Chapter Six
During the first interval, Elizabeth, Jane, Miss Morgan, and Aunt Madeline chatted amiably beneath the glittering chandeliers of the crowded lobby, their silk gowns rustling softly as they shifted in the press of perfumed bodies, while Uncle Edward and Mr. Morgan braved the refreshment queue snaking across the marble floor.
Their pleasant conversation withered when they were confronted by a disgruntled patron they had hoped never to encounter.
“Why must we continually encounter people of such inferior connections?” Miss Bingley’s pinched features contorted as she eyed the ladies with thinly veiled contempt.
Elizabeth drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and prepared for more of the woman’s barbed words.
Instead, Jane met Caroline Bingley’s gaze, lifted one perfect eyebrow, and replied with calm precision that cut through the din of the crowd, “I believe the air is much fresher on the other side of the room.”
She then turned on her satin-slippered heel and walked away.
Elizabeth, Miss Morgan, and Aunt Madeline exchanged wide-eyed glances but followed her lead, even as Mrs. Hurst, her ostrich feathers quivering indignantly atop her elaborate coiffure, snapped at her sister, “What on earth are you doing? Have you forgotten their aunt is a Cavendish?”
By the time Elizabeth caught sight of Uncle Edward and Mr. Morgan returning, their tall figures weaving through the sea of top hats and fashionable feathers, a safe distance had been achieved.
She could not suppress a smile at the perplexed frown creasing her uncle’s kindly brow as he rejoined them, crystal glasses of Negus balanced precariously in his hands.
“Morgan and I feared we had misplaced our treasure,” her uncle teased, his eyes twinkling as he offered them their drinks.
Jane’s cheeks flushed a gentle pink. “It was my fault,” she murmured, her delicate fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. “When confronted by an unwelcome former acquaintance, I elected to move our party here.”
Elizabeth quickly defended her sister. “There was ample reason for Jane’s momentary lapse in decorum. The lady in question has always behaved in a rude manner towards us. I, for one, applaud Jane’s action. We do not require her company.”
“Hear, hear,” said Uncle Edward, raising his glass so that amber liquid caught the light. “I heartily salute your newfound resolve, dear niece.”
“Lady Jane, please do not think this makes my sister and me regret your company,” Mr. Morgan said, his deep voice cutting through the soft chatter of the reception room. “If a stern lesson was necessary to make your point, then I am certain she was in dire need of your reproach.”
“Thank you, I think,” Jane replied, her cheeks still pale. “I am unaccustomed to such fierce anger. I usually navigate discord with more refinement. Confronting her so directly has left me… quite spent.”
Mr. Morgan’s brow softened. “Would you prefer to leave, then?” His voice was gentle, yet carried an unmistakable note of protectiveness.
“I appreciate the offer,” Jane said, lowering her eyes to the polished floor.
“But that would mean missing the remainder of the play.” She lifted her head and set her jaw with quiet resolve.
“Let me be plain. I intend to stand on my own two feet. I will learn to navigate the ton, to confront its obstacles, and to make difficult choices.”
Around them, the reception room thrummed with laughter, murmured chatter, and the soft clink of crystal. Elizabeth slipped her arm around her sister’s waist. “My reluctant Valkyrie,” she whispered.
“Thank you, Lizzie,” Jane replied, the tension in her shoulders easing.
Elizabeth caught the admiring glance Mr. Morgan cast towards her sister, and suspected her sister noticed it too. They prepared to return to their private box when Mr. Hurst materialized before them, offering a formal bow.
“Pardon me for detaining you, but I vowed that, should the chance arise, I would speak to Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth.”
Jane and Elizabeth exchanged startled glances. Mr. Hurst, known equally for his enjoyment of a superb meal, his frequent naps on convenient couches, and his skill at the card table, rarely embarked on earnest conversation. When he spoke again, his tone was grave.
“First, let me apologise for failing to curb my sister’s ceaseless criticisms while you were at Netherfield Park. Her remarks about your family, your home, and even your relations were beyond all decency. I should have intervened when her brother did not.”
“Mr. Hurst,” Jane began, pausing to look at Elizabeth, who silently nodded. “While we appreciate your apology, you are not responsible for Miss Bingley’s conduct.”
“I understand that, Miss Bennet. However, I am responsible for mine, and I abdicated my duty as a gentleman, allowing her to run roughshod over you and your sister. It was a failure on my part, and after dining with Mr. Darcy one evening, I resolved to tender my regrets at the earliest opportunity.”
Elizabeth’s mind drifted back to the letter her father had shared with her a few weeks before Christmas, and she appreciated the fact that both men had honoured their individual resolutions.
“Thank you, Mr. Hurst,” Jane said, offering the contrite gentleman a reassuring smile. “Your apology is sincerely appreciated. Please assure your wife that we bear her no ill will. She has endeavoured, in our presence, to temper her sister’s excesses, but Miss Bingley refuses every attempt.”
“I can only imagine.” Hurst offered a rueful smile and glanced around at the suddenly hushed room. “I must rejoin my family. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He inclined his head politely and withdrew.
“Well,” Uncle Edward remarked the moment Hurst vanished through an arched doorway. “I would never have wagered on such an apology being laid at your feet, dear nieces.”
“We are equally astonished,” Elizabeth replied. “I now understand the impetus for Mr. Darcy’s letter. His own contrition was quiet and profound, focused on his faults rather than on Miss Bingley’s. I must say, I am deeply impressed by both gentlemen.”
“As am I,” Jane said quietly.
Mr. Morgan extended his arm, and Jane slipped to his side, followed by his sister.
They ascended to their box, the velvet curtains closing with a soft hush.
Uncle Edward, pride warming his features, led his wife and Elizabeth back down the corridor, their footsteps echoing lightly as the orchestra struck up the overture to the next act.
Thunderous applause cascaded through the gilded theatre as the heavy crimson curtain descended upon the second act. Ashton rose from his plush seat, his tall figure casting a shadow across their private box.
“I shall fetch some lemonade for Georgiana,” he announced with practiced elegance, glancing meaningfully at Richard.
Darcy understood his cousin’s reluctance to have his brother attend with him.
The recent musket wound on Richard’s shoulder, a harsh reminder from Wellington’s Portugal campaign, remained tender even to the slightest touch, enough to render any jostling in the crowded lobby an agony.
Though content to remain with the colonel in their secluded box, Darcy inwardly steeled himself for the inevitable social intrusion that would surely punctuate the interval like a sour note in a perfect melody.
“That frown suggests you find the performance wanting,” Richard observed dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he studied Darcy’s expression in the flickering candlelight.
“Miss Bingley intercepted us upon arrival,” Darcy replied, his voice low, wishing to spare Georgiana further distress. “Though she abstained from intrusion during the first interval, I harbour no illusions that she will exercise similar restraint now.”
“Ah,” Richard nodded, a gleam of mischievous understanding lighting his hazel eyes. “Rest assured, Ash and I stand ready as your vanguard. Leave that insufferable harpy to our management.”
Darcy’s gratitude remained unspoken as three sharp raps interrupted them.
The lacquered door swung open to reveal Bingley and Miss Eldridge, with Miss Bingley immediately pushing forward like a ship under full sail.
She halted abruptly when Colonel Fitzwilliam stood to his full imposing height, forcing her to acknowledge his formidable presence with a poorly concealed grimace.
The Hursts followed at a dignified pace.
After exchanging the slightest civilities with the colonel, Miss Bingley craned her neck to peer at Darcy.
“Mr. Darcy,” she simpered, “is not the performance simply divine? From your box, one can truly enjoy the most advantageous perspective.”
“It serves adequately,” Darcy replied, his tone clipped enough to extinguish any hope of further fawning or hope of an invitation to join them for the remaining two acts.
At that instant, Ashton returned, bearing Georgiana’s lemonade in a cut-glass goblet. Darcy delivered it to his sister, happily receiving her timid smile of gratitude, before addressing his aristocratic cousin.
“May I introduce my friend’s party?” he asked, his voice low but courteous.
Ashton lounged against the carved oak balustrade, his expression one of languid amusement. “I think not,” he drawled. “Although the Hursts may remain, if they so wish.”
At once, Bingley’s face flushed a sudden, angry crimson, Miss Eldridge’s eyes widened in startled dismay, and Miss Bingley blanched, her balance faltering momentarily.
When Mrs. Hurst moved to steady her sister, her husband’s fingers closed around her arm, and he gave her a subtle but resolute shake of his head.
“Darcy!” Bingley’s voice rose with indignation. “Will you permit such an affront to my sister and myself?”