Mrs Appleby cleared her throat again. “If you please, ma’am. This sample is well enough, and I commend your excellent taste, but allow me to show you something finer.” She reached belowthe counter and withdrew a neatly wrapped packet, which she unfolded to reveal a more exquisitely detailed piece of lace. “Much more appropriate for a friend of the Master of Pemberley, I am sure you agree.”
Elizabeth glanced up at her in delight, thinking she was joking and, seeing immediately that she was not, unable to keep from laughing slightly all the same. “You are most kind, but as I told those other ladies, I can claim no special connexion to Mr Darcy. And whilst these are all very pretty, I do not think any of them are quite right for what I have in mind. Thank you, though.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Mrs Appleby turned to two other ladies at the counter. “How may I help you?”
The younger of the two looked to her companion for an opinion. “I had thought to take some of this one, but I wonder whether Mama would prefer me to have the lace that Mr Darcy’s friends are wearing.”
Seeing the girl’s indecision, Elizabeth leant towards her and said gently, “I do not think Mr Darcy gives three straws what style of lace the ladies of his acquaintance wear. His mind is invariably occupied with loftier matters. You must please yourself in this.”
The girl stared at her with wide-eyed gratitude. “Thank you, madam. I shall.”
Elizabeth gave her a reassuring smile and walked to join her aunt and sister, whom she was vastly relieved to discover were ready to depart. It felt to her as though everybody in the shop watched them go. The imagination of a few frivolous women had jumped from seeing her talk to a man, to having her all but married to him, to making her a new arbiter of fashion based on the connexion, all in less time than it took to purchase a length of ribbon!
Unexpectedly, it made her rather sorry for Mr Darcy. How tedious it must be to have one’s name constantly bandied about for the sake of this piece of lace or that bit of gossip. How tiresome to be rumoured into an alliance with every woman to whom one showed the slightest attention. It made her think more generously of his reserve at the Meryton assembly last October—and more gratefully of his having singled her out for a dance at Mr Bingley’s ball.
12
GOSSIP OF AN INSIDIOUS SORT
Alongside his engagements with his usual set, Darcy was pleased to receive an invitation to dine with a friend whom he had not seen in an age. Even in the usual course of events they saw each other only occasionally, for they moved in different circles, but Newton had married the previous summer and hied off to the country to enjoy his wedded bliss away from the madding crowd, so it had been an even longer hiatus than usual.
It was a pleasant evening; Newton was an interesting man with interesting friends. Towards the end of dinner, however, one of them—Miss Stevens—began to grate on Darcy’s nerves. She was engaging enough, even rather amusing at times, but as the night wore on, her obvious attempts to secure his approbation grew tiresome.
“Youhave not drunk much, Mr Darcy,” she said after a servant refilled her wine glass. She leant closer to him, so their shoulders brushed against each other. “Are you worried how you might behave if you allow yourself to over imbibe?”
“Our ideas of what amounts to overindulgence appear to be at odds. I have had more than enough to satisfy me, but perhaps you have a stronger constitution.”
She twirled her wine glass back and forth between her fingertips. “Far from it, sir, but if I had not taken some Dutch courage, I should have been entirely too nervous to speak to you.”
Would that the servant had been less eager to refill her glass! “We are all Mr Newton’s friends. There can be no occasion to be nervous of each other.”
She gave him a coy look. “But you are so clever, Mr Darcy. I worry I might say something you think is stupid.”
“Pray, waste no more time worrying about that.” That horse had long since bolted. “There is no reason to suspect I am any cleverer than any other person present.”
“But you are the most illustrious.”
“Does that matter?”
Darcy heard himself say it but could not quite believe the words were his. His consequence was vastly superior to hers; of course it mattered. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had expected such deference—been insulted when he had not received it. He knew not what had brought about the alteration of his feelings—perhaps his stay at Netherfield, where close confinement had made Miss Bingley’s officious attention insufferable. He sipped his wine to drown the voice whispering that it more likely dated from the moment Elizabeth refused to show him any such deference, and he had liked it far more than he ought to have done.
“You have been very sly, Mr Newton,” Miss Stevens called across the table, piquing the interest of most of the other diners, who all looked on with amusement as she added, “You did not tell us that Mr Darcy was gracious as well as handsome.”
Newton cast Darcy an amused look and shook his head. “I do not recall telling you he was handsome either—and you must not expect me to join you in flattering him. I would not make Mrs Newton jealous.”
“You are wasting your time in any case, Perdita,” Mrs Newton added from her end of the table. “Mr Darcy is spoken for.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow, faintly vexed but wholly resigned. He had not thought the rumour his cousin mentioned had enough substance to spread farther than the debauched party at which he heard it, but rumours often took on a life of their own in London. He knew better than to protest too much.
Miss Stevens showed no such restraint and rounded on him with comical affront, all her affectations disappeared. “By whom?”
“Yes, by whom, Darcy?” Newton echoed. “You did not mention anything about a young lady.”
“There was nothing to mention.”
“There you are, my dear,” Newton said to his wife. “If Darcy says there is nothing to this report, then I am persuaded, for I have never known him to utter a falsehood.”
“That can be said of all the best liars,” observed Goodman, another old acquaintance of Darcy’s, picking up on the conversation. “Come on, old boy, tell us who she is.”
