So that is one unpleasant aunt out of the way. Mrs. Vane will, of course, be at dinner unless I devise some means to lock her in her room. Which I would never do, obviously. Even if the housekeeper does find me the key to Mrs. Vane's bedroom door. Which I did not ask her to do. Obviously.
But I think Mrs. Vane will behave well enough beyond her usual catty remarks and I can rely on everyone else to be pleasant or, in Darcy's case, at the very least not to Glare (and if he does I am not above kicking him under the table). Nothing shall interfere with my brilliant matchmaking plans.
Oh, God. I am turning into Mama. I always thought women like Mama and Mrs. Hamilton had some character flaw which caused them to become meddlers and gossips, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps marriage does this to all women.
Yet I am not really interfering am I? Mr. Bingley likes Jane. Jane likes Mr. Bingley. All I did was invite the man to dinner. Perfectly natural thing to do. He is my husband's dearest friend (perhaps only friend). There is nothing nefarious about me asking him to dine.
But if I did have a few other little plans—not saying I do—but if I did, would that be so wrong?
"Lizzy, what are you planning?" Jane asked suspiciously.
"Planning? Why do you think I'm planning something?"
"Because you are humming. You always hum when you are planning something," she said, looking at me with a sort of uncomfortable, pursed-lipped expression that is the closest as as Jane can come to disapproval.
"I was not humming."
"You were," said Dora, inconveniently choosing this moment to start noticing things, "Quite out of tune."
"Sometimes people just hum, you know. It doesn't have to mean anything," I argued.
"Don't do it."
"Do what?"
"Whatever you are planning with me and Mr. Bingley. Do not do it," Jane said, her tone as intimidating as I had ever heard it. So still not at all intimidating.
"I wasn't going to do anything," I said, lying through my teeth.
Twelve
12thDecember 1811
Dinner
As it would happen, I cannot kick Darcy under the table. Not that I am incapable of the action or I lack proper encouragement—nay, all those factors are present—I merely cannot reach him. Trust me, I've tried. Repeatedly.
I thought glaring would be the worse thing he could do. I thought he would be his stuffy, impossible self and hinder conversation with his succinct replies and severe tone. Instead he is being some other person's impossible self. He is being talkative, nonsensical, and disruptive. My husband is being my mother and it needs to stop at once.
Mr. Bingley has barely said a word to Jane because every time he so much as looks at her—
"The beef is particularly well-done today. Tender and not at all dry, do not you agree, Bingley?"
Mr. Bingley turned to Darcy, his expression all politeness and concern, perhaps a little heavier on the concern than the politeness as this was at least the sixth time Darcy had interrupted him with an asinine remark. "Certainly, best beef I've ever eaten," he agreed genially because he is Mr. Bingley and it would never occur to him to say, "Darcy, would you please shut your mouth and keep it closed."
Again Mr. Bingley returned his attention to Jane, he drew a breath as if to speak—
"Beef, I think, is one of the more difficult meats to get right, mutton, perhaps, the only one more challenging."
I have revised my opinion, my husband is being Mr. Collins. Mama's conversation is at least entertaining. Ridiculous, but entertaining.
I cast my foot out, trying once more to reach Darcy's leg under the table to no avail. I could throw something, I suppose. A particularly well-done cut of beef. Or a knife.
Mrs. Vane was the only problem I had anticipated. When she had pleaded a headache and announced she would dine in her rooms I had been far more ecstatic than any decent person should be upon hearing a family member felt poorly (in my defense I am certain she was faking either to avoid Mr. Bingley or Jane). As I said, the worst I thought Darcy would do was glare. I cannot believe I ever wanted more conversation from of the man.
I would suspect some manner of poison if he had not been acting strangely before we even sat down to dine, but his odd behavior began in the drawing room as we awaited the meal. Jane, Mr. Bingley, Dora, Georgiana, and I were all assembled when Darcy strolled in, inserted himself awkwardly on the sofa between Jane and Mr. Bingley where there really was not room for him, then proceeded to monopolize Mr. Bingley's conversation.
At the time I was annoyed with his behavior, but I did not suspect him of treachery. The conversation he had with Mr. Bingley seemed at least vaguely important, but now the man is going on about the beef which is delicious, but by no means warrants this much conversation. I can only conclude he is trying to keep Mr. Bingley from speaking to Jane.
