17. Wickham in the Garden
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WICKHAM IN THE GARDEN
Ever since that tiny dispute about Mortimer Delvile, Darcy had stopped sorting the callers, claiming pressing business with the Consol transfers and other matters.
He had made his point loud and clear—that he was no Mortimer Delvile, that he was not to be put into the category of suitor like the men calling on her, because he had proposed in the most insulting manner designed to curry her absolute refusal, and he was under no obligation or even inclination to address her again.
His letter had spelled it out. Ignoring the salver was just underlining in thick, black ink.
So she picked through the accumulation of eligible bachelors with a wry amusement.
Sir Geoffrey Hale, a baronet with a taste for fine horses; Mrs. Rolleston and her Nathaniel of the soup course; and Mrs. Craster and her son, one of the weeping Arthurs, whose watercolors mixed with his tears.
Elizabeth unfolded the sonnet he had composed, comparing her eyes to “twin celestial orbs of midnight fire,” which demonstrated ambition if not talent.
Sir George Wharton had left a note regarding his box at Ascot, where he was racing his mare, and of course, Sir Weston Prideaux had left his card with a sketch of his family crest on the reverse, apparently believing Elizabeth required visual confirmation of his pedigree.
Although the men were absurd, each tripping over their own shoe latchets to compete for her fortune, Elizabeth intended to enjoy every last laugh.
After all, a lady only got a single First Season, and with her new money, she could purchase entertainments and gain invitations she had never dreamed of.
Her family had avoided London because of the expense, and now she could attend exhibitions, museum openings, horse races, theatre, and all sorts of parties and balls—and have the silks and fashions to wear for herself and her sisters.
She picked through the invitations from Lady Jersey, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, and a cheeky note from Lord Coke, written in a hand that suggested either great haste or a third glass of morning gin: Enjoyed the promenade enormously.
Tell Darcy his performance in the elm was the finest thing I’ve witnessed all Season.
“Bring the silver salver to the table,” Lady Sophia observed from her breakfast. “Or at least the most promising cards.”
“My trustee or your deputy has not sorted this.” Elizabeth placed the more interesting cards in front of Lady Sophia, who raised her reading glasses. “I believe he is otherwise occupied this morning.”
“Fitzwilliam had pressing estate business with his land agent,” Lady Sophia said, her tone deceptively smooth as she examined Sir Geoffrey Hale’s card.
“He required a brisk morning walk to clear his head beforehand, and took Nettle along to exhaust her high spirits. I expect the paperwork for your Consols has occupied his dawn hours.”
“How remarkably sacrificial of him,” Elizabeth remarked, her voice dripping with a fine, country irony. “To endure the fresh air of the gardens while his ward is left to drown in unvetted peerage. I had no idea the administration of my funds required such rigorous, distant contemplation.”
“You are displeased with him.”
“I am not anything with him. His morning activities are his own concern.”
Lady Sophia set down Sir Geoffrey’s card and regarded Elizabeth over the rim of her spectacles.
“I confess I do not entirely understand what has passed between you and my godson, Elizabeth. He has been uncharacteristically cryptic on the subject, which usually means he is either protecting someone or nursing a wound. He implied, in a very oblique fashion, that he had once offered you a proposal of some kind.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a traitorous jump, but her voice stayed light. “Mr. Darcy implied all sorts of things.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I intend to provide before breakfast chocolate.” Elizabeth lifted Lord Coke’s note from the pile and extended it toward Lady Sophia. “Look at this instead, Lady Sophia. Lord Coke has written on the reverse. He appears to find our Sunday excursion vastly entertaining.”
Lady Sophia took the card, her eyes flicking over Coke’s irreverent scrawl.
A faint, knowing smile touched the corner of her mouth.
“Coke is an Earl’s heir, witty, unburdened by a surplus of gravity, and entirely at home in a ballroom.
He would give you a life of splendid amusement, Elizabeth. He has a great deal to recommend him.”
“You are reciting his qualifications as though I asked for them.”
“Did you not?” Lady Sophia lowered her glasses and peered at Elizabeth.
“Lord Coke finds everything amusing, as I suspect you do, too. The Matlock title is ancient and respectable, and Augustus himself is charming when he chooses to be. His income is perhaps six thousand a year from the family estates, with more to come upon inheritance. Many women would consider him the prize of the Season.”
“He is also related to Darcy.”
“And why is that a consideration, my dear?”
“I… only that… well, I have to take his calls because… my trustee or your deputy cannot turn him away.”
“A pity.” Lady Sophia dropped Lord Coke’s card back into the salver.
“Or an opportunity. Lord Coke has expressed interest. He sent a note. He will undoubtedly call this week. Augustus is clever, a wit like you, well read, and will one day sit in the House of Lords. Lady Matlock is not an easy mother to please, although she seems quite taken by you.”
“I doubt Lady Catherine would agree,” Elizabeth said. “She was not impressed with my piano when I visited Kent this winter.”
“Ah… the infamous visit to Kent.” Lady Sophia’s eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief or might have been strategy.
“I seem to recall that Darcy is Lady Catherine’s fond nephew and that his visit coincided with yours.
Could that acquaintance in the depths of a Kentish February be the source of ice between you and my godson? ”
“I hardly know what you are referring to.” Elizabeth averted her face, which had become quite heated. “Look here, Mr. Craster has written a sonnet comparing my eyes to midnight fire.”
Lady Sophia leaned back, her teacup poised as she looked at Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks and defiant eyes.
“Tell me, my dear,” the old lady murmured, her voice laced with a dangerous, quiet amusement. “Do you wish for Darcy to throw his card in the salver with the Sir Geoffreys and weeping Arthurs?”
Elizabeth felt heat climb her neck and willed it to stop. “Then I would be very surprised, given that he has explicitly promised never to address me again on subjects beyond trust business.”
“Has he indeed?” Lady Sophia’s voice held a note of satisfaction, as though Elizabeth had confirmed a suspicion she had been nurturing. “How very interesting. And how very like Fitzwilliam to make such a promise and then torture himself keeping it.”
“I did not ask for the promise.”
“No. But you did something that prompted it. I wonder what.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. How much did Lady Sophia know or guess? Had Darcy confided in her? But no, the man had too much pride. He would never reveal that a woman below his consequence had called him the last man in the world she could be prevailed upon to marry.
She nearly slapped her own forehead. Why had she been so cutting? The man had all but dropped his heart at her feet—awkwardly, yes, but still… oh.
“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” Lady Sophia’s voice held a mocking edge. “Or shall I fetch your trustee to see to your Consols?”
Thankfully, Mrs. Alford appeared in the doorway.
“Lady Lucas and Mrs. Collins to see Miss Bennet, my lady. And a Mr. John Lucas, from Hertfordshire.”
“How delightful,” Lady Sophia murmured. “The provinces have come to call. Do show them in, Mrs. Alford. And perhaps bring fresh tea. Sit down, Elizabeth, and lower your color before your guests mistake your trustee-induced agitation for a London fever.”
Elizabeth shot her a warning look. Lady Sophia ignored it, settling deeper into her chair, clearly ready for the next act.
The Lucases entered in formation: Lady Lucas first, resplendent in a new pelisse of mulberry silk; Charlotte second, sensible and familiar in dove gray; and John Lucas bringing up the rear with the hunted agitation of a young man compelled into a courtship call.
His coat was too tight across the shoulders, his cravat was too loose, and his face wore a look of mortified goodwill.
“Lady Sophia,” Elizabeth said. “May I present to you my dear Hertfordshire acquaintances, Lady Lucas, Mrs. Charlotte Collins, and Mr. John Lucas.”
“Lady Sophia!” Lady Lucas curtsied so deeply she needed Charlotte’s help to right herself.
“What an honor to be received in such elegant surroundings. I was just telling Charlotte that Grosvenor Street is precisely what I expected for our dear Elizabeth, although of course we knew her when she was merely a gentleman’s daughter with no particular prospects, and look at her now! ”
“One does find that fifteen thousand pounds a year provides an excellent foundation for a young lady’s prospects,” Lady Sophia murmured. “Do sit down, Lady Lucas. And Mrs. Collins, Mr. Lucas, it is nice to make your acquaintance.”
She accepted their bows and curtsies, then said, “Do not mind me. I shall read my novel while you young people visit. Miss Jane appears to be still abed, and the young ladies, Miss Georgiana Darcy and Miss Mary, are in the music room, if you should like to join them.”