Chapter 4
Their dinner that evening was enlarged by the presence of the Reverend Mr. and Mrs. Garbutt, who came over from Westerham to join them.
Mr. Garbutt was to perform the wedding at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin.
Anne had only seen the church once, some years ago, but she remembered the carving of the Last Supper behind the altar that was so beautiful, it was said to rival the decorations of the Rochester and Canterbury cathedrals.
Anne cared little. The wedding ought not to happen at all, and therefore she had no preference whether it took place in a cathedral or in a barn. She certainly did not put any stock on being married in a church with a depiction of the Last Supper in the background.
Nor did she care for the minister who was to perform the ceremony. She supposed that Lady Catherine had passed over Toadface for the role due to his connection with her groom’s former fiance.
One would not think a worse minister existed apart from the toadying Mr. Collins, and yet here was Mr. Garbutt.
The ancient man’s jowls dangled dangerously close to his soup bowl as he slurped it up.
His guttural voice was interspersed with thick, wet coughs.
He was so hard of hearing that Lady Catherine had to repeat everything she told him three times before he could grasp it.
His wife spoke little during the meal, but when she did it was to slap her husband hard on the back as he coughed, perhaps in the hopes of preventing him from choking on whatever he was eating, and murmuring cautions like, “Carefully now, Jezreel.”
Lady Catherine had seated Anne beside Cousin Darcy and placed Richard at the end of the table beside the Garbutts.
Anne, knowing Darcy’s love of theater, tried to question him about recent plays he might have seen at Covent Garden or Drury Lane, but the noise across from them coming from Mr. Garbutt was so disturbing, they could not carry on a proper conversation.
Halfway through the meal, Mr. Garbutt fell asleep on the table and began snoring loudly. Mrs. Garbutt apologized profusely, insisting that he was normally much better than this during the daytime.
“It is quite all right,” Lady Catherine consoled with a conciliatory air. “It could happen to anyone. However, I was hoping to discuss the wedding business with your husband. Do you suppose the reverend might be available at tomorrow's luncheon?”
Mrs. Garbutt agreed that she believed he would be, although she herself was otherwise engaged. With the help of Lady Catherine’s sturdy footmen, Mr. Garbutt was taken to his carriage and seen home while the rest of them repaired to the drawing room.
Richard took the initiative to push Anne’s chair. While they were in the passageway and apart from the others, he spoke softly in her ear.
“A truce, if you please, Anne. I cannot bear this silence from you.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, Anne’s heart melted. She looked up at him, reaching one hand to grasp his. “Oh, Richard, it is impossible that I should remain angry with you forever.”
“Then we are still friends?” He asked, his eyes pleading.
“More so. Always.” She smiled, feeling that a weight was lifted off of her chest. It took effort to remain angry and distant, especially when her heart yearned for his companionship.
He pressed a quick kiss to her palm. Anne suspected if they were truly alone, he might do more than that.
But hearing her mother returning up the stairs, she motioned to him to continue to the drawing room before they were seen lingering between the rooms. To her relief, he positioned her chair on the far side of the room, near the unused pianoforte, and took the seat beside her.
Cousin Darcy did them a great favor. As soon as Lady Catherine entered the room, he applied to her for a game of piquet, knowing it was a favorite of hers and that she would not refuse him.
This kept Her Ladyship occupied for a good half hour.
Mrs. Jenkinson, meanwhile, though she rarely played the pianoforte apart from the one in her room, opened up the instrument and began to play a few of her favorite pieces from memory, effectively drowning out their conversation for the time being.
“Darcy and I had an interesting encounter this afternoon,” Richard began, when he was sure that Lady Catherine could not hear him.
“Did you?” Anne said with an arch look.
“On our way ‘round the park, we encountered a lady who is staying at the parsonage. I believe you mentioned her in your letters to me. Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said in an even lower voice.
His telling smile put a sheepish look on her face. “You must know that name was forbidden to be spoken aloud,” Anne said. “But yes, I am aware of her presence there. In fact, she dined with us just before your arrival. I tried to hint that you ought to call at the parsonage. Did you?”
He nodded slowly. “We did, in fact. I found our visit to be most…intriguing.”
“I thought you might,” she replied, lowering her eyes slightly. “And has it taught you to hope at all?”
“Only in regards to our mutual friend. Whatever feeling exists on his part is still very much alive.
But as to the other party, I am afraid I am no judge of the workings of the female mind. I found her to be a pleasant lady, with a lively wit, but as I do not know her, I could discern little that could be relied upon. Perhaps you may have better luck.”
“If I have the opportunity to know her better, but that seems unlikely.” Anne shrugged. “What is your plan then?” she asked.
“I have no plan, at present.”
Sensing the tone of voice, she pressed. “But I suspect you have something in mind. I can see the wheels in your head turning.”
Richard lowered his voice a little. “If the two parties were to…resume their prior understanding, it might give the one party reason to break off their commitment to another, putting the scandal onto themselves.”
“I take your meaning,” Anne nodded. “They would be the jilter, rather than the jiltee. But you place a large assumption on their past betrothal being one of affection, and not subsisting on other means. Until we ascertain their regard, there can be no hope for your plan. Unless you simply choose to go along with my plan instead.”
Richard grunted. “We cannot. You would have no home to return to if you did.”
“And I would not care,” Anne argued.
Richard gestured, out of sight, for her to keep her voice down.
Lady Catherine raised her head from her cards. “What is it the pair of you are speaking of so secretly over there in the corner? Let me hear it. I must have my share in the conversation.”
Richard, though irritated that their private conversation had drawn such notice, schooled his expression and turned to his aunt. “We are merely rehearsing some lines from a play, ma’am.”
“Oh? Above all things, I love a good play. If I had ever learnt to act, I should have been a celebrated performer. Such a pity that women of high birth are not permitted to perform on the stage. Do tell me, from what play do you recite? Something of Shakespeare’s I take it?”
“Lover’s Vows, ma’am,” he answered, with a wink to Anne.
Lady Catherine waxed poetic for her admiration of the play, declared it a great while since she had last seen it performed, and remarked upon the actress who had played Amelia, but did not call on them to recite, for which Anne was grateful, as she could not have done so from memory.