Chapter 21
Bennet, dressed for dinner, sipped from his glass. He was the first in the drawing room; the earl and countess, he was sure, would join him soon to welcome their guests.
“Mr George Darcy,” announced Clarke as the gentleman entered the drawing room and came to meet him. The gentlemen exchanged bows.
“How good it is to see you again,” Darcy said with a smile. “How fares our friend at Netherfield Park?”
“He added a fencing salon,” Bennet said with a smirk, “to his detriment.”
Darcy laughed. “I daresay it is.”
“What brings you from Pemberley?”
“I have business in town.”
“And what better place to dine than Matlock House?” boomed the earl, as he joined the grouping, the countess on his arm. He slapped the tall man on his back. “Jolly good to see you, Darcy.”
“And you, brother.” He took the countess’s extended hand and delivered a perfect kiss. “Lady Matlock, you are nigh on perfection.”
“Mr and Mrs Gardiner,” announced Clarke.
Bennet was not surprised that Gardiner was an intimate of Lord Matlock. “Let us wait for our last guest,” said Lady Matlock. The unnamed guest was promptly announced, almost on cue.
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” Bennet noticed Lord Matlock’s face soften.
“Catherine, you came,” he said warmly.
“Of course I did, Henry.”
“Lady Catherine, I would like to acquaint you with our particular friend, the former Colonel Thomas Bennet.”
Bennet bowed. “Bennet, it is my honour to acquaint you with my beloved sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Lady Catherine turned to her brother. “So, this is Colonel Bennet?” Lord Matlock nodded. She turned back to him and smiled. Bennet sensed she knew something he did not. “We have much to talk about, Mr Bennet,” she said.
Bennet looked to Lord Matlock, who added, “Yes, I daresay you do. Tomorrow.”
The following afternoon, at the appointed time, Bennet crossed his legs and relaxed back into his chair in the drawing room.
“I did not see Darcy as we descended for tea,” observed Lady Catherine.
“His carriage is for Gracechurch Street,” offered Lord Matlock. “He has business with Gardiner.”
That cannot be good.
Lord Matlock opened the meeting. “Bennet, five years ago, the chancery courts denied your application to break the entail.”
Frowning, he replied, “Philips informed me as such. It was disappointing.”
“I daresay it was. Your solicitor found the counter-argument from the court non-existent.” Lord Matlock tapped his nose. “Philips wrote to Gardiner for assistance.”
Bennet shook his head, not in censure but in admiration. He understood the unsaid threat. “Roark.”
“Indeed,” agreed Lord Matlock. “To answer your unasked question, his enquiries led to my involvement. I then spoke with the Chancellor. It took very little for him to recognise the court’s...error. I shall allow Gardiner to acquaint you with his role. He is doing just that with Darcy regarding an unrelated matter.”
Lady Catherine cleared her throat. “I believe this is where my involvement begins.” She turned to Bennet. “Your brother discovered a crucial matter relating to your estate inheritance line. Your cousin Josiah Collins had a son. His name is William Collins.”
Interested if not yet alarmed, Bennet set aside his tea. “And you found him, Lady Catherine?”
“I did, at Matlock’s request,” confirmed Lady Catherine. “He was in a workhouse.”
“Dreadful,” murmured Lady Matlock.
“Where is the lad now?” asked Bennet.
“He resides with a family near Rosings Park. He is a pleasant, albeit timid young man with an appetite for study, an endeavour that Marylebone House fostered. I shall send him to university to study for the church, and ensure he gains a role as apprentice to a clergyman until he gains his own placement.”
“That is quite generous of you, my lady,” said Bennet.
“It is my Christian duty. I believe he will do well.”
“What a bright future he shall have,” observed Lady Matlock.
Bennet agreed until his thoughts turned unpleasant, centring on the boy’s lineage—a detestable father and violent grandfather, both thankfully deceased, but what of his mother? Bennet felt nauseous. Every horrible possibility flashed before his eyes. “Pray tell me my cousin did not beget the son as his father did?”
Lord Matlock was grim. “Forgive me, I cannot.”
Bennet put his face into his hands. “To this day, I have lamented that my male ancestors did not have the foresight to protect their women properly.”
Lady Matlock coughed and poured him a fresh cup of tea.
Bennet looked up. “I beg your pardon, your ladyships. That was poorly done.”
Lady Catherine waved him off. “An oversight we know you shall never make with your own daughters.”
“Certainly not.” Certainly not.
“Mrs. Bennet, a word?”
The governess’s hands were clasped to her front. One wrung the other. “I am concerned with the music master’s demeanour towards Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mary.”
Franny gasped. She held a hand to her throat. “In what manner?”
“I find his approach unduly harsh.”
What have I not seen?Franny delayed her self-recrimination. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Lawrence.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“What of Jane?”
Miss Lawrence chuckled. “Our Miss Bennet does not brook unpleasant behaviour.” She paused. “From anyone.”
“No, she does not, does she.”
“Again!” demanded Mr Primrose. Since Mrs Bennet’s warning, Bennet paid closer attention to the effete, slender man.
Elizabeth ran her fingers up and down the keyboard, practising scales. To Bennet’s untrained ear, it seemed she bungled a note here and there; his trained eye saw disinterest upon her face.
“Again, Miss Elizabeth. Pay attention to your fingering.” Mr Primrose rapped the pianoforte with his baton.
Bennet’s jaw tightened. Let us not be hasty, he lied to himself. Elizabeth replayed her scales at a slower pace. The results were more pleasing; her displeasure appeared to deepen.
“Miss Elizabeth, no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice.”
“I assure you, sir,” she replied, “I do not require such advice. I practise constantly.”
Mr Primrose sniffed. “I see I shall not have to repeat myself, then.”
“Again!” ordered Mr Primrose, this time looming over Bennet’s third daughter.
Mary pounded her fingers up and down the keyboard, practising scales. She bungled not one note to Bennet’s untrained ear, but his trained eye saw her lack of interest.
“Again, Miss Mary. With less force this time.” He rapped the pianoforte with his baton, causing Mary to flinch.
Bennet saw red. This has gone on far too long.
After dinner, a watchful Bennet spied Elizabeth and Mary bolting for the small parlour. He quietly followed and stood hidden at the door frame. The two started playing a Scotch reel together, sat side-by-side, one’s small hands overrunning the other in near perfection. A wrong note brought out a smirk; a discordant run generated a giggle.
“Girls,” he called softly.
“Papa!” Their joy was a perfect picture.
“Do you not enjoy your morning lessons with Mr Primrose?”
They frowned, and finally Elizabeth spoke. “We do enjoy playing together, do we not, Sister?”
“We do,” agreed Mary.
Bennet smiled, thoroughly charmed. What my daughters desire, they shall have!
“And so it shall be.”
The doorway was at capacity; it seemed that every Longbourn servant desired to see the miracle they often heard since the Miss Bennets’ change in music masters a few months prior. Legget used his privilege to observe from the front.
Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mary were at the pianoforte casting their music spells about the manor. Their new piano master, Mrs Grimaldi, sat on a retiring couch farthest from the instrument—eyes closed, her venerable baton of a finger drew supine figure eights in the air.
The two girls’ hands flashed like lightning, gliding over the keys as if they were extensions of each other. The duo moved in unison as their energy trilled from the music to their audience. Together in harmony, they wove an intricate tapestry of sound for ten minutes. Four hands came to a rest in an atmosphere of silence, which was sundered a moment later with clapping, cheering, and more than a few whistles. The cacophony waned when Mrs Grimaldi stood and approached her musicians.
Uh-oh, what next, thought Legget.
“Lovely, lovely.” She clapped her hands four times. “Now, which of us shall sing?”
Legget covered his cough with a fist.