Chapter Seven An Aria of Truths
The dressing room in Gracechurch Street was a flurry of silk, satin, and anticipation. It was Monday, the twenty-third of December, and the Bennet sisters were preparing for war—or rather for the Opera, which in London society amounted to much the same thing.
Elizabeth sat in front of the vanity, allowing her aunt's maid to pin a final pearl comb into her hair. She wore a gown of amber silk that suited her complexion, but her attention was entirely focused on her sister.
Jane stood by the window, adjusting the lace of her gloves. She wore pale blue—her signature colour—but tonight, she seemed different. The air of fragile tragedy that had clung to her like a shroud since the end of November was gone. In its place was a quiet, steady resolve.
"You look beautiful," Elizabeth said softly. "The Viscount will lose the power of speech."
Jane turned, a small smile playing on her lips. "He is very complimentary, is he not? It is... agreeable. To be admired so openly."
"It is certainly a change from silent adoration followed by vanishing acts," Elizabeth muttered, unable to stop herself. She turned in her chair. "Jane, are you certain about this? To be seen in public with Lord Keathley? It will send a signal. If Mr Bingley hears of it..."
Jane paused, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. She looked at her reflection in the dark glass of the window, then turned to face Elizabeth. Her expression was calm, almost puzzled.
"What about him?" Jane asked.
Elizabeth blinked. "What about him? Jane, you love him. You have been heartbroken for a month."
Jane sighed, a small exhale that seemed to release the last of her melancholy. "I loved him, Lizzy. I thought he loved me. But a man who loves a woman does not leave her without a word because his sisters suggest it. A man who loves a woman does not stay away for weeks while she weeps."
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug—a gesture so un-Jane-like that Elizabeth stared.
"He does not pine for me, that much is obvious," Jane said simply. "Why should I pine for him? Lord Keathley is kind. He is amusing. And he is here. I am tired of waiting for a ghost, Lizzy. I choose to enjoy the living."
Elizabeth felt a wave of relief so potent it nearly knocked the wind out of her. She rushed forward and hugged her sister fiercely. "Oh, Jane! You are the wisest of us all. I have been so angry on your behalf, and you have simply decided to be happy."
"It is not quite that simple," Jane admitted, returning the embrace. "But I will not let Mr Bingley ruin my Christmas. Or my first trip to The King's Theatre."
"Then let us go," Elizabeth declared, pulling back and grinning. "Let us go and dazzle the Viscount. And unsettle Mr Darcy."
"Mr Darcy has been very attentive," Jane pointed out mischievously. "The lemon biscuits? The invitation? I think, Lizzy, that you are the one being courted."
"Nonsense," Elizabeth scoffed, grabbing her fan. "He is merely trying to apologize for his atrocious behaviour in Hertfordshire. It is guilt, Jane. Pure guilt."
"If you say so," Jane smiled. "But guilt rarely looks that handsome in a cravat."
The King's Theatre in Haymarket was a temple of noise, light, and velvet. It smelled of perfume, candle wax, and the distinct energy of hundreds of people pretending to watch a performance while actually watching each other.
The Gardiner party arrived in good time.
Mr Gardiner, looking distinguished in formal evening wear that rivalled any gentleman of the ton, escorted his wife, while Jane and Elizabeth followed close behind.
They were met at the entrance by a footman in the Fitzwilliam livery who escorted them to the Viscount's private box.
As the door opened, Elizabeth felt a jolt of nerves. It was one thing to take tea in a drawing room. It was another to sit in a box at the Opera, exposed to the eyes of the ton.
"Mr and Mrs Gardiner! Miss Bennet! Miss Elizabeth!"
Viscount Robert Fitzwilliam practically leapt from his chair. He was resplendent in evening dress, looking every inch the wealthy peer, his eyes immediately locking onto Jane like a homing pigeon.
"You are here," the Viscount declared, taking Jane's hand and kissing it with a flourish. "And you have eclipsed every other woman in the building. I shall have to apologize to the soprano. No one will be looking at the stage."
"Lord Keathley," Jane blushed, but she didn't pull her hand away. "You are too kind."
"I am merely honest. Come, sit. I have saved you the best view."
Elizabeth followed them in, her eyes scanning the box. It was luxurious, spacious, and draped in red velvet and gold.
"Miss Elizabeth."
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped forward from the shadows of the rear of the box. He looked magnificent. There was no other word for it. In his severe black evening coat and stark white linen, he was a figure of imposing elegance. But his eyes were anxious, searching hers for any sign of rejection.
"Mr Darcy," she curtsied. "And Miss Darcy," Elizabeth added, turning to the girl beside him.
Miss Darcy looked frightened but beautiful in a white gown, her hands clutching a mother-of-pearl fan. "Miss Elizabeth! I am so glad you are here. I have never been to such an entertainment before. Is it very loud?"
"Ideally," Elizabeth smiled. "It drowns out the gossip."
"Where is the Colonel?" Mrs Gardiner asked, taking her seat with the poise of a duchess.
"Duty calls, I fear," Lord Keathley threw over his shoulder, not looking away from Jane. "He sends his regrets and demands a full report of any scandals we cause."
"We shall endeavour to cause none," Mr Darcy said stiffly, earning a satisfied nod from Mr Gardiner, as he took his place next to his wife.
"Speak for yourself, Fitzwilliam," his cousin grinned. "I have high hopes for the interval."
The box was crowded, but comfortable. Lord Keathley had naturally manoeuvred Jane to the front left. The Gardiners took the centre. Miss Darcy sat beside Mrs Gardiner, eager to see the stage.
Which left the chair on the far right, slightly recessed but with an excellent view of both the stage and the audience.
"Miss Elizabeth," Mr Darcy gestured to the chair. "Will you...?"
"Thank you."
She sat. He took the chair behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that the scent of his sandalwood soap drifted over her.
The house lights dimmed. The orchestra began to tune—a cacophony of strings and woodwinds that signalled the beginning of the magic.
Elizabeth took a breath. She was sitting in the dark, very near to Fitzwilliam Darcy. The man she had hated. The man she had judged. The man who had offered her lemon biscuits.
"Are you comfortable?" his voice murmured in her ear, low and intimate.
"Perfectly," she whispered back.
"Good."
The overture began, a sweeping, dramatic melody that filled the theatre. But Elizabeth found it hard to focus on the music. Her attention was entirely consumed by the man sitting six inches from her shoulder.
The first act was a blur of Italian arias and dramatic gestures. On stage, a soprano lamented a lost love. In the box, a different sort of drama was unfolding.
The Viscount was shameless. He wasn't watching the stage. He was watching Jane watch the stage. He whispered comments that made her smile behind her fan. He adjusted her shawl. He pointed out notables in the pit, making her laugh.
It was a courtship in full view of London, and he didn't care a whit.
Mr Darcy, by contrast, sat in rigid silence for the first twenty minutes. Elizabeth could feel his tension. He was sitting so still he might have been carved from marble.
But as the music swelled, she felt him lean closer.
"Do you like Il flauto magico?" he asked, under the cover of a particularly loud chorus.
"I do," Elizabeth replied, turning her head slightly so he could hear her. "Though I confess, I find the plot improbable."
"People falling in love in an instant? Singing about their feelings to total strangers?"
"Exactly."
"Perhaps," he murmured, "it is only improbable until it happens to you."
Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat. She looked at him in the gloom. His profile was illuminated by the stage lights—the strong nose, the heavy brow, the mouth that was usually so stern now softened by uncertainty.
"Mr Darcy," she whispered. "Did you meet Mr Bingley last night?"
She felt him stiffen. The air between them changed, heavy with sudden weight.
"I did."
"And?"
"And I have a confession to make, Miss Elizabeth."
On stage, the tenor began a mournful ballad. In the box, Mr Darcy moved his chair an inch closer. It was a breach of propriety. It was a risk. It was necessary.
"You left the choice to me, to convey your regards or not," he said, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
"Yes."
"I did. I told him you were here. I told him Miss Bennet was in London. I told him he could call."
Elizabeth turned fully in her chair, ignoring the stage. "And?"
He looked at her. His eyes were dark pools of regret. "And he said... maybe in late January. When his calendar is less full."
Elizabeth stared at him. "January?"
"He has met someone else," he whispered. "A Miss Ellington. He met her at a ball. He is quite taken with her."
Elizabeth felt a flash of anger—not at Mr Darcy, but at Mr Bingley. And then, a wash of protective fury for Jane. "He has replaced her? Already?"
"He is... light," Mr Darcy said, choosing his words with agonizing care. "He feels strongly, but he moves on quickly. I was wrong to separate them, Miss Elizabeth. I see that now. I interfered where I had no right. I judged your sister's heart by my friend's shallow measure."
He took a breath, his hand clenching on his knee.
"But I was right about one thing. He does not deserve her. If he can forget her in a month, he is not worthy of the grief she has suffered."
The music soared, a crescendo of tragic beauty. Elizabeth sat frozen, processing his words.
He had told Bingley. He had given him the chance. And Bingley had failed.
"You meddled," she said, her voice trembling. "You decided for them."
"I did," he admitted. "It was arrogant. It was proud.
I thought I knew best. I thought... I thought I was saving him from an unequal match.
I did not realize I was separating a woman of deep feeling from a man who.
.." He stopped. "I am sorry. Not for the result, actually, for I believe she is better off without him.
But for the pain I caused her. And for the pain I caused you. "
Elizabeth looked at Jane. Her sister was whispering to Lord Keathley, her face serene, her eyes bright. She wasn't looking for Bingley. She wasn't waiting for him.
"She knew," Elizabeth realized aloud. "She said it to me tonight. 'He does not pine for me, why should I pine for him?' She knew he was not constant."
"She is wiser than me and him together," Mr Darcy said.
"And you," Elizabeth turned back to him. "You did this... why? Why tell me? You could have said nothing. You could have left me wondering if you are a villain or not."
"Because I want there to be truth between us," Mr Darcy said. The raw honesty in his voice took her breath away. "I cannot bear your bad opinion, Miss Elizabeth. I earned it, yes. But I wish to un-earn it. I want you to know me. The worst of me, and perhaps the rest."
"You are a strange man, Mr Darcy," she whispered. "You are proud and disagreeable and you meddle in affairs that are not yours."
"I am," he conceded.
"But then you go and give me lemon biscuits. And you bring your sister to meet strangers. And you look at me as if..." She stopped.
"As if?" he prompted.
"As if you find me somewhat more than tolerable."
"A lot more," he said fiercely.
She looked down at her gloved hands. "I should be angry. I should tell you that you had no right."
"You should."
"But looking at Jane, and looking at you, I find I am simply tired of being angry. It is exhausting work, hating you, Mr Darcy."
"Then stop," he pleaded softly. "Let us call a truce. Let us start again. From this moment. No past. Just... tonight."
Elizabeth looked up. He looked vulnerable. He looked hopeful.
"A truce," she agreed. "On one condition."
"Anything."
"You must admit that you were wrong. About Jane. About her feelings."
"I admit it. I was spectacularly, catastrophically wrong. She is a woman of rare worth."
"Good." She smiled, a small, genuine thing. "Then we are at peace, Mr Darcy."
He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a month. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers in the darkness, not quite touching but close enough to share the warmth.
"Peace," he echoed. "It is a good beginning."
They remained silent until the curtain fell on the first act. A thunderous applause filled the theatre. The servants lit the candles, bathing the box in sudden brilliance.
"Magnificent!" Lord Keathley declared, standing up and stretching. "Though the tenor was a bit screechy in the second aria. Miss Bennet, are you weeping? Excellent. It is not a good performance unless the ladies weep."
"It was very moving," Jane smiled, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
"William," Miss Darcy turned in her seat, her eyes shining. "Did you see the costumes? The Queen's gown!"
"I saw it," Mr Darcy said, though he had seen nothing but the back of Elizabeth's neck for the last hour, which was exquisite. He stood, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. He had confessed. He had been forgiven. There was a truce.
"Shall we stretch our legs?" Lord Keathley suggested. "I believe there is lemonade in the foyer. And I wish to parade Miss Bennet about, so everyone can see who is the jewel of the evening."
"Robert," Mr Darcy warned. "Be subtle."
"I am unfamiliar with the meaning of the word."
Just as the Viscount reached for the handle of the box door, it opened from the outside.
Mr Darcy turned, a smile still lingering on his face, expecting a footman with refreshments or the Colonel escaping his duties.
Instead, standing in the doorway, framed by the bustling corridor, were two figures.
One was a tall, imposing man with silver hair and a deeply furrowed brow. The other was a woman of regal bearing, dressed in burgundy velvet, holding a lorgnette as if it were a weapon.
The conversation in the box died instantly. Lord Keathley froze. Miss Darcy squeaked. Mr Darcy's blood ran cold.
The formidable lady stepped into the box. Her sharp eyes swept the room. She took in the Viscount standing possessively over Jane. She took in Miss Darcy. She took in Mr and Mrs Gardiner.
And finally, her gaze landed on Mr Darcy, who was standing far too close to Elizabeth.
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose. It climbed her forehead like a mountaineer ascending a peak.
"Well," she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a diamond cutter. "It appears the mice have been busy playing."