Late that night, lying in bed, Elizabeth could not decide whether the figure beneath the moon had been real or part of a dream. Yet when she awoke the following morning, she knew it had indeed been Mr Kendall standing motionless in the garden.He, however, was not an important concern. Far more pressing were the events in the duchess’s parlour and her mother’s behaviour there.
Suddenly, Elizabeth saw the matter more clearly. She could not spend her life correcting every impropriety committed by her family. They must answer for their own conduct. She wished for a husband who would appreciate her family, whilst accepting them with their faults.
Chapter 19
She could hardly restrain herself from running down the stairs to the dining room as she usually did at Longbourn.
“Thank you!” she murmured to her uncle, who was already seated at the head of the table waiting for them. He was reading a journal, and as she entered, she was struck for a moment by how much he resembled her father, not only in appearance but also in expression, particularly when he saw her or her sisters, and his smile illuminated his face.
“So you spent some valuable time with the duchess yesterday evening?” he asked with good humour.
“Yes, I hope it is a good beginning.”
“Are you more assured, more relaxed?”
Elizabeth sighed and smiled. “Yes. I can finally see the world around me.”
The first person she noticed was Andrew Kendall, who helped her into her seat and asked how she had spent her morning. She blushed at his smile, which seemed to ask a different question altogether, one concerning a beautiful night and a sky illuminated from time to time by a magnificent moon. His voice was deep and melodious, and Elizabeth did notremember noticing it during the previous evening’s dinner. Her own concerns had occupied her too completely. She wondered whether she had appeared cold or indifferent.
To compensate for that former neglect, she invited him to sit beside her.
“You were very sad last evening, Miss Bennet,” he said, confirming her suspicion that she had not been an engaging companion. Yet again, his playful eyes seemed to speak of the balcony and the moonlit garden.
“I am sorry,” she replied sincerely.
“I know it cannot be easy to adapt to life here,” he said, gesturing discreetly towards the room, which represented not merely the house but their place in an unfamiliar society.
A spontaneous friendship arose in her heart. The previous night had enchanted her, but it was more than that. Unbidden, her memory returned to Mr Darcy at their first meeting. Much as she wished to forget it, the image remained vivid. How arrogant he had seemed, how conscious of his own importance beside the inhabitants of rural Hertfordshire. Mr Kendall and Mr Darcy occupied positions not entirely dissimilar, both being grandsons of noblemen, yet how differently they conducted themselves. Whilst Darcy had preserved his proud and prejudiced opinion of her family long after declaring his love, Andrew Kendall had been open and courteous from the beginning. Elizabeth suspected it was simply his nature to offer friendship and pleasant thoughts to those around him. Mr Darcy had eventually learned to enjoy her father’s company. However, that had happened chiefly because Uncle Thomas was such a commanding presence, and the two gentlemen resembled one another in many respects.
“Do the ladies require a companion today?” Andrew Kendall asked his grandmother eagerly.
“No, my dear, you may accompany Mr Bennet to his club. He has kindly agreed to introduce you.”
Despite her growing appreciation of the young gentleman, Elizabeth suspected that Uncle Thomas’s introduction consisted chiefly of paying his membership. Then she checked herself. She was determined to judge both men fairly and not favour one whilst finding fault with the other.
Yet she knew very little of Mr Kendall’s circumstances. He might be perfectly wealthy and have no need of her uncle’s assistance. Stealing a glance in his direction, she saw a handsome young man with a pleasant smile, speaking politely to her mother. The day before, she had scarcely paid him any attention. She had expected to meet a child, and her own worries had prevented her from observing him properly. He was younger than Darcy, nearer her own age than that of a settled gentleman. Though perfectly well-mannered, he seemed more approachable than most of the gentlemen she had met in London. There was an openness about him that immediately put people at ease. Yet she had also to remember that they were in her uncle’s house and not at Netherfield, though she found it difficult to imagine Andrew Kendall becoming conceited because of his grandfather’s title.
“And what do the ladies intend to do this morning?” he asked his grandmother, apparently more interested in their plans than in his introduction to a prestigious London club.
“Madame Clotilde is expecting us. She wishes to present her latest arrivals to these lovely young ladies.”
As none of them knew who Madame Clotilde was, the duchess explained with her usual grace.
“Madame Clotilde came from Paris some twenty years ago. She claims to be the widow of a comte who perished during the French disorder of 1789.”
Elizabeth concealed a smile behind her napkin. The duchess’s use of the word disorder to describe what the French called a revolution amused her, though apparently nobody else at the table shared her amusement.
“But it matters very little who she once was. What matters is who she is now, and she is the leader of fashion in London society.”
“What about your club, Uncle?” Elizabeth asked with great curiosity. She would gladly have exchanged ten visits to Madame Clotilde for a single opportunity to accompany the gentlemen.
“We must thank Mr Darcy, who introduced me to Brooks’s, at St James’s Street.”
Thomas was cautious when discussing such matters, as they were not entirely welcome subjects at the duchess’s table. He had already told them that the late duke had lost a considerable portion of his fortune at White’s, a club Henrietta would certainly have forbidden her grandson to frequent.
Elizabeth remembered her uncle’s stories very well, for she enjoyed them more than almost anything else. He had told them that those who frequented White’s were known as ‘the gamesters of White’s’, whilst Mr Jonathan Swift had once called the club ‘the bane of half the English nobility.’
“White’s is famous for its bow window on the ground floor, where Beau Brummell sits, influencing fashion and those admitted to the exclusive Almack’s.”
