24. Falling after Flying
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FALLING AFTER FLYING
Elizabeth’s smile was so stubborn, not even a parish beadle waving a collection plate under her nose could have dislodged it.
She swept into Lady Harewood’s supper room on Darcy’s arm, her face still flushed from the waltz and her steps flying high.
The supper table appeared brighter and shinier than any she remembered, the room brilliant with candlelight, with ornate silver centerpieces glittering from every table.
As Darcy led her to her assigned chair and pulled it out for her, she exulted: I could live inside this moment, furnish it, hang curtains, and never leave.
Darcy sat beside her. Close enough that his sleeve brushed hers when he reached for the serving dish. He selected the best cut of cold chicken and placed it on her plate.
“You are serving me as though I cannot operate a fork,” she said, and her voice carried the teasing warmth of a woman who was still falling, still airborne, and hopelessly in love.
“You have been dancing for four hours. Your hands may be less reliable than usual.”
“My hands are perfectly reliable. My judgment, on the other hand, may have suffered.”
“In what respect?”
“I have just danced the supper waltz with a man who claims to be a placeholder, and I enjoyed it so thoroughly that I have forgotten the names of every other gentleman I danced with tonight. This suggests a failure of judgment, or a success of waltzing, and I am not certain which.”
Darcy’s mouth performed the rearrangement. The private one. “I shall take that as a compliment to my feet.”
“Yes, your feet have lifted me quite unexpectedly, but I shall not regret penciling those initials. Although… Mr. Darcy, I do feel for poor Mr. Frederick Davenport. Perhaps he was to be the one waltzing with me?”
At this, Darcy’s face went crimson until Elizabeth kicked him underneath the table, and said, “Your feet were adequate and your company improving. I shall not tell you which mattered more.”
The warmth between them was practically breathing, filling the narrow candlelit space between their plates. Elizabeth let herself sink into it, reckless as she’d been on the dance floor—no thought for consequences, only the thrill of falling without the sight of ground.
Her sisters were met with respect. Jane sat with Bingley in a bubble of mutual enchantment; Mary with her escort, Mr. Davenport, discussing sermons quite animated; and Allegra two seats to the right, occupying Lord Coke, who appeared pleased with her conversation.
The ball was a dream, and society sparkled like the hundreds of candles, the heavily laden silver epergne blocking out the visages of half the table—but not the whispers. They swirled from different directions, the way a weathervane turned, unable to decipher the direction of the wind.
A fan snapped open two seats down. “Can you believe? His own family thwarted. Directly against Lady Matlock’s wishes.”
“Incredible! Lord Coke denied the supper dance, no less. But who is she, exactly?”
“Lady Sophia’s ward, I heard. A Bennet from Hertfordshire—the father is some manner of country gentleman, five daughters, I believe the mother is of trade.”
From further along the table, audible beneath the clatter of silver and china.
“Gifted with properties and an income of fifteen thousand a year, my dear. The estate, the townhouse, and Lady Sophia refusing to explain the arrangement, which is precisely the sort of thing one does when the explanation would not bear scrutiny.”
Lifting the glass, she glanced at Darcy as if the whispers were merely wind, and she smiled at him. She drank the wine because it was excellent, and she heard Darcy’s low voice in her ear, asking her whether she preferred the lobster patties to the kidney pie.
“My son tells me she walks alone,” another voice behind the flutter of a fan. “Through fields. Mud to her petticoats. In Hertfordshire, of course, they have different standards, but in London one does wonder who she encounters on these rambles through the hills and hollows.”
A few careless words, and suddenly her beloved morning walks—her freedom, her Oakham Mount independence—became proof of looseness, of availability, of a country girl’s willingness to be found alone in places where a woman of proper breeding would never venture unescorted.
Her reputation was being filleted right under her nose, but Darcy, ever the gentleman, seemed determined not to notice.
“You have not touched the quail,” he observed. “Is it not tender enough for you?”
“I believe it is delectable. I am savoring it last, just like the waltz I shall remember of my first London Season. A partner who did not step on my feet. A supper companion who concerns himself with the quail.” She met his eyes and allowed herself, for one reckless moment, to let him see what she was feeling. “I find I want for nothing, Mr. Darcy.”
“Neither do I, Miss Elizabeth.” His expression was bright and contented, as if the two of them could exist in a bubble of happiness while darts and arrows flew around them.
And then, the doors of the supper room flung open, and an imperious matron swept through like a gale, followed by a younger lady wearing the finest silks but shrinking behind her mother.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy. What is the meaning of this?”
The entire table seemed to sit up straighter, their attention turned toward the newcomer, wearing black bombazine and a turban stiffer than any Mrs. Long dared to sport.
Darcy stood by reflex and bowed. “Aunt Catherine, Cousin Anne, I hope you are well.”
“We are most definitely not well, Nephew, and you have failed to secure seats for us.”
Darcy’s jaw set. “I was unaware you planned to attend. The supper is well advanced.”
“I arrive when I choose to arrive. I do not arrange my schedule according to your plans. Anne requires refreshment. She is fatigued from the journey and requires your attention.”
“Anne is welcome to join our table,” Darcy said, and his voice was measured in the way that Elizabeth recognized as the voice he used when he was furious and would not show it. “We may perhaps ask the footman to place a chair on the other side of Miss Bennet.”
At this indignity, Lady Catherine raised her lorgnette and glared at Elizabeth. “And pray tell who this Miss Bennet believes she is, occupying a position at a table clearly above her station.”
“Miss Bennet is my supper partner,” Darcy enunciated slowly. “It would be improper to abandon her at the table.”
“Anne will sit beside you, Nephew, as is proper. As her intended, you are required?—”
“Aunt Catherine, perhaps family arrangements should stay locked inside family vaults.”
Lady Matlock rose and inserted herself at Lady Catherine’s shoulder. “Catherine, dear, do sit down. The room is watching.”
She spoke smoothly, as the self-appointed diplomat, guiding Lady Catherine and Anne to a pair of empty seats.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as conversations resumed, this time focused on the sickly Anne de Bourgh and speculation about her marriage prospects.
But Darcy had barely sat when Lady Matlock returned to his side.
“Fitzwilliam, dear, Anne is unwell, and of course, your aunt requires attending. Surely you can spare a few minutes and attend to them. They are exhausted from the travel, and well,” here she smiled at Elizabeth, “Miss Bennet will not object. Her constitution appears robust enough to spare you for the duration of a cup of tea.”
It was a trap worthy of Lady Matlock. Elizabeth watched it snap shut around Darcy: family duty, Anne’s frailty, and the impossibility of refusing an aunt in front of half the ton .
“Go,” Elizabeth said. “I shall be well.”
He rose, his hand brushing her shoulder, a gesture of care, a touch that conveyed his apology and appreciation in the same measure.
Elizabeth watched him walk to the far end of the table, where Anne and Lady Catherine sat, already making demands of the attending footmen.
When she turned back to her plate, she found Lady Matlock seated in Darcy’s newly vacated chair.
“Miss Bennet. What a charming evening you must be having.” Lady Matlock’s smile showed a surplus of teeth.
“Lady Matlock.” Elizabeth inclined her head, keeping her expression pleasant despite the invasion. “The evening has been delightful. Lady Harewood’s hospitality is exceptional.”
“Lady Harewood’s hospitality extends to a great many people this Season.
The question, Miss Bennet, is whether one deserves the extension.
” Lady Matlock’s gaze traveled over Elizabeth’s ivory gown with the assessing attention of a jeweler examining a stone of questionable provenance.
“That is a lovely gown. The gold thread catches the candlelight beautifully. One might almost mistake you for someone of genuine consequence.”
“Almost,” Elizabeth agreed. “But not quite, I suspect you mean to say.”
“I mean to say nothing that would give offense.” The lie was delivered with perfect grace.
“I merely observe that certain gowns, however lovely, do not transform their wearers into something they are not. A country gentleman’s daughter remains a country gentleman’s daughter, regardless of the thread at her collarbone. ”
“And a countess remains a countess, regardless of how many seasons she spends attempting to arrange other people’s lives to her specifications. We are, it seems, both prisoners of our origins.”
Lady Matlock’s poisonous smile flickered, and around them, Elizabeth heard the subtle intake of breath that indicated their exchange had acquired an audience.
“You have a sharp tongue, Miss Bennet. I wonder if you understand how little such sharpness serves a woman in your position.”
“My position seems rather comfortable at present. I have a chair, quail, and wine, and the company of Lady Harewood’s charming society. What more could a country gentleman’s daughter require?”