Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Elizabeth’s tea with Queen Charlotte had been revealing. Because of Elizabeth’s connection to Carlton House, an evaluation was inevitable. Much to Elizabeth’s relief, the queen had declared her a pretty girl, intelligent and refined.
The words themselves were simple enough, spoken in a tone that suggested they were meant to be reassuring rather than momentous.
Yet Elizabeth had felt their weight settle upon her the moment they were uttered.
Pretty. Intelligent. Refined. It was not affection, nor was it intimacy, but it was acceptance—and acceptance, in such quarters, carried power.
“I look forward to your presentation,” had been her words of farewell as Elizabeth bowed out of the room.
The formality of the moment lingered long after the doors had closed before her.
Elizabeth had walked the length of the corridor with measured composure, her spine straight, her expression serene, while her thoughts raced ahead of her.
To be presented. The phrase had followed her like a bell tolling softly in the distance. It was both a promise and a summons.
“What a relief that is over.” She collapsed on her bed back at Carlton House, groaning. Elizabeth pressed her face briefly into the pillows, savoring the privacy of exhaustion. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind overstimulated by the careful scrutiny of the afternoon.
Baker helped her change into a simpler gown; her efficient hands were a comfort, loosening stays, smoothing fabric, grounding her in the ordinary rituals of dressing and undressing that reminded her she was still herself beneath the layers of expectation.
Soon Charlotte knocked on her door and joined her.
“We have been summoned to supper with my father.” The princess sounded rather petulant. “Why can he not leave us alone? He has shown little interest in our lives until now.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly at Charlotte’s tone, though it did not reach her eyes. Interest is rarely benign when it arrives late, she thought.
“He is your father, dearest, and also the crown prince. We are at his mercy.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth. “Will Lady Hertford join us?”
She kept her voice steady, though inwardly she braced herself. Nothing good ever followed a summons delivered without explanation.
“That is my understanding. Her husband is busy with Parliament—as my father should be—”
“Pray, be careful. The walls have ears.”
Charlotte giggled but ceased speaking ill of her elders. The sound was light, youthful, and Elizabeth envied it. Charlotte had not yet learned how carefully words must be chosen, nor how often silence was safer than speech.
“You must tell me about tea with my grandmother. Was it terribly boring?”
“Queen Charlotte is very gracious. I believe she approves and will not protest my staying here with you.”
Elizabeth chose her phrasing with care. Approval was not affection, she reminded herself. But it was enough—for now.
“She could press my father into sending you away. I should not like that at all. You and Jane are my only friends.”
Jane was currently out. Lady Matlock had collected her from Hertford House that afternoon for a trip to Bond Street. If Elizabeth had a guess, Lady Matlock was thrilled at the idea of potentially having a daughter to spoil. She was a bit overeager, for an engagement was not yet final,
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a small smile at the thought. Jane deserves to be cherished, she reflected. She has been misunderstood far too often.
“She is to dine at Matlock House this evening. You and I will be required to support each other throughout supper.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly. It was not very often the prince required his daughter’s presence at an evening meal, let alone Elizabeth’s.
Such summons usually came with demands and requirements, unspoken expectations that must be deciphered and met without error.
Tonight will be no different, she thought.
It had been three weeks since Viscount Bramley had secured Mr. Bennet’s permission to court Jane.
The prince had expressed his utter delight at the arrangement, taking all the credit for the match.
He claimed it was due to his magnanimous invitation that Miss Bennet’s happiness was secured.
Jane had merely thanked him deferentially in her usual calm manner.
Elizabeth had watched Jane through it all, proud of her composure and secretly furious on her behalf. Even happiness is claimed by others here, she thought. Nothing is allowed to be wholly one’s own.
Of the prince’s approved suitors, most had faded away when Elizabeth’s manner had maintained a polite, formal air—all but Viscount Winslow.
Darcy continued to call as well, his friendship a boon amongst all the posturing and false modesty she encountered.
They managed semi-private conversations every time, and with each meeting, she felt she knew him a little better.
In the weeks following the gathering at Hertford House, Elizabeth and Darcy encountered one another frequently at fashionable events—assemblies, musicales, and small evening parties arranged by Lady Hertford.
Their interactions were never private. A watchful eye was always near, a conversation drifting too close, a chaperone’s timely cough or a hostess’s intervention.
Yet familiarity grew in the margins: a glance held a moment too long across a crowded room, a brief exchange during a dance, a quiet conversation interrupted just as it threatened to deepen.
Elizabeth soon became aware there was a competition for her favor. The presence of Mr. Darcy and Lord Winslow was unmistakably deliberate.
Lord Winslow offered what Darcy could not easily rival: unquestioned rank, political usefulness, and the unmistakable stamp of royal approval. His attentions were not ungentlemanly, but they were purposeful in a way that left her little room to breathe.
He could not love her. She was a prize to be won—and she knew it.
Darcy, by contrast, surprised her.
Freed from the defensiveness that had once marked their acquaintance, he revealed a quieter attentiveness. He listened rather than lectured. While others spoke at her, Darcy spoke with her, as though her thoughts were not merely tolerated but sought.
His concern for her comfort was never conspicuous, yet she noticed how he positioned himself when conversation grew crowded or redirected discourse when it veered toward speculation.
Most striking of all was his respect for her autonomy.
He neither pressed nor presumed, and in a season filled with subtle coercion, that restraint stood out.
Elizabeth also became aware—more keenly than she wished—of his unease when others claimed her attention.
He did not sulk or attempt to dominate the room.
Instead there was a quiet tension about him, a tightening of the jaw, a watchfulness in his gaze that betrayed feeling he made no effort to conceal.
It was not jealousy alone she saw there, but apprehension.
For her own part, Elizabeth found her thoughts increasingly occupied by him. She did not indulge in idle fantasies, yet she could not deny the quiet satisfaction she felt when he appeared at an event or the ease that followed when conversation returned to him.
He sees me, she thought more than once. Not my position, nor my usefulness, nor the designs others would impose upon me—but me.
Still, she remained wary. Affection did not erase reality. Her life was shaped by forces larger than inclination, and even genuine regard might prove powerless against circumstance.
Yet as the weeks passed and Darcy continued to meet her steadiness with his own, Elizabeth allowed herself a cautious hope—not of certainty, but of possibility.
In a season defined by calculation and ambition, it was no small thing to encounter someone who neither hurried her nor treated her as a prize.
I look for him now, she admitted to herself, startled by the realization. Not for rescue, but for the steadiness he offers.
It was not merely that he conducted himself well. Many gentlemen did so when observed.
Mr. Darcy did so when it was inconvenient—when it drew notice, when it invited speculation, when silence would have served him better.
Each time, without declaration or display, he chose her comfort above his own ease.
His manner that did not press or demand.
It simply existed—reliable and sincere—and in a world of performance, that was no small comfort.
Darcy sometimes spoke of his sister, who resided in Town. Miss Darcy had a companion and was studying with several masters, which kept her quite occupied, though brother and sister still saw one another daily.
Elizabeth listened with genuine interest, picturing the shy young heiress through his careful descriptions. There was affection there, restrained but unmistakable, and it warmed her more than she expected.
Darcy described Georgiana as shy and in need of a confident friend.
Perhaps we are alike in that, Elizabeth thought. Shy in different ways, but guarded all the same.
“Georgiana has been importuned many times by ladies seeking a closer connection to me,” Darcy admitted. “It has made her rather jaded.”
Elizabeth understood the sentiment perfectly. Darcy himself had never pretended to be anything other than what he was—serious, reserved, but genuine.
And genuineness, she reflected, is rarer than wit or beauty in this place.
She found herself wondering, more often than she ought, whether he sought her company from duty or inclination. Yet each time their conversation lingered beyond what courtesy required, the answer felt clearer.
He chooses to be here, she told herself. That matters.
“Will you help me choose a gown, Lizzy?” Charlotte brought her out of her musings.
“Of course, my dear. But you must help me as well.”