“Miss Duntze.” Wickham bowed with elaborate courtesy. “We have not been introduced, but I believe I recognize a kindred spirit. You have the look of someone who reads more than is strictly advisable.”
Prue flushed with pleasure. “I confess to being an incorrigible reader, sir. Though I was not aware it showed on my face.”
“It shows in your remarkable eyes. The slightly unfocused quality of someone who is imagining a better world than the one before them.” Wickham smiled. “George Wickham, at your service. I am told we are to be dinner companions.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a most unhelpful lurch. The seating arrangement—she had consigned Prue to the safety of the Colonel and his wife. But there was no time for rescue; Mrs. Reynolds had appeared in the doorway with the signal to proceed to the dining room.
Darcy, as the host, escorted Countess Apethorpe, as the guest of honor, and Elizabeth would enter last on the arm of Earl Apethorpe. She had designated the seating with the aid of bothDebrettsand Mrs. Reynolds, but the guests sorted themselves, each gentleman offering his arm to the appropriate lady, each lady accepting with the appropriate grace.
All except Wickham.
“I fear I have created an awkwardness.” His voice was smooth, apologetic, pitched to carry just far enough. “My presence has made thirteen at table—most unfortunate. Perhaps I ought to have dined in my room after all.”
“Nonsense,” Georgiana said, clutching his arm tightly. “You are family, and you belong here.”
“Then I shall be glad to be of service.” He bowed with a flourish. “Miss Duntze, I find myself unexpectedly blessed with two arms and only one sister claiming possession. Might I have the honor?”
Prue’s eyes widened. She glanced at her mother—Mrs. Duntze’s face had gone rigid with disapproval—then at Elizabeth, who could do nothing but watch, and then back at Wickham, whose smile promised adventure and attention and all the things a rector’s daughter rarely received.
“I… yes. Why, thank you, Mr. Wickham.”
She took his arm, Georgiana giggling with delight. And the three of them processed toward the dining room, Wickham in the center with a lady on each side, as though he were royalty and they his court.
Lady Matlock looked back at Elizabeth as she passed on her husband’s arm with an expression that required no translation. Elizabeth did not dare look at Darcy, who was at the head of the table, already seated with Lady Apethorpe, and indeed, there was nothing to be done. She took the earl’s arm and followed her guests into the dining room.
Mrs. Reynolds had arranged the table beautifully—the silver epergne rising from its center like a frozen fountain, laden with hothouse fruits and trailing greenery. Candlelight danced in their holders, casting warm light across the white linen and the fine Darcy china. Everything was perfect, immaculate, and exactly as it should be.
Everything, that is, except the man who had seated himself between Georgiana and Prue, directly in Elizabeth’s line of sight, his smile gleaming as brightly as the silver at his elbow.
The epergne shielded Mrs. Duntze from any view of her daughter, who sat entranced by one of Wickham’s more improbable tales—the curricle race from London to Brighton he had nearly entered, had not duty intervened at the last. Andthen, he turned to another story, of the faro game in which he claimed to have won a first edition ofSense and Sensibilityfrom the authoress herself, modestly disguised as “A Lady.”
Elizabeth snorted at the pretension and turned her attention to Lady Cathcart, who had miraculously recovered from her spell requiring the retiring room. “Mrs. Darcy, I must compliment you on the table arrangements. The epergne is particularly fine.”
“It has been at Pemberley for many years,” Elizabeth said, careful not to claim knowledge she did not possess. “I believe Mrs. Reynolds could speak to its history better than I.”
“Modesty becomes you,” Lady Matlock observed, “though I confess myself curious. One hears such conflicting reports of the new Mrs. Darcy. Some say she is all wit and opinions; others paint her as a country mouse overwhelmed by her circumstances. Which are we to believe?”
Elizabeth met her gaze steadily. “I hope you will form your own conclusions, Lady Matlock. I have found that reports rarely capture the complexity of any person.”
“Indeed.” The Countess’s lips curved. “A diplomatic answer. You have learned discretion, at least.”
The first course arrived—white soup and turbot—and conversation began to flow around the table. Elizabeth attended to Earl Apethorpe on her right, asking after their journey, their impressions of the Lakes, and their plans for the winter. He answered with the measured courtesy of a man who had learned to say little while appearing to say much.
From the far end of the table, Lady Apethorpe’s voice rose in animated conversation with Darcy.
“—absolutely leaped upon the settee, I tell you! The dog came bounding in, the child shrieking with delight, and there was your wife on her knees in the carpet attempting to restore order. I have never seen anything so?—”
“Extraordinary?” Darcy supplied, and there was something in his voice—warmth, perhaps, or rueful affection—that made Elizabeth’s heart catch.
“Yes, and maternal,” Lady Apethorpe added. “She ruined her dress without a moment’s hesitation. My daughter would never have—” She stopped, the shadow of old grief crossing her face. “Well. It was most impressive.”
“Miss Duntze.” Wickham’s voice drew Elizabeth’s attention like a compass needle to north. He was leaning toward Prue, his manner intimate without being improper, his smile suggesting shared secrets. “I understand you are something of a literary enthusiast. Tell me—have you read Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest? I confess I found it somewhat overwrought, but I am curious to hear a more refined opinion.”
Prue’s cheeks flushed with pleasure at being consulted. “I prefer this anonymous lady’s work and would love to see your first edition. Her observations on society are so wickedly precise, though I confess I have been reading Lady Renwick’s novels of late—are you familiar with her work?”
“Lady Renwick? I cannot say the name is familiar.” Wickham’s evasion was legendary.
“She wrote Gothic romances. Quite popular, I understand, though she has not published lately.” Prue’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “There are rumors she was actually a lady of quality, writing under a pseudonym. Can you imagine? A noblewoman, penning tales of haunted abbeys and mysterious monks?”
