Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Sallow Hall’s ballroom was resplendent with fragrant blooms from the hothouse and long panels of richly coloured silk covering the walls and draped across the ceiling, sweeping outwards and upwards from the centre of the space, giving guests the impression that they were dancing beneath an enormous Arabian tent.
As Elizabeth moved through the set, she could not help but think of her sister Kitty, who had spent the day confined to her bed nursing a cold.
The sumptuous silk panels, the beautiful murals painted on the walls, the chandeliers polished to a gleaming shine, the glow of hundreds, maybe even a thousand beeswax tapers—Kitty would have loved it all.
Her mother would have loved it as well.
And Jane.
And Lydia.
Even Mary, who had never enjoyed noisy, crowded places or displays of useless finery, would have found much to admire.
As predicted by her aunt, she had chosen to remain at home that evening, sitting at her mother’s bedside to read to her, or perhaps play her favourite concertos on the little pianoforte that Mrs Cahill had installed in her sister-in-law’s room.
The dance was not a complicated one, but in her distraction, Elizabeth had turned the wrong way and nearly collided with a couple who did not appear to appreciate her inattention.
She issued a hasty apology and reminded herself that a ballroom was meant for dancing, not wool-gathering.
Nor was it a place for conversation apparently, as her partners had shown little inclination to do more than dance.
Her current partner, Mr Dwyer, was a childless barrister who had been married four times in the span of twelve years, information that Mrs Cahill had gleaned from her friend, Lady Carlisle.
When he had requested an introduction and shortly thereafter a set, he had mentioned his sister resided in the area and that he was visiting her, as he did every year before Christmas.
He had a kennel full of fine hounds that he had bred himself, and he was fond of riding and hunting and all of the things that gentlemen tended to be fond of.
And that was where their conversation ended.
Later, as their set was forming, he informed Elizabeth that he did not talk as a rule while dancing. And so they had spent the last quarter hour in silence as they danced the allemande.
Her previous partner, Mr Gooch, had been equally dull. After commenting on the state of the roads (they were dry), the weather (also dry), and the number of couples in the room (a great many), he complimented the colour of her gown, which was white.
Before Mr Gooch, she had danced with Mr Pruit.
Before Mr Pruit, she had danced with Mr Davis.
Before Mr Davis, there was Mr Fischer, Mr Litman, and Mr Montgomery-Fletcher.
All were pleasant but sadly lacking when it came to conversation.
Elizabeth had abandoned her attempts to introduce more stimulating topics, topics which had met with unfortunate results.
She had scandalised Mr Montgomery-Fletcher by mentioning the war in America.
When she asked Mr Litman whether he agreed that observation and experience are crucial for acquiring knowledge, he tripped over his own feet.
The subject of books was of no interest whatsoever to Mr Fischer.
Mr Davis detested the theatre. And Mr Pruit…
the less said about that gentleman’s proclivities the better.
Is this how it shall be? Elizabeth wondered as she briefly clasped hands with Mr Dwyer as the dance required. Am I destined to pass the rest of my life in such a manner? With some gentleman or other who only smiles at me and compliments me and refuses to see me as an intelligent, rational creature?
I would rather be a spinster…
The idea of such an existence was disheartening to say the least. Again, the dance required her to clasp hands with Mr Dwyer, and suddenly, as the music swelled, the memory of dancing with Mr Darcy at the Netherfield ball came upon her so forcefully that Elizabeth nearly stumbled.
He had not failed to see her cleverness, nor had he ever discouraged her from speaking to him of topics that were often relegated to gentlemen.
Aside from Mr Bingley’s sisters, Elizabeth had been the only lady he had danced with that evening.
She had also been the only lady he had stared at during every dinner and impromptu gathering throughout the duration of his stay in Hertfordshire.
At the time, she had been annoyed by his attentions; now, it was easy to see that his singling her out as he had done was an honour he had bestowed upon no one else.
Had Mr Darcy been in love with her then? Or had he merely admired her?
At the time, she had believed that his aim was to vex her.
And so he had, especially once she realised how little she minded the gentle, almost affectionate touch of his hand on the small of her back as they danced the cotillion, or the way that he had clasped her hand several moments longer than the dance required.
That evening, Elizabeth had been so close to him that she had discerned the scent of his soap.
She had always considered him handsome, but she had found him infuriatingly so as they danced.
All the while, he had stared at her with a steady, penetrating expression that unnerved her and provoked her to be disagreeable.
Had Elizabeth known then what such a look meant, would she have felt differently about him?
Would she have forgiven his insulting behaviour at the Meryton assembly and attempted to truly know him?
Would she have given credence to one word uttered by the silver-tongued libertine who had blamed his comparative poverty solely on Mr Darcy instead of owning up to it himself?
Would she have taken up the mantle of his defence?
The remembrance of everything that had passed between them—every misplaced word and undeserved accusation she had uttered to Mr Darcy’s face—had long been the source of her deepest shame.
Surely, he must be married by now…
“Miss Bennet?”
Startled, Elizabeth blinked at Mr Dwyer, who regarded her with an expression indicative of confusion.
“I say, Miss Bennet…?”
“Do forgive me, Mr Dwyer,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks flush with warmth as she turned in the dance. “I heard not what you said.”
“I did not say anything, madam,” he replied as he performed the corresponding steps. “It is you who spoke. You said, ‘he must be married by now’, and I enquired to whom you referred.”
Elizabeth felt her complexion grow warmer still. What was she thinking, allowing her mind to wander to Mr Darcy while she was dancing with Mr Dwyer? “I hardly know,” she told him. “The temperature in the room is so very warm at the moment.”
Mr Dwyer’s confusion turned to concern at once. “And you have been dancing all evening. Surely, you must be tired. I have watched you dance every set thus far. Marvellously, I might add. It is no wonder you are out of sorts.”
Blessedly, the set came to an expedient end a moment later, and the couples, with a great show of gaiety and applause, abandoned the floor for the refreshment table.
Mr Dwyer offered Elizabeth his arm, she accepted it, and he began to lead her towards Mrs Cahill, who was seated with Lady Carlisle and another matron, Mrs Wolcott, on the opposite side of the room.
“Rest is what you require, Miss Bennet,” Mr Dwyer informed her, “and some refreshment. I shall fetch you a glass of punch directly.”
“I thank you, sir, but you need not go to any trouble on my account. I am feeling much improved already.”
“Nonsense,” he insisted. “I shall be but a moment.” He saw Elizabeth settled in a chair beside Lady Carlisle and surrendered her to the care of her aunt.
“How was your dance, Miss Bennet?” her ladyship enquired. “You and Mr Dwyer looked very well together, but I could not help but notice that you barely spoke.”
“Mr Dwyer does not care to speak while he dances, your ladyship.”
“How singular,” exclaimed Mrs Wolcott.
“Apparently, there is nothing singular about it,” Elizabeth replied with a rueful smile, “as all of the other gentlemen I had the honour of dancing with this evening appear to subscribe to the same philosophy, which I have come to understand means that a lady should never reveal that she is capable of speaking intelligently on any subject that may be of interest to men.”
The countess huffed. “It has been my experience that most gentlemen are enamoured of the sound of their own voice. My eldest son is a prime example, as is my husband, although the younger barely ceases speaking long enough to draw breath, while my husband rarely opens his mouth except to spout nonsense and issue edicts.”
“Or to eat,” said Mrs Wolcott, “as my own husband did, God rest his soul.”
“Your uncle was a man of few words as well,” Mrs Cahill informed Elizabeth. “He liked his horses and his port, but he did speak of other things.” She paused for effect. “His dogs, for instance. And fishing.”
Elizabeth smiled as the other ladies laughed, but spending her life bound to a man with whom she shared no common interests, even books, would be a punishment.
Her father, who preferred to avoid her youngest sisters’ exuberance by escaping to his book-room, had always encouraged all of his daughters to improve their minds and ask questions and speak of subjects that were of interest to them, save for fripperies, balls, and beaux.
Elizabeth was the only one who showed an aptitude for his favourites: Latin, German, the Greek philosophers, and history.
They had spent hours discussing everything under the sun.
That she would never do so again often made her feel like weeping.
With a sentimental smile, she said, “My father was different. He recognised my interest in the world and encouraged me to study many subjects that were not generally considered appropriate for ladies. While my sisters were painting screens and embroidering hems, I was learning Latin and reading Chaucer and Goethe.”
“Your father was an eccentric to his core,” her aunt remarked, but her tone was not accusatory; there was a warmth present that not only spoke volumes regarding her fondness for him, but hinted at the regret she felt for never having reconciled with her brother before his death.
“That he was,” Elizabeth agreed. “He was not perfect by any means, but I am grateful for every bit of knowledge I have gleaned, every discussion, every moment that he made me question the world as I know it and think. While my needlework certainly suffered, the knowledge and understanding I have of the world are worth far more to me than the ability to embroider a pillow or paint flowers upon a teacup.”
Lady Carlisle and Mrs Wolcott regarded her in silence, and Elizabeth expelled an awkward laugh. “Forgive me. I must sound like a bluestocking.”
“No,” said her ladyship, smiling kindly as she did so.
“Not at all. You sound like a very fortunate, intelligent young lady whose father recognised her cleverness and her desire to have an education and gave her a valuable gift. Knowledge, my dear, is the one thing that no one can ever take from you. Once you acquire it, it is yours forevermore.”
Mrs Cahill regarded her friend with raised brows. “You sound as though you have been reading Socrates, your ladyship.”
The countess laughed, but her laughter faded as shouts and the sound of breaking glass were heard coming from the opposite side of the ballroom. “Oh Lud,” she muttered.
Mrs Wolcott enquired, “Whatever is wrong?”
“I cannot say, but a crowd is gathering, and my daughter-in-law looks as though she is on the verge of suffering a fit of some sort. No doubt it is because my eldest son is about to do something highly inappropriate that will likely end in scandal and send my husband into a rage.”
Elizabeth strained to see what was afoot but could discern nothing beyond the dancing couples in the centre of the floor and the crowd that had formed around the orchestra.
Suddenly, the musicians ceased playing, the couples stopped dancing, and the sound of a fiddle being played by an inexpert hand filled the room.
“Excuse me, but I believe I must see what is happening,” said Lady Carlisle as she cast a gimlet eye in the direction of the orchestra and rose to her feet with alacrity.
To Elizabeth she said, “You must come for tea, my dear. I have enjoyed speaking with you exceedingly and should like to know you better. And do be sure to bring my impertinent friend.” She looked pointedly at Mrs Cahill, a wry intimation of a smile tugging at her lips.
“It will be my pleasure, your ladyship,” Elizabeth replied as the ladies rose and gracefully executed curtseys to the countess.
Lady Carlisle received her due with a gentle inclination of her head. “Excellent,” she said, smiling warmly at Elizabeth as she did so. “Would Tuesday morning suit?”
Elizabeth looked to her aunt to reply.
“That will do very well,” said Mrs Cahill. “It so happens that your impertinent friend has no prior engagements.”
Whatever her ladyship might have said in response would forever remain a mystery, as a gentleman’s voice began to belt out,
“Lavender’s blue, diddle diddle
Lavender’s green,
When I am king, diddle diddle
You shall be queen!”
A collective gasp and a cacophony of shocked murmurs travelled throughout the ballroom.
Clearly horrified, the countess bid her friends a hasty farewell and hurried off to put a stop to it.