A WARNING WITHOUT WORDS
As the evening wore on, Elizabeth began to feel both easier, and surprisingly…a little bit sad.
The musicians were first-rate, the refreshments were splendid—Miss Bingley had truly outdone herself. Also, there was more still that she might anticipate. Once the supper dances were called, the official announcement—that Mr and Mrs Darcy were wed, which, frankly, almost everyone in the ballroom already knew, as it was long past the stage of secrecy—would be proclaimed. Toasts would be offered, the supper dances would be called, and finally, along with white soup, meat pies, ham, cold chicken, and an enormous cake that Mrs Nicholls had produced for the occasion, supper would be served. Afterwards, there would be celebratory fireworks over the man-made lake behind the back gardens.
An interloper could not be expected to know Miss Bingley’s plans, however, and the more time that passed, the less likely it seemed that they would be interrupted by Miss deBourgh’s possible designs. It seemed as though their fears over her had been, like her writings, overwrought.
Nonetheless, when Elizabeth had imagined this evening, she had envisioned something much different. Other than the single reel with Darcy, she had not danced in years—not since that brief period between mourning her father’s passing, and the worst of Mr Ashwood’s lengthy illnesses. This evening was to be the beginning of her return to…to life. To society. To living well, instead of a merely practical existence. Her notion of its fulfilment was spending most of the time within her husband’s arms.
Lord and Lady Matlock had very different ideas.
“I will see you introduced to Lord and Lady Roden, as well as Sir James Bolten, who has the ear of the Regent. And I pray you will grant me the opening set, Mrs Darcy,” the earl said—and she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer.
“Oh—I thank you. But I assumed I would open the ball with Mr Darcy. Perhaps the set following?” she answered politely.
“You cannot remain always in each other’s pockets,” her ladyship had advised. “We have—with Miss Bingley’s collaboration, of course—called in a number of favours, so that a few very important, influential people will attend this event, with the express purpose of making you known.” She had added her denouement. “It will help Georgiana immensely, certainly, when she comes out in the next couple of years. You are not known to theton, and it is vital that we show all that you have the family’s full approval and support.”
With Darcy, she knew they had used a similar manoeuvre—emphasising how Elizabeth would be more wholly accepted in society with this visible validation from Matlockand his friends. It would have been rude to refuse to participate in their well-intentioned plans.
Thus, she had been ready for an enormous number of introductions, for opening the ball with the earl, and for spending the next few dances with relative strangers. The earl treated her considerately, and she enjoyed their set together. Thereafter, she had danced with the colonel, Sir James Bolten, Lord Roden, and a couple of others whom the earl felt could be useful—all of whom were excellent partners.
She chided herself for wishing away everyone in the ballroom other than her husband.
After hours of nothing more exciting than the occasional spilt drink and one of Myra Harrington’s dancing slippers splitting in two, even Darcy appeared to be easier and less concerned with any interference from Miss De Bourgh. She watched as he laughed with Colonel Fitzwilliam over some shared memory. Lady Catherine had finally allowed Lady Matlock to seat her with other matrons; when last Elizabeth had looked in on her, she and Mrs Bennet were engaged in an enthusiastic critique of the costumes, jewellery, and headdresses of all the more youthful attendees.
Also, Elizabeth had seen both Lydia and Mary introduced to a number of potential dancing partners—although, for the most part, Mary remained beside the Palmers, who were in attendance along with their nephew. Jane, of course, never lacked for partners. Lydia, thankfully, was on her best behaviour, having been informed that her actions tonight would determine whether her elder sisters would sponsor any more ball gowns or indeed, her attendance at any more balls.
Fanny and John Ashwood, having finally received—atElizabeth’s behest—an invitation to Netherfield’s ball, had arrived late. No one gave them the cut direct, but neither did many pay attention to them. Elizabeth could not have cared less whether they stayed to enjoy themselves or departed in a sulk—they meant nothing to her. But she had felt obligated to see that they at least received an invitation, since John had paid ten thousand for it, and to greet them politely.
The entire evening had been one duty after the other. Darcy had watched her closely, but their times of true togetherness had been sadly few.
“It is nearly time,” he said, finally joining her. “Shall we call the earl over, and meet Bingley near the musicians?” Lord Matlock had insisted upon making the announcement himself—to further demonstrate his approval.
At last! They would have their dances together, after telling the world of their marriage. She was about to answer in the affirmative when the sound of a clearing throat caught her attention. They both turned at once to see Darcy’s man standing at his elbow.
“Excuse me, sir,” the dapper little servant interjected. “I regret to inform you that there has been anincident.”
There was something in the way he stressed the word that told her this was not going to be good news.
“An incident? What has happened?” Darcy frowned. Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward, instantly alert.
“After my evening meal, sir, I returned upstairs with the intention of pressing some neckcloths. Upon entering your dressing room, I was shocked to discover that an intruder had encroached upon your private spaces, even trespassing into your chamber. Your clothing and various belongings were untidily flung about in the most offensive fashion, sir. Not only that, but your black velvet coat with the onyxbuttons, the cream and gold striped waistcoat, a linen shirt, one neckcloth, one pair of your buff-coloured breeches, stockings, and a pair of your evening shoes are missing. Stolen, I daresay.” He peered around censoriously, as if he expected one of the ball guests to brandish the purloined clothing.
Darcy’s jaw looked carved from iron. “Thank you, Havers. I shall send for someone to help you restore order.”
“No need, sir. I shall not rest until I have accounted for every thread and button.”
When the valet had disappeared, the three shared a look that said their worst suspicions had been confirmed. Anne de Bourgh was here, or had been. But why steal Darcy’s clothing?
“Perhaps she has hired help, and means to smuggle a sham guest into the ballroom wearing your evening clothes?” the colonel suggested. They glanced around, but as many, if not most, of the men were wearing dark coats and light-coloured waistcoats, it did not much help them identify a stranger.
“Or perhaps she simply stole the clothing tonight, when the house would be more easily infiltrated, for the purpose of alarming us—its intent might be only to prove that she could,” Elizabeth proposed, shivering at the idea of an intruder invading the rooms they shared.
The earl joined them at that moment, evidently having guessed that something was wrong by their collective expressions. “What has happened?”
“She has slipped in, right beneath our noses,” Darcy growled. He explained what his valet had discovered.
“Should we search the house? The grounds?”
