Chapter 13 #2
His eyes searched her countenance as though seeking some deeper truth, yet whatever intelligence he gleaned appeared to satisfy him. “Then we shall confront her enthusiasms as allies, united against the forces of superfluous ornamentation and excessive decoration.”
Elizabeth contrived a smile, though it felt fragile as spun glass upon her lips. Mrs Bennet's voice grew more insistent with each passing moment, and duty's call could not be indefinitely ignored.
The sound of carriage wheels upon gravel provided a welcome interruption to the morning's domestic trials. Through the window, Elizabeth observed Sir William Lucas handing down his eldest daughter Maria, followed by Georgiana Darcy.
“Miss Darcy!” Moira's delighted cry rang through the house as she raced down the stairs, apparently recovered from her earlier distress.
Elizabeth joined the welcoming party in the entrance hall, where Mrs Bennet was already expressing excessive and somewhat embarrassing gratitude to the Lucas family for their escort of Miss Darcy through the winter countryside.
“Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said warmly, taking the young woman's gloved hands in her own. “How very good of you to venture out for Moira’s lesson on such a bitter day. I trust your brother accompanies you as usual?” Her eyes moved involuntarily toward the door, expecting to see Mr Darcy's tall figure following in his sister's wake.
“I am afraid not,” Georgiana replied with a shy smile that transformed her habitually serious countenance. “Fitzwilliam departed for London on urgent business matters. He assured me he would return within two days, though I confess I miss his company terribly when he is away.”
Elizabeth felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, followed immediately by confusion at her own reaction.
Up until this instant, she had not quite fathomed how accustomed she had grown to Mr Darcy's presence during Moira's lessons.
Indeed, she found herself wondering when exactly their philosophical discussions and verbal sparring matches had become something she anticipated with such keen interest.
Her gaze fell automatically upon her left hand, where Malcolm's cairngorm ring caught the pale light streaming through the hall windows.
The sight served as a sharp and necessary reminder of her circumstances.
She was betrothed. She had accepted Malcolm's proposal and would soon bear his name.
These wayward thoughts regarding Mr Darcy were not merely inappropriate but potentially destructive to any hope of future contentment with her chosen path.
“Of course,” she managed, forcing brightness into her tone. “London business must always take precedence over social calls. Moira will be delighted to have your undivided attention today, Miss Darcy.”
Yet even as she spoke these appropriate words, Elizabeth could not entirely banish the treacherous thought that two days seemed an uncommonly long time to await someone's return.
The recognition of this sentiment brought a flush of shame to her cheeks, and she turned quickly away before her expression could betray her thoughts to the assembled company.
After Moira’s French lesson, the remainder of the day passed in a whirlwind of matrimonial preparations that seemed to grow more elaborate and fantastical with each passing hour.
Mrs Bennet had transformed the modest drawing room into what could only be described as a military command centre for nuptial conquest, with fabric samples draped upon every available surface whilst extensive lists written in her careful script covered the writing desk and overflowed onto nearby tables.
“The orange blossoms must absolutely be procured from London,” Mrs Bennet declared with the authority of a general planning a decisive campaign, brandishing a sheet covered in calculations and correspondence.
“Nothing of provincial origin will suffice for such an occasion.
And the wedding cake must achieve sufficient magnificence to silence forever Lady Lucas's tiresome boasting regarding Charlotte's wedding breakfast.”
“Mama, perhaps we might consider arrangements of a somewhat simpler nature,” Elizabeth ventured, though she knew the attempt was likely futile. “I thought you were concerned about propriety. After all, Papa’s death…”
“Simpler?” Mrs Bennet's voice achieved fresh heights of incredulity. “My dear girl, this is simple! Lizzy, the wedding is going to be simple and sober, but we still have plenty to prepare. Why, this is what your dear Papa would have wanted.”
Elizabeth felt expectation's familiar weight settling upon her shoulders like a leaden cloak.
Seeking respite from her mother's relentless planning, she decided to go for a turn in the garden.
The bare branches of the fruit trees created stark, beautiful patterns against the greying sky, whilst her breath formed small clouds in the air.
The solitude provided blessed relief from the morning's domestic chaos, yet her mind remained troubled by the mysteries that seemed to multiply around her with each passing day.
The sound of approaching footsteps caused her to turn.
Mrs Douglas emerged from the kitchen garden, a wicker basket of winter herbs balanced upon her hip.
The older woman's shrewd eyes immediately took in Elizabeth's troubled countenance with the accuracy of one long practised in reading human nature.
“A fine afternoon for walking, miss,” Mrs Douglas observed, though the bitter wind and threatening clouds suggested otherwise.