Chapter Twelve The Easter Sunday Skirmish #2
Mr Collins lined them up in the hallway, issuing last-minute directives.
“Sir William, you shall enter first! Cousin Elizabeth, remember to keep your eyes lowered when Her Ladyship addresses the meat! And Maria, for the love of all that is holy, do not step heavily upon the gravel! We must not disturb the symmetry of the drive!”
Maria Lucas was shaking in her boots, her teeth chattering.
Elizabeth, however, looped her arm through Charlotte’s, confident because she was not going into a lion’s lair to be judged. She was going into a room containing a man who had laid his consequence at her feet, and she held all the cards.
They were welcomed into the grand drawing room by Lady Catherine, who was seated in her throne-like chair, surrounded by the Rosings party.
“Ah, Mr Collins.” Lady Catherine dispensed with the pleasantries. “You are punctual for once. I appreciate punctuality. It is a sign of a disciplined mind. Miss Elizabeth, your hem is slightly damp. You should have lifted your skirts higher on the grass.”
“I shall try to elevate my hems to Her Ladyship’s exacting standards in the future.” Elizabeth executed a flawless curtsy.
From the corner of the room, Darcy let out a suspicious, muffled cough.
The procession into the dining room was a theatre of war. The table was laden with silver, crystal, and a vast array of roasted meats.
Before anyone could touch their napkins, Mr Collins sprang into action.
“If I may, Your Ladyship!” the vicar cried, clasping his hands together and looking towards the ceiling.
“O Lord, we thank Thee for this bountiful harvest, and for the even more bountiful condescension of our noble patroness, who graces us with her infinite wisdom and her superior poultry! May her glazing forever remain intact!”
Viscount Keathley bit his own knuckle to suppress a shout of laughter.
“Amen,” Lady Catherine declared, incredibly satisfied. “A very adequate grace, Mr Collins. Though a bit brief. Now, Dixon! Carve the meat! And do not slice it too thick.” She turned to the viscount, conspiratorially. “The lower classes have no notion of moderation.”
“Truly appalling, Aunt,” he answered. “A servant who slices the mutton too thick should be horse-whipped.”
The dinner descended into cross-conversations, the cousins executing their strategy flawlessly.
Miss de Bourgh, Lord Keathley, and the colonel formed a unified front, seamlessly baiting Lady Catherine into a one-sided lecture aimed at Sir William and Mr Collins.
“Aunt Catherine.” The viscount leaned across the table. “Sir William was just telling me that he believes the Hertfordshire postal routes are superior to the Kentish ones. I told him he was mistaken, of course.”
“Superior!” Lady Catherine roared, slamming her fork down. “Sir William! How dare you suggest such a thing! The Kentish roads are a marvel of my own design! I have personally written to the Postmaster General no fewer than twelve times regarding the proper sorting of the mail!”
Sir William, who had said no such thing, was terrified, but so honoured to be yelled at by a peer that he forgot to eat his potatoes. “Capital, Your Ladyship! Staggering insight!”
Under the cover of Lady Catherine’s booming voice, the battlefield was left wide open.
Darcy had managed, through a complex series of subtle manoeuvres involving Dixon, Lady Catherine’s butler, and a misplaced chair, to seat himself opposite Elizabeth.
“My cousin is a master tactician,” Darcy murmured, his voice pitched to reach only Elizabeth’s ears amidst the din of the postal debate.
“He is a force to be reckoned with,” Elizabeth smiled, cutting her meat. “Though a useful one. Sir William looks as though he might faint from the honour of being berated.”
“He will survive. His knighthood has trained him.” Darcy’s eyes danced. He leaned forward slightly, closing some of the distance between them. “You seem well this evening, Miss Elizabeth. The walk across the park has given you excellent colour.”
“I believe the colour is due to Mr Collins’s grace, sir. My cheeks are permanently burning with the sycophancy of his sermon.”
“It was a masterpiece,” Darcy agreed, his eyes tracing the line of her smile. “Though I confess, my attention was not focused on the prayer.”
Elizabeth’s pulse kicked up. He was doing it again. He was flirting. He was wooing her right under his aunt’s nose, deploying dry wit and meaningful, searing gazes that made her want to squirm in her seat.
“And where was your attention focused, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth would not be intimidated and attempted to match his game.
“On the only thing in the room worth observing,” he replied, his voice dropping an octave.
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her heart soaring. She made no more attempts. This Mr Darcy was bold, charming, and... delightful.
When the dinner concluded, the party did not adhere to the traditional separation of the sexes. Lady Catherine, deciding she had not sufficiently tortured her guests, commanded everyone to remain together and move to the grand drawing room.
The moment they were seated, the dictator struck.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Lady Catherine pointed her cane across the room. “The pianoforte is open. You shall play for us. I am told you practise occasionally, though I doubt you have had the benefit of proper London masters.”
Elizabeth stiffened. She was not in the mood to be treated like a performing monkey. “I thank you, Lady Catherine, but I must demur. I fear my abilities are far too rustic for such an elegant instrument.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Catherine barked. “I insist. It builds character to perform under pressure. If Anne were not so frail, she would play, and you would see how true technique sounds.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to deliver a polite but firm refusal, when a shadow fell over her.
“Aunt Catherine,” Viscount Keathley drawled. “It is Easter Sunday. A day of miracles. And I believe the greatest miracle of all would be for me to accompany Miss Elizabeth in a duet.”
Lady Catherine blinked. “You, Robert? You do not play the pianoforte.”
“I contain multitudes, Aunt,” he replied, offering Elizabeth his arm. “Miss Elizabeth? Shall we attempt to survive the pressure together?”
Elizabeth, grateful for the rescue, took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the instrument. The viscount sat beside her, adjusting the sheet music.
“I cannot play a duet, my lord,” Elizabeth whispered. “I do not know this piece!”
“Fear not, my lady,” he whispered back, cracking his knuckles. “Just hit a key occasionally and look intense.”
He placed his hands on the keys.
And then, the rakish, frivolous, gambling viscount erupted into music.
He was not merely competent. He was a virtuoso. He launched into a complex, thunderous Mozart sonata with a flair that made the chandelier shake. His fingers flew on the keys with the precision of a master, the music soaring and crashing through the drawing room.
Elizabeth stopped pretending to play after thirty seconds. She simply sat back on the bench, her hands in her lap, staring at the man beside her in shock.
He plays Mozart, she thought, stunned.
When he struck the final, resounding chord, the silence in the room was absolute.
And then, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam started clapping. Darcy joined in, his face split by a proud grin. Even Mr Collins managed a weak, confused smattering of applause.
The viscount stood up and executed a sweeping bow to the room.
“I find,” he announced, adjusting his cuffs, “that music soothes the savage breast. Or at least, it distracts from the lack of a proper London master.”
Lady Catherine was speechless. For the first time in recorded history, the matriarch of Rosings Park had nothing to say.
The viscount offered his arm to Elizabeth once more and escorted her back to the sofas.
“You are a scary man, Lord Keathley,” Elizabeth whispered as she took her seat next to Charlotte.
“I told you, Miss Elizabeth. I play the fool by choice, remember?” he said and winked.
A lull in the conversation occurred while the footmen were passing around cups of tea. Lady Catherine, recovering her voice, seized the silence to interrogate her guests’ future movements.
“Sir William,” she demanded, stirring her tea. “How much longer do you intend to neglect your own estate? You have been idling in Kent for weeks. The crops will not plant themselves.”
Sir William, still dazzled by the Mozart, leapt to his feet, eager to please the patroness.
“You are correct, Your Ladyship! Unerring wisdom!” Sir William bowed for no reason. “In fact, I was just telling Mr Collins this morning. Our time in this magnificent county has reached its conclusion. Maria, Miss Elizabeth, and I have booked our passage on the post-chaise.”
Mr Darcy, standing behind Elizabeth’s sofa, went rigid.
“Indeed?” Lady Catherine asked. “And when do you depart?”
“We leave Hunsford,” Sir William announced, unaware of the devastation he was causing, “on Wednesday morning. First light!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam dropped his teacup.
Viscount Keathley, mid-sip of his own tea, choked and began hacking into his napkin.
Anne de Bourgh stopped breathing.
Elizabeth turned her head slowly, looking up over her shoulder at the man standing behind her.
The confident suitor had vanished. The blood had drained from Mr Darcy’s face, leaving him paler than a marble statue. His jaw was locked, his hands gripped the back of the sofa so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
Elizabeth stared up at him, her own heart hammering a frantic warning against her ribs. The courtship was over.
The ticking clock had just become a deafening gong.