Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
After dinner, the evening began as quietly as the previous one had. Most of the party were engaged in the reading of various books or letters or, in the case of Mrs Hurst, the gossip pages from London.
Mr Darcy was engaged in a book, but not so much so, Elizabeth noted, that he would not take any opportunity to stare at her. It was tiring trying to discern what he was about or what he sought to find in her, and so she disregarded him, her mind pressed by weightier concerns.
Her book could not content her. Instead, she found herself continually drawn to memories of her past and anxieties for her future.
Her apprehension over going to London had been brought to the fore by Mr Darcy’s judgment of her, and seeing her mother behave so spitefully to Miss Bingley had worsened the effect.
She did not know whether she could thrive in a place where similar behaviour abounded.
The company of people such as Mr Darcy, the Hursts, and the Bingleys would become familiar to her.
She would go to parties with scores of ladies like Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst and dozens of men like Mr Darcy, and somehow among them, she must find a suitable father for her dear son.
She sighed heavily as little Henry’s sweet, cherubic face appeared in her mind.
Miss Bingley’s strident voice provided contrast to the precious image. “One hundred gowns, Louisa! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Mrs Hurst agreed she had not.
“Make no mistake of it, the widow of the Earl of Courtenay is clearly hunting a husband and intends to be at every ball and party until she has one. Charles, can you imagine it? You think I spend too much, and this chit—and I do mean chit, for I believe she is but an ignorant little country girl of only eighteen or nineteen—has ordered one hundred gowns for the Season!”
Elizabeth stared at her in shock and dismay, clutching her book tightly to hide the trembling of her hands. Is it starting already? Gossip is being printed about me before I am even in town. I did not order one hundred gowns!
She was having a great number of gowns made, but Lady Matlock had insisted that she would need each of them for the demands of the Season. Some were not even new but re-workings of older gowns to make them more current with the fashions.
Mr Bingley showed no interest in Miss Bingley’s report. “If Lady Courtenay requires a hundred gowns, and has funds for a hundred gowns, I am sure it is nothing to me.”
“Yet, how you do go on when you think I have ordered an excess of finery!”
Mr Bingley shrugged, his attention still on his newspaper. “If you had funds for a hundred gowns, you would likely order a hundred and fifty. No matter what you have, Caroline, you will always spend more.”
His rebuke went unnoticed, for Miss Bingley’s mind had already landed on another thought. “I simply cannot wait to make her acquaintance. Imagine the arts and allurements one must know to entrap such an eligible man! I daresay, we all have much to learn from her!”
Mrs Hurst opined, “The telling of her arts would not be fit for a true lady’s ears.”
“True,” Miss Bingley snickered. “Very wanton, I am sure—or rather, I believe. Only a harlot could know for sure.”
Mr Bingley scolded her, but she continued. “No one of consequence will receive her. She is entirely uneducated, from what I have heard, and silent as a nun!”
“I heard she is a bluestocking who speaks too much and is unattractively opinionated,” Mrs Hurst said in complete contradiction of her sister, who forgot the prior two seconds and nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Neither is she attractive. I heard she is almost painfully thin, her figure much like that of a boy, with no bosom at all to speak of! Did you hear it said so?”
“Oh yes! And that her hips were broad and fleshy like a common fishwife.”
Elizabeth felt tears spring into her eyes. She looked down at the book on her lap, hoping no one would take notice of her consternation.
Why do I care what these ridiculous women think?
They are silly and vain and do not know me at all.
Henry knew I loved him as I know he loved me.
His fortune and his title meant nothing to me.
Indeed, I wish he had not any such consequence, for had he not, he would likely still be with me.
I would much prefer that to ordering an absurd number of gowns for social events I do not wish to attend to find a husband I do not want.
“He did not love her, you know,” Mrs Hurst told her sister in a grave and knowing tone. “I believe she entrapped him.”
Caroline gasped. “Did she? That is no surprise.”
“I think some sort of obscene allurements were used to—”
“I beg your pardon.” Elizabeth found herself rising on shaking legs, hoping her face was not blushed scarlet. “I believe I must check on Jane.”
She scarcely dared curtsey. As overset as she was, she felt sure that, if she bent her knees even slightly, they would give way completely and cause her to topple over.
She left the room, trembling with anger, mortification, and an intense wish to deliver a vicious set down to those two.
Only the certain knowledge that she could not do so without bursting into tears stayed her tongue.
Large, hot tears began coursing down her cheeks almost as soon as the door closed behind her. She paused, pulling her handkerchief to her face and pressing it into her eyes.
She was angry with herself for being bothered by the sisters and their gossip.
She had to accustom herself to the notion that people would speak of her.
Regardless of what she wished, she was an interesting story: an unknown young girl from the country who had found herself spectacularly wealthy and titled and at the centre of some political intrigue, complete with traitors and murderers.
It was too delicious not to be talked of, and she must accept that and not let it distress her so.
She scolded herself in the hall. “Stop being so ridiculous. It does not matter what those two think; they are feeble-minded.”
“I must say, I agree,” a deep voice informed her, “about the latter part, of course, not the part about your being ridiculous.”
Her tears ceased immediately as Elizabeth emitted a slight shriek. “Oh!” She turned towards the voice. “Mr Darcy, I did not realise you were there.”
Mr Darcy had silently exited the drawing room and followed her into the hall. Oh, this man! Why is he always lurking about?
“Are you well?”
She summoned as much dignity as a weeping woman could when caught talking to herself. “Perfectly so, Mr Darcy.”
Her handkerchief had grown soggy, and he pulled his from his pocket. She took it reluctantly, swallowing hard to control herself. It was not so easy with Mr Darcy’s intent stare on her, and she wished desperately that he would simply walk away.
“Forgive me for following when you clearly sought privacy. I did not mean to intrude.”
“It can hardly be termed privacy when I am crying in the hall.”
“I hope Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley did not insult you in some way.”
She shook her head, not looking at him.
There was a slight pause before he spoke again, softly. “Permit me to apologise to you for my grievous insult this morning.”
“Of course.”
“I should not have thought such a thing of you when your character and your manners have been nothing less than exemplary. I cannot imagine what madness compelled me to speak as I did, and I am deeply sorry.”
“Consider it forgiven.”
“Thank you.”
How she wished he would turn his stare away, or walk away, or in some manner break this interminable moment between them. “I believe I must go check on my sister now. Please excuse me.”
Giving him no opportunity to refuse, she turned and fled.