Chapter 11 #2
A minute after Lady Euphemia reached the table, Mrs. Anstruther had been persuaded to admire the view from a different chair, Lady Melbury had discovered she had never wanted the disputed one, and Darcy was alone.
Lady Euphemia was certainly skilled in the art of negotiation.
“Fitzwilliam,” his mother said on her way to speak with someone else, “do find Sir Henry. I believe he has been waiting upon you to settle a question about the partridge.”
Darcy sighed and went to find Sir Henry, who proved to have settled the question of the partridge a quarter of an hour ago and was now in pursuit of a glass of Madeira. Darcy was drawn into the new conversation.
Miss Bingley left Lord Broward to other company and crossed to them. Sir Henry stepped back to make room. She greeted them both, and then Sir Henry was pulled away.
“One so seldom sees a hostess of your mother’s consequence take such pains to make every guest feel they belong,” Miss Bingley said.
This could have been a compliment, but Darcy knew Miss Bingley too well to believe it. He suspected that she meant Mr. Gardiner, who lived near Cheapside so that he could be close to his warehouses. He was also a sensible, intelligent man.
“My mother receives whom she chooses.”
“Of course. It is what I most admire in her. She has a way of making the distinctions of rank appear quite unimportant.”
Darcy’s gaze strayed to the far side of the room, where Miss Elizabeth stood enduring Mr. Halloway’s conversation with courtesy. He did not think this was one of his mother’s introductions, for she was nowhere to be seen.
“Not all such distinctions deserve importance.” His gaze moved briefly to the far side of the room, where Mr. Gardiner was now speaking with Sir Henry.
Miss Bingley smiled. “Of course not—”
“My father valued honest men who made their own fortunes above a good many who had merely inherited them, and I am his son.”
Her smile did not diminish. Nothing he said ever seemed to alter it.
“How generous of you to say so. And how very like Lady Anne to make such generosity seem natural where others might find it less easily practised.”
There was nothing he might say that she would not refashion into encouragement. That, more than the snobbery, was what made Miss Bingley difficult.
Halloway smiled at something Miss Elizabeth said.
Darcy turned away.
When the party broke up, it happened slowly.
Mr. Gardiner thanked his mother, and she kissed Mrs. Gardiner on the cheek as though they were friends of long standing.
To Miss Bennet she gave a particularly affectionate farewell, both the girl’s hands taken in her own and a low word that brought the colour into her cheek.
Bingley lingered, waiting to say one last thing to Miss Bennet, and then another after it, and stood near her, turning his hat in his hands.
“Charles,” Mrs. Hurst said.
Bingley did not respond.
“Charles,” she said again, and this time he heard her. He flushed a bit, said his last farewells, and joined his family.
Darcy stepped forward to bow to the Gardiners and Miss Bennet. Then he turned to Miss Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She lifted her eyebrows, clearly surprised to be addressed. “Mr. Darcy.”
“I trust you enjoyed the evening.” He could not think why he had said this. He rather hoped she had not enjoyed the evening, but he banished the thought as being beneath him.
“I did, thank you. Good night, Mr. Darcy,” she said, and turned politely away. Mrs. Gardiner took her arm, her husband took Miss Bennet’s, and they were gone.
The house slowly emptied. Candles were carried out, chairs restored to their places, and the great fern, having served its purpose, was borne off by two footmen.
Darcy remained at the front of the house until the last carriage had gone, weighing the merits of seeking his own bed or the library when his mother found him.
“Well,” she said, taking the chair Sir Henry had lately vacated. “And what was wrong with Lady Euphemia?”
“Nothing was wrong with Lady Euphemia.”
“Truly, Fitzwilliam. I had nothing to do with having her here other than agreeing when her mother asked to include her. But you were not even paying attention to her as she spoke. You were watching her father instead, and I was forced to create a quarrel on the other side of the room so she might have a reason to leave you without embarrassment.”
Darcy was a little surprised to hear that his mother had instigated the quarrel over the chair—it seemed a drastic measure. He sighed. His mother had seen everything but what was most important.
It had not been Lord Broward he had been watching.
“Mother.” He turned from the window. “I am grateful that you are interested in my welfare. Truly. But I neither need nor desire your help in this.”
She looked at him then, and whatever she found in his face did not seem to be what she had hoped for.
“My dear boy,” she said at last, all archness gone from her voice. “You so plainly require it.”
He had no answer that would satisfy her, and so he did not speak.
She rose, and as she passed him, she laid her hand against his sleeve. “Lady Euphemia is not a woman I would match you with. Her father is a Tory, though a moderate one, and she is too old for you. But basic civility is still required.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do agree with that.”
“I mean to persevere, Fitzwilliam, and I should be glad if you would maintain an open mind. I mean to have you settled by the end of this season.” She paused, and her voice gentled.
“You were kinder to Miss Elizabeth this evening. I appreciate your desire to make things a little easier between you, for that is the behaviour of a gentleman.” She squeezed his hand. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mother.”
She went up, and the candle she carried took the last of the light with her.