Chapter 3 #2
Hurst grunted something and ambled off in search of . . . well, Darcy was not certain. More food, perhaps? Tea?
“Pleasant family,” his uncle observed, when they were alone.
Darcy nodded. “Yes.”
“Girl seems amiable.”
“Yes.”
“Not for you, though.”
Darcy shook his head. “No.”
Richard stretched his legs beneath the table. “I thought the potatoes went very well.”
“Richard,” his father warned.
“They had cream,” Milton added, and he and Richard laughed.
Lord Matlock looked between his sons. “My sister was right to seat you both at a distance.”
“She underestimated the reach of family loyalty,” Richard said.
Darcy finished his port and stood. Thirty minutes’ reprieve, he thought, was not nearly long enough.
They entered the drawing room while Mrs. Hurst was relating a detailed account of the damp lodgings they had suffered when in Bath.
Darcy took the seat his mother had selected for him beside Miss Macomber and, determined to get through the evening without embarrassing himself, introduced literature.
“What have you been reading lately, Miss Macomber?”
“I have lately been reading—” She paused. “Mamma, was it Mr. Scott?”
“It was Mr. Scott, dearest. The Lady of the Lake.”
“I have lately been reading The Lady of the Lake, Mr. Darcy.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“I thought it very fine.”
“Have you a favourite passage?”
Miss Macomber considered this question with visible caution. “I do not know, sir. Mamma, what was the passage you admired?”
“The death of the stag in the first canto,” said Lady Macomber promptly.
“The death of the stag in the first canto,” Miss Macomber repeated dutifully. After a pause, she added, “It was very fine.”
Behind her, Richard tipped his head at the candelabrum sitting on the mantle and raised his eyebrows.
Darcy ignored him and bowed slightly to Miss Macomber. Under the circumstances, perhaps silence would be safest.
His mother, who had heard the whole, came across to ask Miss Macomber whether she would oblige them with a song.
Miss Macomber said that she would, if it pleased her mamma.
Her mamma said that of course it would please her, and so Miss Macomber sang a fashionable Italian air with no errors but also no expression. Everyone applauded when she was done.
And then, thank heavens, it was late enough to send everyone home.
The Macombers departed at half past ten with all the proper civilities. Miss Macomber thanked his mother for a delightful evening, then looked to her own mother, who gave a small approving nod.
The Hursts followed soon after.
Darcy’s uncle pulled on his winter gloves. “That was not a very promising beginning. It appears it will be a long winter, Nephew.”
“So I am beginning to understand.”
Richard looked offended. “I thought my performance was excellent.”
“You told a story where you proposed to the cook,” Milton said.
“And in which she refused me.” He set his hat on his head. “I fail to see how Darcy’s evening was any more successful.”
Lord Matlock’s gaze was on something behind the three of them. He grunted sympathetically and turned towards his sons. “My consolations, Milton. Richard. Darcy.”
“Richard.”
Richard froze. Darcy’s mother drew breath, but he spoke first.
“Mother, I believe he has suffered sufficiently.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “We will talk, Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She frowned at them all and swept up the stairs.
When she was safely beyond hearing, Darcy said quietly, “You should remember that it is to all your advantage that my mother not succeed with me. For as long as I remain her principal object, you lot are comparatively safe.”
There was a brief pause in which all three gentlemen appeared, for the first time, to contemplate what his mother might do with her energies once he was successfully settled.
Milton said, “Good God.”
Richard looked faintly appalled.
Lord Matlock sighed. “We shall lose at least one of you by Easter.”
“Or you, sir,” Darcy said drily. “For you are a highly eligible widower.”
Lord Matlock looked suddenly thoughtful. “You make an alarming point. Come, boys, let us not linger.”
The Fitzwilliams disappeared into the night.
His mother awaited him in the drawing room. “Given your comment in defence of Richard, I believe I know, but please tell me what you are thinking.”
Darcy smiled a little at his mother’s pique. “She is everything you said she would be.”
“And?”
“And she will not do, Mother, as you knew well before the soup was cleared.”
There was both a look of resignation and humour in her gaze. “I had thought not,” she said. “But one must begin somewhere.”
Darcy had remained polite for three hours on the strength of good breeding alone. After he sat wearily by his mother, he asked, “You were running an experiment, and I was the subject?”
“Not at all. I was making a start.”
“By bringing a young woman to dine so I could have a look at her?”
“By bringing her and her family here to have a look at you.” She sighed and her expression gentled. “But yes, also so that we could have a look at them. I did not see it. From either of you.”
He looked at her. “And what, precisely, were you hoping to see?”
“Compatibility. Or interest, at the least.”
“And what did you observe instead?”
“Civility. Conversation about unimportant matters that went nowhere in particular. Mutual endurance.” Her mouth curved slightly. “The poor girl has been managed into mediocrity. Still, there was not nothing. I can find someone for her.”
Not until the girl learned to speak for herself. “You are alarmingly confident.”
She turned her wedding ring once. “Lord Ashby’s second son takes orders in the spring. An excellent living, a mild temper, and reasonably attractive. It would give her six months to gain confidence, and it would separate her from her mother by two counties.”
Darcy looked at her. “You are selecting a husband for a young lady you dismissed before she had finished her soup?”
“I dismissed her for you, Fitzwilliam. There is someone for everyone.”
“If you were not sure of her, whyever did you invite her?”
“I will not deny I was hoping she would do for you. But she was invited because I matched her sisters and her mother asked for my assistance.” She patted his hand and rose. “Consider Miss Macomber your notice. We shall carry on.”
He left it there, too tired to fight his mother on her own ground. Instead, he said good night and went up.