Chapter 1 #3
Based on a fair amount of experience buying furs for himself, he started with the ermine ensemble.
No sooner had his hands touched the muff before the clerk swooped in, as expected.
Bartering with salesmen was familiar territory, his success in obtaining the pair at a fair price establishing the firm footing necessary to bolster his confidence.
Breathing easier, he was about to move on when a musical voice stayed his steps.
“Excellent choice on the muff and stole. I can guarantee she will adore both of them.”
Darcy swung his gaze toward the beautiful, elegantly dressed woman in her early forties standing by a rack draped with assorted fur tippets. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Halleck”—she bobbed her head toward the merchant who had taken the muff to be boxed—“is aggressive and annoying, but he is the finest furrier in Harding and Howell. His prices reflect this, of course, and in his case are acceptable. Now, if you are in the market for gloves for your wife—”
“Fiancée.”
“Ah, I see. Congratulations are in order then. Your impeccable taste in fur bodes well for marital felicity, trust me. For gloves, you want those sewn by Mrs. Viceroy. Some will direct you to Mr. Dicey, and his work is stellar to be sure. The prices, however, are outrageous compared to Mrs. Viceroy’s.
Clearly this is not an issue for you, as it is not for me either, but I despise being overcharged if it is merely a blatant gouging.
Do you not agree? Mrs. Viceroy’s gloves are extraordinary and a third the price. ”
“Thank you, madam. The information is tremendously appreciated.” From the moment he had laid eyes upon her, Darcy felt a jolt of recognition yet doubted his good fortune.
Attempting to verify what he hopefully suspected, he bowed gallantly and inquired, “May I have the honor of your name, to express my gratefulness specifically?”
She inclined her head, smiling as she extended her gloved hand. “Mrs. Kemble. Maria Theresa Kemble.”
“Mrs. Kemble.” Darcy respectfully bestowed a glancing kiss to her hand.
“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, at your service. Indeed, this is a singular honor. I’ve had the privilege of watching you perform several times at Covent Garden.
In fact, the first play I attended in London was Tom Thumb at Drury Lane. You were phenomenal.”
“It is a pleasure to meet anyone who attributes ‘phenomenal’ to one of my performances, Mr. Darcy. I appreciate the praise, as all egocentric artists do no matter how humble they profess to be. However, I was not searching for a complimentary theater habitué. I must confess I have a soft spot for rescuing lost gentlemen in shopping malls.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Gaping while blocking the doorway was the first clue. What truly gave it away, Mr. Darcy, was not knowing what a tippet is.”
“And here I was congratulating myself on bluffing convincingly when Mr. Halleck mentioned them.”
“Take my advice—do not play cards for serious money.”
Despite his embarrassment, he had to chuckle at that. “I have heard the warning before. Numerous times.”
“While we cannot improve upon acting skills when none exist,” she jested, “we can impart our vast knowledge of what women desire.”
Mrs. Kemble’s shift into the plural was a mystery for mere seconds.
Circling from behind him were two women as lushly beautiful as Mrs. Kemble.
They walked with a graceful poise wholly unique and captivating to behold.
Darcy recognized them instantly, awestruck as he bowed reverentially to each in turn as Mrs. Kemble formally introduced her companions.
Maria Theresa de Camp had made a name for herself as a dancer and actress years before her marriage to acclaimed actor Charles Kemble.
As Darcy had said, she was the first starring actress he had seen perform, and while he would never confess it, his impressionable sixteen-year-old heart had fallen madly in love with the glamorous starlet.
Long over those youthful passions, he still admired her talent, seen most recently the past December in Smiles and Tears, or the Widow's Stratagem, a comedy play she wrote.
To Mrs. Kemble’s right stood Maria Davison, celebrated for creating the role of Julianna in The Honeymoon at the beginning of her career. Currently a principal actress at Drury Lane, Darcy had delighted in several of her fine portrayals over the past ten years.
Standing beside Mrs. Davison was none other than Sarah Siddons, preeminent tragedienne of the eighteen-century stage.
Born into the Kemble acting family—Charles Kemble was her brother—Mrs. Siddons had acting in her blood and entered the profession during the 1770s when female actresses were on the cusp of attaining respectability.
Her brilliance on the stage escalated her to a celebrity status of mythical proportions and had elevated the prestige of actors and actresses as a whole.
Born during Sarah Siddon’s reign as queen of Drury Lane, Darcy had missed the acclaimed performances at the height of her career.
Fortunately, he had attended every Covent Garden appearance of Mrs. Siddons in her later years, before retiring, including her extraordinary farewell performance as Lady Macbeth in 1812.
On that night the applause had been thunderous, Darcy vigorously contributing, and she delivered the most incredible farewell speech in theatre history.
Meeting dignitaries was not unusual for a man of Darcy’s station in society, but being introduced to luminaries of the London stage in the middle of a shopping mall was an entirely new experience. He was quite overwhelmed!
“Mrs. Siddons,” he greeted the eldest of the three before turning to the youngest of the renowned actress trio. “Mrs. Davison. Indeed, my great fortune has multiplied exponentially. I am overwhelmed.”
“We view it as a service to humanity, Mr. Darcy,” Sarah Siddons assured in her famed voice.
“Teach a gentleman the critical importance of costly trinkets to spoil his lovers, sisters, aunts, etcetera—of which he shall profit in unmentionable ways—and he will pass the information to his male friends. Rumors spread and our sex reaps the bounty for generations.”
Mrs. Davison bobbed her head in agreement, and verily before Darcy blinked his eyes the three prima donnas of the London stage had “taken him under their wings” as they put it.
For the better part of an hour they personally escorted him to the best merchandise in Harding and Howell and, with such illustrious women at his side, attention was inevitable.
Darcy intensely despised being stared at and fawned over, yet there was no denying the benefits in this instance.
The news rippled through the mall with male and female customers flocking to meet the famed actresses.
This didn’t surprise Darcy. What did surprise him was the plethora of ladies who joined the noble cause of educating him.
Universally, they delighted in imparting their perspectives on the products for sale and gushed endlessly about ways to “make his beloved happy.”
The assistance continued long after Mrs. Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, and Mrs. Davison reluctantly departed.
At the milliner and draper department every woman present—customer and sales assistant, young and old—held up gowns and donned hats to model for him.
Never in his life had Darcy been surrounded by a surfeit of females parading and posing as they invited him to ogle brazenly.
Only the humor in the situation inhibited his utter humiliation.
After three exhausting hours and more purchases than he had ever made in a single day, Darcy was desperate for freedom. The crowds had thinned, and fewer helpers were dogging his steps, so when an extradition route presented itself, he grabbed onto a minute of distraction among his followers.
Ducking into a partitioned area selling perfumery and toilette articles, he hid behind a series of display cases taller than he.
While used as an escape stratagem, Darcy’s cloaking tactic was providential.
Absently scanning the products on the shelves, his eyes slid past a box, only to jerk back.
There it was! The perfect gift for Elizabeth that had stubbornly eluded him despite the massive pile of boxes and bags collecting at the porter’s desk.
Lying on a cushion of dark-blue velvet inside a lacquered cherrywood box was an exquisite vanity set consisting of a brush, comb, and mirror.
Stupendously crafted of silver with inlaid mother-of-pearl bordered by a raised ridge of emerald-green enamel, he had never seen another as superlative.
Unfamiliar he may have been with the components of a lady’s toilette, but Darcy knew silver artistry and masterful construction when he saw it, no matter the object.
Envisioning Elizabeth opening this priceless gift once they were alone on their wedding night was a superb vision.
Picturing himself standing or sitting behind her while brushing her lush, long, wavy hair as the aroma of lavender rose into the air sent tingles of extreme pleasure flittering through his body.
The reality was sure to surpass his imagination.
Shoving thoughts of Elizabeth and intimacy aside—a wise move if he wanted to keep his dignity intact—he motioned to the shop owner.
“I wish to have each of these pieces engraved in the finest script.” Darcy paused, deliberating.
Formally, his wife would be addressed as “Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” These items, however, were personal, an intimate gift for their eyes only and mutual enjoyment.
Coming to a decision, he smiled at the patiently waiting merchant.
“Along each handle engrave Elizabeth Darcy.”