Chapter Nine
“Sir Walter, what a pleasure to see you!” Mr. Bennet greeted his friend warmly as he and his two eldest daughters were welcomed into the Barton home on Grosvenor Square.
The journey through Town had been brisk, the winter air sharp enough to bite at cheeks and fingers alike, but the moment they crossed the threshold into the house, all chill seemed to vanish.
A fire burned brightly in the grate, and the glow of lamplight reflected off polished surfaces and gilded frames, lending the room an immediate air of refinement and ease.
Servants moved efficiently in the background, efficient and unobtrusive, while the faint scent of beeswax and something floral—perhaps lavender—lingered in the air.
“My dear Thomas. I am so pleased you accepted my invitation at last!” Sir Walter shook his old friend’s hand with genuine warmth.
“And these are your daughters? Such lovely ladies.” His gaze moved over them with polite appreciation, his manner genial and entirely at ease, treating such introductions as a daily pleasure rather than a formality to be endured.
“This is my eldest, Miss Jane Bennet, and my second child, Elizabeth.” Mr. Bennet gestured to his girls in turn.
“They are the best of the lot, in my opinion, and would benefit most from your patronage.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but the words themselves carried emphasis that Elizabeth could not ignore.
Elizabeth smothered a sigh at her father’s words.
It did not speak well of him to voice his preference so openly, even in jest, and she felt a faint discomfort at the idea of being thus distinguished before strangers.
Jane, ever gracious, appeared not to notice, or at least chose not to acknowledge it, her serene composure remaining intact.
“They are lovely.”
A lady came through the door, joining them in the parlor. Her entrance was unhurried, carrying an unmistakable authority, the sort possessed by a woman accustomed to being both observed and obeyed.
“Miss Bennet is a classical beauty, to be sure, but Miss Elizabeth is her equal in every way. I am certain we shall have them both married by the end of the season.”
Not I. The thought rose immediately, unbidden and resolute.
Elizabeth had attempted to convince her father to take Mary in her stead, arguing with more earnestness than she had shown in many months.
Mr. Bennet would have none of it, despite knowing how her heart ached.
He had insisted she would find someone to replace ‘her young man,’ and she would soon forget all about him.
It was not likely. Elizabeth dreamed of Mr. Darcy every night.
Those dreams came with a clarity that was both a comfort and a torment, his voice as vivid in memory as it had ever been in life.
She had attempted to sketch his likeness, thinking perhaps that committing his features to paper might ease the restless turning of her thoughts, but alas, she had not a bit of artistic talent.
The result had been a pale and unsatisfactory imitation, devoid of the strength and character she knew so well.
Instead, she focused on her memories of him, sketching a portrait in her mind that she could examine whenever she liked, refining each detail until she feared she might alter it through the very act of preservation.
“We shall attend Lady Matlock’s Twelfth Night ball.
The family has recently come out of mourning for a nephew who was killed.
It is the event heralded to open the season this year.
Only those in the first circles can secure an invitation.
” Sir Walter spoke with a note of satisfaction, as though the exclusivity of the event reflected credit upon his own standing, and perhaps it did.
The name itself struck Elizabeth with faint recognition, though she could not immediately place it, her thoughts too entangled in other matters to dwell upon society’s intricacies.
“Lady Matlock is also my sister.” Lady Margaret Barton swatted her husband’s arm with affectionate reproach.
She turned to Jane and Elizabeth, her expression brightening as she regarded them more closely.
“Since my husband neglects to introduce me, I shall have to take matters into my own hands. I am Lady Margaret Barton. How pleased I am to have you both here! I have no daughters, you see, and always wished to launch a young lady on society.”
Her tone carried warmth rather than condescension, and Elizabeth found herself unexpectedly grateful for it.
There was no sharpness in Lady Margaret’s manner, no sense of superiority that might have made their position uncomfortable.
Instead, she seemed genuinely pleased, her enthusiasm directed not toward display, but toward the opportunity itself.
“We are very pleased to be here, Lady Margaret.” Jane smiled her usual serene smile, her gratitude expressed with an elegance that never failed to charm.
“I hope your father came prepared to purchase new wardrobes for the pair of you. I have secured appointments with my modiste tomorrow. She promised to have a ball gown for each of you ready for my sister’s ball next week.
” Lady Margaret spoke with the confidence of one accustomed to such arrangements being carried out without delay, her assurance leaving little room for doubt.
“Can she have something made so quickly?” Jane worried her lip. “That is scarcely more than a week.” Her concern was practical rather than anxious, but Elizabeth could not help but share it. The pace of Town life, it seemed, allowed for little hesitation.
“Madame Dubois is simply the best. Her team of seamstresses will have everything in order for us.” Lady Margaret beamed, clearly pleased with her own efficiency.
“Now, shall I show the ladies to their chambers? Walter, show Mr. Bennet to his room.” With that, she beckoned, and they followed her from the room.
The corridors of the house were as elegantly appointed as the parlor, the walls adorned with tasteful artwork and the carpets thick enough to dampen the sound of their steps.
Elizabeth observed it all with awareness, noting the care with which everything had been arranged, the subtle harmony of color and design that spoke of both wealth and discernment.
It was not ostentatious, but assured, and she could not deny its appeal.
“Here is your room, Miss Bennet. And Miss Elizabeth’s is next door. There is a door adjoining them.” Lady Margaret opened one door, then gestured to the next, ensuring they understood the arrangement before stepping aside.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth murmured as she entered a large bedchamber.
It was decorated in pale green, cream, and rose pink.
The effect was soothing, and she liked it very well.
The furnishings were elegant without being excessive, the bed neatly made with crisp linens, a small writing desk positioned near the window, and a comfortable chair drawn close to the fire.
The warmth of the room, combined with its gentle colors, created an atmosphere that invited rest rather than display.
Jane’s voice drifted faintly from the adjoining room, speaking with Lady Margaret in tones of polite appreciation, while Elizabeth remained where she was, taking in her surroundings with detachment.
This was to be her world for the coming weeks—a world of expectation, of introductions and appearances, of superfluous conversations and careful impressions.
With instructions to rest until dinner, Elizabeth settled herself into a comfortable chair near the fire and tried to resign herself to being paraded before the ton.
The flames flickered before her, their movement steady and contained, a small, controlled brightness that stood in sober contrast to the unsettled thoughts within her mind.
She folded her hands in her lap, her posture composed, her expression calm.
Even here, in a room so carefully arranged for comfort, her thoughts returned—inevitably, persistently—to him, to what had been, and to what would never be again.
Though she sat in warmth and light, there remained within her a stillness that no fire could reach.
Lady Margaret lost no time in fulfilling her self-appointed role, and within two days of their arrival, Elizabeth and Jane found themselves carried through the bustling elegance of Bond Street in a whirlwind of appointments, fittings, and selections that left little room for hesitation or fatigue.
From one fashionable establishment to the next, they were ushered into rooms lined with silks and satins, gauzes and muslins, each more delicate and artfully arranged than the last. Madame Dubois herself presided over their wardrobe with an air of confident authority, assessing each sister with a practiced eye and issuing instructions to her seamstresses with such speed and precision that Elizabeth scarcely had time to consider one gown before another was being draped across her shoulders.
Jane bore the experience with her usual gentle composure, expressing gratitude for every kindness, while Elizabeth found herself both amused and faintly overwhelmed by the sheer excess of it all.
She had never owned so many gowns in her life, nor had she ever imagined she might require them.
There were walking dresses of blue and pale lavender, evening gowns in richer hues, delicate slippers to match each ensemble, and gloves so fine they seemed scarcely to exist at all.
Lady Margaret insisted upon every detail being attended to, her satisfaction evident as each piece was approved and set aside.