“Ah, I have confounded you at last, Mrs. Elizabeth. I had thought that I had met my match. Please stand a moment. Come, let us look into that rather overlarge mirror, whose intrusion I reluctantly allow in my drawing room—many of my visitors spend so much time preening and viewing their own likeness that I can avoid the unpleasantness of conversing with them.”
“Ma’am, what do you wish me to see?”
“Yourself, Mrs. Elizabeth. You wear an elegant jade silk morning dress. I daresay there are few in society who could afford such fine cloth. Your cap is delightful, no doubt embroidered and trimmed with lace by your own hand; you possess chestnut curls framing a clear, unmarked, very pleasing countenance—and your eyes, so fine and intelligent, brightened by your dismay at my praise! Were I so inclined, I would be quitejealous, for while it is said I am handsome, I was never a beauty such as yourself.”
There was such a stillness in the room that Elizabeth could hear her heart beating against her chest. What dream was this? Was she to awaken in her bed at Longbourn, dragged to the altar to marry Collins? Such condescension from Lady Jersey she could scarce comprehend.
“Good. I can see you have come to terms with my proposal. I have settled for us to meet Thursday at ten o’clock, at Fleet Street, where we shall discuss the particulars of your sponsorship—certainly, as a gentlewoman, you will not be an employee. Perhaps, though it will annoy my male colleagues, as private secretary you should enjoy the same respect as my head clerk. Yes, that will do very well, indeed.
“Now, there are several ladies I wish you to meet. They should, by now, have completed their nuncheon and will shortly retire to the drawing room. Let me warn you, my dear, they hold themselves very high as they are also Patronesses of Almack’s: Lady Castlereagh, Lady Cowper, and Lady Sefton; Princess Esterhazy and Countess Lieven are not in Town.
“Excellent, I can see your courage rising to the occasion, Mrs. Elizabeth. While they are daunting ladies, I am sure your wit and vivacity will charm them.”
At that moment, the door opened once more, and the rustle of silk and the low hum of conversation drifted into the chamber. Lady Jersey rose with a motion both dignified and affectionate, extending her hand to Elizabeth.
“Come, Mrs. Elizabeth. Let us brave the lions’ den together.”
Elizabeth steadied herself, rising and smoothing her skirt with a self-consciousness that exposed her nervousness. As they crossed the threshold into the adjoining drawing room, the brilliance of the late noon sun filtered through tall windows,illuminating a tableau of elegant ladies, each distinct in dress and bearing. Conversation paused, eyes—some cool, some curious—turned upon the newcomers.
“Ladies,” Lady Jersey announced, her tone light but commanding, “may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, in Hertfordshire. Mrs. Elizabeth is lately arrived in Town and is, I assure you, possessed of both sense and spirit. You may be astonished by her youth. If she were merely a gentlewoman, I would speak ofMissBennet—but she is a lady who understands mercantile affairs. A rare gift.”
A delicate, appraising silence followed. Lady Castlereagh, tall and severe, inclined her head; Lady Cowper, with a lively air, offered a faint smile; Lady Sefton, plump and cheerful, graced Elizabeth with an encouraging nod. It was an assembly as formidable as any court. Elizabeth dipped a curtsey, conscious of the scrutiny but determined to comport herself with dignity.
“We are always pleased to meet new faces,” Lady Cowper said, her accent the purest London. “Mrs. Elizabeth, do you mean to remain long in Town?”
“I am uncertain, ma’am,” replied Elizabeth, careful to keep her tone unruffled. “I suspect my fate rests in the hands of Lady Jersey—though I trust she shall not lead me too far astray.”
A ripple of genuine laughter passed among the ladies. Lady Sefton beamed. “You are fortunate in your patroness. Lady Jersey’s protégées never want for adventure—nor, it is said, for invitations.”
Lady Castlereagh’s eyes narrowed, not unkindly. “Longbourn, you say? I do not recall the name among our acquaintance.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It is a small estate, ma’am, and its reputation has not yet travelled beyond Hertfordshire—except, perhaps, on the wings of rumour.”
“Fama, malum qua non aliud velocius ullum,” Lady Cowper muttered, her eyes twinkling. “But I daresay you shall find London society a curious beast. It admires novelty, so long as it does not threaten its order.”
“Rumour, than which no other evil is faster,”said Elizabeth, gaining a surprised look of acknowledgement from Lady Cowper. “But there is little evil in Meryton, save, perhaps, too much sugar dusting the pastries in the tea shop.”
Lady Jersey placed a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Mrs. Elizabeth is to assist me at Child & Co. and accompany me in society. I trust you will all make her welcome—for my sake, if not for her own.”
Elizabeth, feeling the tension ebb, allowed herself a breath. These were women of power, yes, but also of humour and perception. She sensed, not for the first time, that her life was on the verge of tumbling into a new and unexpected chapter.
“If I may,” Elizabeth ventured, “I hope, in time, to acquit myself in such company as well as my patroness imagines. At the very least, I shall strive not to disgrace her—nor, I hope, myself.”
Lady Jersey laughed aloud, her mirth infectious. “Well said! And now, ladies, let us have our tea. Mrs. Elizabeth, you shall pour, for I am quite certain your hand will not tremble.”
* * *
Chapter 4
Meryton, September 1812
The carriage rolled onto a gravel drive that stretched across the entire front of the manor. It formed a broad arc, part of a large circular sweep that enclosed a neatly kept lawn and edged a modest lake. Rapping on the roof, he brought the chaise to a halt, wanting to take in the full view of the house. Though the main building was certainly post-Restoration, its recent renovations were in a much later style. The façade’s symmetry was heightened by four curved Flemish gables framing the attic windows, with additional gables accenting the western wing. Tall, graceful brick chimneys—likely designed a century and a half ago—rose above the roofline. To the west lay a formal garden; a lily pond divided the space neatly in two, both sections bordered by yew hedges.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was well content with the view. Certainly, Netherfield, the estate leased by his friend Charles Bingley, held a pleasant aspect: the extensive grounds—by his estimate—of about fifteen acres, and a much larger landscape park and wilderness of some hundred and fifty acres, suitable for slow rambles and relaxing in the Hertfordshire air.
“Darcy!” cried Bingley, as the carriage came to a halt before the portico. “You are earlier than I expected, for we are about to take nuncheon.”
“My eagerness to leave London was aided by the easy roads. The turnpike to St. Albans was particularly in fine condition.” Darcy was shown into a wide hall, paved with stone flags andpanelled in oak—though the walls were dark, the space was well illuminated by two tall windows which stood on either side of the door. A wide fireplace was opposite, the fire laid in the grate but currently unlit, the house warmed by the afternoon sun shining through the south-facing windows. They entered a well proportioned parlour or morning room overlooking the drive, itself pleasantly sunlit.
