“Ah! Then there is another area where we are unalike. I am neither crude, nor inclined to flatter fools.”
“Not crude! You were the one who began this topic, madam! You are not a flatterer, that much is certain, but as for guarding your tongue…!”
“Guarded or not, my tongue refuses to speak ofthosewomen, sir. I am no prude, I simply dislike sounding ignorant, and so it shall not obey. If we see any need to return to the subject I shall bow to your vast experience.”
“I did not say that I…!”
“Oh, that’s right. You said only that you know ‘many women’ who speak crassly, and who require you to be discreet. I am ignorant, sir, but I am not a child. I know to whom you refer.”
“But I only mentioned them because you said…! Oh, dash it.” Fitzwilliam grumbled into his wine glass. The tang of alcohol surprised him out of his sulk, and he took a slow sip. Between that shock and the unfamiliar feeling of being both exposed and ridiculed, he burst out laughing.
It drew the attention of the whole table. Everyone else had been sitting in stilted silence, watching the servants bringing the plates around. Fitzwilliam gave them all a cheerful nod and raised his glass in a toast. He was supposed to be oblivious, was he not? Well then, he would break the ice.
Break, he thought with a thrum of unease, was exactly the right word. It felt as if the world was ready to shatter around them.
Chapter 63
“May I enquire after your journey, Mrs. Bennet?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, smiling jovially, “Summer is a fine time to travel, is it not?”
Mrs. Bennet opened her mouth to answer, but Mr. Collins got there first.
“On horseback, perhaps, it is pleasant enough. Carriages, one finds, are both hot and humid at this time of year.”
“I suppose that depends upon the carriage, and the company within it.” Fitzwilliam tried to lighten the tone, with a charming nod at Mrs. Bennet, who blushed. Mr. Collins scowled.
“It does indeed, sir. It does indeed! It was unfortunate that none of Pemberley’s fine carriages were made available to us. We were forced to spend most of our journey on the post.”
Mr. Darcy looked up, his eyes sharp, his voice impeccably polite:
“Had we known you were coming then of course we would have made more comfortable arrangements. If you insist upon surprising us, sir, then we are not to blame for the shortcomings in your own plans.”
Fitzwilliam hid a smile. Darcy was a pompous ass at times - a trait he used to great effect around his long-suffering cousin -and it was wonderful to see his ire aimed at somebody else for once.
Mrs. Bennet had also been watching the riposte. She could clearly find no sensible way to enter to fray and had nothing to offer the conversation but a scowl. Mr. Darcy’s barbed reference to their rude intrusion had made her ears go pink. They clashed with the scarlet ribbon that ran through her mop cap.
Mary had told Fitzwilliam that her mother was more cunning than intelligent, and that it was only her unstoppable energy which made her schemes effective. She had compared Mrs. Bennet to an old mutt barking endlessly at a banging gate.
Without Mr. Collins, Mary explained, her mother’s ideas were ridiculous and easy to dismiss. The woman grew bored quickly, or frustrated with the smallest delays, and gave up most ploys with the same thoughtless haste that she had constructed them. She was only persistent when pressed by another party - in this case, Mr. Collins. Before his arrival her daughters had held the honour of her undivided energy. Now, it was the entail. She obliged Mr. Collins’s every whim with slavish devotion.
Collins wanted Jane. His gaze lingered on her constantly, beady and cold in the candlelight. Mary had been correct in that matter, too: the man of God did not look at Miss Bennet’s face. His hollow eyes raked down her body with lazy, possessive hunger. Whenever she looked back, he gave her a lascivious smirk that made her shiver.
“Miss Bennet, do you feel a chill?” Bingley piped up. He beckoned to a footman, “Please bring Miss Bennet her warmest shawl. We cannot have her falling ill.”
“It is sweltering in here. Miss Bennet cannot have need of ashawl.” Mr. Collins objected, seeing through the ploy at once. How could he miss it? Bingley was a terrible actor.
“Perhaps we are sitting in a draught, sir.” Bingley replied, not bothering to sound convincing. “There is certainly something chilling in the air.”
The shawl was delivered, and Bingley made a great show of standing up and wrapping it around Jane’s shoulders. Nobody could miss the protective, warning glint in his eyes, nor mistake the sweetness in Jane’s grateful smile. She went pink very quickly, since the room was indeed very warm, but with her body concealed she began to relax.
Mrs. Bennet finally found her voice. She smiled winsomely at Bingley, who seemed simple-minded and easy to impress. “I believe we have met before, Mr. …?”
“Bingley, ma’am. We were introduced at the Meryton Ball, in the Assembly Rooms.”
“Yes, that was it. I recall that night well, for that was the same ball where we met Mr. Darcy. It is not every day that you are introduced to your son-in-law! He married my daughter just a few weeks later, you know. The banns barely had time to be read! What do you think of that, Mr. Bingley?”
“Of the marriage, madam?”
“Of its expedience.”
