Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T he night of the dinner party had arrived. The guests were being ushered into the drawing room, the officers in full-dress uniform. The ladies, though slightly outnumbered, appeared in evening gowns.

Darcy hurried to the drawing room, adjusting his neckcloth, uncomfortable at being late to a dinner in his own home, even though Georgiana and Fielding were the official hosts. His afternoon meetings had run late, and he was so close to completing his business and leaving for Pemberley that he had not wanted to postpone the appointment. He had rushed home, and Talbot had dressed him with celerity, but most of the guests had already arrived.

As he entered the drawing room, he recognised many of the same faces he had seen at the Barbary Inn, along with several ladies. Captain Leonard and Miss Warner, the guests of honour, had their backs to him while they spoke animatedly to another guest whom he could not see. He paused at the door for a moment, and just as he did, Leonard and his intended shifted slightly, and he saw their companion.

Time stilled. His heart stopped. All sound hushed and died away. The Earth itself stopped spinning on its axis. He could not believe his eyes. There, in his house, in his drawing room, only feet away from him, stood Elizabeth Bennet.

Darcy froze, unable even to blink. He could not move; his blood roared and fizzed in his veins. She was alive! She was alive and even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hair, what he could see of it, still fell in lustrous chestnut curls, her skin still glowed, her eyes still sparkled. He felt the lover's eye pendant against his chest. His feet wanted to move towards her, but his ever-cautious brain would not let them. How would he address her?

Not as Miss Bennet, nor his preferred Miss Elizabeth. She was wearing the merest wisp of a cap, a pert little nod to convention, nothing like those lacy monstrosities that her mother wore. Her plum-coloured silk gown was the height of elegance, simply and beautifully cut. She must be married, but to an officer, not a lowly sailor. Lady Hicks had exaggerated then, not categorically lied.

He moved his eyes about the room. Her husband must be here. Which one was he? Darcy did not want to like him, whoever he was. But enough ruminating. No matter what, he needed to speak to her. He moved towards her, as other people also moved to greet her. She must have just arrived.

Captain Leonard spotted him first. "Sir, do come and permit me to introduce you to one you have heard us speak of."

Darcy moved towards them, his eyes on Elizabeth. She looked up at him, smiling pleasantly, followed by a brief expression of puzzlement, then recognition.

"Why, Mr Darcy!" She curtseyed, then held out her hand. "It has been a very long time. I hope you are well, sir?"

"Mrs Bancroft, you are acquainted with Mr Darcy?" asked Captain Leonard in surprise.

"Yes, very briefly, several years ago. I would be surprised if you remember me, sir."

I could never forget you. He bowed over her hand. "Mrs Bancroft, it is very good to see you again. I am well, thank you. Is your family in good health?"

An odd little smile flitted over her face. "We are. I thank you for asking."

Darcy could feel the press of people around him, all of whom presumably wished to see Elizabeth, or rather, Mrs Bancroft. She was Mrs Bancroft , widow of the revered captain, much admired herself. Of course she would be.

"You have many friends who wish to greet you, Mrs Bancroft. I shall give way to them, and I hope we may be able to speak later on." She smiled her thanks as another officer stepped forwards.

Darcy hoped he would be seated next to her at dinner, but alas, he was not. He was near enough to see her and counted himself fortunate for that. She is here! He wondered belatedly whether Elizabeth knew that she was in his house and that her hostess was his sister.

After their meal, Georgiana led the ladies out. He should have taken great pleasure in the company of these men and the stories they shared. instead, he chafed at the bit, anxious to speak to Elizabeth.

He was perturbed by the momentary confusion on her face when she saw him, the lack of immediate recognition. Darcy felt a twinge of wounded pride. He remembered in detail his time in Hertfordshire those many years ago and everything she had said when he had assumed she was flirting with him, seeking his attentions. He had not been able to forget her.

But why would he believe she had thought of him at all? Their connexion was perhaps entirely in his own mind. He and his party had left Hertfordshire abruptly, with no proper farewells, and Bingley's sisters had rudely disposed of Miss Bennet in London. Shortly after that, Elizabeth would have been preoccupied with the disgraceful death of her sister and the ruin of her family. Then her uncle had somehow married the surviving sisters off? When had that happened? What was the sequence of events? He had so many questions, and he wondered whether he could ever bring himself to ask them, or whether she would not wish to speak of it to someone who was perhaps, to her, merely a former acquaintance from long ago.

Still, the evening was designed to honour Captain Leonard and Miss Warner, and Elizabeth was there because she was their friend, not his. Another time, if he could arrange it, would be better to see her.

When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Darcy stood a little apart from the others, watching Elizabeth as she spoke to her friends. She smiled and laughed, her affection and respect for those around her apparent.

He started a little to feel a gentle touch on his arm and looked down to see his sister looking at him quizzically.

"Mrs Bancroft is a pleasant lady, is she not, Brother?" Her tone was questioning. Georgiana had undoubtedly noticed him staring at Elizabeth.

He looked down at his little sister, biting his lip to prevent himself from breaking into a wide grin. "It is she, Georgiana. The widow Mrs Bancroft is the former Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

She gave a little gasp then squeezed his arm tightly. "Oh, Brother!"

The evening drew to a close, and Elizabeth offered her thanks and farewells to her hostess. As they stood chatting in the hall, Mr Darcy appeared next to Mrs Fielding with Elizabeth's own gossamer-light summer wrap over his arm. She looked at him with a question in her eyes.

"Mrs Bancroft, you have been introduced to Mrs Fielding, but will you allow me to add to the introduction?" Although one was dark and the other fair, the tall, blue-eyed pair stood next to each other and exchanged matching smiles.

Elizabeth gasped. "Mrs Fielding, you are Mr Darcy's sister?"

They all laughed. "Yes, Mrs Bancroft. I am Georgiana."

When Mrs Fielding turned to bid some of her other guests good night, Mr Darcy deftly set the wrap on her shoulders. "Mrs Bancroft, I am happy to have met you again after so long, even though we were not able to speak. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to call on you where you are staying?"

"I…yes, that would be very pleasant. I am staying at the home of my aunt and uncle on Gracechurch Street." She gave him the direction, and he escorted her through the front door, bowed over her hand in farewell, and handed her into the carriage, his eyes meeting hers

In her uncle's carriage on the way back to Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth reflected on the evening. After almost two years in Somerset, settling into her house, grieving both her husband and her life aboard the Melisande , it was a great joy to see her friends again, especially Hannah and Molly. To have found Mr Darcy of all people in the midst of her seafaring companions had been jarring. Yet impossibly, he had seemed at ease among this company of naval men and their wives. Certainly more so than he had ever been among the inhabitants of Meryton.

It had been disconcerting, to say the least. She had felt the curiously familiar weight of his eyes at dinner, and then again when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room. His gaze had the same intensity she remembered but was somehow different. Softer and more open, perhaps. More likely it was the fact that she herself was different now; wiser, less critical, less naively cocksure of her own impressions.

Elizabeth smiled to herself. Six years before, she had believed his staring was directed at finding fault with her. Yet it was she who had been constantly finding fault with him because her girlish feelings had been stung by his careless remark at that silly little assembly, not the other way round. She had refused even to admit to herself what a handsome man he was.

Her eyes had most definitely been opened that evening. Handsome was perhaps not even the word. Beautiful. He was a beautiful man. When the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room, she was surprised at how quickly her eyes were drawn to him. Although a very tall man, he possessed a quickness and economy of movement that rendered him graceful. As soon as he had entered the room, his eyes had immediately found hers. He had made two attempts to draw near her but had been outmanoeuvred both times. She had been unaccountably disappointed.

As the carriage rolled along the quiet streets, Elizabeth mused upon how Mr Darcy had only moments before pressed her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. Though the carriage windows were open to the warm June evening, she shivered.

Darcy, dressed in a nightshirt and banyan, sat in a deep armchair in his bedchamber, his feet up and his windows open to the evening breeze; the picture of repose, though he was anything but relaxed. Rather, he was in turns giddy and agitated. He repeatedly rose and walked to the mantel, or to the cheval glass, or to the window, and back to the chair.

He fingered the pendant on the chain around his neck, then closed his hand tightly around it. Elizabeth had been here in his house. She had supped at his table and played the instrument in his drawing room. How many times had he imagined just such a scene?

She was still beautiful; indeed, her beauty had only grown. Unlike so many ladies who thought themselves more alluring when they overflowed their bodices, Elizabeth's gown had not revealed, only tantalised. He had wanted to set his hand on her shoulder and run his thumb along her delicate collarbones; to press his lips next to her ear. She awoke sensations in his body that he had almost forgotten.

Could it be that fate had brought them together? Less than a fortnight ago, he had found her image washed up on the shingle in Devonshire, and now here she was.

He had last seen her on November 26, 1811, more than five years ago. He had many questions about her life since. Lady Hicks's allegations about the Bennet family had tortured him. They had been shunned and ruined because of Wickham. Had there indeed been forced marriages? He remembered that his investigator had determined that Longbourn estate was still held by Mr Bennet. Why then would they have been forced to marry? Surely, if the sisters were living in penury, they would be allowed to return to their home? Elizabeth's appearance in his house this evening surely put the lie to Lady Hicks's assertions!

And now Elizabeth was here—respected and admired and more beautiful than ever. She had been challenged and tested and had passed with flying colours; not only in whatever tribulations had forced her from her home, but in the hard life at sea.

His need to know all was almost overpowering, yet he understood that he must tread delicately. What little that he did know of Elizabeth's life over the past few years had come from the mouth of an angry, conceited woman who had despised her from almost their first introduction. She might be angry or embarrassed to find that he had been listening to gossip about her. No, he had to hear it from Elizabeth herself, but she likely would not wish to speak of past humiliations and sorrows.

Most of all he desired knowledge of her present circumstances. Where was she living? Did she have a sufficient income? Who were her friends? She was held in esteem, even affection, by many naval officers, and had recently come out of mourning. Could there be another man biding his time, waiting to pursue her?

Her failure to instantly recognise him still rankled. She had seemed pleased to see him, though. Mildly pleased. Once she recognised you, you great fool. Six years before, he had been too conscious of his superior rank to care what her opinion of him was, simply assuming that she found his company appealing.

He should not be surprised. Their respective lives had changed greatly since then. One might even say their roles had been reversed. Ladies usually stayed at home, their lives quiet and confined. Gentlemen always had a profession, pursuits, or business of some sort or other to keep them out in the world.

In his case, Darcy had kept close to his home since the end of 1811, and especially after his marriage, choosing to step back from the wider world. Elizabeth had been catapulted out into it, where continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions. He barked a laugh. He had just found her again, and already she humbled him anew without even knowing it.

A new thought warmed him, thrilled him with possibility. He could court her, truly get to know her, and she him, as he should have done when he had the chance. He could open himself to her, show her that he had shed his armour of superiority and pride.

One thing was certain: he would not return to Pemberley as planned. In the morning, he would write to Mrs Reynolds and to his steward, notifying them of his intent to prolong his stay in London indefinitely. For as long as it would take.