She is exquisite, Darcy thought, as Elizabeth entered the principal room at Axton Hall.
She was accompanied by the Bingleys, and the two sisters caused an immediate stir as they curtseyed. Both were striking—one fair, the other dark; they bore a resemblance, but could not be mistaken for one another. Elizabeth’s elegance was such that Darcy nearly forgot the glass of brandy in his hand. She wore a delicate sapphire necklace, with matching bracelet and earrings—his aunt’s careful choice. She required little to appear distinguished.
It had been agreed that Bingley would present his wife and her sister to their acquaintances. Darcy remained at a slight distance, following them with an ardent gaze, while what he valued most stood exposed to the eager curiosity of the room. He felt both jealous and uneasy.
Lady Axton came to stand beside him, and together they watched her.
“You were right,” she said quietly. “At last—you were right.” She alone knew the whole truth, for, though discretion itself, she would never have forgiven him had she not been thefirst in London to hear of his misfortune, immediately after his family.
The day following his arrival in London, Darcy had waited upon her, bringing with him several gifts. Knowing her fondness for miniatures, he had selected a set of jade figurines from China, which had drawn from her the exclamation:
“You are a dreadful young man! You know perfectly well that I would do anything for you—without attempting to secure my favour in so…charming a manner.”
He had kissed her hand and briefly explained Anne’s departure. Lady Axton had been so taken aback that, for a moment, she could not speak.
Then she had taken his hands with unexpected warmth. “Do not concern yourself. No scandal survives more than a month or two, and in your case, it will not venture beyond quiet talk. And you also have Lady Matlock on your side.”
Once the story passed through Lady Axton, society responded with caution. She had already resolved that London must show him consideration—and, in time, assist him in forming a new attachment.
Now, on that Wednesday evening, she said, “It appears you have already found your future wife.”
“Yes, my lady, I have.”
“Then we must ensure she becomes the most talked-of young lady in London.”
“Not too talked-of, I hope.”
Lady Axton smiled at his tone. “Only as much as is necessary—and welcomed everywhere before she becomes your wife.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“I hear Lady Catherine has suffered a stroke,” she added, still watching Elizabeth.
“Unfortunately, she bore the news of Anne’s conduct very poorly. The physicians hold out little hope.”
“I am sorry for it. She was not the best of mothers, but no one deserves such an end.”
Still, her attention soon returned to Elizabeth, who moved with ease, smiling, curtseying, and now and then casting a glance in their direction.
For a brief moment, Lady Axton recalled her own entrance into society, five-and-twenty years before, when her fate had been decided in a ballroom much like this. But this young woman, she thought, would conquer London far more swiftly. She had loved her husband, who had given her every comfort, but passion had never been hers, and the girl before her possessed it entirely.
When Darcy at last approached Elizabeth, he made no attempt to conceal his admiration for her beauty and grace. That evening, he was observed by all, and, for once, he did not mind. On the contrary, he wished them to see how much she occupied his attention.
When Elizabeth accepted two dances with him—a cotillion followed by a Scotch reel—it was evident that she received his attentions with favour. Barely two months after his misfortune, society began to observe Darcy’s inclination towards Miss Bennet with interest and approval.
“It is always so,” Lady Axton remarked to those gathered near her. “It takes but a moment for light to return to the world.”
Elizabeth’s dance card was soon filled, a circumstance which led Darcy to say, with undisguised concern, “I shall have much to endure in the coming months, with so many men about you.”
They were dancing, and his attention strayed constantly to those who watched her.
“You should look at me,” Elizabeth said, smiling.
“I cannot. I must observe those who take such liberties.”
“You are jealous?”
“Of course. And the worst of it is that I cannot be alone with you. I am quite undone. When do you suppose we shall go to Pemberley? Have you spoken to your parents—and to Mrs Gardiner?”
