“They were extraordinary,” I said, and was appalled to hear the truth in my voice, bare and unprotected.
“I thought you would see it so,” he said, quietly enough that Jane, already at the door, could not have heard. As I walked into the house, I thought of Selene’s horses—hauled from their own bright sky to strain forever against a broken stone in a borrowed gallery, beautiful and entirely out of place. I had carried my certainty about Mr. Darcy a great distance, and somewhere on the road it had come loose from the setting that once gave it sense. Whether it was the lovelier for the displacement or only the harder to look upon, I could not yet say.
Most inconvenient, to be moved by marble.
CHAPTER SIX
MELTING FORTRESSES
Elizabeth
The morningof this particular Thursday weighed tedious on me. Mr. Bingley had requested leave to call upon Jane, and Uncle Gardiner had obliged. It was a simple matter of preparation and endless waiting. It was not a matter of changing my outfit three times before breakfast.
The weather, of course, was to blame—March in London is a fickle creature, and a woman of sense must be prepared for any fluctuation. The yellow was too bright; the gray, too drab. The white muslin with the light-green sash was entirely appropriate: spring-like, without being bold.
I sat at the dressing-table, subjecting my reflection to the critical scrutiny I usually reserved for others. My hair refused to lie flat. My complexion—that feature I considered my best by default—looked blotchy, as if it knew a secret I refused to acknowledge. I pinched my cheeks, decided the effect was disastrous, and left my hair to its own devices. I was not the sort of woman to fuss over her appearance for a sister’s courtshipcall, particularly when Mrs. Gardiner stood ready to act as chaperone.
Whether Mr. Darcy would accompany his friend was a different matter entirely.
He had promised to step back at Burlington House. It was the proper course; a gentleman does not hover like a governess over another man’s courtship. I told myself he would have business elsewhere, or that he would have no reason to visit a Cheapside drawing room, even if his father’s tortoise did reside there.
I went downstairs to find Jane already seated at the breakfast table, composure smooth as cream, buttering her toast as if this Thursday were just another ordinary day at Gracechurch Street. She wore a peach muslin that brought out her complexion, and her hair was pinned with the pearl combs Mamma had given her on her twentieth birthday, and the light definitely played favorites with her.
“Do you suppose,” Jane asked, her knife hovering mid-swipe, “that Mr. Darcy shall find it necessary to inquire after Sir Bertram this morning?”
I picked up my tea, determined to betray nothing. “He is a man of singular duty. If he deems the tortoise in need of supervision, he shall appear. I suppose nothing else.”
“He is coming,” Samuel announced, having successfully crawled under the table to inspect my slippers. “He told Alice he would bring a treat that is not a strawberry. Maybe beetles.”
“He is not,” Alice corrected from the sideboard, where she was currently engaged in a heated dispute with a bowl of porridge. “He is coming to see if Sir Bertram has learned to jump. I told him tortoises are physically incapable, but he insisted a proper inspection was required.”
“I want strawberries,” Thomas lisped, his face already smeared with jam.
“Thomas ate everything,” Rose complained. “Sir Bertram is quite hungry. I’m telling Mr. Darcy.”
I picked up the two-year-old and wiped his face. “Don’t tell me you ate Sir Bertram’s rations. I wonder, are you growing a shell?”
And then I tickled him until he giggled and squealed with joy.
“But I want some of the turtle’s food too,” Samuel complained. “Cousin Lizzy, can you drop some ham for Sir Bertram?”
“I’m afraid tortoises do not eat ham. He is a creature of refined, leafy sensibilities.”
“How about marmalade and toast?” Alice piped up. “I read in a book about a marmalade-eating tortoise.”
Mrs. Gardiner swept into the room, her gaze taking in the porridge-streaked children crawling underneath the table to gather food for the tortoise. “Nurse, the children require air. And perhaps a lesson in the difference between a reptile’s breakfast and a boy’s. Take them to the garden—and keep Sir Bertram away from Thomas until his hunger is more appropriately directed.”
As the children were whisked away in a flurry of protests and half-eaten crusts, Jane turned to me, her eyes dancing.
“You look very pretty, Lizzy. It seems that the tortoise is not the only one in this house waiting for Mr. Darcy.”
“I know not what you refer to.” I attempted to smear an appropriate amount of marmalade without destroying the crust. “He promised to step back. Mr. Bingley is perfectly capable of calling on you without his friend’s hovering.”
“True, but I suspect he might wish to hover over a more fitting sister?”
I was saved by Sarah appearing in the doorway. “Ma’am? Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy have called.”
“Already?” Mrs. Gardiner checked the mantel clock. “Well, we’d better repair to the drawing room. Sarah, please fetch tea.”
