Chapter 15

At dinner, Elizabeth sighed as she saw she was again seated between the vicar, Mr Baker, who was nearly deaf, and his son, who was so shy that he practically burst into flames whenever she ventured a remark. It was obvious that Georgiana, who was very democratic in her friendships, was not in charge of the seating, which had been done both nights in a very hierarchal, rigid manner. Her guess was that Lady Matlock had taken over those arrangements—she seemed of the sort who liked rules; any hopes she had of cultivating a friendship with the older woman had disappeared. Her ladyship had gotten it wrong, however, for the Bingleys were seated ‘above’ the Bennets. At least the woman had not supported Lady Catherine’s attempt at evicting the Bennet sisters from the family wing. Besides, from her vantage point, she had a good view of Mr Darcy, who, strictly speaking, she was here to observe.

He did not appear overpleased with his seat either. On one side was Miss Lushington; she seemed nice enough, although wholly absorbed with her artistic efforts. Elizabeth had invited her to stroll with them in the gardens, but she had claimed the light in a drawing room where she was painting would only be perfect for another hour, and she must take advantage of it. It seemed she had little to say to her dinner partner, but when she did speak, Elizabeth saw Mr Darcy look…alarmed? It seemed not to be an easy conversation, anyway.

On his other side was Anne de Bourgh. Elizabeth had yet to be introduced, but Georgiana had regaled them with her brother’s dismay at previous antics having to do with the girl’s mother, Lady Catherine, and her blatant attempts to oblige him to wed her. Miss de Bourgh did not have much to say and spent her time looking crossly at Miss Lushington, staring disapprovingly at her bosom. The dress was bold for the country—but it was becoming. Miss de Bourgh was very slight, nearly stick-thin, and small in stature; the two women could not be more opposite.

Evidently Mr Darcy’s taste was to neither, for he spoke as little as possible. His expressive face told her that he was unhappy. How can a man possessing all this be miserable?

For an instant, she thought of Longbourn, of laughter with her father and sisters at mealtimes, of the little jokes they all knew and never tired of, of teasing and bickering and the savoury smells of a delicious dinner being served. She cut off the image before it could break her heart. Yes, one could be entirely comfortable and still be despondent, she well knew. She loved her Gardiner relations dearly; theirs was a happy home, and she was blessed to have it. Still, it had taken effort to find her smile again, to look forward instead of back.

Perhaps in a home such as Pemberley, a literal monument to the past, it was not so easy to do.

“How did you enjoy the garden today?” Mr Bingley asked Jane, also smiling over at Elizabeth, including her in his conversation. Kind Mr Bingley!

“It was lovely,” Jane replied softly—and then she blushed! What was this? In the months since they had discarded their black mourning, Jane had been introduced to many young men, the best of the social circle they now inhabited. Not a flicker of interest had been stirred. But here…blushes!

If Jane was interested in Mr Bingley, she would have trouble conversing, Elizabeth knew, so she spoke around the vicar—who was far more interested in his roasted beef, regardless. “The grounds of Pemberley are delightful! I have never seen such beauty. Was it Lady Anne Darcy, do you know, who was responsible for the summer garden?”

Georgiana had told her that it was, but it gave Mr Bingley an opening to speak of his association with the Darcys and what he knew of the history of the place—which he happily did. Elizabeth noted Jane’s manner easing while he talked. He was a smiling sort of man—unlike his sister, on his other side, whose frowns seemed permanently etched.

“There is nothing like Pemberley on earth, but of course, being from Cheapside, you have not seen much of the world, have you?” Miss Bingley asked.

The question was directed at Jane, but Elizabeth was close enough to answer and unhesitatingly did—Jane would never say it for fear of being perceived rude.

“You are correct, Miss Bingley, in that we have not travelled much. Until last year, we resided on our father’s estate, Longbourn, an extensive property in Hertfordshire. I can assure you that the beauty of our land is enough to satisfy the fondest sightseer. Our sister still resides there with her husband.”

Miss Bingley’s mouth pinched tightly shut—it was obvious she had not realised how well was the birth of the Bennet sisters, although neither had Lady Matlock. Mr Bingley eagerly asked questions of Longbourn and its surrounds—these, Jane easily answered. Elizabeth sat back in satisfaction. She did not mind being relegated to a table’s end, or being thought of as ‘no one in particular’ to these people. Jane, however, is owed better treatment, and after what I did to ruin her happiness, the least I can do is see she gets it.

There appeared to be some sort of ongoing battle for pre-eminence between Lady Matlock and Lady Catherine, both of whom vied for the position of hostess—calling for removals and countermanding each other’s orders. Mr Darcy, however, intervened whenever they put his servants in the middle of their bickering.

He cares for his servants’ feelings over those of his highly ranked relations.

To her surprise, he caught her eye and gave a half-smile, the barest lifting of one corner of his mouth. There was something apologetic in it, as if he was chagrined by their behaviour.

She smiled back, thinking of her mother’s many ill-advised remarks in company, and sympathising with him. One advantage to having been forcibly thrown out of Longbourn was that she was no longer required to make excuses for, defend, or try to correct Mama. Mr Darcy, of course, still must keep the peace in his own family, and she did not envy him the task.

Just before she expected Lady Matlock—or perhaps Lady Catherine, whichever of them won the latest skirmish—to excuse the ladies, Lord Matlock stood, interrupting conversations with his booming voice.

“The gentlemen have had a marvellous morning of shooting. There is nothing better than Pemberley for the birds! Our apologies for deserting your charming company in favour of mere sport!”

Miss Bingley tittered appreciatively at the remark, which, in Elizabeth’s opinion, deserved nothing beyond a polite smile.

Flattery, Elizabeth thought. She means to impress the title.

“My nephew, however, wishes all his guests might be so well entertained. Thus, a number of contests have been arranged for the enjoyment of the ladies. There will be games including archery, battledores-and-shuttlecock, painting, and more. On our final evening, we will enjoy a treasure hunt, with a prize of fifty pounds for the winner!”

Elizabeth gulped at the announcement of such an extravagant award, struggling to match some of the other ladies’ expressions of mild interest. Fifty pounds! Such a sum would be a tremendous boon in her goal of being a burden to no one.

“Mr Darcy possesses several clues which will be of great usefulness in achieving a victory in the treasure hunt,” the earl continued. “The winner of each contest will have the opportunity for thirty minutes of chaperoned but uninterrupted conversation with Mr Darcy, which, if she is clever, may be used to discover one of the coveted clues.”

At this announcement, Elizabeth could not help but see the expressions change on that of at least two faces—Miss de Bourgh and Miss Bingley. Both were obviously wealthy, thus the money could be of little interest. Plainly, they coveted the half an hour of relative privacy with Mr Darcy.

Gaining his attention was of little import to Elizabeth, but it would be useful for the article she might write of him, contradicting those baser reports appearing in the press. Assuming, of course, that such reports ought to be contradicted.

Her conscience smote her. To interview him without his knowledge seemed a base idea, so much more personal than Pennywithers’s usual activity, and exactly why her uncle had not wished her in this situation.

Could she truly resist weighing in, if he was a dishonourable character? It depended, she supposed, upon how dishonourable he actually proved. He certainly appeared upright, and she would bet her life that Georgiana was sincere and truly believed in his honesty. Her conscience would likely never be put to the test.

Elizabeth smiled to herself. The other ladies could keep Mr Darcy, but she would have her shot at the fifty pounds. She would happily pen an obsequious column of laudations out of sheer gratitude, if he was half the man his sister believed him to be.