Chapter Three
It was not merely that Elizabeth had never been to the theatre in London.
She had never been anywhere of such polish and grandeur.
The drawing rooms of the fashionable world, the towering houses of Mayfair, the painted halls of galleries and learned societies, all were vague to her as a child’s picture book.
Her understanding of the capital had been shaped by the modest parlours of Gracechurch Street, the quiet bookshops her uncle favoured, and the neat stalls and cheerful exchanges of respectable tradesmen.
And yet now she stood in a gown of soft pale sarsenet, her arms wrapped in a new shawl of silk and fringe, her hair drawn up by a maid, and her slippers too fine for any road but this one. The footman offered his arm, and she stepped from the carriage into a lighted crowd.
Covent Garden blazed with life. Lanterns swung on their chains.
Carriages jostled for place along the pavement.
The stone steps leading into the vestibule were filled with gentlemen and ladies moving at leisure.
No one was in haste. It was understood that one lingered before the bell; it was part of the evening’s charm to be seen, to observe, to converse.
Mrs. Gardiner took Elizabeth’s arm as they entered, her expression fond and amused. “You need not say a word, my dear. Just smile. That is all that is required tonight.”
Elizabeth returned a breathless laugh. “I believe I can manage that much.”
They made their way slowly through the crowd.
Mr. Gardiner was detained more than once by acquaintances; Mrs. Gardiner was recognised by a pair of ladies engaged in the charities of St. Luke’s parish.
Elizabeth had scarcely finished admiring the carved plasterwork above the lobby doors when a tall gentleman stepped toward them with composed familiarity.
“Madeline,” he said, his tone warm though quiet. “And Edward. You are both in fine health, I hope?”
Mrs. Gardiner turned with evident pleasure. “Uncle Henry. We had not expected to see you tonight.”
Lord Matlock bowed to her and shook Mr. Gardiner’s hand with sincere regard. “I understand your niece has been in town nearly a week. I am glad to have caught you before your departure.”
A woman now stepped forward beside the Earl.
She was dressed in violet silk, her bearing graceful and assured.
Her features, though touched by time, retained the dignity of former beauty and the calm assurance of a woman long accustomed to her position.
She extended her hand to Madeline with quiet warmth.
“We missed you at the Duchess’s tea last week,” she said. “I trust there was no difficulty?”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “I had been all set to come, but Freddie was cutting his back teeth. Poor thing wanted only me, and I could not leave him.”
“Quite understandable,” said the Countess. “You have always managed more than most, and with fewer complaints.”
Just then her eyes, which had rested fondly on Madeline’s face, shifted to the young lady standing just behind her. She stilled. Her gaze fixed upon Elizabeth with a sudden, unwilled attention, as though some recollection had stirred before it could be examined.
Mrs. Gardiner, catching the pause but unaware of its cause, turned slightly and said with quiet composure, “Elizabeth, may I present the Earl and Countess of Matlock, Lord Henry Fitzwilliam and Deborah Fitzwilliam? Lord Matlock is my father’s cousin, and Lady Matlock has ever shown me kindness.
My lord, my lady, this is my niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. ”
Elizabeth stepped forward and curtsied with grace. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Lady Matlock inclined her head. “And I yours.”
The words were perfectly chosen, and her manner entirely correct.
Yet Elizabeth felt, with a small inward unease, that she had not been greeted so much as observed.
The Countess’s attention lingered a moment longer than courtesy required, deliberate without being discourteous, and left Elizabeth with the curious sense of having been noted rather than received.
At that moment, another familiar pair made their way through the vestibule.
The Viscount and Viscountess Ashford, Basil Fitzwilliam and his wife Amelia, were both dressed with a fashionable yet unpretentious elegance.
Viscount Ashford bowed to the Gardiners, while Lady Ashford came directly toward Mrs. Gardiner.
“I am very glad to find you, Madeline. We had hoped to call earlier this week, but our time has not been our own.”
“I should have liked that. The children were quite ready to invade your nursery.”
“Are they to travel with you to Brinmouth? Mine were very cross to learn they would be parted for the summer.”
“We could not manage it. Edward shall have work there, and we expect little quiet. They will remain in London with their grandmother.”
“I think Margaret and Frederick would far prefer it if they stayed with us.”
“You are kind, but two months is rather too long to burden you with so many little feet and hands.”
“A month, then. Surely we may have a month.”
“Very well. One month with their grandmother, and one with their cousins. I shall write to my mother tonight.”
“You must. Margaret shall want to prepare her drawing box for Grace.”
They spoke a few moments longer, until the second bell was sounded, drawing renewed motion through the lobby. The Matlocks and Ashfords offered their parting courtesies before ascending the main stair to their upper-tier box.
“Come, my dear,” Mr. Gardiner said to Elizabeth. “We shall be late if we do not follow.”
The Gardiners climbed the stair to the second tier, their box situated near the curve of the house with a clear view of both stage and audience. The playbill lay upon the seats, and the candles in the sconces flickered gently behind their glass.
Elizabeth took her place, her aunt settling beside her.
“I knew you were connected,” Elizabeth said quietly, with a sidelong glance, “but I did not quite expect you to greet an earl as though he were, in truth, your uncle.”
Mrs. Gardiner removed her gloves.
“Habit has a way of smoothing distinctions, particularly when one has known them since childhood.”
“I suppose it must. Though I cannot help thinking how differently my mother would have managed the same acquaintance.”
Her aunt laughed. “You are imagining it exactly. She would have spent years attempting to throw one of her daughters in the path of every titled gentleman with more than ten thousand a year.”
“And if you declined to assist?”
“She would have managed perfectly well without me.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Then the Earl of Matlock would scarcely have escaped Longbourn alive.”
“Nor Lord Ashford,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I suspect she would have married him to Jane before the evening was out.”
Elizabeth laughed, then turned her gaze outward, her amusement giving way to curiosity as she took in the glittering sweep of chandeliers and silk-clad figures. Her eyes were drawn upward to a box set directly opposite theirs, rather higher than her own.
The Matlocks were now seated within their box, Lady Matlock upright and composed, her gown catching the light with each small movement. Beside her, the Viscount and Viscountess appeared equally at ease, conversing in low tones.
Elizabeth found her eyes returning to the Countess, not from presumption, but from an unsettled desire to understand.
The earlier regard had been too deliberate to dismiss, and Elizabeth, accustomed to being overlooked rather than examined, could not help but wonder what had drawn it.
She ran, in brief review, over her own conduct, her dress, her manner of address, and found nothing remarkable in any of them.
Yet the impression remained, and with it a faint, unwelcome suspicion that she herself had been found wanting in some way she did not yet perceive.
As this thought took shape, the door to the Matlock box opened. Two gentlemen entered. One was of middle height, with sandy hair and an open, agreeable countenance. He bowed lightly as he took his place and was greeted with easy familiarity.
The other was taller by half a head. His shoulders were broad, his figure straight and well formed, and he moved with a quiet assurance that required no display. His hair was dark, his brow grave, and there was something in his presence that altered the attention of the box at once.
He did not glance her way. Yet she found herself oddly disappointed by the omission.
~BTML~
Mr. Darcy was not in a humour to enjoy the theatre.
He had accepted Lord Matlock’s invitation a week ago without hesitation.
Family duty, especially to the uncle who had never turned his back on him, was not a thing he took lightly.
But after the events of the previous night, he had scarcely wished to be seen at all, let alone in a crowded theatre.
It was not in his nature, however, to break a promise. And so, he came.
He and Richard had timed their arrival with care. The bell had already rung once, and the vestibule was nearly empty. Only a few stragglers lingered within the marble hall, and no one turned to note their passage.
They made their way quickly through the corridor and climbed the steps to the upper tier without pause. Darcy kept his head slightly inclined, his face unreadable. After last night, discretion was a necessity.
They entered the Matlock box in silence. Lord Matlock stood at the front, one hand resting on the rail, his eyes cast over the house with habitual detachment. Lady Matlock sat just behind, composed and still, revealing no more of her thoughts than etiquette required.
“You are late,” said the earl, without turning.
“Not so late as to miss the overture,” said Richard as he bowed to his mother. “We arrived just as the bell rang.”
Darcy greeted his aunt with a nod and took the seat beside his uncle.
“Your restraint is appreciated,” said Lord Matlock. “Though I trust your reasons are as dull as you will claim.”
“I had no desire for conversation.”
Richard settled himself beside his brother.
“We came in under full sail and no one spotted us. Admirable discipline, I should think.”
Lady Matlock's eyes moved briefly from her son to her nephew before returning to the stage. Amelia smiled.
“You have just missed cousin Madeline.”
Darcy looked toward her.
“Indeed?”
“She was below only a few moments ago with Mr. Gardiner and their niece.”
“Their niece?”
“Newly arrived from Hertfordshire, I believe. Mama was quite taken with her.”
Richard glanced toward his mother.
“And is this niece as pretty as she is provincial? I do think we ought to be warned.”
“You are impossible.”
Darcy paid them little attention. His gaze had already returned to the stage, where the musicians were still arranging themselves below. The noise of the theatre washed over him unheard.
He recalled Madeline seated beside his mother in the music room at Pemberley, her posture straight, her fingers poised over the keys as Lady Anne guided her through a difficult passage.
Many afternoons had passed so, while he lingered nearby, quietly listening.
He had been no more than six when he first climbed onto the bench beside her.
He had scarcely spoken then, not to anyone but his mother, yet he remembered whispering her name.
Maddie. Just once. She had turned and smiled, and from that day forward, he always sought her out.
The last time he had seen her, he was thirteen and she eighteen.
Within weeks, her father was dead, then his sister Georgiana, and then his mother.
The fever had spared nothing. After that, there were no visits, no letters, no invitations.
His father closed the door upon his mother’s family, and with it, upon Madeline.
Even after his father’s death, the habit remained. He supposed he might have written. But she had married, and their situations were so altered that he never did. From time to time he heard news of Madeline, though never often and never directly.
His eyes drifted across the theatre, more from thought than design.
A box on the second tier caught his attention, positioned near the curve of the house.
A young woman sat near the front, turned slightly toward the house but not toward the stage.
Her gown was of pale sarsenet, simple but elegant, and the light from the chandeliers caught the gleam of its trim as she moved.
She was laughing. Not in the loud way of those eager to be heard, but with a softness that reached her whole face. There was joy in it. Not practiced amusement, but the quiet delight of someone unaccustomed to such pleasures and finally granted them.
She looked young, yet not quite girlish. There was an ease in her manner that suggested neither self-conscious display nor studied composure. She seemed happy. Entirely and unquestionably so. And that, more than any symmetry of feature or grace of movement, was what struck him.
There were others seated behind her. He noticed them only distantly. His attention remained fixed on the girl at the front.
She turned her head then, slowly, as though surveying the room. Her eyes passed near his, though not quite to them. She did not see him. He had not seen such lightness in years.
"Darcy."
His uncle's voice drew him back.
"I understand you have reviewed Mr. Gardiner's proposal," said Lord Matlock. "I take it the report was favourable?"
"I have read it."
"And?"
"The concept is sound. The planning appears thorough. I should like to speak with Mr. Gardiner in person before reaching a decision."
"It would be a worthwhile investment. Captain Montjoy is no fool, and Ellison's name opens doors."
"Even so, I prefer to form my own opinion."
"You always do," said Richard. "Though in this case, I suspect your opinion will conveniently coincide with a desire for sea air."
Darcy looked at him steadily. "I do not need an excuse to leave London."
"Do not deny it," Richard continued. "What better excuse to quit London before the Season has eaten your last nerve? You may claim diligence while avoiding ballrooms and bored heiresses."
"I do not need an excuse to leave London."
"No," said Richard, "but it is more satisfying to have one."