Page 33 of Mr Darcy Bets on Love

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"She said," Elizabeth reported, "just so. And then something that was very nearly a smile. I think I have made a conquest."

It was past eleven. Richard had gone back to his regiment that morning, leaving behind him an empty larder and a household in fits of laughter. Georgiana had gone up. The two of them were alone in the green room, with the fire made up and the door between their bedrooms standing open, and Elizabeth was sitting on the hearthrug in her nightgown and a shawl, with her back against his knees, brushing out her hair.

Darcy had taken the brush from her some minutes ago, and was doing it himself. He found it an unaccountably soothing occupation.

"A conquest of my aunt Matlock," he said, "in one call. It took my uncle two years, and he married her."

"I did not say a complete conquest. A small one. A skirmish." She tipped her head back against his knee and looked up at him, upside down. "She is angry with you, you know. Not with me. For not telling them sooner."

"I told them the moment you said yes."

"I know. But she wished you had asked them first, before you asked me." Elizabeth paused. "I think she is hurt, Fitzwilliam. Underneath the ice. I think she is fond of you, and felt shut out."

Darcy was silent, drawing the brush slowly through the long dark weight of her hair. He had not thought of it like that. He had thought of his aunt's hopes and his uncle's plans as obstacles to be got round, like a fallen tree in a road. It had not occurred to him that there might be feeling behind them.

It was the kind of thing Elizabeth saw that he did not. He was beginning to understand that there were a great many of them.

"I will go and see her," he said at last. "Alone. This week."

"Good." She closed her eyes and leant into the brush like a cat. "And Lady Theodosia was so kind. She stayed with me the whole time, and smoothed everything over whenever your aunt looked at me as though I had tracked mud on the carpet. She even told your aunt I played the pianoforte beautifully."

Darcy's hand paused. "You do not."

"I know I do not. I have never played for her in my life. I cannot think where she heard it." Elizabeth laughed. "Georgiana, I suppose, being loyal. Everybody hears everything from Georgiana, it seems. Lady Theodosia knew all about our being snowed in at Whetstone, too."

He frowned slightly. "Did she?"

"Mm. Is it not strange how things get about in London? It was the same in Meryton, but there everyone knew everyone. Here I have met perhaps six people, and already my wedding night seems to be common knowledge." She opened her eyes, and saw his face, and laughed again. "Not that part, you absurd man. Only the snow."

He smiled, and went on brushing, and the small frown went away. It was a trifle. Georgiana did chatter, now, to people she trusted; it was one of the best things that had happened this winter. He would not wish her silent again for the world.

"Oh," said Elizabeth, "and she sent a present. It came at six. It is on my desk."

He looked. On the writing desk by the window, beside the little brown Donne, lay a handsome new book bound in red morocco, with a card tucked into its cover. He reached over and took it and read the title aloud.

"The Mirror of Graces: or, the English Lady's Costume. With Useful Advice on Female Accomplishments, Politeness and Manners." He turned it over. "By a Lady of Distinction."

"There is a whole chapter," said Elizabeth solemnly, "on the correct way to enter a drawing room without appearing either bold or countrified. With illustrations."

He looked at her. She looked at him, upside down, with her lips pressed tightly together. Then they both gave way at once, and laughed until she had to sit up and wipe her eyes on the corner of her shawl.

"It was kindly meant," she gasped at last. "I am quite sure it was kindly meant. She is only trying to help."

"I am sure she is."

"I shall write and thank her in the morning. Very warmly." Elizabeth took the book from him and looked at the card, and her smile softened. "For my new friend, with every wish for her success. T.R. You see? She means well."

She put the book on the desk, on top of the Donne, and came back to the hearthrug, and to him, and did not think about it again.

Darcy, putting out the candles an hour later, moved the red book a little to one side, so that the small brown one lay uncovered on the blotter where the morning light would find it first. He could not have said why he did it. It was the sort of foolish, private thing a man does when he is in love.

Then he went through the open door to bed.

Chapter 10: The Paragraph

Darcy House. Tuesday, 17th March 1812