Chapter 3
I did not generally rise to bait, particularly when it is dangled at me in so provoking a manner.
“Did you hear?”
“I did.”
“I do not understand you, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said as we mounted the stairs together.
“Do you not? But I understand you. You wish me to beg to be enlightened as to whom you are expecting at dinner that is so delightful.”
“You are wrong. I know you know precisely who I mean.”
“And I wish you joy in your pursuit of her.”
As we parted ways at the top of the stairs, he chuckled, suggesting he did not for one second believe my disinterest was genuine.
Eventually, the dinner gong sounded. At Rosings Park this was a wearisome sound, for it marked time that seemed to move more slowly there than anywhere else in the world.
And although I had resolved not to complain, my body had made no such pledge, and I proceeded at a reluctant pace down to the drawing room in a posture that was perhaps more resentful than usual. Because deep down, I knew?—
There she stood, making her bows.
The impressions were too many to name. Her smile was glorious, her skin radiant, and she carried herself with a vibrant and natural vigour.
She was of a normal height, but she stood tall upon her feet, composed and clearly at ease.
And, of course, her eyes danced as she took in every detail of a scene that must have struck her as absurd.
She stood before Lady Catherine, who inspected her as if deciding upon a purchase.
Beside her were Sir William Lucas and his young daughter, both speechless with awe, and performing the introductions with unwarranted gravity were Mr and Mrs Collins.
I could not escape, nor could I shrink from the stupidity of the scene. Unfortunately, I could not contain a faint groan of dismay. Fitzwilliam, whose acuity is equal to my own, merely glanced at me, which prompted me to put a finger to my neckcloth and murmur a pitiful explanation.
“Carsten has tried to asphyxiate me again.”
Then our turn for introductions had come.
My training as a gentleman quickly restored me to my dignity, and lest they be forced to mention it first, I instantly made known I had met the party while visiting Hertfordshire.
This earned me a second glance from my cousin and seemed to irritate Lady Catherine more than a little, so I took my seat and retreated into silence.
Fitzwilliam, who had known me all my life, had dealt with my taciturnity many times throughout our history.
As he had so many times before, he stepped into the breach and applied his particular gift—that of civil conversation and light observations meant to put everyone in the room at ease.
While this was a lofty aim, and it did lessen the extreme awkwardness for those most affected—like young Miss Lucas—it could only go so far.
No amount of civility could overcome Lady Catherine’s rude questions or blunt the sharpness of her corrections directed at Mrs Jenkinson.
Throughout this trial, the person least affected became the most obvious. She continued to be curious, entertained, amused, and utterly unmoved by all she saw and heard. Lady Catherine’s bearing did not appear to sway her in the least or rob her of her poise.
I could not deny her power thus shown to me.
And even when she was goaded into playing the pianoforte after honestly confessing her ineptitude, she assumed the attitude of someone unwilling to feel shamed by anyone for any reason.
If and when she felt remorse or embarrassment, I could not say.
But I felt certain that the only person whose opinion of her truly mattered was her own.
This observation startled me more than a little, for it seemed the rarest of rarities in a man, much less a woman.
My cousin followed her willingly to the instrument and turned the pages for her while she playfully spoke to him and teased herself for her poor performance.
While I also felt a strong inclination to join them, I sat immobile in a state I might call deeply confounded.
The prospect of several weeks of such disturbing encounters struck me as truly terrible, and for half an hour I considered various excuses that would justify my escape.