Page 24 of Affectations of Candour

“Hannah, have you never wondered why Heiress Tottle looks at you so malevolently and hisses every time you get too close to her?”

“No. I cannot begin to imagine what goes on in that creature’s tiny brain, nor why she dislikes me so.” Her blue eyes shifted from her sister back to Miss Elizabeth. “But I do know that I do not like every person I meet, either.”

“Miss Wright, may I have your valued opinion on something?” At the lady’s regal nod, Miss Elizabeth continued. “Do you suppose it wise for a person to take a decided dislike to someone she has just met? In my experience, first impressions are not always dependable.” She looked then directly at Darcy, and there was something in her words and in her contrite expression which his comprehension could not grasp.

Miss Wright unfolded her fan and waved it about. “Whatever a person loves or loathes is simply random choice or personal whim, is it not? Some people, Miss Bennet, simply do not like cats.”

“Therein lies the rub. Persecution of cats in the Middle Ages enabled rat and flea populations to flourish.” Miss Elizabeth scratched beneath Heiress Tottle’s chin, and a purr could be clearly heard across the room. “And we all know the result of that error of judgment, do we not?”

“That theory is debatable, Miss Bennet.” Darcy smiled in an attempt to abate the friction between the ladies.

In an apparently similar endeavour, Miss Hughes asked that any debate on the Black Death’s origins be deferred. She then held up a pocket-sized book with a floral cover. “Since we are all such intimate friends here”—a pointed look was directed at Miss Wright—“please allow me to explain these ‘friendship books’ that Miss Bennet and I have brought.”

Having sat through the explanation, Miss Margaret was the first to make quick entries in the two books. “Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I have made other arrangements.” With a bobbed curtsey and muslin skirts swishing, she left the sitting room.

Georgiana and the remaining two Miss Wrights then spent half an hour labouring over the pages within Miss Elizabeth’s and Miss Hughes’s books, filling them with Darcy knew not what. At university, he had been familiar with what was known as an album amicorum, though he never owned one himself. When requested for an entry by fellow students with whom he was acquainted, he merely conveyed his best wishes for the future and signed his name. Would the ladies expect him to add entries in their books?

Afterwards, through a window, Darcy spotted the middle Wright daughter, in her riding habit, striding towards the stable. It was blindingly clear that she found the company of horses preferable to that of people, which, to him, was completely understandable, at least in certain circumstances. And he found himself wishing that Miss Wright might feel the same and decide to join her younger sister.

It was not the most auspicious thought to have about the lady he was supposed to be considering as his bride, but the woman no longer held any attraction at all. His disapproval of her general behaviour was sharpening into resentment, and in his esteem she had steadily lost ground.

And I thought a complete summer in Miss Wright’s company would be sufficient to make up my mind about marrying her. Hah! It has taken a mere fraction of that time for her to quash any possibility of that ever happening. To know the woman is to abhor the thought of becoming more intimately acquainted with her. Any respect or admiration he once had for her was being supplanted by that for another lady, one who, in every particular, shared neither attributes nor features with the auburn-haired beauty.

Miss Elizabeth was rapidly becoming his greatest possibility of happiness and the height of his ambition. In comparison, what he had felt for Miss Wright was—he smiled to himself, recalling words spoken at Netherfield—only a slight, thin sort of inclination.

He could not, however, send Miss Wright packing straightaway. He would speak to Mr Wright first, then gently explain the situation to the gentleman’s eldest daughter. Surely she would understand.

As for his Elizabeth, he could no more think of her as ‘Miss’. He wanted to think of her as Mrs Darcy. There was no longer any question in Darcy’s mind regarding her suitability as his wife. And, of course, there is no question of her reception of my future addresses.

“Brother,” said Georgiana, rousing him from his reverie, “we have made entries in Miss Hughes’s and Miss Bennet’s friendship books and are ready to repair to the lawn for battledore and shuttlecock. You agreed to attend and told me that you had a suggestion to make the activity a little more interesting.”

The instant they all had risen from their seats, Miss Wright rushed towards Darcy, entwining her arm with his. “I am so looking forward to this silly game that I can scarcely contain myself.” Behind her delicate fan of ivory, mother-of-pearl, and silk, she appeared to be stifling a yawn.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Somewhere inside Fitzwilliam Darcy on that idyllic summer afternoon there dwelt a spoilt, petulant little boy who cried out to be set free from the captivity of duty and obligation, even for another hour or two. The boy would fling down the pen, crumple up the tally sheet, toss off his hat, and struggle to remove his restraining coat and cravat. After unfastening the button at his neck and rolling up his sleeves, young and carefree, he would race across the lawn to join the game.

“You have been caught wool-gathering, Mr Darcy.” Sitting at the table beside him, Miss Wright leant in. “Your team has had a run of five or more consecutive hits which you have not yet recorded. Were I not such an honest person, I might not have mentioned it, for Miss Hughes and my bookish sister have had to start anew. Did you not notice what just occurred before your very eyes? How could you not have heard the shouts and cries of dismay?”

No, he had not recorded the latest tally. Yes, he had been aware of a commotion, but the young ladies had been cheerfully vocal from the onset of the game. Unhappily aware that he was about to prevaricate, Darcy said, “My apologies. A pressing matter has been occupying my mind.” Not one to wallow in self-pity, he figuratively rolled down his sleeves and pushed the poor little rich boy back into the box. “What have I missed?”

Tapping her pen upon the table, Miss Wright heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Miss Hughes missed a shot, and before you could say Jack Robinson, that wicked cat slinked in, jumped into the air, caught their falling shuttlecock in its claws, then bolted away with the prized bird clutched in its nasty little mouth. That creature is an absolute annoyance. And that dog and its deep, intimidating bark! Rector keeps lumbering round between your poor sister and her partner, and I fear Miss Darcy is in danger of being tripped by him. Both animals should have been banished to the stable.”

“Georgiana’s dog, whose name is Hector not Rector, is protective of her.”

Miss Althea came over to the table. “We need a new shuttlecock.” After taking one of the spare projectiles created from chicken feathers pushed into a ball of cork, she turned on her heel.

Customarily the game of battledore and shuttlecock was more about cooperation than competition, but it had been Darcy’s bright idea to make it more interesting by dividing the four young ladies into two teams. Instead of pitting Strandsmere Park against Cliff House, he had partnered Miss Hughes with Miss Althea and Georgiana with Elizabeth, each pair attempting to keep their shuttlecock in the air the longest. Seeing the latter two laughing together and playing with graceful finesse gave him considerable pleasure but fanciful visions of the future.

Turning his attention more fully to the game again, he offered encouragement to the players, often smiling despite Miss Wright’s repeated attempts to distract him from feasting his eyes upon Elizabeth.

“The dear girl plays with such impressive delicacy and skill, does she not, Mr Darcy? I mean, of course, your sister. Her partner has not the same sort of refined, genteel manner. Miss Bennet’s mode is more an energetic, enthusiastic confidence.”

“Perhaps.” Darcy marked on his paper another five consecutive hits for his team. “However, I should think that in such a sport, energy and enthusiasm would triumph over delicacy. Should you not be recording your own team’s latest tally?”

In an apparent sulk, Miss Wright made a series of scratches on her sheet, but her pencil slid across the paper and made an ugly mark when Darcy suddenly stood and called out, “Bravo, Miss Althea! What an achievement! Truly a feather in your cap, or rather Miss Hughes’s.” For Miss Wright’s benefit, he gestured at Miss Hughes’s bonnet wherein her team’s shuttlecock had become lodged.

“Oh dear!” Laughing and reaching up, Miss Hughes retrieved the bird. “How feather-headed I am!”