Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Elizabeth endeavoured to attend to the conversation at hand, but it was difficult when the object of her affection was in such close proximity. Mr Darcy’s attentiveness made her pulse quicken and her countenance flush with warmth.
“Miss Bennet,” said the countess. “I understand that you first made the acquaintance of my younger son, Colonel Fitzwilliam, at Rosings Park.”
Chagrined, Elizabeth replied, “Yes, your ladyship. We met at Easter several years ago. I was visiting my friend Mrs Collins at the time.”
“And what a dull time it must have been,” said Viscount Emerson, examining his fingernails. “Made even duller by the addition of these two.” He indicated Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam with a flick of his wrist.
“I found nothing wanting in the manners of either gentleman, my lord. They were both perfectly amiable. You may ask Lady Catherine,” she told him sweetly. “Even better, you may write to my cousin Mr Collins. I am certain he would delight in recounting every particular.”
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “You are a fun one! While my brother is certainly entertaining enough, Darcy has never appeared to advantage at Rosings. He is too busy being disagreeable else our lady aunt will begin to think he is amenable to marrying her dour daughter.”
“Really, Arthur,” said his mother with a disapproving frown. “Anne is not so very dour.”
“The girl is dour,” Lord Carlisle insisted, linking his fingers over his stomach as he reclined in his chair. “Catherine is a fool if she thinks Darcy would ever offer for Anne.”
Torn between astonishment and laughter, Elizabeth bit her lip and glanced at Mr Darcy, who was sitting on a wingback chair across from the couch upon which she was presently seated.
“Mrs Cahill,” he said evenly, “and Miss Mary are not acquainted with my cousin Anne or her mother. We ought to discuss something else.”
“Disagreeable,” said the viscount, wrinkling his nose at his cousin. “It is a wonder that Richard puts up with you.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. “It is more the wonder that I put up with you.”
“You are incorrigible,” her ladyship insisted, giving each of her sons a pointed look that communicated her displeasure with the turn the conversation had taken. “Had you both been girls, I daresay my life would have been less of a trial and far more peaceful.”
Mr Darcy glanced at Elizabeth and smiled. “Had you daughters, my lady, as in more than one, I am certain your opinion would be vastly different.”
Elizabeth shook her head at his daring but laughed despite herself.
“Indeed it would, your ladyship,” said Mrs Cahill with a wry twist of her lips.
“From the stories that my nieces have told of their childhood, their poor mother lived in a constant state of agitation over their appearance, their proclivities, and their prospects.” She indicated Elizabeth with a wave of her hand.
“This one here was not at all fond of remaining indoors. As it happens, on the morning of your ball, she walked nearly four miles to the dale and back because she wished to breathe fresh air and admire the frost on the ground. Apparently, the air in my drawing room and the carpet beneath her feet are not sufficiently interesting for her.”
Viscount Emerson looked appalled.
Lord Carlisle appeared confused.
Lady Carlisle said, “Why on earth did you not simply ride to the dale, my dear?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Miss Bennet is a great walker. I do not believe there was a single stone left unturned at Rosings Park. She saw it all on foot.”
“As ridiculous as that sounds, it is true,” Elizabeth agreed with a sheepish smile. “The entire park was so lovely, that I determined to see as much as I could of it while I had the opportunity.”
“But the grove was your favourite,” said Mr Darcy with a small, intimate smile of his own.
“Of all the gardens and fields and wooded paths within Lady Catherine’s domain, you preferred to walk there most of all, usually when the sun had barely risen above the hills and the grass was kissed with dew and the world was silent but for the birds. ”
“I did,” she confessed as her smile turned bittersweet.
He had met her there on countless occasions, disrupting her peace, her solitude, and her equanimity.
It was where he had found her the morning after she had abused him so abominably to his face.
Had she only known then what she knew now: that Mr Darcy was not the arrogant, illiberal man Mr Wickham had made him out to be, but was the only gentleman who suited her in every way that mattered.
Beside her, Colonel Fitzwilliam quietly cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Miss Bennet, you will return there someday and make new memories. Fonder memories. I have found Rosings Park to be as picturesque in the summer, and the autumn, and the winter as it is in the spring.”
“I would like that,” she told him, hoping that Mr Darcy would recognise the sincerity in her voice. “I would like that very much indeed.”
“Then we must do what we can to make certain that happens, my dear,” said Lady Carlisle with much apparent pleasure.
Across from her, Mr Darcy’s lips curved upwards in a small, tender smile that Elizabeth could not help but return.
Then Mary asked her a question about Rosings and, in an effort to draw her attention, touched Elizabeth’s arm.
Blushing profusely, she endeavoured to answer her sister’s question to the best of her ability.
Unlike the formal dinners once held at Longbourn, which often contained no more than two courses, each curated with the discerning tastes and preferences of Mrs Bennet’s guests in mind, Sallow Hall’s dining table was overflowing with what looked to be half the larder.
There were dozens of dishes set out at once with little rhyme or reason to their placement, crowding the centrepieces and spilling into everyone’s eating spaces.
While the food was delicious, there was so much of it that it was anxiety-inducing.
Elizabeth did her best to ignore the chaos, which was difficult to do when poor Mary could barely be seen over an enormous soup tureen. Mrs Bennet would have been appalled.
“The venison is excellent,” said Lord Carlisle to his wife, reaching for a second helping and nearly knocking the pigeon pie off the table in the process. “Much better than the mutton you served the other night.”
“There was nothing lacking with the mutton,” her ladyship replied evenly. “But if you found it distasteful, you need not to have eaten it.”
The earl grunted. “Darcy did not like it either. He barely touched it.”
“That is because Darcy does not like mutton,” said Fitzwilliam as he speared a boiled potato with his fork. “Nor do I for that matter.”
“Nor I,” said the viscount, wrinkling his nose with distaste. “I wonder that you insist upon serving it at all.”
“I like mutton,” her ladyship informed them with a haughty sniff.
“Would that you did not,” muttered her husband. He looked to Elizabeth and said, “What do you think of it?”
Elizabeth’s lips quirked. “I do not care for it either, your lordship. My father loved it, but the rest of us merely tolerated it.”
“Well,” said Mrs Cahill, “I happen to like it, and it was a good thing that I did, for Mr Cahill adored a well-cooked haunch of mutton. It was his favourite dish in the world.”
“How dreadful,” said the viscount. He glanced at Mary, straining his neck to better see her over the consommé. “What about you?”
Before Mary could answer, the colonel rolled his eyes heavenward and said, “Miss Bennet has already stated that none of her sisters like mutton.”
“Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps Miss Mary is partial to it?” Turning once more to Mary, he asked, “Are you?”
“No, my lord,” she replied. “I much prefer goose.”
“As well you should,” said the earl. “Good girl.”
Likely deciding it was time for a change in conversation, Lady Carlisle said to Mary, “I understand you are quite accomplished on the pianoforte, my dear. I hope you will consent to play for us this evening.”
“I would be pleased to do so, your ladyship.”
Viscount Emerson took a sip of wine. “And I shall sing for you all.”
The entire table ceased eating.
Elizabeth pressed her serviette to her lips in an effort to conceal her smile.
His performance the other night was one she would not soon forget.
She glanced at Mr Darcy to see how he fared.
Not well, apparently, for he looked as though he wanted nothing more than to eject his cousin from the dinner table and possibly from the house.
“What?” Viscount Emerson enquired with a huff. “I have a lovely voice.”
“And absolutely appalling taste,” said his brother.
“Fear not,” he replied cheerfully. “I know plenty of songs other than Lavender’s Blue.”
“There are ladies present,” Lady Carlisle warned. “Behave yourselves, both of you.”
Mr Darcy cleared his throat. “It so happens that Miss Bennet has a very beautiful voice, and she plays the pianoforte with much expression of feeling.”
Mrs Cahill smiled as she reached for her wine glass. “I daresay she plays a vast deal better now that she has a master and practises every day.” She cast a sly look at her niece and said, “As she should have been doing all along.”
Elizabeth laughed. “While I own that I am much improved, pray do not misrepresent my abilities, madam. Mr Darcy’s sister is a far superior musician than I.
In truth, I have never had the pleasure of hearing anyone who plays with such feeling, such passion.
Not even when I attended concerts in London.
When Miss Darcy plays, it is a transcendent experience.
” She looked to Mr Darcy and said, “I trust that your sister is still every bit as dedicated to her music now as she was when I met her at Pemberley?”