Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Having long since composed herself after the capricious encounter with Mr Darcy the previous day, Elizabeth once again found herself in a vexatious position, which was her placement at the table in Strandsmere’s formal dining room.
With Miss Hughes’s aunt at their host’s right, if the Darcys were adhering to precedence, then Miss Wright, not Elizabeth, should have been seated at his left.
While Miss Baker engaged the eldest Wright sister with enquiries about Barleybrae, Elizabeth whispered to Mr Darcy, “Should Miss Wright and I not swap places, sir?”
“No, not unless you wish to incur my sister’s displeasure.
She insisted on a seating plan, and you are precisely where she wants you to be.
” After taking a drink of wine, Mr Darcy spoke very softly.
“Georgiana is young and uncomfortable as Strandsmere’s hostess.
Would you care to exchange seats with her? ” A smile lurked upon his lips.
Elizabeth nearly choked on the little sip of wine she had taken. “I could not possibly sit in the hostess’s place.”
“Not yet. But someday you will be in that position.”
Not in any of your houses! In truth, Elizabeth was still highly irritated and indignant because he had thought the worst of her regarding Mr Mouse.
Paradoxically, however, she admitted to herself that she very much wished to remain on friendly terms, at the very least, with him.
“Perhaps,” she softly said, only half serious as she leant towards him, “your sister should exchange chairs with Miss Wright.”
“Certainly not.” Although spoken in an undertone, his reply was austere, and he seemed appalled at the idea of that lady sitting opposite his own place of honour.
Well, that response reinforces my scepticism about any understanding between the two of them.
If he has even a jot of fondness for the woman, Mr Darcy must be a superlative actor, for he hides it exceedingly well.
As for Miss Wright—Elizabeth glanced across the table—I shall not credit a single word she utters.
Turning her head, she spoke to the lady at her side.
“Your gown is a lovely shade of green, Miss Margaret.”
“It is called emerald, I believe. Not that I care a jot about such frivolous things. Because of our auburn hair, we all dressed in green this evening. Thea’s is willow, I think.” With a slight movement of her knife, she gestured directly across the table. “Hannah’s is Pomona.”
“Did I hear my name mentioned?”
“Yes. Your sister and I were speaking of gowns, Miss Wright, and that Pomona shade makes your eyes appear almost verdant.”
“My eyes are azure blue, Miss Bennet.” She took a draught of wine, then another, before placing her glass upon the table. “Were you insinuating something?”
You recently accused me of having designs on Mr Darcy, so I suppose green-eyed jealousy is apropos to the antipathy you feel towards me. “No, not at all. My hazel eyes change their colouring with my situation, and I merely thought yours might, too.”
When there came a lull in the various conversations round the table, Mr Baker spoke up. “I hope everyone will enjoy the eels. Miss Darcy just informed me that, working from my own family’s recipe, the cook here prepared them in a cream sauce using Cliff House cider.”
Mr Darcy tipped his wine glass at him. “What my good neighbour did not mention is that he and I caught these eels at Willow Bourn.”
“Aye, we did. And they were as slippery as—”
“Frederick!”
Hiding her smile behind a napkin, Elizabeth glanced Miss Wright’s way and noticed that the woman’s wine glass had been refilled, possibly for a second time. But that was no concern of hers, so she turned again to Miss Margaret. “Did you enjoy our excursion along Willow Bourn the other day?”
“Having been equally indifferent as to whether I would go or not, I admit there were a few enjoyable moments.” A slight quirk to her mouth hinted at barely suppressed amusement, but when next she spoke, there was a mean-spiritedness in her tone. “I suppose you wish you had not gone.”
“As a matter of fact, I had a splendid time. But I presume you are referring to the unexpected dive I took, thanks to your sister.”
“From where I was standing, it appeared Hector was at fault. It is unfortunate, however, that his paw was injured.”
“I saw no sign of a limp when Hector ran towards me on the beach yesterday. And no matter who was responsible for precipitating the incident on the punt, it is all irrelevant now. Like Willow Bourn flowing to the sea, the past is behind us and cannot be altered.”
Elizabeth then returned her attention to Mr Darcy, for he was offering her a portion of what, to her, was the unpalatable eel dish. “I thank you, no.”
Her pique over his suspicion regarding the non-existent Mr Morse would not abate.
Therefore, when the three gentlemen would later go to the drawing room after having had their fill of port and politics, she would ensure that she not find herself at a card table with the untrusting and captious Mr Darcy, lest he accuse her of cheating at whist. Such a self-righteous moralist, who behaves as though he is superior to others, is the very definition of a prig. So why, oh why, am I so fond of him?
Mr Darcy’s suspicions would have been better directed to that one page of Jane’s letter that had been mysteriously separated from the rest and hidden on his boat.
Who would do such a thing? And why? Miss Wright supposedly had found the page.
Had she planted it there? But then, how had she come by it in the first place?
Was it her intention to deliberately damage Elizabeth’s reputation?
I must not jump to conclusions. A person should be presumed innocent until proved guilty.
Mr Darcy had seemed pleased that there was no Mr Morse. If he and Miss Wright had been promised to one another, it would have been of no concern to him whether Elizabeth had either a suitor or a lover. Had the latter been true, he simply would have refused to associate with her.
While at the beach, when he had touched upon the subject of their friendship, Elizabeth had longed to broach the matter of his alleged secret engagement and to receive Mr Darcy's affirmation that her suspicions about it being a falsehood were valid.
But she had tacitly assured Miss Wright that she would not breathe a word of it to anyone, and her promise was inviolable.
Convinced as she was that there truly was no understanding, Elizabeth could then only be revolted by Miss Wright’s deceit.
Dear God, she must be desperate, indeed!
To what lengths might she go to achieve her goal?
Next to Hannah Wright, Caroline Bingley’s attempts to win the gentleman seemed rather feeble.
Throughout the remainder of the first course and during all of the second, Elizabeth was uncharacteristically quiet.
In a brown study, she admitted that she was at fault for even briefly presuming Mr Darcy guilty of toying with her while engaged to another; she was quite certain that Miss Wright, after three glasses of wine, was not only a wicked teller of untruths but a tippler as well.
So, if Miss Wright lied about having a secret understanding, then the man I hold in affection is not attached, and I may cease trying to deny my own interest and stop feigning indifference. Whether he is a suspicious, arrogant prig or not, I like him very, very much.
“Miss Bennet.” Mr Darcy’s sonorous voice, so near, so soon after her silent declaration, roused her from those musings and sent frissons of exhilaration throughout her body.
“Would you care for an ice to cleanse the palate?” He gestured to the footman who carried a tray and was offering her an ice-cream in a pretty little dessert cup.
Smiling, Elizabeth accepted it and admired the lemon-coloured treat garnished with shaved pistachios.
Each ice, she noticed, had a slightly different topping—dried fruit, candied rose petals, lavender buds, slivered almonds, or seasonal berries.
Miss Wright’s ice appeared to be an even deeper shade of yellow than the others, but Elizabeth attributed that to a trick of the evening sunlight shining through a window directly behind her.
“If anyone is wondering about our dessert’s sunny colour,” said Miss Darcy, “I am told that the ingredient responsible for that is a spice called saffron. Please, everyone, enjoy.”
Elizabeth dipped her spoon into the creamy confection and savoured her first taste.
Chopped, roasted pistachios gave the dessert a nutty flavour and rose water its floral fragrance.
Her cup was soon empty. Sensing that someone across the way was watching her with undue interest, she looked into Miss Wright’s eyes and perceived something like expectation.
Realising she had been caught staring, the other woman lowered her gaze and finished her own ice-cream. Then, upon putting down her spoon, Miss Wright fingered the deep-red stone of her pendant and asked, “Miss Bennet, did you enjoy your almond-garnished ice?”
“It was absolutely ambrosial, Miss Wright. However, mine had shaved pistachios on top, not almonds.”
The lady stared in horror, first at her empty dessert cup, then at the footman who had placed the confection in front of her.
Miss Hughes hurried to Elizabeth’s side while the ladies followed Miss Darcy and Miss Baker to the drawing room. “Will you please be my whist partner? If you agree, we shall play against Miss Darcy and Miss Althea. It will be Cliff House versus Strandsmere Park.”
“Yes, I would like to do so, my friend.” Such a grouping would conveniently eliminate the chance of Elizabeth finding herself at Mr Darcy’s table. Acknowledgement of liking him—and, perhaps, learning to love him—did not quite yet trump her affront at his having doubted her.
Ahead, the eldest Wright sister stumbled to a halt.
“Are you well, Miss Wright?” asked Miss Hughes.