Chapter Eighteen The Absolution at Astley’s #2
“You see?” Robert leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial, intimate murmur that made her breath hitch slightly. “I am a man of hidden depths, Miss Bennet. Though I concede, my diet consists of significantly fewer oats than Bingley’s new companion.”
“A tragic flaw,” she smiled, meeting his gaze with boldness. “But then again, you are employing a chef, are you not? I imagine you can convey your preferences better than the horse.”
Robert wanted to propose to her right there in the sawdust. He wanted to seize her hands, ignore the Gardiners, ignore the acrobats, and demand that she marry him.
But as he looked at her, the impulse died.
No. I cannot ask her while the air smells of manure.
I shan’t rush this. She has just been liberated from a weak-willed fool.
She deserves a man who will plant his feet in the earth and refuse to be moved.
She deserves poetry. She deserves a proper courtship.
He offered a crooked smile. “Miss Bennet, I promise you, my chef understands many languages and is entirely at your disposal, should you ever require him.”
Her laughter faded, replaced by awareness, and a beautiful, rosy blush covered her cheeks.
“I shall keep that in mind, Lord Keathley,” she whispered.
The orchestra struck up a new tune, signalling the end of the interval, but Robert Fitzwilliam heard nothing. The muting of the viscount was officially over.
The siege of Jane Bennet’s heart had just begun.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Elizabeth sat at the breakfast table in Cheapside, a cup of tea in her hand, feeling as though she were floating several inches above her chair.
The triumph of Astley’s Amphitheatre still hummed in her veins.
She had watched the ghost of Charles Bingley evaporate into the sawdust, and she had witnessed the spectacular, banter-filled resurrection of Viscount Keathley.
But mostly, she was thinking of Mr Darcy. She thought of his warm smiles, his eager attentions, and the certainty that the man who had penned the ink-splattered letter of doom was irreversibly hers.
“The post, Miss Elizabeth,” the footman announced, presenting a silver tray.
Elizabeth picked it up, recognising her father’s sprawling handwriting immediately. She broke the seal with eager anticipation. She unfolded the letter, a smile playing on her lips.
My Dear Lizzy,
I must confess, your letter provided me with the most profound amusement I have experienced since Mr Collins attempted to explain the Holy Trinity using a potato, a fork, and your mother.
Fitzwilliam Darcy? The proud, statuesque gentleman of Derbyshire?
The man who looked at our assembly room as though it were a penitentiary?
I am astounded. I am bewildered. But, my dear child, I am also content.
You are of age, Lizzy, and you possess a mind far sharper than my own. You do not need my permission, but you have my blessing. If you have found him to be worthy of your company, I trust your judgment. Any man who is willing to brave your intellect must be a man of formidable constitution.
Elizabeth let out a relieved laugh. Her father understood and he saw the truth of it. She took a sip of her tea, her heart light, and moved to the final paragraph.
I look forward to shaking his hand. Or perhaps offering him a commiserating glass of port, for he has no idea what he is marrying into.
Yours affectionately,
Thomas Bennet.
Elizabeth smiled, preparing to fold the letter and run upstairs to show Jane. But her eyes caught a final, hastily scribbled addendum at the very bottom of the page.
P.S. I regret to inform you that your mother, in a quest to locate my misplaced spectacles, stumbled into my study and accidentally set eyes upon your letter before I could secure it in the drawer.
Elizabeth froze, the teacup halting halfway to its saucer.
The ensuing hysteria was spectacular, Mr Bennet’s script continued. After depleting the county’s supply of smelling salts at the revelation of ten thousand a year in your grasp, she immediately commanded the carriage.
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face.
I am afraid to report, Lizzy, that she went straight to Meryton.
She told your Aunt Phillips. I have it on good authority that your mother and Mrs Phillips took tea with Mrs Long.
Along with Mrs Long, naturally, they intercepted Mrs Goulding in the apothecary.
Mrs Goulding, as we all know, calls daily on Lady Lucas.
On this occasion, she marched them all to Lucas Lodge.
Elizabeth stopped breathing. Her eyes flew over the final, fatal sentence.
Lady Lucas started wailing that Mr Darcy is engaged to Lady Catherine’s daughter, nearly resulting in fisticuffs with your mother and Aunt Phillips.
Then, under a deep sense of civic duty, she sent an express to her son-in-law and daughter in Hunsford.
I assume my cousin reported the news to his patroness.
Therefore, I suggest you tell your suitor to brace himself. I suspect a storm is coming.
The letter slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers, fluttering onto the tablecloth.
The gossip chain had been activated. The most lethal, unstoppable force in the British Empire—the Meryton communication network—had conveyed the secret of ten thousand a year directly to Lady Catherine’s lap.
Elizabeth stared blankly at the marmalade. She could practically hear the sound of hoofbeats approaching.
Her aunt entered, and Elizabeth stared at her unseeingly. “Aunt Madeline,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Yes, Lizzy?”
“I believe,” Elizabeth swallowed hard, “we are going to need more biscuits. A great deal more.”