Chapter 17
London
“Mrs. Fairfax, thank you so much for inviting us this evening. Let me introduce my niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth curtseyed, made the appropriate compliments to their hostess, and followed her aunt into the drawing-room, which had been opened into the adjoining music room, where a very fine Broadwood piano-forte took pride of place, next to which stood a new Erard harp.
To one side lay a six-stringed guitar of the Spanish style by Louis Panormo.
They were handed glasses of wine by a liveried footman before walking to the mantel to admire a painting of Lord Wellington just after his victorious entry into Madrid. Her aunt asked her, smiling, how she liked it.
“It is a true likeness, Aunt. While he was triumphant, he was near exhausted from battle—see how gaunt his face is.”
“Does the lady presume to know Lord Wellington, that she can comment on how he appeared after taking Madrid?”
Elizabeth coloured. “Perchance.” She turned to find a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, staring at her.
“Ma’am, I do not take your meaning,” said Elizabeth, aware that the lady was frowning at her.
“I am remarking, Miss, that it is the greatest impertinence to claim an acquaintance when, quite obviously, it cannot possibly be true.”
“I am Miss Bennet, and you are?”
“I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh—a great favourite of the Earl. I do not recall your being among his friends.”
“I do not claim friendship, only a passing acquaintance. I met Lord Wellington in Salamanca, some days before his great victory over Marshal Marmont.”
“A great day for my family, for Britain owes very much to my nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth gave a start, and before she could contain herself, blurted out her acquaintance with the Colonel.
“Oh, you are impossible, Miss Bennet. I will ask Mrs. Fairfax to have you removed. You claim friendship with Colonel Fitzwilliam, the son of an earl. Impossible! Who are you, merely the niece of a tradesman? I have never heard of such pretension.” The lady cast widely about the room.
“Darcy! Come here. There is a person who claims to know both Wellington and Fitzwilliam. You were there, were you not, in Salamanca, when Wellington routed the French Marshal… what was his name?”
“Marmont, Aunt.”
Elizabeth’s heart stilled; it was his voice. Darcy.
“Miss Bennet, it is a pleasure to see you again. I trust your family is well.”
Elizabeth looked up; by the veriest chance, their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were over-spread with the deepest blush. She instinctively turned away, but stopped herself. She must answer, if not for herself, at least for civility.
“M-Mr. Darcy. We last saw each other—was it in León?”
“Darcy, who is this girl?” interjected Lady Catherine. “How do you know her? Not a friend of those Bingley women, is she? If I had known so many were to come from trade this evening, I would have declined the invitation.”
“Lady Catherine, may I introduce Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Well, if you must.” Lady Catherine inclined her head. Both Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth curtseyed.
Mrs. Gardiner stepped forward. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Catherine. I have heard much of your good works for the orphanage from Lady Matlock. On behalf of the committee, it is indeed gratifying to see you attending our charity soirée.”
“Harrumph. I rarely come up to Town—and Mrs. Fairfax insisted the evening would not succeed without my attendance.”
As Lady Catherine de Bourgh deigned to accept the introduction, the eyes of the room—some curious, others simply eager for diversion—turned discreetly toward the little group.
Elizabeth, still flushed, resolved to recover her composure.
She took a sip of her wine and, emboldened, glanced at Darcy.
He had not moved from his aunt’s side, but there was a gentle warmth in his gaze.
The hush was broken by the strains of a harp, tentative at first, then firm, as a young lady seated herself at the Erard.
Conversation resumed in polite, subdued tones.
Mrs. Fairfax, with the ease of a practised hostess, drew Mrs. Gardiner into a discussion of the evening’s charitable purpose.
Lady Catherine, unbending only slightly, remarked with pride on the recent enlargement of the orphanage’s west wing, for which purpose she had made a substantial donation.
Elizabeth, finding herself momentarily at liberty, wandered to the edge of the music room.
She admired the craftsmanship of the Broadwood piano, then picked up the guitar, softly tuning the instrument, her fingers running lightly over the strings.
Darcy, having extracted himself from his aunt’s side, quietly approached.
Before he could address her, Lady Catherine’s voice rudely interrupted the gentle music of the young girl at the harp.
“Miss Bennet, if you truly are acquainted with Salamanca, perhaps you can favour us with a Spanish air?”
Darcy bent his head, whispering so that no one else might hear. “Do you play, Miss Elizabeth? If not, I shall make your apologies.”
“I do play, Mr. Darcy. The guitar is my preferred instrument. It was not my intention to entertain this evening, but I believe Lady Catherine’s request is something of a challenge.
If the French cannot intimidate me, then neither can an English lady.
” Elizabeth blushed, for she had recalled just then her entering the French camp at León.
“There is nothing that can intimidate you, Senora Isabella. Please, would you play, if only for me?”
Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly that he wished her to play for him; the compliment was all for herself. And that he had called her by the affectionate, yet respectful, name used by the Spanish partisans.
‘Is it possible that he does not disdain me?’ she thought.
‘Surely, such is impossible.’ Yet, she could rationalise his civility.
None knew of her disgrace but the Colonel, Don Mateo, Major Hurley, and Lord Wellington—all of whom were in Spain.
In London, he could be polite and civil, for her dishonour was safely hidden away from the prying eyes and ears of the ton.
And, at a charity evening, he would certainly be all that was charming.
Nevertheless, she felt all the embarrassment of her situation.
She was not a virtuoso, but the novelty of her music, and the popularity of all things Spanish, gave such pleasure to her audience that her performance was received with great approbation.
Afterwards, she returned to her aunt, who looked at her with some interest. “You had said, Lizzy, that Mr. Darcy did not care for your acquaintance. However, his behaviour this evening makes me wonder at the truth of your statement. How came you to it?”
How could she tell of her shame, or her entering the French camp accompanied only by a Spanish pimp? It could not be borne. She could only nod, and mumble that she must have been mistaken.
Towards the end of the evening, Mr. Darcy once more approached.
“There is a person who could not come this evening, although she was invited,” he said.
“She is known to you, and particularly wishes to see you again. I have the direction of the Gardiners. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to them, and perchance renew her acquaintance with you?”
“Oh, I do so wish to see Georgiana again.” Elizabeth cried. “Aunt, Mr. Darcy wishes to bring his sister, Miss Darcy, to visit. When are we next at home?”
* * *
One afternoon, as Georgiana lingered before a painting of Persephone among the flowers, Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves alone before a landscape of particular beauty.
The artist had captured a wild expanse of rugged mountains, the sky heavy with the promise of rain, and a solitary figure traversing the path homeward.
“There is a melancholy in this scene, do you not think?” Elizabeth ventured, her eyes lingering on the painted horizon. “Yet there is also a sort of hope. See how the light breaks through the cloud, just there, beyond the ridge.”
“In Spain, when the sun would rise above the mountains, it always gave me hope, that we would escape the place. I look back now—while a terrible time, there was also much beauty.” Elizabeth looked away, a shadow of pain and doubt flickered across her eyes.
“I must apologise, Miss Elizabeth. When Georgiana and I reached Salamanca, we did not return your call. It was very poorly done.”
“May I ask you why, Mr. Darcy? I must admit, it left me confused. But I could not fault you. You must protect Georgiana’s reputation, and quite rightly she should not be associated with my indiscretion at León.”
“No! You did no wrong. It is I who should be censured. I did not know my own mind. My conduct, my manners then, is now, and has been for many months, inexpressibly painful to me. It was Richard, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who reproached me, and so well applied. ‘Had it not been for Miss Bennet,’ he said, ‘we would be fleeing for our lives. Likely, Darcy, you would have been taken by the French, and Georgiana…’ But I could not see it—I was too consumed by my own pride, and my belief in the superiority of my connections. You taught me that they, of themselves, are nothing unless tempered by the exigencies of the world around us. What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled.”
“I do not understand, sir. Whatever can you mean?”
“It was only on the journey to Lisbon, having left Salamanca too hurriedly, I must say, that I thought of what you had sacrificed. You were a lady of the utmost propriety. Yet, you were always willing to forgo what society said was right, for what you, with such integrity of character, knew what was right in your heart.”
“Ah, I believe you misunderstand my character. My mother would have it that I cleave little enough to society’s mores. Though, perhaps, she herself is not the best to complain of my unladylike behaviour.”
“No, Miss Elizabeth, you have never been unladylike. It is I who have been ungentlemanly. Dare I say it? You are the finest woman that I know.”
Elizabeth blushed. Could this truly be the Mr. Darcy who had abandoned her and Lydia in Salamanca? Was this the man with whom she had walked, her hand in his, climbing the Cantabrian Mountains?
Before she could reply, Georgiana came skipping up to them. “Oh, Lizzy, come, I must show you. There is the most delightful portrait of Madame Catalani—and to think, we heard her sing just two nights ago!”
Elizabeth allowed Georgiana to take her arm, glancing back, just once, to meet Darcy’s gaze. She was grateful for the reprieve and yet acutely aware of the tremor of feeling that lingered—an earnestness, a vulnerability—that unsettled and warmed her in equal measure.
The three made their way through the gallery, Georgiana speaking animatedly of Madame Catalani’s performance, her cheeks aglow with youthful admiration. “I had never heard anything like it,” she exclaimed.
She paused before the portrait: the artist had rendered the singer with an almost luminous quality, her dark eyes alight, her mouth poised as if to loose a note that would echo through the gallery’s halls.
“She sang as if her heart would break for joy or sorrow,” Elizabeth said softly. “I think she knew both, as did the artist.”
“Gunters!” exclaimed Darcy. “I am in need of refreshment, and Berkeley Square is very close.”
Georgiana clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, yes, ices! Do let us go, Lizzy—if you are not too tired, that is?”
Elizabeth smiled, her composure restored. “Not in the least. The air will do us good.” She glanced at Darcy, whose lips twitched into the hint of a smile.
They left the cool hush of the gallery for the bustle of the street, the sunlight sharp and golden after the filtered light of the gallery.
Berkeley Square was alive with the season’s pleasures: carriages rattled over the flagstones, ladies in bonnets of the newest fashion promenaded beneath the budding trees, and the scent of spring mingled with the sweetness drifting from Gunters’ famous shop.
Inside, the little parlour was crowded with families and officers on leave, their laughter rising above the delicate clink of porcelain. Georgiana pressed close to the window, gazing at the display of ices in every shade—rose, lemon, pistachio, and chocolate.
“Which shall we have?” she asked, turning imploringly to Elizabeth. “I am partial to lemon,” Elizabeth replied, “but you must choose for us all, Georgiana.”
When the ices arrived, Elizabeth found the tartness of her lemon ice oddly bracing. She glanced at Darcy, who was watching her with a quiet intensity, his own dish untouched.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, then faltered, as if uncertain how much to risk in such a public place. He lowered his voice. “You have given me much to think on. I hope… I hope you will allow me, in time, to prove that I am not quite the man you believed me to be in Salamanca.”
Elizabeth, surprised by the tone of his words, met his gaze.
“I think I must learn for myself who you are, Mr. Darcy. Yet, I cannot say I do not enjoy your presence. As I once related—was it close to Oviedo?—the thoughts do not press me in your company. If it were mine to propose, I would always keep you near, sir.”
Georgiana laughed. “As long as we are friends, Elizabeth, I’m sure William will lurk somewhere nearby.
He is the best of brothers.” She paused, thoughtful, and said rather wistfully, “Perhaps, one day, I shall have a sister as well. What think you, William, will you get me a sister? For you are so very generous—and it is not so much to ask.”
* * *