Teaching Eliza, page 21
His letter was interrupted, however, by the sounds of the women’s voices just through the door, which was not completely closed. “...but if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out,” Eliza was saying. Perhaps she had just walked close enough to the door for her voice to carry, for he had not heard the beginning of her conversation. “It is surely so if they are together often enough, at dinners, or…” now she must have walked away, for her words were lost to vague dulcet tones with no meaning. Darcy sat stone-still at his desk, hardly daring to breathe. What could this mean?
Charlotte, however, must have been sitting on the settee right by the doorway to the private study, for her voice was clear, her words unmuffled. “It may, perhaps, be pleasant to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him.”
“Fixing him? Whatever can you mean by that, Charlotte?” Eliza was close to the door again.
“Simply said, she ought to leave no doubt as to her interests in the man if she wishes him to pursue her. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all begin freely — a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.” She paused for a moment, during which time Lizzy’s voice, but not words, were heard from the far side of the larger room. Then, with finality, Charlotte stated, “In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more affection than she feels.”
This was too much for Darcy to hear. Was this true? Was Charlotte merely hanging around his cousin, flattering him and doting on him, merely to ‘fix’ him? Had she truly liked him—loved him, really—Darcy would have no trouble standing up for his cousin against the railings he would be sure to garner from his aristocratic family, but now it seemed that Richard was falling in love with a woman who saw him merely as a means to an end, a husband who would provide for her a home and family of her own, but whom she did not truly admire. The morning’s news about Richard’s new estate would only encourage Charlotte, he reasoned, for now Richard was wealthy—by comparison to the Lucas family if not his own—and would be able to wed where he wished. This must be stopped!
He crept back to the servants’ stairs and stumbled down the stairs to where Richard was conversing happily with Mrs. Pearce, tea and cakes at his elbow. Thrusting the hastily-scrawled letter into the messenger boy’s hands and shooing him out of the door, he bade Richard follow him once more, eyebrows low over his eyes, his gaze icy and severe, his mouth a thin line. He looked most alarming.
“Good God, Darcy, what is it? Speak, man!” Richard commanded as they entered the butler’s office at the far end of the corridors to the kitchen and Darcy clicked shut the door. The walls were crowded with sideboards and built in cabinets containing shelves and drawers, surrounding a large desk and three chairs. Darcy sat, then stood, and then sat again. Richard stared at a chair, but did not take it.
“Richard,” Darcy began, not quite knowing how to begin. “Richard, have you offered for Charlotte?”
His cousin stared at him, a mixture of embarrassment and confusion playing with his eyebrows. “No. That is, not yet… I have been giving it the most serious consideration. She is, for my tastes, the best woman I have met, the most suited to my temperament, and she pleases me greatly.”
“Do not!”
He blinked as his look become one of shock. “What are you on about, Fitz? This is really no concern of yours.”
“I heard them, Richard. Or, rather, I heard her. I heard Charlotte, talking to Eliza. She does not care for you. She merely feigns it so she may ‘fix’ you, to gain for herself a rich husband and a secure future. You are my cousin and my friend, and I believe you deserve better than that.”
“Darcy, you cannot be serious!” He paced around the cramped space. “No, I will not believe it. I have seen her, when she believes no one is watching… I cannot believe that of her at all, and I refuse to listen to you. You must have misheard or misunderstood. And even if she loves me not now, I fancy that I love her, and I will accept her as she is, for love can grow.”
“Richard, I do not wish to see you hurt. At the least, think on the matter for a time. I have only your best interests at heart.” Sincerity was not a look that was often seen on Darcy, but Richard must have seen it now, for he sadly nodded.
“I will think on it. I do not believe you, but I will take some time and think on it.”
Sighing to himself, Darcy resolved that since he could not convince Richard, he must rather work on Charlotte.
Finding time alone with her was much more difficult than speaking privately with Richard. It was no easy matter to arrange a private interview with an unrelated woman, even within one’s own home. Charlotte spent her time talking with Eliza or with Richard, or engaged in some activity such as reading or embroidery in the centre of the room. Darcy had about given up on his plan for that day when Mrs. Pearce called to Eliza to meet immediately with the mantua maker, who had just now arrived with some new gowns in need of final alterations. She scurried after Mrs. Pearce, and Darcy asked Richard to look for some volume in his library that he wished to consult. At last he was alone with Charlotte.
“Miss Lucas…” he began. She looked up in a start, for he had scarcely ever been so civil as to refer to her so formally. “Miss Lucas, I must talk to you about Richard.” This captured her attention and she looked at him in alarm.
“My cousin has expressed some affection for you,” Darcy continued, “and I mean to know whether you would accept him, should he offer for you.”
“Really, Professor Darcy!” Her reproof almost matched Eliza’s in its sternness. What was it about these Hertfordshire women? “Such matters would be between myself and your cousin. You can have no reason to ask, or to be informed one way or another.”
Darcy would not be shaken from his purpose. “I do have my reasons, Miss Lucas. My reasons involve my very real concern for my cousin’s happiness.” He leveled his well-practiced and much-used haughty glare upon her and spoke in a flat voice. “Yes, Miss Lucas. I won’t dissemble. You have learned to expect forthrightness from me, rudeness, even. I’m afraid that this is what you shall hear now. I will speak quickly, before Richard returns, and you will not like what I have to say.
Charlotte sat perfectly still on the sofa, her sewing abandoned upon her lap. “Speak, Professor.” Her voice was ice, her eyes narrow.
“My cousin, as I am certain you heard this morning, has come into a bit of property. But do not expect this to be the solution to all your concerns. The property is his, without doubt, and he will have the income from it, but if you accept him, he will lose everything else. He will lose all of his society, all of his family, all of his connections. His father will never accept you, and to be frank, you will never be easy in his father’s company. I have seen you with my aunt, Lady Catherine, and with the countess. You are not comfortable in London, and you will never truly feel happy here. You will never fit in; you will never sound like the daughter of an earl; you will never act like the daughter of an earl. Your origins will betray you every time you speak and every time you move, and you will bring shame upon Richard, no matter how you try to avoid it, or no matter how much he might protest to the contrary.
“Further, should Richard marry you, he will be cut off from his relations, and will likely never be accepted in Town, no matter what I may try to do for him. If the earl cuts him off, he will not be welcome at his club, nor will he receive invitations to any events. He will be cut at the theatre and in the coffeehouse and on the street. If he retains his commission, he will never see another promotion: his father will ensure that. Merit is a fine thing, but few men dare defy the Earl of Malton. You do not need to obey my commands, for I am neither your father nor your brother, and you are of age to decide your own fate. But consider my cousin’s lot, Miss Lucas: consider whether you truly wish such an unhappy fate for him. Do you understand my meaning?” His eye was baleful upon her, and Charlotte met his cold stare with one of her own, her eyes narrowed now to mere slits. But her cheeks were white, and her lip quivered with repressed emotion.
“I understand you perfectly, Professor Darcy,” was all she said.
“Good. Now, I hear Richard return from his task, so I shall leave you with these thoughts. Good day, Miss Lucas.” And with these harsh words, he turned and swept from the room.
THIRTEEN — THE BALL
~
IT WAS TO LIZZY’S UNHAPPY surprise that Charlotte announced that very evening her intention to return to Meryton. She had already made inquiries into taking the mail coach and had requested that her trunks be prepared for departure the following morning. Nothing Lizzy would say could convince her friend to change her mind; appeals to consider the colonel resulted only in soft unshed tears and a refusal to speak.
Lizzy was dumbfounded. Whatever had happened? Had the two had a disagreement? Had he offered, and she refused? Why, then, would Charlotte not speak to her. Had Richard declared that he would not offer for her? That hardly seemed possible, for Richard had been all tenderness and attention towards Charlotte the previous afternoon before they had left Darcy’s house for Gracechurch Street, even more so than usual, to Lizzy’s eye. Charlotte, however, had seemed most distracted, Lizzy now recalled, but she could not imagine what had occurred to distress her friend so greatly, and to impel her to run from London back to her parents.
With no more information from Charlotte than that her decision—hasty though it might be—was final, Lizzy had no choice but to bid her friend a tearful goodbye as the hackney came to carry her and a footman to the depot where she would get the mail coach. Even the offer of Mr. Gardiner’s carriage had been refused and the whole family was most upset. Feeling quite unfit to spend the morning being polite and elegant, Lizzy had sent a note to Professor Darcy, begging off her lessons for the day, a note which was met with stern refusal and the arrival of the man himself at the Gardiners’ front door an hour later, demanding that she leave off this sentimental nonsense and join him at once for their planned activities. If not for the inclusion of Lady Malton in their plans, Lizzy would have refused Darcy outright, but she could not behave thus to the countess, and so reluctantly prepared for her day.
The weeks passed quickly, and almost before she knew it, the night of the ball had arrived. Lizzy had spent the previous night at the Malton’s fine house, so grand and ornate behind its soaring columns and elegant facade. She had been assigned a maid, one who had been abigail to Lady Malton’s own daughter before her marriage a year before, and the evening and day before the ball were spent in final preparations. Lizzy felt like Esther at the king’s court, being bathed and oiled and perfumed and coiffed, until she hardly knew herself.
She scarcely recognised the stunning creature who looked back at her from the mirror. Even her recent weeks of tripping around town with the countess in her fine new gowns and elegant hairstyles had not been enough to prepare her for what she had become. She recalled tales her mother had told her, old French stories, of a young girl transformed by magic into a princess for a ball, and she wondered if the countess were, in truth, her own fairy godmother.
As the abigail stepped away for the final time, Lizzy stared at her reflection. Her hair was cunningly curled and twisted and pinned upon her head, threaded through with the finest silvery-green ribbons and dotted with pearls and the tiniest of silk rosettes. The most delicate of wisps now framed her face, the perfect curls emphasising her fine eyes and the shape of her chin. She wore a trace of kohl around her eyes, enough to draw attention, but not enough to be noticed, and hint of colour on her lips. The result was natural and glowing. Her dress was a work of art, and she cringed to think what it must have cost the professor, who had insisted on taking the whole cost of it. The pale silvery-green silk had been sourced from Uncle Gardiner’s own warehouses, and she knew enough about cloth and textiles to understand that the fabric alone was worth more than her entire wardrobe from Longbourn. A small army of expert seamstresses had cut and stitched and ornamented the gown, allowing the darker green ribbons and the dots of pearls, which matched those in her hair, to accentuate and draw the eye, showing her pleasing figure to its best advantage. Earbobs and a necklace of pearl and emerald completed the ensemble, and it was all she could do not to stare at herself all night.
At last there came the knock at her door, summoning her to her fate. Darcy stood there, waiting for her, looking as fine as she had ever seen him in his black formal suit with a dark green waistcoat that matched her ribbons, trimmed in the same silvery-green as her dress. An emerald twinkled in his snowy white cravat, two others at his cuffs. They made a most handsome couple.
“You are lovely,” he whispered as they walked slowly down the corridor to the grand staircase. “I have never seen anybody look more beautiful. I am very proud to have you on my arm, and there will be many a jealous man in the ballroom tonight.” She blushed at these words and murmured something about his own handsome appearance.
“No one cares for how I look,” he snorted. “My clothing is in fashion and I am not covered in mud or horsehair. Unless Brummell decides to appear, all eyes will be on the ladies, of whom you are, undoubtedly, the finest. As for me, if I escape the evening without insulting the ambassador or throwing wine down some sod’s neck, it shall be deemed a remarkable success.” Just before the corridor opened up into the landing at the top of the grand staircase, he reached out and stopped her with a touch to her wrist. She turned to see what he was about, but the look she perceived in his eyes rooted her to the floor. His eyes were so dark as to be nearly black, and he gazed at her with an intensity that set her heart racing. His lips parted slightly, then closed again and pressed firmly together.
One hand reached out, tentatively, and brushed one of the painstakingly curled ringlets that framed her face. She hardly felt the touch, but the intimacy of the gesture caused her mouth to go dry and she swallowed.
He withdrew his hand, but not his eyes. “I would… that is, I do not dare, but… May I request a kiss? I promise I shall not disarrange your hair, but the touch of your lips will fortify me through much of the inanity I must endure this evening. May I?”
This was the first time since the display at Rosings that he had asked her. Lizzy had wondered, after the fiery passion of that public kiss, whether there had been anything real behind it, or whether it was just another one of Darcy’s theatrics designed to shock and importune his aunt. He had, from time to time, been attentive to her, caring, doting even, but the ardour that had fueled the kiss in the dining room at Rosings had not been seen again. Perhaps he had not wished to upset her further, especially after Charlotte’s abrupt departure and her own subsequent melancholy; perhaps he simply had not wished to repeat his actions. But now, moments away from presenting all of Fashionable London with his supposed choice for a bride, he was asking—nay, begging—to be permitted a taste of her lips. Was this for his own strength, as he had stated? Or did he merely wish for her to descend the stairs looking like a lady in love, in order to complete the transformation he had effected?
She stood still, not knowing how to respond, not even knowing whether to meet or avoid his eye. His presence pinned her to her spot, and she felt like a butterfly on display, its glorious wings unfurled for the world to admire, but trapped forever in its prison and unable ever to fly again. She felt at once terrified and entranced by the whole affair, and she could not discern her own mind.
“Just one kiss?” he begged. “I shall not ask again, so fear not.”
She nodded, or she must have, for he slowly brought his head down to hers and brushed his lips across hers. There was no feather-light touch, nor was there the fire from Rosings, but instead, a sweetness and tenderness that spoke of real affection. Drawing strength from the brief embrace, Lizzy still wondered how she would ever know the true man, or even recognise him if she saw him. He was an enigma, one growing in her heart, but a mystery all the same.
“Come,” he whispered when he stepped back to ensure her gown and hair were unscathed. “They are waiting.” Silently offering his arm, he led her down the stairs to where Lord and Lady Malton stood in attendance.
Of the ball itself, there is little to be said that cannot be imagined. The guests were numerous and from the highest ranks of society, the food and drink plentiful and of excellent quality, the music delightful and the dancing of the best calibre. Elegant ladies and smartly clad gentleman traced their patterns around the chalked floor, exercising all the skills and habits they had been perfecting since the schoolroom. And through it all, amidst the twinkling diamonds and gleaming brass, surrounded by viscounts and dukes and foreign princes, Elizabeth Bennet swirled her way into society, gliding effortlessly through her dances, charming everybody she met, and entrancing a generation of young men with her beauty and her sweet smile.
She danced with Darcy thrice, including the scandalous waltz, and with Richard and Freddy each twice, leaving little time for the other gentlemen lined up to receive the favour of her arch comments on the room. The news of her engagement to Darcy had been, at first, met with sighs of disappointment from the ladies of the ton , but after a glimpse or a short snatch of conversation with Miss Bennet, the eligible bachelors joined the girls in their lamentations. Alfred, Viscount Eynshill, led these men in their collective regret, although he seemed to have a spark in his eye that suggested some secret knowledge.
Only Richard seemed out of sorts that evening. He made the effort to be his accustomed friendly and amiable self, but there was a want of spirit in his laughter and a sadness in his regard that tore at Lizzy’s heart.
