Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Say, Cousin, will you attend the opera tonight?” Saye helped himself to a generous serving of Darcy’s port and sprawled comfortably in the chair across from the desk where Darcy was tending to his correspondence.
Alas, it was a poor attempt, for little could be accomplished when his mind refused to think of anything except Elizabeth Bennet.
Bingley’s decision plagued Darcy, stirring within him all manner of envy for his friend’s situation, coupled with wistful longing for a marriage so unlike the one to which he would be subjected.
With Saye’s question, his wandering mind instantly imagined taking Elizabeth to the opera. With just the two of them in his box, he would pull her close and immerse himself in the scent of her, the feel of her as the beautiful music washed over both…
“Darcy!”
He jumped at his cousin’s raised voice. “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”
Saye regarded him with a look that was both amused and concerned. “I said, will you be going to the opera tonight? It promises to be a crush.”
Darcy frowned. “A crush in early February? Why? Town is yet rather sparse.”
“The rumours that have been circulating—and I happen to know they are true—indicate that Lady Courtenay will make her first appearance tonight. Naturally, everybody wishes to get the first glimpse of her so they can gossip about her with their friends.”
Darcy thought that little could interest him less than the ton and the comings and goings of ladies of the peerage. “I cannot imagine why that is of such significance.”
“You, sir, are a dull boy. Lady Courtenay is a highly desirable, highly eligible prospect for any gentleman, and I have it on good authority that…” He paused to vex his cousin who, true to form, shot him an annoyed scowl.
“That what?”
“She seeks a husband, and soon.”
Darcy scoffed. “I am sure she does. Did the jointure disappoint?”
“Certainly not. By all reports, the terms of the jointure were scandalously generous.”
“Then why the haste?” Darcy could not think why he asked as he felt a decided lack of interest in the lady.
Saye stood and went to the fire, stirring it with the poker. “Have you heard none of the reports of her?”
Lord and Lady Matlock had spoken a great deal about Lady Courtenay. Darcy scarcely listened to a word of it, choosing to retreat into his thoughts and daydreams about Elizabeth Bennet whenever they prattled on about her ladyship. “I must have forgotten.”
Saye rolled his eyes. “Husband killed in cold blood by his own brother and a band of treasonous radicals, forced to hide out for two years in the country until his assassins were apprehended, separated from her child and her husband’s heir during all that time—is none of this familiar to you?”
Darcy thought for a moment. “I remember it now. Forgive me, but my mind generally has more pertinent matters on which to rest than gossip about those wholly unrelated to me.”
“Wholly unrelated to you? Not if my mother has anything to say of it.”
Darcy sat up straight. “What? Why?”
Saye sat down again, his face wreathed in a broad grin.
“Her ladyship is the catch of the Season, and as you have been nearly the most eligible bachelor for some time now—second to yours truly, of course—it only makes sense to pair you up. As you so generously gave leave for my mother and father to arrange matters for you—”
“No!” Fierce nausea immediately roiled in Darcy’s gut. “Blast! I have had second thoughts already about involving your mother, and now…a moment of weakness and I find myself honour bound!”
Saye snorted with laughter. “Let us not give way to our sensibilities just yet, Darcy. You will meet her, no more.”
Darcy rose from his desk and began pacing. “What do you know about her? Have you been introduced?”
“I shall meet her tonight. Richard is her escort.”
“And? What did he say of her?”
“I believe he finds her quite delightful.”
“Yet, they do not try to pair her with him—or you, for that matter! I wonder why.”
“Fair-haired men recall her husband to her mind.” Saye tried to smile in a placating manner. “Regardless, my duty was to visit you today and determine whether you would be at the opera so that my mother can introduce you. That is all—a meeting. My mother will not bring the vicar; you have my word.”
Darcy huffed with disgust, far from appeased. Saye watched him for a moment before rising and shrugging his shoulders.
“Merely an introduction, no more. If you have no desire to further the acquaintance, that is up to you. However, if you are serious about taking a wife, do not delay. The lady is highly desirable! No doubt she will have several offers even before the Season begins. It is fortunate that Richard is trained in combat else some might be tempted to elbow him right out of the way tonight.”
“How splendid for him,” Darcy muttered. “Perhaps she will fall in love with him, and I shall avoid the shackles yet again.”
“Careful what you wish for, Cousin,” Saye said as he departed.
When Saye had gone, Darcy gave way to his anxiety and regret, alternating between pacing, shaking his head at his own foolishness, and wondering how vexed his aunt would be if he cried off of the entire evening.
Reason intruded on occasion, insisting that he needed to marry and this was merely an introduction.
His natural tendency to worry soon overcame reason, allowing him to pace and fret some more.
As Elizabeth’s carriage travelled towards the opera house, she felt nearly faint from her anxiety, which increased with each beat of the horses’ hooves. I cannot do this. What if no one speaks to me? What if they make hurtful remarks and mean judgments of me? Oh, how I long to be home!
At least, she had a pleasant escort. Although her prior acquaintance with Colonel Fitzwilliam was brief, she had liked him a great deal at Netherfield and found it easy to be in his company.
Even now, he was regaling them with amusing stories of his travels, which Elizabeth suspected he did with a purpose: to distract her from her anxieties.
Lady Matlock said her attendance was the talk of London.
No doubt most of the ton would be at the opera.
Elizabeth vowed she would stay next to Colonel Fitzwilliam, speak as little as possible, and just concentrate on making her way to her box.
Lord and Lady Matlock were with her along with Jane and Aunt and Uncle Gardiner.
Surely, it would be well, and perhaps, after tonight, the ton would lose interest in her.
With a sly look, Lady Matlock leant towards Elizabeth. “My dear, is it possible you met my nephew last autumn? He told me he spent a great deal of time in Hertfordshire, and I wondered whether he had met you—or rather, met Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Although she suspected she already knew, having put it together when she met the Colonel, Elizabeth asked, “Who is he?”
“Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.” Lady Matlock beamed with delight.
Elizabeth congratulated herself on not emitting some sort of rude word or gesture. “Yes, I did.”
Her ladyship giggled like a girl. “I teased him a little to see whether he would admit to the acquaintance, but he did not drop a word of it. I knew he must have been introduced, for Richard told me he had met you, and I presumed he was in company with Darcy.”
Elizabeth gave her a tight smile. “I believe he found Miss Elizabeth Bennet far beneath his notice and certainly not worth discussing with his exalted aunt and uncle.”
“He will attend tonight with his sister. Shall I ask them to join our party?”
Elizabeth could not imagine anything she would like less but reasoned that she might as well greet him now and get the pleasantries over with. “As you wish.”
The carriage came to a halt, and Lord Matlock and Colonel Fitzwilliam exited, preparing to hand out the ladies. Elizabeth was the last to depart, and she looked at the carriage behind to ensure Jane and the Gardiners were with them. Then it was time to face society.
The opera house was full to overflowing, the ton agog with their desire to see the countess.
Her story was repeated in excited whispers among the knots of elegant ladies and gentlemen.
Speculation abounded as to the identity of her fortunate escort, the style of gown and the jewels she would wear, and how soon she might marry again.
Tales of her beauty, grace, and wit ran rampant.
In general, the ton was much disposed to approve of the young countess, courtesy of her large fortune and heartbreakingly dramatic story.
Darcy heard the bits and pieces of varying—and sometimes contradictory—rumours swirling about him as he made his way through the crowd, his sister on his arm.
Having decided he would oblige his aunt with an introduction, he was resolved to meet Lady Courtenay with a mind unfettered by prejudice.
It was exceedingly unlikely that he would marry this lady, no matter what his aunt believed, but it would do him no harm to meet her.
You cannot marry some insignificant country girl. Think of your family name. It might as well be Lady Courtenay as any other lady, for it can never be the one who owns your heart.
Darcy and Georgiana had advanced halfway up the stairs leading to the boxes when Georgiana looked back and espied Lord and Lady Matlock slowly entering the grand hall. She tugged her brother’s arm to inform him of their presence.
Darcy was thankful for his height in these situations as he easily spotted his aunt and uncle amidst the crowd that had set upon them nearly immediately. Finally, Darcy saw his cousin enter, but the lady on his arm was evidently petite, for she could not be seen through the crowd around her.
Later, Darcy wondered whether his recollection had taken on a false hue, tainted by the knowledge of what came later, or whether it was truth and understanding that caused him to remember his view of her approach being painstakingly slow.
It seemed as if she moved towards him in a dream with the sea of people moving and undulating about her.
The hum of the crowd grew to a roar, but he discerned nothing of the words spoken, just an indistinct cacophony in his ears.
It was obvious that the lady would have no difficulty making her return into society, for society thronged about her, desperate to catch a look or a word.
Those afforded a conversation were among the most fashionable: young Lady Jersey, Lady Cowper, and Mrs Drummond Burrell, along with their husbands.
Splendid, she is one of those ladies whose greatest concern is gaining admittance to Almack’s.
He rolled his eyes, though he could not discount the excellence in such connexions.
He tried to see her as he attempted to appear disinterested—no mean feat. He was soon punished for his inattention as, before he knew what she was about, Caroline Bingley had appeared and attached herself to his arm.
“All these people to see some little country nobody,” she hissed. “You shall not see me paying her court, I assure you.”
I doubt you could get near her. Darcy was about to invite Miss Bingley and her brother to join him in his box when Bingley suddenly gasped.
“Bingley? What is it?” Darcy asked. “Are you ill?”
“I believe I just saw Miss Bennet,” Bingley reported breathlessly, his eyes wide.
“Oh, Charles.” Miss Bingley rolled her eyes, explaining to Darcy, “We have had several reports of Miss Bennet’s whereabouts this week.
Let us see, she was on Bond Street—at the most fashionable dress maker, of course—and she was seen leaving Towton Hall in Mayfair as well!
” She lowered her voice. “Pray speak to him; his obsession is truly unseemly.”
Darcy did not hear her, having turned to look in the direction Bingley indicated. As it turned out, Bingley was correct: the lady he saw was unmistakably Miss Bennet making her way towards the boxes along with an older couple. However, it was not the sight of Miss Bennet that most astonished Darcy.
The sound of his own pulse filled his ears as his mind struggled to make sense of the sight before him, and time slowed to a merciless crawl.
His eyes had developed extraordinary capacity as they noted the bit of a dark curl on the delectable, snow-white skin of a graceful neck, the flash of an impish smile, and the flutter of her gown.
There was a murmuring of Georgiana attempting to speak to him, but he was deaf to her words, hearing nothing but the pounding of his own heart. Bewildered, he shook Caroline Bingley loose and took two steps forwards. His lips parted and his mouth opened, but no sound would emerge.
The four had converged upon their little group. Lord and Lady Matlock stared at him, and Fitzwilliam smirked; he did not care. His eyes were fixed onto the eyes that enchanted him, the figure that enthralled him, and the face that reached into his dreams and captivated his heart.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he whispered.
She offered him a curtsey, her eyes remaining locked in his gaze. “I beg your pardon, sir. Please call me Lady Courtenay.”