Chapter 6
The residence of Governor Claiborne was a structure that struggled against the very soil upon which it sat, much like the administration it housed.
Within those walls, the air refused to move, despite the persistent efforts of the mechanical fans and the wide, open galleries designed to invite the river breeze.
It was a heavy evening in New Orleans, the sort of night that rendered the starch of a gentleman's cravat an exercise in futility and the silk of a lady's gown a burden.
Mr. Darcy sat at the Governor's right hand, his expression as inscrutable as the murky waters of the Mississippi.
He had learned, in his weeks among the Americans, that silence was often mistaken for agreement or, at the very least, a lack of opposition.
This was a useful front. To his left, Governor Claiborne was engaged in a spirited defense of the American claim to West Florida, a topic that Darcy found tedious in its repetition but significant in its implications.
"You must admit, Mr. Darcy, that the proximity of British interests in the Gulf is a matter of some concern to our government," Claiborne said.
"I am a private citizen traveling for the sake of commerce and interest, Governor," Darcy said.
"Commerce and interest often wear the uniform of the Crown when the wind changes," Claiborne said.
Mr. Bennet, seated further down the table, looked up from his turtle soup with a glimpse of his usual mischief.
"You do my young friend an injustice, Governor," Mr. Bennet said.
"Mr. Darcy is far too occupied with the complexities of Louisianian botany and the local architecture to concern himself with such trifles as international borders.
He has spent the better part of the morning examining the levee.
It was a most educational pursuit, I am told. "
Elizabeth, seated across from Thomas, caught Darcy's eye. She saw the minute tightening of his jaw, a signal she had come to recognize as his only concession to irritation. He did not care for Mr. Bennet's irony when it skirted so close to the truth of his activities.
"New Orleans offers much to the observant traveler," Elizabeth said.
"It offers even more to those who know what they are looking for," Claiborne said.
The Governor turned his attention to Cécile, who sat beside Thomas with a grace that made the stifling heat seem like a mere suggestion rather than a physical reality. Thomas appeared entirely captivated, his usual professional composure yielding to the charms of their hostess's companion.
"Mademoiselle Delacroix, I trust our guests are finding the city to their liking?" Claiborne asked.
"They are very curious, Excellency," Cécile said.
"Curiosity is a virtue in a new territory," Claiborne said.
The dinner progressed through a succession of courses that reflected the city's dual heritage, a mixture of French refinement and the bold, unfamiliar spices of the nearby swamps.
Darcy ate sparingly. He was keenly aware of the Governor's scrutiny.
Claiborne was no fool; he suspected that the arrival of a wealthy English gentleman of Darcy's standing, accompanied by a man of Thomas's clear military bearing, was no coincidence in these times of rising tension.
When the ladies withdrew, the conversation turned more pointedly toward the rumors of war.
Darcy listened as the American gentlemen spoke of the impressment of their sailors and the perceived arrogance of the British Navy.
He offered no defense, for he knew that any word of support for his country would only confirm the Governor's suspicions.
Instead, he maintained a studied neutrality that provoked Claiborne more than open hostility would have.
"The British believe they can control the seas as they once controlled these colonies," an elderly planter said, his voice thick with the accents of the coast.
"The sea is a vast mistress to aim for, sir," Darcy said.
"And a fickle one," Thomas said.
After a time, they joined the ladies in the drawing room.
The windows were thrown open to the night, but the air that entered was filled with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine, offering little relief.
Elizabeth was standing by a small table, turning the pages of a book of botanical prints.
Darcy approached her, his movements slow in the heat.
"You find the American flora interesting, Miss Bennet?" Darcy asked.
"I find it vastly different from the gardens at Longbourn," Elizabeth said. "Everything here seems to grow with a certain violence. It is not at all like the restraint of an English spring."
"Nature is rarely restrained when it is given such heat and such soil," Darcy said.
"And people, Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth asked. "Do they also grow with more violence in such a climate?"
"Perhaps they merely lose the habit of concealment," Darcy said.
Elizabeth looked at him, her eyes bright with the intelligence that always seemed to challenge him.
"You speak of concealment as if it were a duty," Elizabeth said.
"In certain circumstances, it is," Darcy said.
"And when duty and conscience disagree, Mr. Darcy — which do you obey?" Elizabeth asked.
The force of the question struck him. It was not a mere philosophical inquiry; it was a probe into the very heart of his current existence.
He was in this city under false pretenses, reporting on the defenses of a people who had welcomed him, however warily, into their homes.
His duty was to his King and his country, but his conscience had begun to murmur at the deception.
"I believe that a man's first duty is to the truth, Miss Bennet," Darcy said.
"But which truth?" Elizabeth asked. "The truth of his orders, or the truth of his character?"
"They should be one and the same," Darcy said.
"They should be, but are they?" Elizabeth asked.
"You ask a question that has no easy answer," Darcy said.
"I have observed that the most important questions rarely do," Elizabeth said.
She turned back to the book, but Darcy remained beside her. He felt a desperate urge to be honest with her, to tell her exactly why he was in New Orleans and what he feared was coming. But his training and his pride held him back. He was a Darcy of Pemberley, and he had a task to perform.
A servant entered the room then, carrying a silver tray laden with mail. The arrival of a ship from England was always an event of the greatest importance, and the room fell silent as the Governor distributed the letters. There were several for the Americans, and two for the English guests.
Claiborne handed a letter to Mr. Bennet and another to Darcy.
"It appears the Atlantic has been kind to you, gentlemen," Claiborne said.
Darcy took his letter, recognizing the hand of his man of business in London. He did not open it immediately. Mr. Bennet, however, had no such reservations. He broke the seal of his letter and read, his expression shifting from amusement to a settled gravity that Darcy had rarely seen on his face.
"Is it news from home, Father?" Elizabeth asked, moving to his side.
Mr. Bennet did not answer for a moment. He folded the letter slowly.
"It is from your mother, Lizzy," Mr. Bennet said. "It seems that Lydia has been invited to Brighton."
Elizabeth's face went pale. Darcy, who was standing close enough to see her reaction, felt a sudden, sharp concern. He knew enough of the Bennet family from their brief acquaintance in New Orleans to understand that the youngest Miss Bennet was a source of constant anxiety.
"To Brighton? With whom?" Elizabeth asked.
"With Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the Wickshire militia," Mr. Bennet said.
"Father, you cannot mean to let her go," Elizabeth said.
"She will never be happy until she has made herself and her family ridiculous in a public place," Mr. Bennet said. "New Orleans has at least spared me the sight of it, but it seems I cannot protect the rest of the world from her folly."
Elizabeth turned away, her distress evident in the way she held her hands together. Darcy saw her struggle for composure. The Governor and the other guests were watching them, their curiosity piqued by the sudden change in the atmosphere.
"Is something the matter, Miss Elizabeth?" Cécile asked, coming forward.
"It is only news of my sister," Elizabeth said. "She is very young and very headstrong."
"Then she is like many girls her age," Cécile said.
"But not all girls have such an opportunity for disaster," Elizabeth said.
The news of Wickham produced in him a feeling he was not immediately able to govern. He also felt a deep sympathy for Elizabeth. He knew what it was to worry for a sister's reputation, though Georgiana's situation was vastly different.
"Perhaps we might take the air in the garden," Darcy said, his voice low.
"The room has become quite close. I should not like you to be further distressed by such company.
" He glanced toward the American gentlemen with an expression that, for a moment, betrayed a native hauteur.
"Your father's position here is not without its difficulties.
A family of your consequence—" He stopped, as though hearing himself for the first time.
But the words had been spoken, and Elizabeth had heard them clearly: a family of your consequence.
He meant it as sympathy, but the phrase carried within it the unmistakable assumption that he knew exactly where the Bennets stood in the order of the world, and that their standing was considerably below his own.
Elizabeth looked at him, and for the first time, he saw a flickering of gratitude in her eyes.
"Yes, I should like that," Elizabeth said.
They excused themselves and stepped out onto the gallery, then down into the dark, shadowed paths of the garden. The sound of the dinner party faded behind them, replaced by the rhythmic chirping of insects and the distant, low moan of a riverboat's horn.