stewart’s reputation, and neither of these things seemed to be in her own control. Those seventeen calling cards now made more sense to her, although Countess Esterházy remained first on her list.
Elizabeth spent the carriage ride attempting to form her thoughts into the line of questioning she should present to the countess, but when the carriage finally drew to a halt outside a town house befitting of an Embassador whose wife was a blood princess in her own right, found she was no closer to having those questions planned. She was announced; she was shewn into an opulent parlour; she seated herself and waited, although not for long.
“There you are, my friend. I am glad you have returned my call so soon,” said Countess Esterházy, entering the room with the trim of a thoroughly modern dress fluttering about her ancles. She produced a slip of paper and handed it to Elizabeth. “Your voucher. I hope you will come next Wednesday. I am presiding, and I wish very much to see you dance.”
“I – yes, of course I will come. I have already made my husband promise me both a quadrille and a waltz,” said Elizabeth. The countess’s manners were so pleasant that it was difficult to avoid being charmed by her, and Elizabeth wondered if she would ever be able to steer the conversation towards Lady Stewart.
Countess Esterházy chuckled. “You cannot dance every dance with your husband, dear, even though you are no longer on the marriage market, but I will find you plenty of partners. Someone who looks as you do will dance every dance if you wish it.”
A thought formed in Elizabeth’s mind, and it could not be banished once formed, that Countess Esterházy was making a pet of her. It was preferable, she supposed, to be made a pet of, compared to what had happened to Lady Stewart. Neither was what she wished to have anything to do with, however, and she regretted ever suggesting to her husband that they leave Pemberley.
Into the lull that had fallen in their conversation, Elizabeth introduced her topic, by noting that her cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had breakfasted with the Darcys that morning, and what he had said of the insult given to the Fitzwilliams and Lady Stewart’s role in it. She held Countess Esterházy’s gaze shrewdly, in speaking of all of this, and was rewarded with an equally shrewd, knowing look, as the countess said, “Sie ist gemein. What she has got, she has deserved. You have been acquainted with her – can you disagree with that?”
“No – no, I cannot,” said Elizabeth. She experienced a moment’s satisfaction – the countess was right, that what Lady Stewart had got, she had deserved. Such thoughts, however, were followed immediately by the thought that a woman who could so readily ruin another woman’s reputation was a dangerous friend to have. Elizabeth did not, of course, share this with Countess Esterházy, and instead took her leave after the appropriate quarter-hour, which seemed to earn her further approval from her new friend.
There were several personages she ought to have considered calling on next, but Elizabeth, still unsettled, directed her coachman that they should go to the house of the Dowager Viscountess Tonbridge. Lady Tonbridge received Mrs. Darcy with every happiness, clasping her hands as she entered the lady’s drawing-room and saying, “How do you do, my dear?”
“I – I hardly know,” Elizabeth said, honestly. Of the stanchions of society she knew, Lady Tonbridge and her aunt Ellen were the only two she would have considered being fully honest with. She had called on Lady Tonbridge first because that lady had been present on the evening when all that vexed Elizabeth had occurred, but her noble aunt would be Elizabeth’s next call if she did not receive what she needed from Lady Tonbridge.
Lady Tonbridge looked at her with concern, and then, with realisation dawning upon her countenance, said, “Oh, is this the whole matter about the Fitzwilliams not being patriotic? You needn’t worry, my dear. Everyone who has heard of it has sided with your cousins, as they should, and Lady Stewart has finally gotten her due.”
“I understand it was Countess Esterházy’s doing.”
“Yes, yes it was,” confirmed Lady Tonbridge. “Mrs. Darcy, you look very pale. Let me have some chocolate brought in. That revives me like nothing else.”
Lady Tonbridge gave the command, and soon after this, Elizabeth was sitting upon an elegant Grecian sofa and drinking spiced chocolate, indeed feeling a little soothed by it. The things that troubled her could not be alleviated by a mere drink, however, and finally she said,
“Forgive me, but – it is not that I am ungrateful for Countess Esterházy’s friendship, but if she can excoriate a lady of standing in such a fashion for making a faux pas, I – I fear the same could happen to me. She likes me now, I know, but her preference can be withdrawn at any time.”
Lady Tonbridge cocked her head toward Elizabeth and said, “Ah, of course.” She took a sip of chocolate, then said, “You, Mrs. Darcy, are not Lady Stewart. I can say so with confidence, because she is a vicious woman, and everyone knows it. Countess Esterházy finally found an opening to see her excluded from the ton, but she is far from the first to have wished to do so.”
“I have heard it said that she is a spiteful woman, Countess Esterházy,” Elizabeth said.
“Is she? Is it wrong, to fight slander and malice with spite?” asked Lady Tonbridge.
“No, I suppose not, but – ”
“ – but you fear having that spite turned upon you,” said Lady Tonbridge.
“I – yes,” said Elizabeth, startled, for Lady Tonbridge had articulated her fears in a more succinct manner than she had managed to do herself.
“Have you been to see the lions at the Tower, Mrs. Darcy?”
“I – no, I have not. I am sure once the twins are older, we shall take them.”
“That sounds delightful, a
nd I am sure they shall enjoy it. Before then, though, I want you to put yourself in the place of the man who keeps the lions. What do you think he experiences, to look after them, to feed them, to know them as his charges?”
“I think he must take pride in looking after such magnificent creatures, but he must also be on his guard, for they are wild animals.”
“And that is how you should approach your friendship,” said Lady Tonbridge. “Appreciate and enjoy the magnificence, the unique experiences you have opportunity of, the company you enjoy, whilst understanding that at any time, the creature could turn on you. Never forget you are friends with a lion.”
Elizabeth nodded, glad that someone could comprehend what she was going through, and sipped her chocolate.
“Do you wish for more of my advice?”
“Yes – very much so,” said Elizabeth.
“Very well. I will tell you, then, that it has served your family well in the past to remain somewhat elusive from the ton. Your husband achieved particular skill at this, and it is still considered an accomplishment to get him to accept an invitation, particularly since he has chosen to come to town so infrequently in the last year or so. But even before him, your aunt – oh your aunt made an art of it. I was not out yet, when she came out into society, but you may believe Lady Ellen Montfort’s season was known to all of us. Everyone I was presented with tried to emulate her.”
“So I should be elusive – is that what you are telling me?”
“Have you not already been elusive, hiding away at Pemberley for so long?”
“We were not intending to hide,” said Elizabeth. “We simply enjoy life there very much, and it is better suited for – for a young family.”
“Your intentions do not matter now. What matters is how you carry yourself in society, the tale you tell about yourself and the tale that is told about you.”
“I am as deep in society as I would ever have wished to be – deeper, even,” said Elizabeth, pulling her Almack’s voucher from her reticule and showing it to the viscountess. “Were it up to me, we would retreat to the country, but now I cannot fail my family in society.”
“Are you worried over failing your family?” asked Lady Tonbridge.
“I am worried over things I cannot control,” said Elizabeth. “The past few days have shown me that I have no control over the things that happen in this town.”
“You have no control over the lions in the tower.”
“Yes, and I do not know what to do now.”
“It is very simple, my dear. You let Lady Stewart be devoured by the lions, because she has earned it, and you remain elusive. You make it a challenge amongst the ton, to get you and your husband to attend an event. Those few people who serve as true arbiters of society that you respect – Countess Esterházy, for example, and I hope myself – you accept invitations from, but otherwise you take no interest in what they peddle.”
“Is that how you have survived in the ton for so long?” asked Elizabeth.
“Oh no, my dear,” said Lady Tonbridge, chuckling, “I play the game. I always have. But I enjoy the game, and I can see you do not.”
“No. I have never had patience for such things.”
“Then elusive you must be, Mrs. Darcy, and I am sure you shall succeed. If I did not think you had the courage to keep the lions, I would have advised you to run back to Pemberley as fast as ever you could. But you are more than brave enough for them, I think.”
Full of chocolate and very much comforted, yet unable to be entirely so after such a morning, Elizabeth left Lady Tonbridge’s house, and was asked by Powell where she wished to go next. She removed the cards from her reticule, flipping through them. Elusive. Perhaps she would begin returning the rest of the calls tomorrow.
“Bond Street, Powell. To my modiste.”
As the carriage drew her thither, Elizabeth found herself relaxing still further, as she determined how she would follow Lady Tonbridge’s advice. Just days ago, when she had arrived in town, she had thought she no longer cared for the opinions of these people, yet then she had allowed herself to be drawn in to caring, and from there to worrying. Even if Countess Esterházy did someday turn upon her, it could not wound her as it would a woman like Lady Stewart, because she did not care in the same way Lady Stewart did. Elizabeth and Darcy would return to Pemberley, to their superior life there.
Sarah had offered to meet her employer at the modiste, unbothered by the uncertain hour of Elizabeth’s arrival, and although Elizabeth walked through the doors much earlier than had been expected, she still found her maid had preceded her, and Sarah had been busy. There was a selection of fabrics for Elizabeth to choose from – each one exceedingly pretty and flattering to her complexion – and a set of sketches, rougher than what could be found in the fashion periodicals, but more than enough to indicate the complete styling of each dress that was depicted.
“Did you draw these, Kelly? They’re very nicely done.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Sarah, blushing. “I mostly took from Ackermann’s Repository and La Belle Assemblée, but I made some adjustments, that I thought would be better for your figure.”
Hardly a half-hour after she had entered the shop, therefore, Elizabeth was leaving it again, with six new dresses ordered. Although she felt the importance of dressing fashionably, this still felt excessive to the young lady who had grown up sharing dress funds with five sisters, and she had to remind herself that purchasing twice this number of dresses would still represent only a fraction of her pin money. That sum she had offered to decrease, in expectation that Pemberley’s income would be reduced, but Darcy had immediately declined this as unnecessary. And it had ultimately proven unnecessary, for upon his completing of the sums for the year, he had been startled to find the estate had still managed to clear nine thousand pounds, in that year without a summer.
Sarah had remained behind, to give final instructions on the dresses, and therefore she did not overhear the conversation Elizabeth did, as she was walking out:
“Oh, I could positively steal her abigail. Did you see her? Everything perfectly in order.”
“That is Mrs. Darcy’s woman – I am sure you cannot afford her.”
“And I suppose she cannot afford to spend hours at the modiste like the rest of us, and that is why she has such a woman.”
Smiling in amusement, Elizabeth made the drive back to Curzon Street in much better spirits, and these spirits improved still further when she entered the house and went up to the nursery. James and George were playing together on the floor with what appeared to be two very new stuffed horses, and Elizabeth chuckled, presuming their father to be the source of these toys. They were so focused they did not notice her until she knelt beside them, when James smiled at her and said, “Mama, powny!”
“Ah, pony – that is a new word for you, sweetling,” she said. “Did your papa bring you the pony?”
She received no answer, and instead seated herself contentedly beside them, watching them play, until a thought cut through her that ruined all of the equanimity she had won that day: any faux pas she made that might result in her shunning would not affect just her; it would affect Darcy, and worse still, their sons would be punished for the errors of their mother. James would surely be impacted by the connexions she lost, but George, poor little George, could suffer in his career, and the daughter she hoped she was carrying might not know a large enough acquaintance to find a man she truly loved.
No reasoning Elizabeth conjured could do away with such thoughts once they had introduced themselves into her mind. The thought of failing her family brought tears readily to her eyes, and it was not long before she was crying openly, vaguely aware of the nurses slipping away to leave her privacy for her emotions. George also noticed her plight, although he did nothing more than put his hand on her cheek and then turn it so he could stare curiously at his own damp little palm.
His father took more decisive action, striding into the room and kneeling down t
o put his arm about his wife’s shoulders, murmuring, “Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” with such solicitude she sobbed still more. “Come with me,” he said, helping her to rise.
She protested feebly about the safety of the children, was assured that Mrs. Nichols was waiting outside, and was led past the nurse, down the stairs to the privacy of her dressing-room, where she was encouraged to sit on the chaise. Once her bout of tears had begun, Elizabeth had been actively calling to mind every possible way in which she could fail her children, even beyond making societal errors; had wondered how the daughter of two such parents as hers could do better than they had, having grown up under those examples; had worried over the twins’ health and their paths in life; and had generally worked herself into such a state that she spent a long while merely sobbing against her husband’s chest while he rubbed her back.
“Oh, my poor love, what is it?” he asked, when her upset had lessened to occasional sniffles. “It cannot be the matter with the Fitzwilliams, can it? You have done nothing wrong there.”
“It is not my role in it, precisely, that worries me,” she said, and then proceeded to tell him of her worries regarding Countess Esterházy, of now being pulled more deeply into the ton where it was more likely she would commit some blunder to the detriment of herself and her family.
“I am sorry I ever put it in your mind that she was spiteful,” he said. “I fear I have done far more harm than good.”
“Do not blame yourself – I am glad you warned me. And Lady Tonbridge gave me some good advice earlier, that I intend to follow.”
“I am glad of that,” he said, “but Elizabeth, I want to ask you something. You need not answer me if it discomfits you, but I would like to know. Did something happen to you – some event you have not told me of? Did someone here in town do something or say something that wounded you, without my being aware of it?”
A Season Lost Page 55
