Chapter 21 #2
“An affliction of the household, perhaps.” Her comment was ignored by all when Lydia bounded down the staircase and spotted Georgiana.
“Miss Darcy! You are here. Kitty, she is here! Come and see her dress. It is French, I can tell by the stitching. Miss Darcy, your hem is so elegant. May I examine the embroidery? It must be French.”
Georgiana’s mouth twitched. She was about to lift her hem when she caught Caroline’s disapproving eye, and then, the light went out of her eyes, and she greeted, “Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, and Miss Mary. How very pleasant.”
Mama’s dinner was an argument, presented in pastry with roasted mutton and potatoes crisped in goose fat, executed with a precision bordering on vindictive.
Walnut biscuits graced the sideboard, while Mary’s steady hand had whipped the syllabub to firm peaks.
She laid out the Wedgwood with the confidence of a woman who knew her china was not fine, but her food was superior to anything a French-trained cook at Netherfield had produced all autumn.
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst studied the table the way one studies a quaint ruin, with appreciation for what it attempted and pity for what it achieved.
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Hurst observed, sampling the mutton with the tip of her fork, “that you have prepared this yourself, Mrs. Bennet. There is something so heartwarming about a family that dines on the labors of its own hands.”
“The Clarks have been feeding people since your family was still in trade, Mrs. Hurst,” Mama said, refilling her glass with the unhurried hand of a woman who could deliver a killing stroke while passing the salt.
“My grandmother baked for the king. I bake for my family. The difference is merely one of audience.”
Mrs. Long lifted her glass in a gesture so small it might have been accidental. “I can attest to that, Mrs. Hurst. I have been eating Mrs. Bennet’s biscuits for twenty years, and I have never once been offered anything finer in London. Though I confess I have not been invited to try.”
Mr. Hurst applied himself to eating with the dedication of a scholar poring over a newly discovered ancient text, while excavating his rapidly emptying plate. “Finest roast I have had since a coaching inn in Shropshire. Mrs. Bennet, you are wasted on a family of seven.”
“Eight,” Mama corrected. “You are forgetting the cat.”
Mr. Hurst laughed, loud and startled, and Mrs. Hurst looked at him as though he had committed a social atrocity as he helped himself to seconds and thirds—at the same time.
After numerous courses, he seemed hesitant to leave the table, even after the syllabub was completely licked clean. However, Miss Bingley announced our move to the drawing room, and Mrs. Hurst tugged her wayward husband’s sleeve, much like a washerwoman leading her son by the ear.
The skirmishes began at the pianoforte.
Caroline’s nose approached the ceiling as she elegantly took her seat on a settee. “Georgiana, dearest, you must play for us. Mrs. Bennet’s instrument looks very well, and after such a generous dinner, I am sure the company would welcome a little music.”
Expressionless, Georgiana rose and glided to the pianoforte.
Mary started to move to her side to help with the sheet music, which Georgiana was carefully arranging, but Caroline turned to her brother.
“Charles, would you turn pages for Miss Darcy? You know how she values a reliable partner at the music stand.”
Bingley, who had been gravitating toward Jane, halted mid-step. “I am a wretched page-turner. Last time, I sent Georgiana back to the development section twice, and though she was very patient, she missed several bars.”
“Nonsense, Charles. It is a simple enough task. Besides, Miss Darcy appreciates your steady page-turning qualities.”
I had no desire to judge a man by his page-turning technique, yet Miss Bingley seemed to consider it paramount in gentlemanly conduct.
Glancing sideways, I saw Mary standing there, wringing her hands.
I was about to propose my sister as a qualified page-turner when Georgiana met Caroline’s gaze, and Caroline gave a slight nod.
“Please, Mr. Bingley.” Her voice was soft. “Your page-turning is much appreciated.”
Bingley took his position, not without a backward glance at Jane. Mary turned around and drifted to stand beside Jane, and the drifting was the saddest movement in the room, though no one saw it but me.
Georgiana played flawlessly, hitting every note and observing every dynamic, her tempo steady and assured.
Bingley stumbled over a few page turns, but thankfully, no cats leaped from their perches, nor was tea spilled.
Darcy, with his hand resting on Cinnamon on the arm of his chair, grew still, and in that stillness, I knew he, too, heard the silence between the notes.
Papa turned to Mr. Darcy, his demeanor as relaxed as someone seeking pleasantries.
“Mr. Darcy. I understand you own significant estates. Pemberley, if I recall, and everything that comes with it.”
Darcy gave a slight nod, remaining silent, so Papa pressed on, “I’ve often wondered—has managing an estate ever prepared you for managing a family?
In my view, both demand patience, both defy attempts at rigid control, and both will teach a humbling lesson to any man who thinks they can be run by the book. ”
“I wouldn’t dream of comparing them, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy replied. “An estate can be managed systematically. A family, however, is considerably less predictable.”
“And yet, you’ve taken on the guardianship of a young sister and engaged a companion for her.
A man who approaches family with such a structured method is either remarkably disciplined or endearingly optimistic.
” Papa’s eyes, which mirrored my own and held the same inclination for seeing what they should not, fixed on Darcy with a weight that the pleasantness of his tone did nothing to relieve.
“In your experience managing your household, have you found that the things most worth cherishing are those that readily conform, or those that resist?”
The question was his indirect way of asking if Darcy considered me worth keeping. A flush crept up my neck, and I wondered if Darcy suspected my father’s interest was matrimonial.
However, I needn’t have worried. Darcy took a slow sip of coffee, considering.
“The things most worth cherishing, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, and his voice had dropped half a register, “are generally the ones I have been wise enough not to attempt to manage.”
He did not look at me.
Papa raised his glass. “Then there is hope for you yet, sir.”
Caroline, who had been waiting for a pause, selected this moment to interject her opinion.
“Hertfordshire is delightful in autumn,” she said, turning to Mama with the bright confidence of a woman dispensing pleasant news.
“Charles has so enjoyed the country air. Though of course, we shall be repairing to London before Christmas. The Hursts’ townhouse in Grosvenor Square needs opening, and one cannot avoid the season indefinitely, however rustic the pleasures.
Even Charles, who would happily remain in the country forever, admits that the town has its claims.”
Across the room, Jane’s smile stayed too bright, and Mary remained buried in a book.
“Christmas in London,” Mama repeated. “How ambitious. I have always thought that people who flee the country for town at Christmas are either avoiding something or pursuing it, and I should be curious to know which applies to your family, Miss Bingley.”
“One does not flee, Mrs. Bennet. One simply returns. London is home.”
“Is it?” Mama’s eyebrows rose by a fraction. “I had understood your family’s seat to be in the north. Scarborough, was it not? Or was it the mills of York?”
Mrs. Long’s lips curved into a smile as sharp as a new pin. “Oh, my dear Miss Bingley, I’m sure London has its charms, but Hertfordshire has been known to tame even the most upstart of souls.”
Across the room, the piano stumbled. Bingley had turned a page too early or too late or landed on the wrong section entirely. Georgiana’s hands halted, and she rolled her eyes with a fraction of her spirit.
“Mr. Bingley, we were in the development.”
“Were we? I thought… isn’t this the part where it goes rather fast?”
“That is the recapitulation, and we were nowhere near it.”
“Ah.” Bingley attempted to turn the page back, misjudged the grip, and sent the entire sheaf of music cascading off the stand in a waterfall of paper directly onto Cinnamon’s back.
Cinnamon, who had been draped across the arm of Darcy’s chair with the boneless elegance of a cat who considered herself above the concerns of the room, erupted from the paper attack in a burst of ginger fur and indignation.
She streaked across the carpet and launched herself directly at the nearest available surface, which happened to be Caroline’s skirt—her silk trimmed with Belgian lace.
Caroline’s sneezes and shrieks created a bizarre melody as she flailed at her skirts, trying to dislodge the cat. Meanwhile, Georgiana and Bingley knocked heads in their rush to gather the scattered sheet music.
I bit my lip, fighting back laughter, but lost the battle when Georgiana, instead of crying, burst into giggles, and then Bingley was laughing, bringing Darcy to his feet. He scooped up Cinnamon, detangling her claws from Caroline’s lace while shuddering with suppressed laughter.
Through it all, Mama maintained a facade of perfect calm. How she managed it, I’ll never know, but I suspect years of exposure to our family’s antics had something to do with it.
“Bless you, Miss Bingley.” Mama handed her a fresh napkin, and Mrs. Long pressed her lips together with the heroic self-control of a woman who was mentally composing the account she would deliver to Lady Lucas tomorrow morning, and the account would be detailed, devastating, and repeated verbatim at every tea table in Meryton for the rest of the season.
“Well!” Lydia declared, with the authoritative brightness of a child seizing an opportunity.
“The concert is clearly concluded. I propose Commerce. Or Whist, if anyone can be bothered to count trumps, but Commerce is more amusing, and nobody has to sit quietly, which I think we have all done quite enough of this evening.”
“Commerce,” Kitty seconded immediately.
“I am very fond of Commerce,” Bingley said, with the pathetic gratitude of a man being offered a reprieve. “Miss Darcy, I do apologize. I told Caroline I was not the man for page turning.”
“Mr. Bingley.” Georgiana took the scrambled pages he had gathered. “You are forgiven. But if I may suggest, in the future, perhaps someone who can read music might be entrusted with the turning.”
Mary caught Georgiana’s gaze—a vindication, finally, and friendship, perhaps.
“Commerce it is,” Papa announced with the authority of the host. “Mrs. Bennet will deal. She is the only person in this household I trust with cards.”
“I am the only person in this household you trust with anything, Thomas.”
“Precisely my point, my dear. Precisely my point.”
“Mrs. Long, you will partner with me,” Mama said, dealing with the speed and accuracy of a woman who had been winning at cards since before her daughters were born. “Between us, we have sixty years of experience and very little patience for losing.”
“I never lose, Mrs. Bennet,” Mrs. Long said, settling into her chair with the comfortable determination of a woman taking up a battle station. “I simply allow other people to win less.”
I was sitting at the table when Darcy crossed the room and took the chair beside me.