Chapter 41
“ H ave I surprised you?” I asked.
I was leading Elizabeth up the stairs to my townhouse as the footmen unstrapped the trunks from the carriage that had brought our guests to London.
In front of us, Georgiana had taken Mrs Bennet’s arm, and chattering gaily with the lady’s daughters, she led them into the hall to be relieved of their coats and shawls.
At her driest, Elizabeth, whose sensibilities appeared to have been lightly abraded from being stuffed into a carriage with her mother and sisters for a period of hours, swiped at a strand of hair on her cheek and replied, “As my father remarked upon our leaving, you are either so brave as to be foolish, or you are merely a fool. I do not believe you have the slightest notion of the unwisdom of unleashing my mother upon London society, and I am sure I shall blush for my younger sisters at least once an hour.”
“Oh come now,” I rallied her. “Where is your spirit of adventure? What of your storied philosophy to find something to laugh at? I intend to enjoy myself, and if the situation we find ourselves in is hopelessly silly, which I expect it will be, we shall have a constant cause to be amused.”
“We shall see how long you last,” she said archly under her breath.
“I will certainly outlast you ,” I replied.
This light challenge seemed to relieve her of the last of her anticipatory mortification, and she graced me with a slightly wicked smile as her answer.
Thus, we embarked on a different sort of expedition.
A visit from Mrs Bennet and all her daughters was exactly what I expected it to be.
There were effusions of wonder, open speculation about how much I had paid for this or that, and the liberal expression of uninformed opinions on almost every subject—certainly, the stupidest ones—such as whether the Prince Regent’s shoes were made in France.
Because no assertions made were required to be anchored in fact, the opportunities for arguments were constant.
Georgiana weathered this with surprising forbearance. She loved her friend and seemed willing to ignore those occasional affronts to good sense.
If I, on the other hand, had been the man I had always been conditioned to be, I would have experienced a great deal of mortification, consternation, and such fits of disgust and indignation I may have fled my own home for the sanctuary of my club.
But I was not that man. I had learnt how to be dirty, wet, tired, cold, hungry, and—though I had done so with far less humility than was seemly—I had even endured a period of debility.
I had taken a stand against the expectations of an unloving family.
I had faced and conquered social scenes I do not prefer, such as a Season in London as my sister’s faithful squire, and a house party full of incompatible guests.
I had been seen in public in a mule cart and been treated like a filthy nuisance.
I had even overheard myself roundly condemned and unceremoniously rejected by the woman I love, and in consequence, I had endured a prolonged and painful period of uncertainty as to my worth as a man.
Not only had I discovered that I was able to survive such shocks and insults, but I had also discovered that my essential nature was one of benign impartiality which I could only describe as open-heartedness.
This developing sense of myself became a source of great curiosity, particularly when over the next few days, I could muster up so little resistance to Mrs Bennet’s manners that I began to like her very much.
She was so effusive and subject to such an array of whims and sensations that I felt strangely sorry for her, and stranger still, I was moved to indulge her every notion of pleasure.
If she complained of a chill, I gave up my chair closest to the fire, and when she mentioned that she had only once ever tasted pineapple, I asked the kitchen to send up a platter of exotic fruits which, at that time of year, cost nearly what I paid for a case of Champagne.
Eyebrows were certainly raised in the lower reaches of my house because I was not prone to extravagance. My first opportunity to cause an equal stir above stairs came soon after when Mary Bennet asked to attend an afternoon performance of Italian court songs.
Her mother, offended by the prospect, flatly refused. “Why would I wish to sit still for an hour or more without understanding a word of what is being sung? Upon my word, Mary, I do not understand you in the least.”
I had been standing at the breakfast sideboard filling my plate, and with my back to the room, I said, “I have no inclination to go myself, ma’am.
” I then returned to the table, took my seat, shook out my napkin, and said, “But if my sister is willing to take your daughters to the recital, perhaps you would take a turn with me around Hyde Park?”
It took a degree of resolution to maintain a neutral expression on my face, for when I glanced up, I was confronted by eight pairs of eyes staring at me in varying degrees of amazement.
Thankfully, Lydia broke the spell by exclaiming, “But you promised we could go to the shops, Mama!”
This conflict was quickly resolved by Mrs Annesley, who smoothly offered to take the young lady—and Kitty, who immediately decried the prospect of being left out—to browse the trinket shops across from the Pantheon where the recital was to be held.
All went according to plan until I was in the midst of helping Mrs Bennet up to the seat of my curricle, for she suddenly became a touch fretful.
“Lizzy,” she said to her daughter who had been standing by to wave her away, “I feel as though I should have chosen to go to the shops with Lydia and Kitty.”
“They have already gone ahead with Mrs Annesley, Mama,” Elizabeth said with undisguised impatience, “and Miss Darcy’s carriage is waiting only for me to step in.
We must be off straight away or be late.
There is no time for you to change your mind, and besides, Mr Darcy has gone to the trouble of having his curricle brought around. ”
“I have gone to no trouble at all, I assure you. If you wish to go to the shops, we shall do so. But I had been thinking you might prefer the drapers and haberdasheries on Bond Street to the trifles found on Oxford Street. If you are agreeable, we should plan to go tomorrow, and if she would care to join us, perhaps we might invite Mrs Gardiner to go along.”
This plan struck Mrs Bennet as ideal. With her light frown cleared away—and in the manner of a hen settling her feathers after a fright—she smoothed her skirts and adjusted her bonnet ribbons while I withstood a lightly withering stare from her daughter.
Clearly, after the challenge I had issued to her, she was keen to defend against my offensive of charm, and in the spirit of provocation, I winked at her, took up the reins, and clicked the horses into motion.