Chapter Five
Miss Charlotte Lucas became Mrs. William Collins on a bitter January morning that chilled the fingers and reddened the noses of her wedding guests.
Outside, a biting easterly wind encouraged even the most determined well-wishers to abandon the customary lingering on the church steps and hasten to Lucas Lodge for a modest wedding breakfast. Ultimately, the festivities and well wishes were cut short by Mr. Collins’s frequent consultations of his pocket watch, as his thoughts were clearly fixed on the miles of rutted winter roads between them and his patroness’s estate in Kent.
After bidding the newlyweds farewell, the Bennets returned to Longbourn, where Jane and Elizabeth’s trunks lay open, partially packed for tomorrow’s journey to London, while Papa closeted himself with Mr. Turner to finalise lease papers.
Mamma and Mary occupied the drawing room, patiently submitting themselves to Miss Tyler’s instruction on proper deportment.
Within days of Papa learning of his inheritance, an express rider arrived at Longbourn with a royal command bearing the seal of the King himself, its royal insignia pressed deep into the crimson wax, requesting the new earl present himself, his countess, and their unmarried daughters at court in the first week of February.
Thus, the newly minted Countess Rumley and Mary spent hours in the drawing room, skirts billowing around their ankles as they desperately attempted to perfect their curtsies and master the delicate art of backing away from Her Majesty without turning their backs or, heaven forbid, catching a heel in the elaborate trim of their formal gowns.
Elizabeth and Jane, their faces betraying only the faintest hint of amusement, had already navigated this particular royal gauntlet under the wing of Lady Deborah Rumley, now the Dowager Countess, and were spared the daily drills that left their mother and sister exhausted by teatime.
Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to Cousin Arthur’s widow. How did she fare without her husband? Theirs had been a love match, founded on genuine affection, a rarity among the nobility. Thirty years together, and now alone. The countess must feel his absence keenly.
The next morning, Jane and Elizabeth, with no small feeling of melancholy, bid farewell to Meryton’s familiar hedgerows and winding lanes.
Their first day in London passed in a whirl of pleasant domesticity in their aunt and uncle’s elegant town house in Gracechurch Street, exchanging stories of Kitty and Lydia’s adventures at their new schools.
Tales of French verbs mangled beyond recognition and deportment masters already driven to despair, while contemplating the family’s imminent move to the sprawling green hills of Bedfordshire.
The sisters took turns at the gleaming new rosewood piano in the parlour, its ivory keys still pristine and unmarked, and read their small cousins to sleep when their yawns could no longer be hidden.
On the second day, Aunt Madeline swept into the breakfast room with purpose.
“Today,” she announced, her hazel eyes twinkling, “we shall visit the fashionable emporiums of Bond Street for hats with ostrich plumes and silk ribbons befitting the daughters of an earl. I, myself, shall demand a bonnet with an entire bird’s nest, complete with eggs, perched triumphantly on top.
” She flung her finely woven shawl about her shoulders with dramatic flair.
“One must present a certain image when one’s brother-in-law ascends to the peerage. ”
Though Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances of barely contained mirth at their aunt’s theatrical pronouncement, both sisters recognised the undeniable truth beneath her jest. The simple sprigged muslin frocks that had served them well as daughters of a country gentleman would appear positively provincial in the drawing rooms in town.
Thus, Aunt Madeline had arranged a meeting with Madame étienne, the French dressmaker whose establishment she had helped finance a decade earlier.
The next day, they had barely reached the window of the fashionable milliner’s shop when a sharp, all-too-familiar voice cut through the air and brought them to a halt.
“Miss Bennet, whatever brings you and your sister to Bond Street? Has Miss Eliza lost herself on one of her long rambles and persuaded you to accompany her?”
Miss Bingley’s parasol twirled between her gloved fingers as she approached them, her sister at her side.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bingley,” Jane replied, inclining her head with composed courtesy. “We are here with our aunt, choosing dresses and hats.”
“Would that be your esteemed aunt in Cheapside?” Caroline asked, her cold eyes darting dismissively towards their aunt’s modest but well-tailored gown.
“Near Cheapside, in Gracechurch Street, and I am pleased you remembered my mentioning her,” Jane answered, turning slightly towards Mrs. Gardiner, who stood dignified and observant. “Aunt, may I present these ladies?”
“Why on earth would you ask a tradesman’s wife to accept our acquaintance?” Miss Bingley demanded, her lips curling into a decided sneer.
“My aunt is, like my sister and myself, the daughter of a gentleman,” Jane returned calmly. Elizabeth could not help but feel a strong measure of pride in her normally unassertive sister.
“Caroline, do be reasonable,” Mrs. Hurst interposed, laying a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. “I would very much like to know Miss Bennet’s aunt.”
Jane’s warm smile accompanied her graceful gesture towards Mrs. Gardiner. “Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, I am pleased to present Mrs. Madeline Gardiner of London, née Miss Madeline Cavendish of Derbyshire.”
Upon hearing the name Cavendish, all colour leached from the faces of the two sisters, and Elizabeth struggled to suppress a triumphant smile.
The haughty women who had dismissed her family as country nobodies had made a grievous mistake.
There were three families bearing the name Cavendish within the confines of Derbyshire, each branch of this particular family tree mingled among the county’s most affluent and well-connected, with estates rivalling even Pemberley in grandeur.
Jane continued the introductions with the serenity of still water, her voice melodious and measured. “Aunt, I present Mrs. Louisa Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley, sisters of Mr. Bingley. Though he now makes his home in London, he maintains his tenancy of Netherfield Park in Hertfordshire.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Hurst said with a constrained curtsey, her hand never leaving her sister’s arm. As Miss Bingley’s lips parted to speak, she hastily added, “We must beg your forgiveness, another appointment calls us away.”
Her intervention to prevent Miss Bingley’s potential impropriety was transparent to all.
After exchanging the briefest of pleasantries in the crowded street, Jane and Elizabeth followed their aunt into Madame étienne’s exclusive establishment, where they soon immersed themselves in the tactile pleasures of silks in every hue imaginable, stylish Parisian design, and exquisitely embroidered trimmings that represented the pinnacle of the season’s most coveted ensembles.
Elizabeth’s patience wore thin as the dressmaker and her assistants poked, prodded, and measured every inch of her person. Meanwhile, Jane endured the same treatment with her usual serenity, and Aunt Madeline bustled about with obvious delight, presenting fabric swatches for their consideration.
“My dear aunt, I daresay you find more pleasure in this exercise than I do,” Elizabeth said with a laugh as her aunt held a rich emerald silk against her cheek.
“I have a few more years before I can indulge myself in dressing my daughters,” Aunt Madeline replied, smoothing the luxurious fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “Until then, you and Jane will be my willing subjects.”
“Speaking of willing subjects, you will have Mamma to contend with next Tuesday. The whole of Meryton must have heard her exclamations when Papa announced they would arrive a fortnight early to prepare her wardrobe and commission her court dress.”
“With five daughters, your mother is quite the expert in such matters,” Aunt Madeline said, holding up a delicate cream-coloured lace with an intricate pattern of roses, while giving Elizabeth a cheeky grin, knowing her discomfort with the subject of her mother.
“Particularly where lace is concerned,” Elizabeth said with a sigh, eyeing the elaborate trim with trepidation. “I confess I am relieved she is not here to insist upon more accoutrements than I desire on every inch of neckline, sleeve, or hem.”
Aunt Madeline gave a knowing smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling with affection for her nieces’ well-established preference for tasteful simplicity and elegance over excessive ornamentation.
As their appointment drew to its conclusion, the brass bell above the shop door announced new patrons with a melodious chime, which prompted Madame étienne to excuse herself with a graceful curtsey.
Jane retreated behind one of the ornately carved rosewood screens to change, while Elizabeth’s nimble fingers worked at the sturdy buttons of her favourite pelisse.
She paused when Madame’s lilting French accent uttered a name, one she had not expected to ever hear again.
“Mademoiselle Darcy, your gown is ready. Shall you take it today, or would you prefer delivery to your residence?”
A response followed, though so faintly uttered that Elizabeth could not distinguish the words.
Could this be the same Miss Darcy whose accomplishments on the piano had been extolled ad nauseam by Miss Bingley during her forced captivity while nursing Jane at Netherfield?
Hastening to complete her toilette, Elizabeth emerged just in time to glimpse an elegant matron accompanying a young lady through the shop door and into the bustling London street.