Chapter Fifteen #2
Darcy raised his gaze from the window and met Mrs. Hobart’s. He did not say a word. He did not have to. The warning was clear.
She swallowed the rest of the sentence. “Ladies of superior condition,” she amended, “have particular duties. It is proper that they should be prepared.”
Miss Bennet’s mouth curved. She turned her attention back to Darcy.
“For myself, sir,” she said, “I should define an accomplished woman differently. She must play the pianoforte well enough to please her relations, and not so well that she is asked for six pieces in succession by every lady who wishes to dance at her expense.”
“An important distinction,” Darcy observed.
“She must draw so as to satisfy her friends that the object is a tree,” Miss Bennet went on, “and not so exactly as to offend the people she draws, for every person alive believes themselves handsomer than the glass will allow.”
Darcy felt the corner of his mouth move. He did not interfere.
“She must attend to her needle,” Miss Bennet continued, “or her linen will betray her, however brilliant her conversation; a single loose button will undo more admiration than a perfect French accent.”
“Then there is some hope for those who have no French?” Darcy inquired.
“There is always hope,” she replied, “for those who can sew. I have not observed that admirers concern themselves much with women’s opinions, but they do evaluate her embroidery with exacting detail.”
She looked as if she spoke from experience. He did not doubt it.
Darcy leaned back a little. “In town,” he said, “I hear many gentlemen speak with great warmth of a woman’s accomplishments. They would add Italian, German, an extensive acquaintance with the newest novels. They admire a lady who can repeat whole passages from a poem that no one else has read.”
“And her mind?” Miss Bennet asked.
“Her mind,” he said, “must sit very still. It must never show itself without leave or betray any preference that has not been widely approved.”
Miss Bennet’s eyes danced with amusement. “And having no thoughts of one’s own,” she said, “is accounted a great accomplishment? I fear for England should many ladies practise it.”
“There is a considerable fashion for it,” Darcy replied. He glanced at Mrs. Hobart and briefly caught her eye. “I have observed that it is within the reach of all ranks.”
“Then the country is much like town,” Miss Bennet replied.
“We have many who devote themselves to this useful art. Perhaps it is not among a woman’s greatest accomplishments, however, for it demands no practice at all.
Unlike dressing entirely for fashion,” she added, “which appears to give a great deal of trouble and inconvenience to those who attempt it.”
“In what way?” he asked.
“I have seen ladies,” she answered, “who will arrange twenty feathers upon their heads in such a way as to be unable to pass through a doorway without bowing more often than they would to the queen.”
“Feathers are one branch of the subject in which I must confess myself ignorant,” Darcy said, a small smile threatening. “I have, however, met ladies whose chief accomplishment appears to be the art of rearranging themselves upon a sofa.”
Miss Bennet laughed. The sound went through him with a kind of clean warmth.
“Well, sir, I have met gentlemen whose chief accomplishment is the art of standing before a fire and saying that nothing is as it used to be. Perhaps they are the same gentlemen who admire very still minds in their companions. It must be a comfort to them to find that nothing changes there.”
Mrs. Hobart’s lips compressed.
“It is very well for you both to amuse yourselves,” she said.
“But mockery can never be the foundation of a proper education. In certain circles, young ladies learn from their earliest years to move with dignity, to speak with propriety, and to show no levity in the presence of duty. There is no place for laughter when a nation watches.”
“There is not much place for comfort either,” Miss Bennet said, low enough that only Darcy could hear. “I suppose that is the point.”
Her eyes met his. There was humour in them, but there was some apprehension as well.
He was struck, again, by the disparity between Mrs. Hobart’s lofty phrases and the young woman who sat beside him.
She bantered with wit and ease. She played sport with the fashion that preferred minds remain blank in company. She spoke with more sense than any number of ladies of his acquaintance who would have taken offence at half her remarks.
Miss Bennet had beauty, wit, and kindness. Were she not enmeshed in . . . whatever this was, he might find himself in some danger.
The coach lurched over a rut. Mrs. Hobart gave a small shriek and clutched her reticule. Miss Bennet slid along the seat by an inch, straight against Darcy, then drew back again at once.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“I hope you are not hurt, Miss Bennet,” he said. “This has not been a smooth journey.”
The words collided in the air between them, invested with more meaning than Darcy had intended. Then Miss Bennet’s mouth curved into a private little smile, and Darcy felt his own lips answer.
They had driven another stretch of road when Miss Bennet spoke again.
“After such a formidable list,” she said, “I think I had better learn what expectations may await a young lady elsewhere. You have told me what England requires, Mr. Darcy. I am very ignorant of other countries. I ought not to remain so.”
She turned towards Mrs. Hobart with a composure that Darcy thought he could not have managed in her place.
“Mrs. Hobart,” she said, “you have often mentioned the training required of ladies of . . . superior condition. What is expected of a young woman who is to live at a foreign court? What should she be besides obedient? For there is little hope I shall ever attain that skill.”
Mrs. Hobart drew herself up. Her eyes flickered to Darcy. She saw that he watched her, and that he had no intention of looking away.
“In my experience,” she said, “though my charges were the youngest boys, ladies are instructed in the ceremony of the court, the history of the royal house, the forms observed at public festivals.
They learn to sit and to stand in processions.
They appear at their grandfather‘s side on days of general rejoicing. They receive petitions, though they do not presume to decide them. They are, in short, taught to be ornaments of their country.”
“You speak as if you had been near such persons,” Darcy said. “You must have seen a great deal.”
Mrs. Hobart fluttered her handkerchief.
“I have had opportunities,” she said. “I was brought up among persons of consequence.”
Miss Bennet leaned forward, eyes bright.
“Can you tell me something of my grandmother? Is she stern, or kind? Does my grandfather laugh? Does my father’s portrait hang in any gallery?”
Darcy heard the longing in Miss Bennet’s voice, recognised it in his own yearning for his parents, and somehow knew, deep in his heart, that whatever performance was occurring, she was not complicit.
Mrs. Hobart was pleased to answer. “Your grandmother is all that is gracious. The people love her. Your grandfather is a serious and just man. When he smiles, the whole court feels it. As for your father, he was beloved by all who knew him. His portrait hangs in more than one place.”
She broke off, pressing her handkerchief to the corners of her eyes, though Darcy did not see that they needed drying.
Miss Bennet drank in every word.
“And my uncles?” she asked. “How many are there? I know of one from Sir Reginald’s account, but that cannot be all. What sort of men are they? And my cousins, if there are any.”
Mrs. Hobart quickly composed herself. “The king has four sons. The eldest, who will in due course succeed him.” She glanced at Miss Bennet.
“The youngest of whom I need not speak. The middle two have been much employed in foreign service. As for your cousins, you have more than you could reasonably require.”
Miss Bennet smiled, though the smile wavered a little. “I have four much younger ones. I believe I can bear a few more.”
Mrs. Hobart began to enumerate.
“In your generation, there is Prince Adrian, who remains unmarried and has been in England for some time. Then Prince Edgar, who is bookish, and Prince Robert, who is fond of horses. Their sons are princes Maximillian, Charles, James, David, and Frederick, who is the youngest of them all, and much indulged.”
Darcy sat quite still. Snow slid past the window. The coach rocked. Mrs. Hobart’s voice went on. Miss Bennet listening to every word.
Frederick. Youngest of them all.
In London more than a year ago, Adrian had come to dinner at the Matlock’s home, where he had spoken cheerfully of his brothers’ nurseries, enlarged again.
Two new princes within a twelvemonth, the pride of their parents and the delight of the court.
The company had toasted the infants, and Lady Matlock had asked when Prince Adrian would be setting up his own nursery.
He had said something clever and charming that Fitzwilliam had agreed with, and together they had deflected any further inquiries of that nature.
Darcy had little interest in the domestic concerns of a foreign house, yet the talk had stayed with him. Perhaps because Adrian so seldom spoke of home, perhaps because there had been some jest about the difficulty of keeping count of all the royal boys.
Mrs. Hobart had named the older sons. But she had stopped with a boy of four or five and proclaimed him the youngest.
Two more boys had been born since Frederick. She had neglected to mention them.
Miss Bennet repeated one cousin’s name under her breath. “Maximilliam,” she said, and smiled. “And do any of them resemble my father? I should like to know whether I may look for his features in their faces.”
Mrs. Hobart hesitated for a heartbeat, then lifted her chin.