Chapter 5 #2
By the time they reached the kitchens, where she was introduced to a French chef whose name she immediately forgot in her anxiety not to mispronounce it, Elizabeth felt like a student facing an examination she had not studied for.
The sheer scale of the townhouse’s staff overwhelmed her: footmen, housemaids, kitchen staff, stableboys, gardeners—all looking to her as their new mistress. And this was not even his main home!
“You manage them all so capably,” Elizabeth said to Mrs. Wilson as they returned upstairs. “I must thank you for maintaining such efficient order.”
“It is my privilege to serve the Darcy family,” the housekeeper replied. “I’ve been with them since the late Mrs. Darcy was alive. She was a remarkable lady.”
Elizabeth seized the opportunity to learn more about her husband’s family. “What was she like? Mr. Darcy rarely mentions his mother .”
Mrs. Wilson’s expression softened with genuine affection. “Lady Anne was gracious and kind, but no one’s fool. She managed the households and Mr. Darcy with equal skill. The master was devastated when she passed, not long after Miss Georgiana was born.”
“How old was Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked, suddenly realizing how little she knew of her husband’s past.
“Twelve, ma’am. Too young to lose a mother, but old enough to remember her clearly. It changed him. He was a lively child before, always laughing. Afterward...” Mrs. Wilson hesitated. “Well, he became more serious. More like his father.”
The glimpse into Darcy’s childhood affected Elizabeth more than she had anticipated. She imagined a twelve-year-old boy, suddenly motherless, assuming the gravity that would eventually become so much a part of his character. It rendered his reserve more comprehensible, if not less frustrating.
Their conversation ended in one of the parlors at the arrival of Madame Delacrois, a formidable Frenchwoman with a perpetual air of mild disappointment even before she had fully assessed Elizabeth.
A younger woman with shoulders curved inwards shadowed her, a notebook and measuring tape at the ready.
“So this is the new Mrs. Darcy,” she said, circling Elizabeth as though she were a horse at auction while Mrs. Wilson retreated to another room. “Mmm, good figure, unusual height for a woman. The waist is excellent. Turn, please.”
Elizabeth complied, too startled by the woman’s directness to object. “I require a wardrobe suitable for my new position,” she explained, hoping to establish some authority in the interaction.
“Naturellement,” Madame Delacrois replied with a dismissive wave. “Mr. Darcy has explained all. We will begin with morning dresses, walking dresses, and afternoon dresses. Then evening gowns for dinner parties, balls, the opera. Riding habits, if madame rides?”
“I do,” Elizabeth confirmed, though her riding at Longbourn had been more practical than fashionable.
“Everything must be completed quickly,” the modiste continued, gesturing for her assistant to begin taking measurements. “Lady Jersey’s ball is in three weeks. You must not appear there in anything but the finest.”
“Lady Jersey?” Elizabeth inquired, trying not to flinch as the assistant’s cold hands measured her bust.
“Patroness of Almack’s,” Madame explained, as though to a child. “Your entrée to society. Mr. Darcy has arranged vouchers already. A very influential family, the Darcys.”
For the next two hours, Elizabeth found herself subjected to a parade of fabric samples, fashion plates, and detailed discussions of flounces, trimmings, and necklines that left her head spinning.
Madame Delacrois clearly considered her a blank canvas upon which to impose the latest London fashions, with little regard for Elizabeth’s own preferences.
“I prefer simpler styles,” Elizabeth said as the modiste suggested a particularly elaborate evening gown with multiple layers of trimming.
“Simple, yes, elegant, yes,” Madame agreed without actually conceding. “But also fashionable. You represent one of England’s oldest families now. Appearance matters.”
There it was again, Elizabeth thought—the weight of the Darcy name, the expectations that accompanied it.
By the time the modiste departed, promising the first deliveries within days, Elizabeth felt drained from the effort to assert her own taste against what was apparently expected of Mr. Darcy’s wife.
She retreated to the library, seeking the comfort of books among the unfamiliar surroundings. Running her fingers along the leather-bound volumes, Elizabeth recalled her visit to this room the previous day with Darcy, the moment of connection they had shared over his father’s annotated poetry.
Selecting a volume at random, she settled into a comfortable chair by the window, but Elizabeth found her thoughts drifting repeatedly to her enigmatic husband.
The physical easiness they had discovered in the darkness seemed impossibly remote in daylight.
How were they to build any true understanding when their conversations remained so formal, so carefully bounded by propriety?
A knock at the library door roused her from these reflections. A footman entered, bearing a silver salver with a sealed letter.
“From Mr. Bingley, ma’am,” he explained, presenting it to her. “The messenger awaits a reply.”
Elizabeth broke the seal with interest, wondering what her husband’s friend might write to her.
Dear Mrs. Darcy,
Please accept my heartiest congratulations on your marriage.
While circumstances prevented prolonged discussion at the ceremony, I hope to remedy this oversight by calling on you and Darcy tomorrow morning, if convenient.
I have only just returned to London from Hertfordshire and am most eager to pay my respects to the new mistress of the Darcy household.
Your most humble servant,
Charles Bingley
The letter was precisely what one would expect of the amiable Mr. Bingley, yet Elizabeth could not help wondering if it might provide an opportunity to inquire about Jane. She penned a brief reply welcoming his visit, then returned to her book, though her thoughts remained elsewhere.
When Elizabeth joined Darcy for dinner that evening, she found him more communicative than at breakfast, inquiring about her day and listening with apparent interest to her account of Madame Delacrois’s visit.
“I fear your credit will suffer terribly,” she said lightly. “The good madame seems intent on outfitting me as though for a royal presentation.”
“The expense is immaterial,” he replied, dismissing her concern with a wave. “Did you find designs that pleased you?”
Elizabeth appreciated that he asked about her preferences rather than simply assuming she would accept whatever was deemed fashionable. “Some, yes. Though I prefer simpler styles than what currently prevails in London.”
“Then you must insist upon them,” Darcy said. “Madame can be persuaded, despite her formidable manner. Georgiana has learned to be firm about her preferences.”
The mention of his sister reminded Elizabeth of a question that had occurred to her that morning. “When will I meet Miss Darcy? I am eager to make her acquaintance.”
“Georgiana remains at Pemberley.” Mr. Darcy’s expression softened. “She will join us here next week. I have written to her about our marriage.”
“I hope she will not be too shocked by the suddenness of it,” Elizabeth said carefully, watching his reaction.
Darcy’s face revealed little. “My sister trusts my judgment implicitly. She will welcome you without reservation.”
“You seem very certain of that.”
“I am certain of Georgiana.” His tone suggested complete confidence in his sister’s loyalty.
“Mr. Bingley has written to me,” Elizabeth said, changing the subject. “He wishes to call tomorrow morning.”
If she had hoped to observe some reaction indicating Darcy’s involvement in separating Bingley from Jane, she was disappointed. His expression remained neutral. “Mr. Bingley is an excellent friend. You will find him most agreeable.”
“It was kind of him to attend our wedding. He was certainly agreeable to all at Meryton during his stay last fall.” Elizabeth could not resist adding, “Particularly to my sister Jane.”
“Indeed.” Darcy took a sip of wine, his face unreadable. “Bingley forms attachments easily.”
The implication that Bingley’s feelings for Jane had been no more significant than his general amiability stung Elizabeth on her sister’s behalf. She was considering how to pursue the subject further when Darcy spoke again.
“For tomorrow evening’s dinner with my cousin, the green silk you wore tonight would be entirely suitable,” he said. “It becomes you well.”
The compliment, delivered with such straightforward sincerity, caught Elizabeth off guard. “Thank you,” she replied, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks at the appreciative glance that accompanied his words.
The remainder of the evening passed in comfortable conversation, with Mr. Darcy explaining more about his cousin and the other guests they would meet the following evening.
Elizabeth found herself gradually relaxing in his company, his occasional dry observations about acquaintances revealing that wit, not approbation, was often the intention, if not the effect, of many a critical remark he made.
When they parted for the night in the corridor between their chambers, an awkward moment ensued as Elizabeth wondered whether he would join her again.
Darcy solved the dilemma by taking her hand and raising it to his lips, the brush of his mouth against her skin sending an unexpected thrill through her body.
“Sleep well, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice lower than usual.
“And you,” she replied, finding herself curiously reluctant to withdraw her hand from his.