5. The Pink Ribbon
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PINK RIBBON
Elizabeth returned to Longbourn from her ramble to Oakham Mount, her boots unremarkably clean, unlike Mr. Darcy, who had hurried off to the steward’s cottage, trailing mud and wounded dignity in equal measure.
She was determined not to dwell on his recent acts of benevolence—Mrs. Pratt’s rent discreetly paid, a five-pound note on behalf of a sickly infant.
Such sums were trifles to a man of his fortune, yet it was the manner of his giving, the quiet intention, that unsettled her most. It was exceedingly inconvenient to discover that the object of one’s irritation might possess a heart as well as a bank account.
Well! She need only recall his declaration that she was not handsome enough to tempt him, or the pained grimace he wore when Mary assaulted the pianoforte at Netherfield.
And that nose—flaring when her mother compared his income to Bingley’s, as if he’d caught a whiff of something unspeakable on his boots.
Yes, she could still despise him. Easily.
At least he had fallen in the mud. That memory she would cherish: the shock, the indignity, the instant Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley learned that gravity cared nothing for ten thousand a year.
What truly rankled, however, was his astonishing conquest of her father.
Imagine being invited to the breakfast table where her father had actually lowered his newspaper to converse.
And the irritating alliance they had formed, of having Elizabeth guide Darcy around Longbourn.
Assuredly, her father enjoyed her intense dislike while rejoicing how his most clever daughter had fleeced Darcy over cards.
The walk, which would normally have granted her a degree of peace, did not accomplish its purpose.
The Longbourn drive was a tangle of carriages, hired chaises, and gig horses being led toward the stables.
It was an ordinary Wednesday in December, and she was not aware of any significant social engagements.
Her stomach and jaw dropped in unison as she stepped across the threshold and entered her house.
Mrs. Bennet was already in the entrance hall in a state of giddy, trembling rapture, clasping her hands beneath her chin and exclaiming over a parade of strangers as though Father Christmas himself had descended through the smoky chimney with a sack full of eligible bachelors and Turkish carpets.
“A music master! A governess who trained a lady’s daughter! An artist, a French dancing master, and a French tutor! Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are too kind, too generous, too everything—”
“What,” said Elizabeth, removing her bonnet and pelisse, “is happening?”
The drawing room contained, in addition to her transported mother: one Fitzwilliam Darcy, looking insufferably pleased with himself; one elderly gentleman with a violin case and an air of patient suffering; one younger gentleman clutching a portfolio of botanical sketches; one severe-looking woman in grey bombazine who could only be a governess of the old school; a bespectacled woman with a Continental air; a middle-aged dancing master wearing a powdered wig; her sisters in various degrees of delighted speculation; and her father, leaning against the doorframe of his study with the expression of a man watching a carriage accident from a safe distance.
Mrs. Bennet spotted her and swooped to her side.
“Why, Lizzy, wherever have you been? Trampling around the mud, I see. Straighten up and meet our small army of masters, Lizzy, for all of us. A music master from Italy, if you please, a woman for deportment, a drawing master, a dancing master, and a true Frenchwoman, Lizzy, French!”
“I thought you said you were too old to learn French, Mamma,” Lydia said, floating over to examine the French woman, no doubt looking for feathers. “And Italian confuses you even more.”
“Oh, do not say that, Lydia.” Mrs. Bennet latched on to Mr. Darcy, who had gravitated to her side, his critical gaze measuring each curl that had loosed from its pins. “Mr. Darcy, will you kindly explain to my daughter why I am not too old to learn French?”
“Mrs. Bennet would benefit immensely from a few phrases when she is presented to Lady Jersey at Almack’s. The patronesses converse almost exclusively in French when they wish to distinguish their particular friends from those merely tolerated.”
“Yes, yes, Lizzy, and are we not so fortunate that Mr. Darcy has taken it upon himself to engage all of these most wonderful masters?” Her mother took her by the elbow, dragging her toward a severe-looking woman.
“Now, stand up straight, as this is Mrs. Beaumont, former governess to Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s daughter.
Mr. Darcy, her credentials, if you please? ”
Her mother’s fan fluttered over her heaving chest, not at all noticing Mrs. Beaumont’s pinched expression at her lack of decorum.
Darcy, however, stepped in smoothly. “Mrs. Beaumont excels in the art of finishing young ladies, instructing them in all of the social graces, posture, how to sit and walk, converse with a fan, and how to pour tea in the proper manner.” Darcy’s gaze traveled over her in a way that made her acutely aware that she was still wearing her morning dress and had not yet pinned her hair properly.
“She is accustomed to preparing ladies for the very highest circles.”
“The highest circles,” breathed Mrs. Bennet, and Elizabeth watched stars glow in her mother’s eyes.
“Lizzy, you must remove the mud from your hems. Lydia, Kitty, stand up straight, and Mary, put down that book. You must all make an effort to improve yourselves, for Mr. Darcy has been so condescending—”
“Condescending is certainly the word,” Elizabeth muttered, but her mother was already herding the younger girls toward Madame Beaumont like a shepherdess with particularly unruly lambs.
“And Mr. Moretti, the man with the violin case, will provide music instruction,” Darcy continued at her side. “I understand you and your sisters have been rather neglected in that regard.”
“We play to our satisfaction.” Elizabeth glanced at her father for assistance, but found him shaking hands with the music master while laughing over a joke about his wife and a hapless harp she had apparently toppled in her youth.
She returned her attention to Darcy’s lifted patrician chin.
“We do not require this extravagant expenditure, particularly when the roof above your temporary lodgings still admits the winter frost.”
“Did your mother not clarify?’ Darcy unfolded his arms and inclined his head with that exacting formality she had learned to distrust. “I have authorized the funds to be transferred from the Pemberley coffers for the benefit of you and your sisters. As we discussed, the cultivation and refinement of young ladies is a matter of paramount importance to the stability of the estate.”
“We discussed no such thing,” she hissed, stepping closer so her voice would not carry to the hovering tutors.
“I told you precisely what I thought of your oversight. We are not a charitable institution in need of a benefactor, and I certainly do not require a master to instruct me in my behavior like an unruly spaniel.”
“In that, I quite agree, as spaniels are notoriously difficult to train,” he replied with a dry, infuriating flick of his brow.
“You, however, are merely resistant to instruction. As your cousin and the future master of these grounds, I take a certain responsibility for the collective polish of the household.”
“A responsibility you invented this morning between breakfast and ruin,” she retorted, as he guided her firmly by the elbow toward a younger sandy-haired man who appeared to be perspiring under his collar.
“This is Mr. Cecil, who specializes in botanical illustration and watercolors. All of the truly accomplished young ladies in London excel in botanical still-lifes.”
“As we have an abundance of actual weeds in the garden, we have absolutely no need to paint them on expensive paper,” she muttered, trying to wrench her elbow from his grasp.
She spotted Jane standing at the window, smiling at the hapless Mr. Cecil.
Certainly, her eldest sister would balk at the arrogance of the master of Pemberley proclaiming them five waifs in need of artistic education.
“Jane,” she said, moving toward the easels already set up. “Surely you must see this for the farce it is.”
But Jane turned to smile at Darcy, much warmer than Elizabeth had ever seen. “Lizzy, I have always wished for an art master. Imagine gathering the blooms and being able to create a painting or rendering that beautiful vista from the top of Oakham Mount.”
“Papa.” Elizabeth whirled around and marched toward her father.
“The noise, the intolerable turmoil. All of the bustle, the pianoforte murdering Handel at all hours, the dancing master raising dust over the floorboards, and the tutor chattering in French! Where on earth will you retreat to for peace?”
“I confess I shall be delighted to witness my daughters and my wife’s improvement campaign,” her father said, eyes twinkling.
“The sheer prospect of Mrs. Bennet learning to speak discreetly in a foreign tongue and keeping her voice behind her fan is worth every penny of Mr. Darcy’s fortune.
I anticipate a season of the finest comedy and an appropriate modicum of tragedy when Lydia fails the difficult task of polite conversation. ”
He patted Elizabeth’s shoulder with affectionate indifference. “Do try to stand straight, Lizzy. You are already the shortest of the five, and Mrs. Beaumont looks as though she might measure you for a wooden splint at any moment.”
Elizabeth could have growled like a spaniel if Mrs. Beaumont hadn’t been eyeing her. Her entire family was enjoying this fiasco far too much, and she laid the blame squarely at Darcy’s feet.