Chapter Thirty-One
Elizabeth was tired, and it was only March.
The realization unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
The Season had scarcely reached its height, yet she already felt the steady drain of vigilance—the constant awareness of eyes upon her, of expectations unspoken but ever-present.
Each evening required composure, discernment, and an unflagging attention to nuance; each morning demanded that she rise and do it all again, as though it cost her nothing.
She had been informed that Queen Charlotte had ordered her presence at tea and would send an invitation by and by.
This was not so unexpected. She was staying at Carlton House and had a lifelong connection to the royal family, and such an omission would have been remarked upon far more loudly than an invitation.
Still, the formality of it weighed on her.
Elizabeth wrote to Princess Caroline about her trepidation on meeting the queen—she had not been in such august company since her childhood, when such encounters were buffered by innocence and ignorance.
Aunt Caroline had been quick to reassure her, boosting her confidence and calming her nerves, reminding her gently that she had already navigated far more treacherous waters with grace.
Oh, how Elizabeth missed her aunt! The ache of it caught her unawares at odd moments—when she passed a familiar corner of Carlton House, or when she folded a letter and realized there was no one but Jane in Town with whom she could speak freely.
The Gardiners were unacceptable—Lady Hertford had refused her the moment she asked, and she did not wish to convey her feelings in a letter.
She now dared not ask Lady Hertford if she could call upon the princess’s household.
. The request would surely reach the Prince Regent, who would likely punish Elizabeth—or Princess Caroline—in some way.
Her aunt assured her that she understood the situation, that she did not feel slighted, but it did not lessen Elizabeth’s longing or the quiet guilt that followed it.
There was something deeply unnatural in being so close and yet so deliberately apart.
Jane’s spirits, at least, had improved markedly.
It had been six weeks since she joined Elizabeth in Town, and little less since she made the acquaintance of Viscount Bramley.
The change in her cousin was unmistakable—not merely the return of color to her cheeks, but a softening of her manner, a renewed steadiness that spoke of hope carefully tended rather than na?vely embraced.
The viscount was very attentive, and Jane expressed her pleasure at knowing the attentions of a steady man.
“He is very like Mr. Bingley in manner, though there is a maturity about him that my former suitor lacked,” Jane confided in Elizabeth late one night after a particularly wonderful evening on the viscount’s arm.
The fire had burned low, the house quiet but for the distant footfalls of servants.
“And when we speak privately…Oh, Lizzy, he speaks to me as one intelligent person to another. Though he admires my beauty, he also admires my mind and respects my thoughts.”
“That is everything I hoped for you.” Elizabeth meant it with her whole heart.
It was perfect—if Elizabeth married someone in the first circles, then Jane would not be out of reach if she married the viscount.
If. No, it is when. Elizabeth would not allow herself to hedge her hopes where Jane was concerned.
The viscount’s conduct bore the stamp of sincerity; he did not dazzle, but he endured.
Viscount Winslow, by contrast, was an amiable man, but Elizabeth thought he lacked something fundamental—a depth of curiosity, perhaps, or the capacity to challenge her in return.
Of all her suitors, he appealed to her the most. That is, he did until Mr. Darcy began calling in earnest. He had come to call at Hertford House four times in the last two weeks, each visit marked by careful courtesy and unmistakable intent.
And he made a point to come to her side at every gathering they both attended.
He was often with Lady Matlock and Viscount Bramley.
Last time, the Earl of Matlock had been in attendance, too.
He met and danced with Jane, and Elizabeth had no doubt he was there to evaluate the lady his son wished to make his viscountess.
Jane’s other suitors had largely faded away.
Anyone with a spot of sense could tell the beautiful angel preferred the viscount’s presence.
And much to Elizabeth’s relief, they moved in circles out of reach for the Bingleys, which meant Jane was not subject to that man’s presence.
The distance was a kindness Jane did not yet fully recognize, but Elizabeth did.
Elizabeth and her cousin spent as much time as they could spare with Princess Charlotte.
The young lady always peppered them with questions about their suitors, the balls they attended, and their outings with Lady Hertford, listening with a hunger that spoke of her own confinement.
The poor dear was very secluded. Her father would not allow her out, so she relied on her friends to tell her about the world beyond palace walls.
Elizabeth answered carefully, keenly aware that even innocent enthusiasm could be misconstrued where royal daughters were concerned.
Lady Hertford collected Jane and Elizabeth for the evening a few nights before Elizabeth was to take tea with the queen.
The event of the evening was a musicale hosted by Lady Elizabeth Foster, an evening that carried a very particular distinction within the first circles.
Lady Elizabeth was renowned not merely for her elegance, but for the intelligence with which she curated her gatherings.
As the longtime companion and confidante of the Duchess of Devonshire, she occupied a space where art, politics, and society met with effortless grace.
Her drawing rooms were arranged to encourage movement and conversation—chairs grouped loosely, doors left open to adjoining rooms—while music flowed as a civilizing undercurrent rather than a spectacle.
That evening, a small ensemble of strings and pianoforte commanded polite attention, allowing guests to speak in softened tones without impropriety.
Elizabeth moved easily through the room, keenly aware that Lady Elizabeth’s invitation signaled acceptance of her presence as something more than novelty.
Here, among thoughtful conversation and carefully chosen company, she sensed both the protection and the quiet scrutiny that came with such patronage, understanding that this was precisely the sort of setting where reputations were shaped—not by display, but by discernment.
It promised to be an enjoyable evening. Elizabeth very much enjoyed listening to true masters of music, and musicales offered more opportunity for conversation than the crush of a ball ever could.
She had met a few ladies with whom it was not a trial to speak—women who listened as much as they spoke, who valued wit and sense over spectacle—and she hoped to further those acquaintances whenever she could.
Each evening now carried weight, each introduction consequence. She straightened her gloves, exchanged a small smile with Jane, and prepared—once more—to step forward into a world that would not pause for her fatigue, nor forgive her inattention.
Darcy searched the room for Elizabeth the moment he entered the large gathering area at Devonshire House.
The space itself demanded composure: high ceilings softened by silk-draped walls, candlelight refracted through crystal sconces, the quiet hum of cultivated conversation punctuated by the tuning of instruments.
Only the most worthy were admitted to such gatherings, and he counted himself blessed—if begrudgingly indebted—that his aunt had secured him an invitation.
Lady Matlock had capitulated easily. The prospect of having both Darcy and her eldest son married before the end of the season was likely too tempting for her to ignore.
Darcy knew he was paying now for years of social neglect.
He wondered, with a flicker of unease, if there was any other guest with lower standing than himself.
A quick glance around the room dispelled the notion but not the discomfort.
He was surrounded by coronets and courtesy titles, men and women whose ease bespoke lifelong belonging.
He felt, for once, like an interloper—present by indulgence rather than right.
After several moments, and a pulse of near panic, he finally saw Elizabeth.
Lady Hertford had her at her side, introducing her to their hostess, Lady Elizabeth Foster.
Lady Cavendish was there as well, radiant and commanding, though she moved away a moment or two later, already drawn into another orbit of conversation.
Elizabeth stood composed and attentive, her posture immaculate, her expression pleasant—but Darcy sensed, even at a distance, a restraint that had not been there in Hertfordshire.
She looked beautiful, undeniably so, but also guarded, as though beauty were now a tool she wielded rather than an accident of nature.
Bramley, it seemed, had had no trouble finding Miss Bennet.
The couple now stood with Lady Matlock, conversing in low tones.
Jane’s head was inclined toward Bramley, her manner gentle and receptive; Bramley hovered with unmistakable protectiveness.
Darcy registered the scene only dimly. His attention had already returned to Elizabeth.
Lady Hertford was momentarily distracted by another acquaintance, and Darcy saw Elizabeth shift—subtly, deliberately—away from her chaperone. The movement was small, but it felt like an opening.
He took his chance.