Chapter Five #2
“The young lady who just departed. Was she Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth enquired of Madame étienne, watching their graceful silhouettes disappear through the shop’s bevelled glass door.
“Mais oui, Lady Elizabeth, as well as her aunt, Lady Matlock.” The diminutive proprietress cocked her head to one side and asked, “Are you acquainted with Mademoiselle Darcy?”
“Only by reputation through her brother, who speaks of her with great affection. I should have welcomed an introduction.”
Elizabeth absently traced the delicate embroidery on a nearby silk shawl, surprised by her own sentiment.
There had been a time when, poisoned by Mr. Wickham’s honeyed falsehoods and Miss Bingley’s excessive flattery, she had imagined Miss Darcy as being insufferably proud.
Now, having discovered Mr. Wickham’s duplicity and Miss Bingley’s ulterior motives regarding the Darcy family, Elizabeth suspected the young lady was merely reserved and gentle, precisely the opposite of their characterizations.
By then, Aunt Madeline and Jane had joined her, their arms laden with parcels wrapped in crisp brown paper, which her aunt’s footman ably delivered to their waiting carriage.
After arranging their final fittings, the three ladies repaired to a charming tea shop near Bond Street, where the scent of freshly baked scones enveloped them as they planned their upcoming diversions, beginning with tomorrow’s performance of King Henry IV at Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
Darcy straightened his shoulders without realising it as he stepped from the gleaming black carriage onto the cobblestones before the theatre.
The crisp evening air carried the mingled scents of perfume, horse, and London’s perpetual coal smoke.
The clamour of London’s fashionable society, the rustle of silk gowns, and the cacophony of affected laughter, assaulted his senses.
He detested such crowds with their prying eyes and insincere smiles, and had only agreed to this evening’s performance of King Henry IV to chaperone Georgiana.
Since last summer’s calamity at Ramsgate, his sister, barely sixteen, hesitated to venture beyond the family circle, her once bright eyes now shadowed with wariness.
That she was willing to attend a public event, indicated a burgeoning desire to finally emerge from her self-imposed social sabbatical, thanks in large measure to Mrs. Annesley, the capable widow of their late rector at Kympton.
It struck him as bitterly ironic that the woman now serving as his sister’s companion, had obtained her position through the very scoundrel who had once presumed the Kympton living would be his.
Darcy paused to offer his sister his arm, noting how her gloved fingers trembled slightly as they rested on his sleeve, and guided her towards the entrance with its gleaming brass fixtures and liveried footmen.
Knowing she shared his unease among strangers, he had insisted on arriving early, planning a discreet ascent to their private box.
His carefully constructed scheme unravelled, however, when Miss Bingley, adorned in an ostentatious gown that clashed with her auburn hair, stood at the foot of the staircase that led to his private box, flanked by her family and an unfamiliar lady with honey-blonde curls.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley called as they reluctantly drew near.
Charles Bingley, his waistcoat a discordant yellow against the sombre black and midnight blues of the other gentlemen, turned at his sister’s vulgar heralding of the Darcy sibling’s arrival and greeted them with a broad smile.
“May I introduce you to my friend?” Bingley asked when Darcy and Georgiana joined them, the scent of his cologne momentarily overpowering.
“Of course,” Darcy replied, masking his irritation. Never before had he noticed the pungency of his friend’s cologne, or how eerily similar the effect was to his sister’s overuse of her particular fragrance, which could fell an elephant at one hundred paces.
“Miss Eldridge, this is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley and his sister, Miss Darcy,” Bingley announced with a flourish. Miss Eldridge, curtsied politely, her pale blue gown rustling softly. “Darcy, Miss Darcy, this is Miss Henrietta Eldridge of Somerset.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered on the stranger’s profile, noting the pale sweep of her hair and the delicate curve of her cheek, so reminiscent of a certain gentlewoman in Hertfordshire.
He glanced at Hurst, whose knowing smirk, partially concealed behind a raised crystal goblet as he stood behind his oblivious brother-in-law, confirmed that Bingley had not made the connection whatsoever.
As per usual, the affable man had moved on to yet another golden-haired goddess in an azure gown that matched her eyes, uncaring of the broken hearts and disappointed hopes he inevitably left scattered in his carefree wake.
Miss Bingley’s sudden attempt to grasp his arm, her glove fingers extended like talons towards the midnight blue superfine of his sleeve, jolted Darcy from his contemplation.
With the practiced ease of one long accustomed to such manoeuvres, he sidestepped her reach, simultaneously turning to Georgiana.
“Would you care for a refreshment before we find our seats?” he asked, his voice a low, baritone that carried no further than intended. “Perhaps some lemonade?”
At her timid assent, a barely perceptible nod, he offered a polite bow to the party and escorted his sister through the milling crowd of London’s finest society, leaving Miss Bingley with her hand suspended in empty air.
Darcy braced himself for the first interval, when Miss Bingley would no doubt materialize as if summoned by some dark art.
Still, propriety remained his ally. Without invitation, even she could not linger indefinitely at their box.
Forewarned by his family of her designs, he would maintain the stoic countenance reminiscent of the Great Sphinx, immovable and inscrutable, to discourage her unwanted attention.
Moments before the crimson velvet curtains parted, the door to their box opened with barely a creak of well-oiled hinges, and their intimate duo unexpectedly became a welcome quartet.
Viscount Ashton, in his immaculate evening attire, and Colonel Fitzwilliam, in his regimental dress uniform with gold epaulettes catching the lamplight, slipped quietly into their box with conspiratorial smiles that promised mischief.
Darcy’s eyes widened.
“Richard! You have returned. When?”
The ghostly pallor of his cousin’s once-ruddy complexion and his diminished frame — the fine wool of his regimentals hanging loose where they had once fit snugly — did not escape Darcy’s keen observation.
“Only yesterday.” Richard’s voice carried the faint rasp of lingering fatigue.
“The Mater has scarcely let me out of her sight since I unpacked my trunk, but Ash mentioned his plan to surprise you and Georgiana this evening. Mother permitted me to slip away with my brother because I volunteered to play Mercury, and brought a direct message from Mount Matlock.”
“And what message does our own female Jupiter send?” Darcy enquired, one dark eyebrow arching elegantly.
“An invitation – or rather, a summons, to dine tomorrow evening – and no, you may not refuse.” Richard’s eyes twinkled with mischief despite his wan appearance.
“You and your sister, ‘my lovely niece’, as Mother puts it, are required to attend.” The colonel tilted his head towards Georgiana.
“She has promised to serve an apple tart for dessert, the one with cinnamon and that French cream you adore.”
Despite the theatre box’s shadows, broken only by the soft glow of wall sconces, Darcy caught the spark of delight in his sister’s eyes.
Though he dreaded the countess’s inevitable interrogation about his enduring status as bachelor over a lavish meal of multiple courses served on the family’s ancestral china, Georgiana cherished their lady aunt, and for her sake alone, he would run the gauntlet of Lady Matlock’s formidable scrutiny.
The Gardiner carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets, arriving at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, well before the orchestra’s warning chords summoned patrons to their seats. A flutter of excitement affected Elizabeth as she peered at the fashionable patrons filing in.
“No jostling for position tonight,” Uncle Edward said, patting the pocket of his waistcoat where he kept Papa’s letter, bearing the Earl Rumley’s seal. “Your family’s box awaits.”
Inside, an usher bowed deeply upon examining the crested letter, then led them up carpeted stairs to a private box adorned with gilded cherubs and rich velvet.
Elizabeth’s smile faltered as she settled into her chair.
Below, ladies and gentlemen turned their faces upward, several raising their lorgnettes to inspect the box’s occupants.
She shrank back, tugging Jane’s sleeve. Without a word, both sisters pressed themselves against the wall behind midnight-blue curtains.
Elizabeth inhaled the musty scent of dust and tobacco as she positioned herself half-hidden behind its heavy folds, exchanging a relieved glance with Jane as the first musicians took their places below.
“Perhaps here we shall remain blissfully unnoticed,” she whispered. They wished only to enjoy the performance in peace and later dine with uncle’s friend, who was to join them with his sister.
Glancing at her aunt, absorbed in her playbill, Elizabeth reflected that their middle sister would have delighted in the evening, if only to listen to the accompanying music sprinkled throughout the play.
The poignant thought prompted her to lean towards Jane, her silk sleeve rustling softly against her sister’s shoulder.
“Mary’s letters… have you marked the change in them?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper, her dark eyes searching Jane’s serene countenance.