11
The Royal Estates Theatre, built thirty years before, had a neo-classical facade (pillars, a triangular gable) and a narrow interior under a domed ceiling. Count Rosicky’s seats faced the royal box and easily accommodated their whole party. Elizabeth was urged to sit at the front in a comfortable chair with a pouch for an opera glass—an unnecessary aid with the stage directly beneath, but useful for observing noteworthy people in the audience.
Placed next to Angelika, Elizabeth received continuous French commentary as dignitaries arrived in the boxes opposite. Prague, it seemed, was a cultural magnet: the superior seats were filled by princes, viscounts, and barons from all over the German Confederation or even from Russia. It was as if the aristocracy was re-emerging from the menace of revolution and French domination, eager to travel and restore old alliances.
The opera began, and realising that Elizabeth was unfamiliar with the plot the baroness whispered further explanations. The nub was that a count planned to bed a lady’s maid on her wedding night, but there were other intrigues, in rooms where someone always appeared to be hiding—behind a chair, or in a closet, or under a tablecloth. In fragments Elizabeth understood, but as she confided to Justina in the first interval, she would have preferred to concentrate on the singing. Luckily people switched places, and for the final act she returned from the ladies room to find the only free seat next to Darcy.
He greeted her with a slight nod, and as the conclusion unfolded through a slow aria expressing remorse and forgiveness, she had to concede that he possessed at least one merit, compared with the baroness: silence. After a plot of such absurdity the climax was unexpectedly moving, and she felt emotion well up. Could she ever forgive the man sitting on her right? Would the bitterness ever leave her? A rousing final chorus, and near to tears, she looked down into the stalls where people were preparing to leave.
A gentleman rose, beside a tallish lady with a frilled pink hat, and turned in Elizabeth’s direction. Something in his manner was familiar, and she reached for an opera glass to take a closer look.
Urgently she touched Darcy’s arm. ‘Do you see the couple standing in the third row?’ She leaned over to whisper. ‘I think he is Mr Wickham.’
‘Surely not.’
‘Look!’
She passed him the opera glass, and putting it to his eye, he flinched.
‘I believe you are right.’
‘Could the lady be Lydia?’
‘I can’t see her face.’
‘Let me try!’ She took the glass, but the woman was facing the other way while shuffling to the aisle.
‘They’re leaving!’ Elizabeth replaced the glass. ‘Please, Mr Darcy, follow me to the foyer and let us try to intercept them at the cloakroom.’
Darcy turned to look around the box, and gasped.
‘Where is Georgiana?’
‘Probably with Lady Justina in the powder room.’
‘Then I must wait in the corridor to stay near my sister.’
Elizabeth stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Surely that is obvious.’
‘Mr Darcy, I implore you …’
‘No! It is out of the question.’
With a groan of disgust Elizabeth pushed past him and hastened to the stairs. At first she made fast progress: the haut ton of Prague liked to relax and finish their drinks while customers from the stalls clogged up the foyer. But downstairs the press was so tight that she took minutes to reach the cloakroom, where she saw no sign of Wickham.
Desperately she swivelled to scan the departing crowd, and noticed a man and woman at the main exit, just a few yards away.
It could be …
Pushing through, she emerged into a cold blast of wind and rain, ran down the steps to the forecourt, and managed to view the couple from the side. Her heart jumped. The man was almost certainly Wickham. The woman’s face was still hidden. Walking fast, the couple veered towards a road, and trying to follow, Elizabeth bumped into a slow-moving woman and nearly knocked her over.
The woman gasped, while a gentleman steadied her and shouted at Elizabeth in what she assumed was Czech.
‘I’m so sorry …’ she gasped.
He shouted something else, but she was already running again, just in time to glimpse Wickham vanishing behind a queue of carriages. Desperately she crossed the street and espied the couple a hundred yards away.
What to do? She was cold, wet, and had no coat. But it was too soon to give up. Drivers gaped as she ran along the narrow space between the parked carriages and the wall of a garden. Wickham seemed unaware of any pursuit. He was not running away, merely trying to get out of the rain. He turned into a maze of narrower streets, while Elizabeth kept twenty paces back and pondered her next move.
They were alone now, in darker roads. To tackle Wickham might be dangerous: better to find out where he went, and to seek a glimpse of his companion.
They stopped at a corner, and Wickham drew out a key.
The lady was at last side-on, under a gaslight, allowing Elizabeth to view her profile. Aquiline, with a strong chin and proud expression.
Not Lydia.
Afraid to draw closer, Elizabeth halted at a doorway and pretended to look for a key, while watching out of the corner of her eye as Wickham and the lady went indoors.
She stepped closer to see the address.
Number 2. Street name, ?tupartská .
Should she knock?
But it felt dangerous to confront such a neer-do-well in a dark side-street, in a country where she could not even speak the language. In any case, she had no lever to make Wickham collaborate. He could simply refuse to talk, then flee. Now that she knew where he lived, it would be better to return with a gentleman to back her up.
Shivering, she retreated, repeating Two ?tupartská over and over so that she would not forget.