Upon reaching the gate, they beheld an elegant barouche sent to convey them to Rosings, and even Mr Collins silently acquiesced that perhaps his cousin’s friendship with Mr Darcy was not an evil to be lamented.
“There shall be more guests this evening.” His tone was pompous as they rode towards Lady Catherine’s abode. He delighted in appearing to possess more knowledge than he disclosed. “Some are acquaintances from the neighbourhood, but others have arrived from London, in addition to the nephews.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Maria clapped her hands like a child, and Charlotte bestowed upon herhusband a look of quiet gratitude. Her life was comfortable, and it was to him she owed it.
If in the past Elizabeth had regarded the dining-room at Rosings as elegant, that evening it appeared resplendent—imposing, even somewhat overwhelming—for the profusion of china, crystal goblets, and fine silver cutlery might well inspire a degree of apprehension.
“What shall I do if I break a glass?” whispered Maria, her voice trembling between delight and fear. Elizabeth pressed her hand with affectionate reassurance, though a similar thought had indeed crept into her own breast.
That uneasy sentiment did not endure long; for, once she took the arm that Mr Darcy offered her with particular haste, her composure was wholly restored. Lady Catherine directed her nephews to seat themselves upon either side of her; yet Darcy assisted Elizabeth in taking her place and naturally claimed the chair beside her. Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated opposite, smiled with amiable warmth, though their acquaintance had been but of a few moments’ duration.
When all were seated, the conversation commenced abruptly and with no small degree of noise; for whenever a person attempted to speak, Lady Catherine would invariably interrupt the final words with her own remarks. Elizabeth regarded the exchanges with lively curiosity, for a portion of her purpose in visiting Kent was to behold with her own eyes what subjects might occupy the conversation at a table such as Lady Catherine’s. She was desirous of discovering whether aught in the habits, discourse, or deportment of that elevated circle to which Mr Darcy belonged might, by any means, afford excuse for his excessive pride.
Yet in the few instances when she had been a guest at Lady Catherine’s table, she had found that a dinner at Rosings, for all its elegance, was in substance not unlike one at herAunt Phillips’s or at Lucas Lodge. Save for the unfamiliarity of the names and persons under discussion, the topics themselves were much the same; for, in the end, the concerns of those who resided in every neighbourhood were little different from those of any other household.
And, in truth, a dinner at Longbourn was often far more engaging, led as it frequently was by her father, who would bring to the table subjects drawn from their morning readings. Mr Bennet would unroll a map or open a volume of history in the library, inviting his daughters to observe, to remember, to offer their thoughts, or to dispute one another in the realm of ideas.
“You have become quite serious all at once.” Darcy’s eyes rested on her face with some amusement.
“I was reflecting that the conversations here do not differ greatly from those at home. I know scarcely anyone at this table, yet I am well acquainted with the subjects.” Her tone was candid, its irony belonging to the manner of speaking, not to the words themselves.
Darcy merely shook his head, his silence vexing her somewhat, for it seemed as though he refrained from speaking with equal frankness, lest his opinion should prove contrary. Turning rather pointedly, she directed her attention to a lady who had begun to speak again.
He followed the movement of her eyes. “Countess Ashcombe,” he murmured. “Earl Ashcombe was the gentleman who lent his support to Sir de Bourgh in securing his title, and after the death of his friend, he remained in close connexion with Lady Catherine.”
Elizabeth had made the acquaintance of Lady Ashcombe, a cheerful and thoroughly conventional woman, who had engaged her in conversation at several previous dinners, and left her with the clear impression that the countess possessed much the same concerns and interests as her mother—or, indeed,as any other lady of Meryton or its neighbourhood who had daughters of a marriageable age.
“Old nobility,” Darcy whispered again, but Elizabeth motioned gently for him to attend to what was being said.
“I urged Elizabeth and Elinor to accept Lady Matlock’s invitation. They will never find husbands here.” Lady Ashcombe spoke with an air of ease that betrayed long familiarity with the topic.
Elizabeth did not conceal a slightly ironic smile, which Darcy observed at once. Few words were needed for such a conclusion, for everywhere, in every assembly where unmarried ladies were present, mothers were equally intent upon seeing them established. Whether countess or simple gentlewoman, every mother regarded with attention each unmarried gentleman, in the hope that one of her daughters might be asked in marriage. And at that table there were two such gentlemen…one belonging even to Lady Matlock’s own house.
“Oh, you may be sure of that!” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cheerful tone drew general attention. “My mother possesses excellent talents as a match-maker!”
He appeared to be the only person at the table entirely at ease and disposed to merriment. In the hush that followed, Lady Catherine’s voice rang with even greater sharpness.
“Richard!” Her reproof carried across the table. “That is not a subject for jest, although to you young people, all matters are treated with levity. An alliance with such a family is a matter of distinction. Lady Elizabeth must be aware of this. She is a young lady of exceedingly good breeding. I was the one who recommended the governess more than fifteen years ago, who has performed an excellent service with both young ladies—they are quite prepared to make a most favourable impression in London.” The speech continued, seizing without hesitation an opportunity to praise herself.
“The governess indeed, and Mrs Clinton’s Academy in London—they attended for two years.” Countess Ashcombe smiled towards Mr Clinton, who nodded with satisfaction, proving how dear that subject was to him, while Lady Catherine looked rather annoyed.
But that did not discourage Lady Ashcombe. “I hope Lady Matlock is also an excellent guide for young ladies, for my daughters are of an excessive timidity. I must say, Mr Clinton, you ought to hold lessons for the girls and teach them how to overcome their shyness.”
“Oh, Lady Ashcombe, I assure you that timidity is a rare sign of good breeding, which in London is entirely lost. Your daughters are exceptional precisely because they preserved this quality.” Mr Clinton’s voice was full of conviction.
“So far as timidity may be deemed a virtue,” returned Lady Ashcombe, “yet when the time comes to present one’s daughters into society, I assure you it ceases to be so. Besides, you shall soon be able to judge for yourselves, for in two days they return from London…I hope somewhat less diffident.”
Elizabeth turned once more to Darcy and whispered with a smile, “Your aunt has gathered quite an interesting assembly this evening.”
“You are a keen observer, Miss Elizabeth.” He went on, in a lower tone, to introduce all those present at the table. Though some she had seen at previous dinners, this was the first occasion on which she learned anything of their histories.
Elizabeth listened attentively, yet endeavoured to conceal a slight blush. Darcy had called herMiss Elizabeth—a form of address implying a certain degree of intimacy; for, at that table, in Jane’s absence, she was properly Miss Bennet. Far from displeasing her, however, the circumstance afforded a secret satisfaction. Darcy would never have committed a breach of decorum, which proved that he had named her thus deliberately,to signify his esteem and to recall that, during the winter, there had existed between them a connexion which might almost be called friendship.
“The Griffiths family, proprietors of the largest estate in Kent, and of a house which rivals Rosings in splendour, have lived here since time immemorial.” She heard him speaking and nodded to show her interest.
Yet the most singular personage at the table that evening was Mr Clinton, whom Darcy presented briefly yet consistently. “He has long held a professorship at Oxford and possesses a private library renowned throughout London.” He had no children—his wife had died some years earlier—and had since devoted himself to the advancement of youth education in the capital.
“For boys?” Elizabeth’s curiosity was genuine.
