Chapter Four
Elizabeth observed the man who had once, long ago, deemed her tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him.
He looked far too dejected for her to take any pleasure in disappointing him.
Indeed, the look he was giving Sir Sidney Parker inclined Elizabeth to think well of Mr. Darcy; that he was not among the swaggering dandy’s party was one mark in his favor, at least.
Mr. Darcy’s companions moved closer to the desk, and the plain but pleasant gentleman in regimentals swept his gaze over one of Elizabeth’s ledgers before looking at her with a mischievous smirk. “Perhaps the reservation is under my name? Mr. Samuel Spencer.”
“Mr. Spencer, the acclaimed dancing master from London?” Elizabeth saw through his ruse but was nonetheless diverted by his manner of attempting it.
The officer performed a few steps of an improvised jig before spinning about with a flourish and sweeping into a bow.
His companions winced as he smiled ruefully and shook his head with defeat.
“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam at your service, Miss Bennet. It was thoughtless of us not to make arrangements prior to travelling. My cousins have been beset by a series of calamities; there was a fire at their family estate in March, and they have not recovered from their mental distraction—hence our journey to this charming oasis.”
Elizabeth did not sense that this was another attempt to deceive her, for Mr. Darcy tugged at his cousin’s elbow, jerking him away from the desk with a look of reproach.
The proud man who would not deign to dance with young ladies who were slighted by other men would certainly not wish his private travails blurted out to a near stranger.
The young woman, golden haired and full of timid wonder, trembled beside them.
She had dark circles under her eyes, and Elizabeth did think it remarkable that one so young could at once appear so world-weary, and yet possess an endearing spark of hope yet in her gaze.
This must be the sister, Elizabeth presumed; Miss Darcy, the paragon of accomplishment and virtue, whom Miss Bingley had preferred over dear Jane as a potential bride for Mr. Bingley.
She was but a child, and despite Miss Bingley’s endorsement, Elizabeth was inclined to like the girl.
Miss Darcy smiled at Elizabeth as the two gentlemen appeared to be arguing in hushed whispers behind her. Elizabeth smiled back. “Are they always like that?”
“I would be most worried if they were not, for it would mean that something was terribly amiss. But they are like brothers, and they never speak to me with anything less than perfect kindness.”
“I have only just acquired a brother in the last fortnight—an infant half-brother,” Elizabeth replied. “But I have four sisters, and so I am not unfamiliar with such squabbling.”
Miss Darcy’s countenance brightened. “I beg your pardon, but surely you must be the same Miss Bennet I have heard of from Mrs. Bingley.”
Elizabeth inclined her head with a gentle laugh. “How fortunate that whatever you have heard of me has been said by an angel who has never found fault with anyone in the course of her life. When did you meet Jane?”
“I believe you were travelling with relations when we visited Netherfield last September.”
“I was here, as it happens. My aunt was in delicate health.” Elizabeth’s smile shuttered, and she turned around to Charlotte, only to find that her friend was no longer standing beside her, but was being introduced to some friends of Sir Sidney.
Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had ceased their private bickering and moved to approach the desk once more, but they were cut off by a young couple who appeared oblivious to everything except one another. “Mr. and Mrs. Horne,” the lady said, not taking her eyes off of Mr. Horne.
Elizabeth looked apologetically at Mr. Darcy and the colonel, but they did not appear to be bothered by this interruption.
She glanced down at her ledger. “Welcome to Sanditon, Mr. and Mrs. Horne. We have you in the Guillemot Room; that is on the third floor in the east wing.” She gestured with her right hand before giving Mr. Horne a brass key attached to a large cerulean tassel.
“If you are not in a hurry, you may wait just over there while a footman attends to you and your wife’s luggage. ”
“Ooh, your wife,” the lady cooed with such wantonness that Elizabeth might have doubted this claim were it not for the very large diamond on the appropriate finger of the hand with which Mrs. Horne was caressing her husband’s chest.
Mr. Horne was as fixated on his wife as she was on him. “I believe I am in a hurry,” he said huskily, drawing his wife closer with an arm about her waist. He seemed to recollect himself and resumed a modicum of decorum. “I beg your pardon, Miss; we are on our wedding trip.”
Mrs. Horne bit her lip and purred at her bridegroom. “I have thought of nothing else since you proposed.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips as she tried to suppress her amusement.
She glanced over at the other new arrivals, and saw that Colonel Fitzwilliam was equally entertained by the indecent spectacle.
Miss Darcy also appeared interested, though a rosy blush emblazoned her face.
Mr. Darcy looked as if he might cast up his accounts.
Fortunately, Mr. Connors came to the rescue.
The tall, lanky concierge peered down his spectacles at the couple and cleared his throat loudly before swatting at Mr. Horne.
“Sir, this is a respectable establishment. You and your wife—if indeed she is such—had better remove yourselves to the privacy of your room before Miss Bennet recovers from the scandalous sight of you and sees the good sense of giving your room to a guest of superior moral fiber!”
The colonel gaped at Connors’ rebuke, his brow rising and his jaw falling, amusement evident in his eyes.
Mr. Darcy and his sister looked on with a milder variety of astonishment, and the Hornes made a hasty retreat up the grand staircase.
Connors brushed his hands together and gave a deep bow of his head.
“I hope they did not distress you, Miss Bennet,” he said with reverent gravity.
“Your uncle would surely prefer me to instantly evict any guests who show you such flagrant disrespect, though I hesitate to make any more of a scene with the Parker family present.”
“My uncle knows I am likelier to laugh at such folly than take any real offense, but I appreciate your efforts, Mr. Connors,” Elizabeth replied.
The concierge might think it beneath Elizabeth to do any work at all in her uncle’s hotel, but Elizabeth saw the wisdom of her uncle urging her to take this opportunity to meet Sir Sidney’s guests.
Sir Edward had expressed a hope that Elizabeth might take a fancy to one of the gentlemen, since she was not at all impressed by Sir Sidney himself.
Elizabeth almost wished her uncle proven right, but her heart was not likely to be touched so soon after the disappointment that was all her own doing.
Even so, it was enough to amuse herself with this opportunity to observe the various absurdities of the fashionable guests.
Again Elizabeth looked over the ledger. It detailed which guests had been assigned which room or suite, and what date they planned to arrive and depart.
Miss Darcy had made a favorable enough impression—as had the colonel and his antics—that Elizabeth wished to assist the trio as best she could. But once again, she was interrupted.
The young woman who had been adulating Sir Sidney since she had arrived in Sanditon a week prior—and subsequently vexing the entire staff of the hotel with her unceasing demands and air of hauteur—approached the desk, her face pinched and her chin in the air.
“Young lady, I require some assistance at once.”
“Of course, Madame Dentelle,” Elizabeth said, still searching her records to find a suite that might come available soon.
It was rude of her to not even look up at the supercilious young woman, and Elizabeth knew she had gotten the name incorrect, for Madame Dentelle was a French fashion designer who had come to meet with Sir Edward and the Parkers to discuss opening a boutique in Sanditon.
She had been exceedingly warm in her interactions with Elizabeth—unlike the young woman drumming her fingers impatiently on the desk.
“That lady there in the ghastly jonquil hat is Madame Dentelle.” The young woman turned to languidly point at Madame Dentelle, and froze at the sight of Mr. Darcy and his companions.
Mr. Darcy drew in a sharp breath. “Anne.”
At the same moment, the colonel gave a humorless smile. “Dentelle does sound rather like de Bourgh, Cousin,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Elizabeth was struck by the awkwardness of the encounter taking place on the other side of her desk. Mr. Darcy bowed stiffly to Miss de Bourgh, and though his posture was tense, his expression betrayed a surprising measure of passion.
Miss de Bourgh took a step back from Mr. Darcy and nodded curtly. “I am astonished to see you, Cousin.”
Miss Darcy stepped forward as if to shield her brother. “It is our custom to visit the seaside every summer, and Roberta painted such a pretty picture of Sanditon that I was mad to see the place for myself.”
Miss de Bourgh’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “I may as well have copied out my letters to her and distributed them about London.”
“It seems you have, for all of London society appears to have pursued you,” Mr. Darcy replied, taking a few slow steps toward his cousin. “One might suppose the company of a certain gentleman to be sorely lacking when not surrounded by half the ton.”