Chapter 22 #2
The guests were introduced, and there was sufficient time before we were called to dinner to become a little acquainted.
They were already known to Georgiana and Darcy, who were pleased to renew the acquaintance, as I was to make a new one.
Miss Crawley was charming, with her lively dark eyes, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness.
She was neither as tall as Georgiana nor as full-formed as myself, but was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl.
Her brother was not handsome, but was an agreeable young man; perhaps three and twenty, and Miss Crawley of an age with me.
“Miss Bennet, I trust your convalescence is proceeding apace?” Mr. Crawley came to stand at my side. “If I were more polite, I would not notice that your arm is in a sling—but I am rather gauche, particularly in the company of charming women.”
My arm had begun to ache due to overuse during the day, so I wore my sling to the drawing room, prepared to remove it during the meal. “You are too gallant, sir. I assure you that my sling did not notice your directness, and I, myself, am too polite to comment on it.”
“And how, may I ask, could such a genteel woman as yourself find herself so disadvantaged?”
“Disadvantaged? Certainly not! Now, whenever I enter a room, I am immediately fussed over, and given the sweetest treats from the cake basket. But to answer your question—it is not a secret. I took a slight tumble while walking in the Lakes and had the misfortune to suffer a dislocation of the shoulder. I am assured that it will cure itself, provided I exercise my arm only gently.”
“Then you must allow me, Miss Bennet, to sit beside you at dinner, so that I can select the choicest morsels requiring no exertion on your part to cut them into dainty, ladylike portions.”
He chortled. Could I endure such conversation from him over a full five courses? Chortling? Undoubtedly, he thought himself amusing, and perhaps felt some duty to entertain me, as Darcy was occupied with Miss Crawley and Georgiana.
Shortly afterwards, we were called to dinner, with Mrs. Bennet leading us in on Mr. Darcy’s arm.
She took her place at the head of the table as hostess.
I saw the Wainwrights look at each other in surprise.
Miss Crawley, on Darcy’s arm, glanced over her shoulder, caught her brother’s eye, and raised an eyebrow.
A sudden insecurity overtook me. If Mama, indeed, were to marry Mr. Darcy, then I would not merely be a sister to Georgiana and Fitzwilliam, but Mr. Darcy’s daughter—Miss Elizabeth Bennet Darcy.
Mama’s fortune exceeded forty thousand pounds; if she were to remarry, then likely it would become mine.
I had never before thought of it. As a daughter to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, with a substantial dowry exceeding, in truth, that of his own daughter Georgiana, I would be relentlessly pursued.
Even the Duke of Devonshire gave each of his daughters less.
Mr. Crawley was beaming at me as I clutched his arm a little tighter—not out of admiration, but quite possibly out of fear.
I was seated next to the gentleman, though on account of my injured ankle, Georgiana sat opposite, as was becoming our custom.
“Do you think, Mr. Crawley, you could slice the soup into smaller portions, for I do not believe I could comfortably pick up the bowl with just my one mobile hand?” I smiled very sweetly, for I was determined to outlast him in wit and banter.
“Pick up the bowl? I do not understand you.” The gentleman looked at me with consternation, then abruptly laughed. “Oh, you are a wit, Miss Bennet. I was quite taken in.”
Across the table, Georgiana gave Mr. Crawley a curious look. Surely he should have immediately seen that I was joking. She gave me a glance, then placed her hand over her mouth to hide a silent giggle.
“My apologies, sir. I had misplaced the soup spoon. But now it has found its rightful place, I can enjoy the meal.” I turned to Mama. “Mrs. Bennet, is this Mrs. Hill’s receipt for onion soup? It is quite delicious.”
“I must admit, Elizabeth, that Mrs. Hill’s receipt does not compare to that of Mrs. Abernathy, Pemberley’s cook. Having spent some time in the kitchen with Mrs. Abernathy, I can say she truly is a culinary genius.”
“You visit the kitchens, Mrs. Bennet?” queried Mrs. Wainwright. “I am sure that Lady Anne would not have done so.”
So rude, speaking of Mr. Darcy’s late wife at his table.
“Oh, not at all, Mrs. Wainwright. Mrs. Abernathy was only an under-cook at the time, but she recalls quite clearly that Lady Anne was involved in all aspects of choosing menus so each course could be served hot from the ovens, and not allowed to cool or curdle waiting on the sideboard. She herself supervised the installation of a Rumford hearth and modern bake ovens.” Mrs. Bennet had caught the attention of the whole table, but more particularly Mr. Darcy.
“Her care and attention to running the household is echoed in Miss Darcy,” she added.
“Not only with her mother’s grace and charm, but also her proficiency as mistress of the estate. ”
“Hear, hear,” cried Mr. Wainwright, perhaps a trifle disguised. “I raise my glass to Lady Anne!”
A toast between courses was highly irregular; nevertheless, we took up our glasses. Mr. Darcy sipped his wine, accepting murmured condolences, but his eyes never left Mrs. Bennet. They shone with pride, with admiration, and genuine respect.
Georgiana looked from one to the other, then caught my eye. “Truly?” she whispered across the table. I smiled in return. “Truly, dearest, I believe we are both to become real sisters.”
The soup was removed and fish, lightly steeped in melted butter and paired with fresh fennel and mint, was served. Mr. Crawley, true to his word, took a small portion and carefully disentangled any bones—with just the one good hand, I found such a delicate operation exceedingly difficult.
“You are too good,” I said, as he placed the mackerel on my plate—the fish had been freshly sent up from the coast, packed in the last of the season’s ice.
“Certainly not, it is the least I can do for such a fair lady.”
“Fair? Have you mistaken me for my mother, Mrs. Bennet? She, like Miss Darcy, is uncommonly fair-haired.”
“Mrs. Bennet? Certainly she is an attractive lady.” Once again, he looked confused. “I was referring to your skin, Miss Bennet; you have such a light, pleasing complexion.”
Oh dear, he was certainly not the sharpest pencil in the box; but neither, I supposed, was he as dumb as a bag of hammers! I heard Mary give a reproachful sigh.
Mr. Crawley was merely a young man, of no exceptional ability, having the fortune to be born into a gentleman’s house.
In Derbyshire, with its isolation from London society, he was ill accustomed to speaking with ladies of impertinent wit and, dare I say it, lively temper.
I had grown accustomed to banter with Darcy, who possessed such a dry sense of humour that he could desiccate herbs with just one turn of phrase.
I turned the conversation, endeavouring to discover Mr. Crawley’s interests.
Naturally, he was fond of shooting—which gentleman wasn’t?
—but held no interest in horseflesh. That much we had in common.
This was of little help, being exceedingly difficult to make conversation about a shared disinterest.
“I believe there is a fine garden at your estate. Do you grow roses?” We had canvassed fencing, boxing, fox-hunting, and even outdoor games such as cricket to no avail.
“Roses? Not at all. But you have missed our tulips—the peak month for colour was in April.” His eyes lit up, a topic worthy of pursuing.
“Do you breed your own plants, sir? I understand some varieties are exceedingly sought after.”
Tulips, bless their petals and stamens, managed to carry the conversation through the boiled tongue, the roasted game birds, to the puddings.
I was rescued when Mr. Wainwright, sitting on my other side, was freed from his wife and Mr. Darcy’s conversation and turned to make some comment on our trip to the Lakes.
Wordsworth was a great favourite, and he was disappointed we had missed the poet at Grasmere.
Thus the meal ended. The sweet tarts and jellies, followed by fresh fruit, nuts, and cheeses, were a welcome finale.
Mrs. Bennet rose, and the ladies followed her to the drawing-room. I leant on her arm—my ankle and foot had begun to throb something dreadful. It was with relief that I sank into a well-sprung settee and could place my leg on a cushion.
* * *
I had forgotten the assault by Mrs. Augustus and her daughter on Fortress Darcy when we first met at the Salutation Hotel in Ambleside.
After Miss Eustacia and Mr. Lowther had formed an attachment, as we discovered at the inn at Buttermere, it was impolite to remember it.
Yet once again I saw the drawbridge of Fortress Darcy being raised when the gentlemen joined us in the drawing room.
The company had dispersed—Georgiana to the piano-forte, assisted by Mr. Crawley turning the pages, and the others to cards.
Miss Crawley, naturally enough, came to sit near the fire; hardly necessary given the warmth of the evening, yet casting a welcome glow over the room with its flickering yellow and red flames.
Darcy, as usual, was standing by the mantel.
“Mr. Darcy, you are quite determined not to join the whist table tonight?”