Chapter 11
Dinner had been rather more pleasant than Darcy had expected.
The food had been excellent, the wine better, and Sir Henry had proved capable of discussing hounds, tenants, and parliamentary idiocy without once requiring Darcy to admire his daughter.
Mr. Gardiner was soon discussing taxes, a subject upon which Sir Henry was pleased to expound.
Richard stood at Darcy’s shoulder and said quietly, “You must be relieved.”
Darcy glanced at him. “By what?”
“That no one has attempted to marry you off this evening. You have been left alone to eat, drink, and discuss turnips.”
“I had not noticed.”
“No,” Richard said. “Of course not.”
The gentlemen rose at the proper time to rejoin the ladies, and Darcy entered the drawing room in excellent humour. It did not survive his entrance into the drawing room, however, for Lady Broward was waiting for him three steps inside the door.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, taking possession of him, “you must come sit by Euphemia. She has been longing to ask you about Derbyshire.”
He looked towards the pianoforte. Occupied. Towards the card table. Full. Towards the far window. Barricaded by a fern of unnatural size. When had that been moved there?
A footman met his eye and immediately found the opposite wall of great interest.
There was nowhere else to go that would not have caused an incident, a circumstance of which Lady Broward was well aware. His mother, across the room, appeared . . . entertained.
Beside him, Richard took in Lady Broward, her daughter, and the little settee by the fire. “At least when a horse means to throw me,” he murmured, “it gives some warning.”
“One must always keep his wits about him and his path of retreat open,” Mr. Gardiner said. “Three steps is rather generous by London standards, Mr. Darcy.”
Richard’s mouth twitched. “I begin to understand why you prosper, Gardiner.”
They passed deeper into the room, still speaking.
Darcy watched them go with no little envy before he sat.
Lady Euphemia smiled. She was a brunette woman of thirty-five, widowed these five years and sufficiently secure in her fortune and position. She had no need of a husband, a fact Darcy might have found reassuring had she not closed the space between them the moment he sat down.
Across the room, his mother caught his eye. Her brows rose by the smallest degree.
Darcy knew that look.
It said that his mother was not the author of this particular pairing, but that she had offered him two agreeable young ladies of suitable age, fortune, and disposition, and he had declined to exert himself. Whatever befell him now was his own concern.
There were a number of men and women here this evening for whom his mother was facilitating matches.
Cresswell was here, and several young ladies Darcy had only met this evening.
The Browards had come because Lady Broward and his mother had been at school together, the Bingleys had come because Bingley wished to be anywhere Miss Bennet would be, and the Gardiners and Miss Elizabeth had come because his mother liked them.
He did too. In fact the Gardiners were nearly the only people in the room for whom Darcy’s feelings were entirely uncomplicated.
“It is said,” Lady Euphemia observed, “that your harvest at Pemberley was poor this year.”
“Everyone’s harvest was poor this year.” And last year as well. Fortunately, his father had taught him not to rely solely on the tenant farms for income, and to save in years of plenty for the years that were lean.
Across the room, Miss Elizabeth turned at something her aunt said, and the candlelight shone briefly upon her face.
“My father was telling me, only this evening, of a new method of underdraining you have employed at Pemberley.”
“The method is neither new nor mine. I fear I cannot take credit for it.” Darcy looked at Lady Euphemia. “Your father is unusually well-informed.”
“My father is always well-informed,” Lady Euphemia said. She laughed prettily but did not pursue it.
While she spoke about some exhibition he had not attended, Darcy watched as his mother introduced Miss Elizabeth to Lord Broward. The man did not keep company with those he did not find intelligent, so his remaining with her after the introduction was a compliment.
Darcy was proud of her, though he reminded himself that her finer qualities had nothing to do with him. He could not see her face, but observed instead the line of her shoulder, her stillness when she was listening, the slight tilt of her head the moment before she chose to disagree.
“I have a cousin in Northamptonshire,” Lady Euphemia was saying, “who has lately let a portion of his estate to a tenant for a fixed sum. His brother declares the arrangement ruinous, since rents in the neighbourhood have risen handsomely; my cousin insists he is spared all trouble and hazard. I cannot make out which of them is right.”
“I should be unable to advise either gentleman, ma’am. I do not let portions of Pemberley.”
“You retain the management of the whole?”
“I do.”
“How very,” said Lady Euphemia, “diligent.”
There was a small pause, into which Darcy ought to have placed something civil.
He ought to have said I quite agree, madam, or any of the half-dozen polite responses that came naturally to him when he was not seething under his mother’s amused observation and listening to Miss Elizabeth enjoy another man’s conversation.
He said instead, “Diligence is less work, in the end. I find the alternative rather more inconvenient.”
“How so?”
“A leaseholder may be a very able farmer and still have naught but a tenant’s interest. Mine is the estate’s interest, and that sometimes requires more deliberate calculations.”
Lady Euphemia considered this. “Of course.”
It was the politest dismissal he had received that week.
Across the room Miss Elizabeth laughed.
It was a low laugh, startled out of her—he had heard it once at the assembly and again at Netherfield, and he had thought of it more often than he ought. Lord Broward looked pleased with himself and resumed speaking.
“Mr. Darcy?”
He turned his gaze back to the woman sitting next to him. “Forgive me, Lady Euphemia. I did not hear.”
“I asked whether you had been in town long this winter.”
“Since the end of November.”
“And do you find London much altered since you were last here?”
“London does not alter, madam. It only acquires more of the same.”
Lady Euphemia glanced across the crowded room. “That is not wit, I collect.”
“No.”
“A pity. I should have admired the effort.”
Darcy looked at her properly for the first time. There was a faint smile at the corner of her mouth.
He would wager a hundred pounds she knew perfectly well why he was distracted, though he could hope that she did not know by whom. Moreover, she did not appear to mind.
His eyes wandered back to the other side of the room.
Miss Elizabeth was now smiling at something Lord Broward was telling her.
Just smiling this time, not laughing, but clearly enjoying herself.
This was all very well, for Lord Broward was in his fifties and a married man.
Miss Elizabeth could remain with him all night, though he would still wish he might have some of those smiles and laughs for himself.
As he continued his conversation with Lady Euphemia, he watched from the corner of his eye as his mother approached Miss Elizabeth, took her by the hand, and, with a kind word to Lord Broward, led her away.
His mother turned her head the smallest degree and said something over her shoulder.
Darcy did not catch the words, but he caught their effect.
Miss Bingley, who had been standing at a little distance in a state of what he thought of as elegant readiness, lifted her chin as if a string had been drawn.
A moment later she was in motion.
She crossed the floor with every appearance of independent purpose, though Darcy had the strongest impression that his mother might have set Miss Bingley dancing with the movement of a single finger.
By the time Lord Broward had completed his survey of the room, Miss Bingley was already at his elbow, smiling up at him with that bright, polished attention gentlemen were always pleased to accept.
Lord Broward smiled and resumed his conversation.
Darcy, who had seen his mother arrange flowers, guests, footmen, and once, with rather alarming success, a bishop, could only admire the economy of the thing. Miss Bingley had been positioned and put to use before anyone but himself had perceived there had been a need.
His mother glanced at him again. This look was quite different. This one said that Miss Bingley, whatever her faults, could at least recognise an opening when one appeared.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He startled, then turned back to Lady Euphemia. “Forgive me, madam. You were saying?”
“Nothing of consequence, but I fear I am competing with the entire western side of the room.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I beg you do not. I am a widow, Mr. Darcy. We are permitted to notice things.”
Before he could determine whether an answer existed to this, his mother arrived at his shoulder.
“My dear Euphemia,” she said warmly, “I am in the greatest need of you.”
Lady Euphemia’s eyes brightened. “Of me?”
“I am.” His mother held out her hand. “Lady Melbury has placed herself by the card table, and Mrs. Anstruther is advancing upon the same chair.”
He turned, and across the room, Lady Melbury was indeed lowering herself into a chair while Mrs. Anstruther paused beside it, fan half raised, her expression arrested between possession and surrender.
“Oh,” Lady Euphemia said. “That will not do.”
“I would not wish to call attention to it as the hostess, but I know I can count on you to prevent any bloodshed.”
Lady Euphemia nodded, clearly feeling the compliment of being asked. She released Darcy without hesitation. “Mr. Darcy, you will excuse me.”
“Of course.”
His mother’s eyes met his as she bore Lady Euphemia away. There was no severity in them. Somehow, it made him feel worse.