Tonight, she decided, they would dine. Together.
She sought out Mrs Reynolds. Together, they conferred upon the menu, a task Elizabeth approached with enthusiasm. Three courses, she determined, would do nicely, servedà la française. She then dispatched notes to both Darcy and the colonel,informing them of these arrangements, a slight rebellious thrill coursing through her at the thought of Darcy’s potential reaction to this change.
As Sarah assisted her into a dark green evening dress, Elizabeth could not entirely suppress a flutter of nervous anticipation. How would Darcy respond to her initiative? Would he simply ignore her request, preferring the solitary gloom of his study? Or had the previous night’s extraordinary merging of their powers wrought some alteration in his temperament?
She had her answer as she descended the grand staircase, her hand resting lightly on the balustrade. He was there, standing at the foot of the stairs, an imposing figure in his impeccably tailored evening attire. For a man she had determined to be so disagreeable, he was undeniably handsome, she noted with a bit of vexation. The lantern light was kind to him, softening the usual severity of his expression and highlighting the clean, classical line of his profile. The cut of his coat suited his frame perfectly.
He raised his head as she approached, and watched every step of her descent with an expression that sent a disquieting flutter through her chest. Mere politeness could not lend such intensity and depth to his gaze.
As she neared the final step, she saw his lips part, as if to form a word, but then press together again into a firm line. Then a few beats more, where he simply looked at a loss for words, before his expression smoothed into one of polite reserve. It appeared the Master of Pemberley, so articulate in his disdain, was entirely lost when basic civility was required.
Finally, as if seizing upon the most simple and inarguable phrase available, he said formally, “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Mr Darcy.”
He offered her his arm, a gesture of courtesy, and led her toward the drawing room. There they found Colonel Fitzwilliam, who turned and bowed as they entered.
Together, the three of them proceeded into the dining room. As they took their places at the table, Elizabeth found herself wondering how this dynamic would unfold. Would the evening be stiff, constrained, largely silent, as all their shared meals thus far had been? Or would the events of last night, or perhaps, more prosaically, the amiable presence of the colonel, create a different, more harmonious atmosphere?
Two footmen laid out the courses. Elizabeth had selected a simple menu, eschewing the heavy, overly sauced dishes and elaborate ragouts that might have been expected in such a grand house, in favour of hearty country fare: a savoury broth, roasted pheasant, and a selection of freshly baked breads.
Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed the offerings with appreciation. “You have outdone yourself tonight, Elizabeth. Though,” and his eyes glimmered, “the rather Spartan nature of my solitary tray the previous evening perhaps set a low bar for excellence.”
“I must apologise, Richard,” she said, with a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks, “I have been a remiss hostess since your arrival.”
To her surprise, before Colonel Fitzwilliam could offer a polite, conventional demurral, Darcy spoke. His voice held a note of contriteness. “The fault is entirely mine. I fear I have set a sombre tone for this household. Fortunately yours and my cousin’s forbearance has been commendable.”
Elizabeth stared at him, momentarily speechless.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, too, looked taken aback by his cousin’s uncharacteristic admission, though he recovered his composure with military speed. “Nonsense, old fellow,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, “And Pemberley, even at its most sombre, is always a distinct privilege to visit.”
Darcy served the soup and then focused his efforts on carving.
“You must tell us, Elizabeth,” said the colonel, after he had finished his soup, “what entertainments you have planned for the evening? Darcy is not renowned for his skills in this area. His idea of a lively evening usually involves deciphering old texts or reviewing the latest bills from Parliament.”
Darcy shot his cousin a look that could have curdled milk, but there was a quirk to his lips that belied his annoyance. “I find the pursuit of knowledge more rewarding than the frivolous pastimes you favour.”
“I believe the game ‘Lighting the Candle’ would suit Mr Darcy very well,” she teased.
A hint of amusement flashed in Darcy’s eyes, a startling thing to see, though his voice was grave as he replied, “Based on my prior observations, I would only consent to participate on the condition that I am partnered with my cousin.”
Elizabeth laughed, and answered his quip in kind, “Two against one? You flatter me, sir, to think my poor talents require such a formidable opposition.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward, clearly enjoying the exchange. He addressed Elizabeth with the air of a fellow long-sufferer. “It sounds far more diverting than discussing the precise magical composition of Derbyshire mud, which I believe was my cousin’s chosen topic of conversation the last time I dined here.”
Darcy said seriously, “The composition of Derbyshire mud has important implications for the foundational wards of this estate. A matter of rather more import, I would venture, than the latest gossip from White’s.”
“You make a compelling case for the significance of Derbyshire mud, Mr Darcy, and I shall endeavour to cultivate adeeper appreciation for it,” said Elizabeth, her eyes dancing with laughter.
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. The beginnings of a smile lifted one side of Darcy’s mouth.
She continued, “However, one might argue that the intricate web of alliances and enmities revealed in the ‘latest gossip from White’s’ also constitutes a foundational ward of sorts – for society. And one that can be equally perilous if neglected.”
Darcy replied drily, “I shall continue to place my faith in the tangible properties of earth over the more fickle allegiances of London society. The earth, at least, does not change its composition based on the latest on-dit.”
“One naturally trusts the subject one has mastered,” she observed, her smile knowing.
He gave a single, slow nod, a gesture of almost unconscious agreement, before replying softly, “I cannot deny it.”
