Chapter 5 A Rose Revealed
CHAPTER FIVE
A ROSE REVEALED
Darcy groaned as Bingley’s carriage approached Lucas Lodge. It would have been a beautiful evening for sitting in front of a cozy fire with a book on his lap, but yet again, Charles Bingley had managed to persuade him to attend Sir William Lucas’s evening party.
“You appear positively funereal,” Bingley observed cheerfully. “I assure you, Darcy, an evening at Lucas Lodge will not prove fatal.”
“Your optimism is remarkable,” Darcy replied. “Though I believe the final judgment on mortality should be reserved until we have endured Sir William’s third retelling of his knighthood ceremony.”
Caroline Bingley laughed with more animation than the jest deserved. “How perfectly droll you are, Mr. Darcy. I confess I share your apprehension about tonight’s entertainment. The Lucas family is respectable enough, I suppose, but their connections are hardly stimulating.”
Darcy made a noncommittal sound. Caroline’s attempts to align herself with his opinions had grown increasingly transparent. It was so tedious that he was unable to summon even polite interest in her observations.
As it was often the case, his thoughts turned to Elizabeth Bennet. He wondered if her large and boisterous family would attend the party. Indeed, it was only that prospect that spurred him to tie his cravat and adjust his waistcoat for the evening outing.
He hadn’t even asked himself about the possibilities of the redcoat militia when the carriage turned up the drive to Lucas Lodge.
The residence was too modest to hold many people, and Darcy sincerely hoped the attendance would be limited to the Lucas family and a few of the local gentry, like the Longs, Gouldings, and perhaps the Bennets.
Even though he wasn’t supposed to trust any Bennets, his father’s warnings most certainly did not include the younger generation. He reminded himself to dig into Mr. Bennet’s background, his associates, university education, if any, and forebears.
They were greeted by none other than Sir William himself.
“Mr. Darcy! How delighted we are to have you grace our humble home,” Sir William declared with the sort of effusive welcome typically reserved for visiting royalty. “And dear Mr. Bingley, naturally. I trust you will both find this evening’s entertainment agreeable.”
Darcy inclined his head with the minimum courtesy required. “Sir William. Your hospitality is, as always, remarkable.”
Entering the drawing room was like being thrown into the lion’s den. He spotted her immediately.
Elizabeth.
And him. Wickham in conversation with the Bennet sisters.
“I say, are those the Bennets?” Bingley asked, his voice brightening. “I had not expected—that is, I understood from Sir William that Mr. Bennet had declined the invitation.”
“The patriarch appears absent,” Darcy observed. “He is no doubt reposed in his library without the tedium of social obligations.”
“I’m heartened that Mrs. Bennet and her daughters enjoy their outings.” Bingley was already moving toward Jane with barely concealed eagerness.
“Come in, come in,” Sir William appeared to herd Darcy, Caroline, Mr. Hurst, and Mrs. Hurst into the drawing room. He leaned closer to Darcy. “I must tell you, Mr. Darcy, of the most remarkable coincidence. When dining with Lord Metcalfe in Town last spring—you know his lordship, I presume?”
“By reputation,” Darcy lied, hoping to abbreviate the inevitable anecdote.
“Well, as I was saying to his lordship, just after the soup course—excellent bisque, reminiscent of what one enjoys at Carlton House—”
Darcy allowed Sir William’s story to wash over him, offering occasional nods while his attention remained fixed on Elizabeth and Wickham.
Her expression was animated, her eyes bright with interest in whatever tale Wickham was spinning.
The sight filled him with a frustration he could neither justify nor suppress.
Why should he care if Elizabeth Bennet fell victim to Wickham’s charm? His father’s warning—never trust a Bennet—should have rendered her well-being irrelevant to him. Yet the thought of Wickham deceiving her, potentially harming her, created a discomfort that bordered on physical pain.
“—and so I said to the Prince Regent himself, ‘Your Highness, the honor is entirely mine,’” Sir William concluded with a flourish.
“Fascinating,” Darcy murmured, having lost the thread entirely.
“But I monopolize your attention! Please, circulate, and enjoy the refreshments. Lady Lucas has prepared her special ratafia—a family recipe, you know.”
Released from Sir William’s conversational grip, Darcy retreated to a quiet corner, where he could observe Bingley’s eagerness to circulate with the Bennets.
“Mr. Bingley! Such a pleasure to see you again,” Mrs. Bennet declared, her voice carrying clearly across the room.
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Bennet,” Bingley replied with his characteristic warmth. “Miss Bennet, you are looking especially lovely tonight.”
Jane’s smile was genuine, if reserved. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I hope you are enjoying your time at Netherfield.”
“Immensely,” Bingley assured her. “Though I had hoped to call at Longbourn. I understand Mr. Bennet has been… indisposed.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression tightened momentarily. “Indeed. My husband finds social obligations taxing at times. His library provides sufficient company for his tastes.”
“I had hoped to discuss a matter of some importance with him,” Bingley persisted. “Regarding Miss Bennet—”
“I’m afraid any such discussions must wait,” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, her voice sharp despite her smile. “My husband is quite adamant about certain matters.”
“Perhaps I might call upon him privately? At his convenience, of course.”
Mrs. Bennet’s laugh held an edge of discomfort. “Mr. Bennet’s convenience is an elusive concept, sir. But Jane is here now—surely that is pleasant enough for one evening?”
Darcy watched Bingley’s face fall slightly before rallying. “Of course. Though I confess, Mrs. Bennet, I am puzzled by Mr. Bennet’s sudden… reluctance regarding our acquaintance. Will you, madam, perhaps be able to intercede?”
“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Mrs. Bennet replied slowly, though her gaze drifted toward Elizabeth. “Though I must say, Mr. Bingley, that I hope you understand the… complications that sometimes arise in family matters.”
“Complications?”
“When one daughter’s behavior affects the prospects of another, a mother must consider all her children’s welfare. Some young ladies seem determined to create difficulties where none need exist.”
The comment was delivered with such pointed emphasis while looking directly at Elizabeth that even Bingley appeared taken aback. Elizabeth straightened slightly, her chin lifting with familiar pride, though Darcy detected the hurt beneath her composed expression.
“Mama,” Jane said quietly, clearly distressed by the uncomfortable undercurrents.
“I merely speak truth, my dear Jane. When that girl insists on putting herself forward and offending gentlemen of consequence, the consequences affect us all.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched at this casual cruelty. That Elizabeth should be blamed for his poor behavior seemed grotesquely unfair, particularly when delivered with such public humiliation. The urge to defend her was nearly overwhelming.
Before he could embarrass himself with an unwanted intervention, Sir William called for the company’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen! With such distinguished company present, I propose an entertaining diversion. Lieutenant Wickham has suggested a most amusing parlor game.”
Wickham stepped forward. “Sir William is too kind. The game is a simple one, requiring no special skill, merely a willingness to share what might be called one’s ‘hidden identity.’”
What could Wickham be up to? No doubt, determining family connections in his search for an heiress. Darcy wondered about the size of Miss Lucas or Miss Bennet’s dowry. Wickham had to be down on his luck to consider such provincial beauties with their likely paltry pin money.
“Each person,” Wickham continued, “will reveal a part of themselves unknown to the company—a middle name perhaps, or a family appellation used only by intimate acquaintances. The more surprising the revelation, the more points are scored.”
Sir William clapped his hands together. “Capital! I shall begin, shall I? My middle name is… Bartholomew! After my maternal grandfather, who was a most distinguished tradesman in his day.”
Titters of laughter greeted this revelation, which surprised absolutely no one who had endured Sir William’s detailed family histories over the years.
The game proceeded around the room, with each participant offering a minor personal detail—middle names, childhood nicknames, family traditions—to general amusement.
Darcy observed with growing apprehension as the circle of participants drew closer to Elizabeth.
Wickham had positioned himself strategically nearby, his attention seemingly casual but his gaze alert.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Sir William called, “your turn! What secret shall you share with us?”
Elizabeth laughed, her eyes bright with the simple pleasure of social entertainment. “I fear I have nothing particularly mysterious to reveal, Sir William. I’m known here to most.”
“Elizabeth is such a beautiful name,” Wickham said. “I wonder what goes with it. Elizabeth Sarah? Elizabeth Mathilda?”
“Oh no, it’s—” She hesitated, the beat no longer than a blink. “It’s Rose. Elizabeth Rose Bennet, at your service.”
Rose.
Darcy felt a peculiar stillness come over him as the name hung in the air. Rose Cottage at Pemberley. Elizabeth Rose Bennet. His father’s warning against the Bennet name. These disparate elements connected in ways he could not articulate but filled him with profound unease.
Why would anyone name a daughter after a murder scene?