Dinner that evening was a considerably less cheerful affair than the Hursts had anticipated. Candles flickered along the length of the table, throwing uncertain shadows over the silver and porcelain. Mr. Hurst, already more interested in the contents of his plate than the conversation, was the first to break the silence.“Pass the claret, Bingley, will you? This mutton is desperately in want of it.”
Bingley obliged, though rather absently, and glanced at Darcy. Darcy had barely touched his food, his brow drawn, his lips pressed into a thin, uncommunicative line. Miss Bingley, her eyes bright with a mixture of anticipation and something rather more calculating, was quick to seize the opportunity.
“Mr. Darcy,” she began, her voice taking on a tone of some delicacy, “I wonder if you have seen yesterday’sPost? There is such a—well, I hardly know what to call it—an unfortunate item concerning a certain young lady of our acquaintance.”
Darcy did not raise his eyes from his plate. “I do not make a habit of reading such things,” he said, his voice cold and distant.
“Oh! But you must allow me to tell you,” Miss Bingley persisted, feigning reluctance even as she pressed forward, “that it concerns none other than Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I daresay you will be as shocked as I was—though perhaps not as surprised, for she has always had a way of attracting notice, has she not?”
There was an uncomfortable shifting of chairs. Mrs. Hurst, who had read the news with avid interest over her chocolate, gave a little sigh of pleasure at the prospect of renewed gossip. Mr. Hurst, on the other hand, merely grunted and returned to his dinner.
“What is it you mean to say, Caroline?” Bingley asked, his tone sharper than usual. “If you have something to communicate, I wish you would do so plainly.”
Miss Bingley’s smile grew a shade more self-satisfied. “I am so sorry to distress you, my dear brother, but it is in all the papers. It seems Miss Elizabeth has been rather free with her favours, though I cannot imagine it myself—with a Frenchman, it is said.”
“And the paper, did it name Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy said, finally looking up, his eyes burning with a quiet fury. “I think not. This is precisely why I despise the newspapers. They print initials, and leave it to the prurient minds of society matrons to draw their own conclusions.”
Miss Bingley was not to be dissuaded. “But surely you must admit, Mr. Darcy, that such conduct is—well, at least unfortunate, likely scandalous in the extreme. One cannot help but wonder what her family must be thinking. Or perhaps they do not think at all.”
Bingley’s face flushed. “I beg you will not speak so of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s family, Caroline. You forget that I am courting her sister.”
There was a silence at this, the kind of silence that seems to thicken the air itself. Miss Bingley’s expression faltered, but only for a moment. “Of course, Charles. But it is precisely because you are to be so intimately connected with them that I must speak. One cannot be too careful of one’s associations.”
Mrs. Hurst, emboldened by her sister’s lead, added, “It really is most distressing. I had thought better of Miss Elizabeth. I think, Charles, that you should discontinue the acquaintance. At least until the matter resolves itself. As they say, where there is smoke, there must be fire.”
She and her sister sniggered. Finally, they had found a way to separate Charles from Jane Bennet, whose family had no connections; nothing to recommend them; indeed, their relations were vulgar—a country solicitor, an uncle in trade.
“That will do,” Darcy interrupted, his voice so low and controlled it became more menacing than any outburst. “Enough has been said. I will not sit here and listen to the character of a gentlewoman I respect be torn to pieces by idle speculation.”
“Respect?” Miss Bingley repeated, her tone tinged with disbelief. “I had not realised you held Miss Elizabeth in such high esteem, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I have always found Miss Elizabeth to be a person of the utmost integrity. I do not believe she would act in any way that was truly improper. If the Morning Post wishes to sell more copies by slandering her name, that is their shame, not hers.”
Bingley, who had been twisting his napkin in his hands, looked up with a sudden fierceness. “And I refuse to believe anything against Jane’s sister. I know their family, and I know Elizabeth. There must be some mistake, or else—”
“Or else what, Charles?” Mrs. Hurst prompted, her tone both curious and mocking.
“Or else,” Bingley said, his voice trembling, “there are people in this room who take pleasure in destroying the happiness of others. I will not listen to it.”
Darcy nodded, his expression softening for the first time that evening. “You are right, Bingley. We do ourselves no favours by entertaining such talk.”
Miss Bingley, seeing her opportunity slipping away, made a final effort. “But, Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny that appearances are important. Can Miss Elizabeth be blameless? The allegations are very specific. You must think of your own reputation.”
Darcy’s reply was swift and unequivocal. “I have long since ceased to care what the world thinks, Miss Bingley, when it comes to matters of principle. If I were to value the opinions of every gossip and scandalmonger, I should never act at all.”
He looked down the table, his voice so cold and menacing that even Hurst felt the chill. “The Earls Matlock and Wellington have issued a statement—which will be printed in The Times tomorrow—giving their unequivocal support to the Bennets. Miss Lydia is a woman of exceptional character; Don Mateo,together with Lord Wellington, fights to liberate Spain from the tyranny of Napoleon’s spineless brother, Joseph; Miss Elizabeth is to be welcomed into Lady Matlock’s home as a dear friend—nay, as a daughter, just as my sister Georgiana is welcomed into the family.”
Darcy stood. “My apologies, Mrs. Hurst. You set a fine table, but I fear something has upset me; perhaps I do not have the stomach for such rich conversation. Bingley, mayhap we can meet at the club—Thursday would suit. Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, Mr. Hurst, good night to you.”
* * *
Chapter 20
London
Elizabeth settled for another desolate day. Oh, the children were all that were agreeable, and she could pour all her love and care into them, for they, at least, did not care for ruined reputations. Her aunt and uncle were everything kind, but there was little they could do to cheer their niece, and Elizabeth worried that her being in their home would reflect badly upon them as well. It was in this state of melancholy that a large carriage drew up outside the house; neither the carriage nor the livery of the servant who preceded it and rapped imperiously on the door were familiar to them.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh was shown into the parlour. Just before, Mrs. Gardiner had been called away to the nursery, and it fell to Elizabeth to welcome their visitor. The lady entered the room with an air more than unusually ungracious, making no reply to Elizabeth’s salutation other than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word.
