34. Dinner Warfare
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DINNER WARFARE
The blue drawing room, the largest and best one at Pemberley, felt too small.
Elizabeth resisted tugging at her sleeves as the seating arrangement ran circles through her mind, and she smiled and curtsied appropriately, greeting guests and answering social pleasantries.
She had perhaps five minutes before the procession must begin.
“Mrs. Darcy, Lady Cathcart requires assistance in the retiring room.” Hannah’s whisper cut through Elizabeth’s concentration.
“Send Clarice,” Elizabeth said, not looking up from the cards. “And have Jamison check that the candles in the dining room are properly lit. The ones near the window were guttering earlier.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah bobbed and disappeared.
Elizabeth stared at the arrangement. The late addition of Wickham meant thirteen guests plus herself and Darcy—fifteen at the table, leaving a gap as conspicuous as a missing tooth.
“Waarooahhh!” The sound of Harley’s petulant baying snapped her head toward the doorway. He had escaped the boot room again, and she heard hurried footsteps in the corridor and a thump, followed by the sounds of a struggle and an aggrieved dog.
“Good Lord.” She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and smoothed her expression into a likeness resembling calm. The candles were lit, the table was set, and the gap would simply have to remain.
Wickham had not yet appeared. Elizabeth found herself listening for his footstep in the corridor, her nerves strung tight as violin strings, and she hated herself for it. She ought to be charming her guests, not awaiting a man who had threatened her in her own stillroom to make his entrance.
“Mrs. Darcy.” The Countess Matlock’s gaze found Elizabeth immediately, assessing her gown, her posture, the pearls at her throat that had once belonged to Lady Anne. “How well you look. That shade of green is most becoming. You wear my sister’s pearls well.”
“You are too kind, Lady Matlock.” Elizabeth dipped into a curtsy. “I trust your journey from Matlock was not too arduous?”
“The roads were tolerable, although I confess I had not been to Pemberley since the series of unfortunate events.” Her hand made a haughty sweep as if standards had crumbled or the presence of Little Tom and Darcy’s hasty marriage belonged in the debit column of a ledger.
“We are, indeed, holding up well here. Your sister left detailed daybooks, and Mrs. Reynolds provides valuable continuity.”
Lady Matlock’s eyebrow arched. “I am, however, eager to make your acquaintance. You are from…?”
“Hertfordshire, just north of London.”
The countess’s nose wrinkled as if Elizabeth had mentioned a particularly unfashionable linen-draper.
Across the room, Darcy stood in conversation with his uncle and Colonel Powell, but his eyes found hers through the crowd. A question in them: Are you well?
She managed the smallest of nods. Well was a distant country, and she had no carriage for that country tonight. Confessions were for private corners, not for a room bristling with silk, silver, and the keen eyes of Derbyshire’s best families.
And then, the door opened, and Wickham entered.
Oh, he looked good, had dressed better than impeccably, in a waistcoat of pale gold and a cravat tied in an elaborate style which meant he had commandeered Darcy’s valet.
He paused just inside the threshold, allowing the room to observe him, and then smiled—that warm, easy smile that had once made Elizabeth believe anything was possible.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he said, to no one in particular and everyone at once. “I confess I lost myself in the library. Pemberley’s collection is even finer than I remembered.”
Georgiana was at his side before Elizabeth could blink, her face luminous with happiness. “George! You came! I was afraid you would hide in your room all evening.”
“And miss my sister’s first formal dinner? I would not dream of it.” Wickham tucked Georgiana’s hand into the crook of his arm with easy affection. “Besides, I understand there is to be an excellent wine. Fitzwilliam always did have impeccable taste in cellars, if nothing else.”
Lady Matlock’s lips pursed with disapproval, her eyebrow rising a fraction while Darcy inclined his head as if Colonel Powell’s story about bull elephants parading down the streets of Bombay took on epic proportions.
“Ah, the Apethorpes.” Lady Matlock’s attention shifted past Wickham to the doorway.
“I do wonder how they find the fortitude to travel so soon. One would have thought half-mourning required at least the pretense of retirement. But then, I suppose when the circumstances of one’s loss are so very…
public… the usual forms seem rather beside the point. ”
Darcy greeted the earl and countess with the gravity they deserved, and Elizabeth moved away from Lady Matlock to greet Thomas’s grandmother, genuinely pleased to see the warmth in the older woman’s eyes. “Lady Apethorpe. How delighted we are that your travels brought you through Derbyshire.”
“We could not pass so near without calling.” The Countess pressed Elizabeth’s hand warmly. “And I confess I wished to see young Thomas again. A grandmother can never get enough.”
“He is very well,” Elizabeth said. “He has learned to say ‘grandmother’—though it emerges as ‘gammuh.’”
Lady Apethorpe laughed—a genuine sound that drew glances from across the room. “Gammuh. I shall treasure that.”
The Duntzes were the last to arrive, although they lived a mere mile away. Darcy greeted the parish parson, who was wheezing from the exertion of the steps, while Mrs. Duntze and Elizabeth exchanged curtsies.
“Prudentia is just behind us,” Mrs. Duntze said, before Elizabeth could ask. “She was adjusting her shawl in the carriage. That girl and her novel reading will be the death of me.”
Elizabeth puzzled over Mrs. Duntze’s remark until Prue herself appeared, eyes alight as they scanned the room and settled, with unerring instinct, in the direction of Georgiana and Wickham.
“Elizabeth! How delighted I am. Your first dinner party as Mrs. Darcy. And Georgiana informs me that her other brother is here. Might I be introduced?” Prue caught herself from pressing Elizabeth’s hand in friendship and executed a clumsy curtsy. “I mean—Mrs. Darcy. Forgive me. I forget myself.”
“Then I have quite forgotten myself too.” Elizabeth took her hand and squeezed it. “I am so glad you could come.”
“I would not have missed it for the world. My first formal dinner at Pemberley! Papa has been quizzing me on proper deportment all afternoon. I believe he fears I shall use the wrong fork and disgrace the family name.”
“Nonsense, you shall be all that is proper and gracious,” Elizabeth countered as Georgiana led Wickham to their side.
“Miss Duntze.” Wickham bowed with elaborate courtesy. “We have not been introduced, but I believe I recognize a kindred spirit. You have the look of someone who reads more than is strictly advisable.”
Prue flushed with pleasure. “I confess to being an incorrigible reader, sir. Though I was not aware it showed on my face.”
“It shows in your remarkable eyes. The slightly unfocused quality of someone who is imagining a better world than the one before them.” Wickham smiled. “George Wickham, at your service. I am told we are to be dinner companions.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a most unhelpful lurch. The seating arrangement—she had consigned Prue to the safety of the Colonel and his wife. But there was no time for rescue; Mrs. Reynolds had appeared in the doorway with the signal to proceed to the dining room.
Darcy, as the host, escorted Countess Apethorpe, as the guest of honor, and Elizabeth would enter last on the arm of Earl Apethorpe.
She had designated the seating with the aid of both Debretts and Mrs. Reynolds, but the guests sorted themselves, each gentleman offering his arm to the appropriate lady, each lady accepting with the appropriate grace.
All except Wickham.
“I fear I have created an awkwardness.” His voice was smooth, apologetic, pitched to carry just far enough. “My presence has made thirteen at table—most unfortunate. Perhaps I ought to have dined in my room after all.”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana said, clutching his arm tightly. “You are family, and you belong here.”
“Then I shall be glad to be of service.” He bowed with a flourish. “Miss Duntze, I find myself unexpectedly blessed with two arms and only one sister claiming possession. Might I have the honor?”
Prue’s eyes widened. She glanced at her mother—Mrs. Duntze’s face had gone rigid with disapproval—then at Elizabeth, who could do nothing but watch, and then back at Wickham, whose smile promised adventure and attention and all the things a rector’s daughter rarely received.
“I… yes. Why, thank you, Mr. Wickham.”
She took his arm, Georgiana giggling with delight. And the three of them processed toward the dining room, Wickham in the center with a lady on each side, as though he were royalty and they his court.
Lady Matlock looked back at Elizabeth as she passed on her husband’s arm with an expression that required no translation.
Elizabeth did not dare look at Darcy, who was at the head of the table, already seated with Lady Apethorpe, and indeed, there was nothing to be done.
She took the earl’s arm and followed her guests into the dining room.
Mrs. Reynolds had arranged the table beautifully—the silver epergne rising from its center like a frozen fountain, laden with hothouse fruits and trailing greenery.
Candlelight danced in their holders, casting warm light across the white linen and the fine Darcy china.
Everything was perfect, immaculate, and exactly as it should be.
Everything, that is, except the man who had seated himself between Georgiana and Prue, directly in Elizabeth’s line of sight, his smile gleaming as brightly as the silver at his elbow.