A Private Performance (22 page)

B
Y HER SECOND SEASON IN
London, Mrs. Darcy was so well-liked by certain people of impeccable connections that her own unfortunate relations were now considered irrelevant. The three or four families who, Darcy felt, had treated Elizabeth with less than due respect when they first met her, were left with only their sense of exclusiveness to comfort them. She was in demand, but they found themselves kept on bowing terms only by Darcy. Elizabeth was denied any opportunity of laughing at him for this, being unaware that these people had ever been on a friendlier footing with him.

The Darcys received more invitations than they could accept. Their circle had one very particular addition in Lord Bradford, formerly Captain Westcombe. He was often received at Brougham Place. Georgiana, to her joy, found him unchanged in his kind and unassuming manner. He confided to her of the pain he felt when some acquaintances spoke their condolences in a perfunctory tone, seeming to imply that he must rejoice in his brother's death.

“How could anyone think of the loss of a brother as other than the greatest of misfortunes?” she asked.

With Lord Bradford, she had the delight of many conversations about Henry. She sensed that Lord Bradford somewhat missed his days in the army; he often spoke of the camaraderie he had enjoyed with his fellow officers and of the joys of disinterested friendship.

“I trust your friendship, Miss Darcy, for you were my friend when I was poor,” he said.

‘Gracious!' she thought. ‘Does he not know he became my friend because he was poor?'

When whispers of an engagement between Lord Bradford and his cousin, the lovely Arabella Whittaker, were heard, Georgiana could barely wait to be alone with her sister to discuss the rumour.

“I cannot believe it, Elizabeth. You do not credit it, surely?”

“I don't know, Georgiana.” Elizabeth took Georgiana's hands in
hers. “He is widely believed to have carried a torch for his cousin for years. I have heard it said that she would never have considered marrying him when he was a mere officer.”

“So now he is good enough for her! He was too good for her, even before he rose to earl!”

Elizabeth looked shrewdly at her sister.

“Guard yourself, dearest.”

“I do not need to protect myself, Elizabeth.” Georgiana had turned her head aside. “You are very good to care so for my feelings. I am merely disappointed for him. She will never make him happy. In any case, were this story true, he would have uttered some hint.”

Elizabeth stood and walked across the room. She turned: “An engagement would not be made public while the family is in mourning.” She skipped across to Georgiana and pulled her to her feet.

“Let us drive out in the park and amuse ourselves watching the follies of those less dear to us. We can leave my Lord Bradford to make his own mistakes in matrimony, as many another has done before him!”

The period of mourning passed with no evidence to verify the story of Bradford's engagement. Georgiana could always count on at least two dances with her friend when they met at balls. How she enjoyed those half-hours, for he did not beleaguer her with clever conversation or terrify her with compliments.

Two months in London society passed, and Georgiana survived them.

 

One morning in April, Elizabeth received a note from Mrs. Foxwell suggesting:

‘the opera and a nice little supper at Beau Harry's—just our little party. Do say you'll come. Your sister Mrs. Bingley and Mr. Bingley will be there, for I chanced upon them this morning in the park, and asked them.'

“It is the very thing to most divert me!” cried Elizabeth, “With Jane to add to my delight!”

“I should enjoy such an evening,” said Darcy. “When is it to be?”

“Next Tuesday … oh.”

“You have your Englebury enclave on Tuesday, Elizabeth.”

“I should infinitely prefer this. You would wish me to come with you, Fitzwilliam?”

“Naturally. However, I acknowledge the greater imperative of your arrangements with the marchioness.”

“It is no fixed arrangement. My friendship with her ladyship has no greater importance than my friendship with my husband, I hope. There is no absolute expectation of my attending her gathering every week. I shall explain to her that something quite compelling draws me away. If she is truly my friend, she will understand.”

“You will be missed, Elizabeth.”

“Not so very much. Would you miss me?”

“More than I can say.”

“I hope my motives are perfectly pure. Mr. Glover is to read a selection of his latest work at Park Lane on Tuesday. It is his sorry attempt to be tragic and I should not have known how to keep my countenance.”

 

Their attendance at the opera was a gathering much to Darcy's taste. An evening of music, followed by conversation over supper with a group of intimate friends, was ideally suited to his temperament.

In the supper house they had an elegant alcove to themselves, though they passed through the central room to reach it. They seated themselves around the table, ordered their supper and prepared to enjoy themselves.

They discussed the opera, a new one, flawed, in Mrs. Foxwell's view, by the questionable intelligence of the hero. She observed that she liked to see “gallantry tempered by prudence”.

“Which is as it should be,” said Jane. “For of what use is a silly knight?”

“None,” said Foxwell. “Were it not for the excellence of his singing, I should have had no patience with the fellow at all.”

“One could hardly rescue a maiden by such impetuous means, were not the villain so puny in his devilry,” added his wife.

Elizabeth laughed. “The villain was unworthy of his role. One would feel insulted to be his prisoner. Had I found myself so circumstanced in my maiden days, I should have demanded a more worthy oppressor.”

This gave Bingley an opportunity to contribute, for even he had read Mrs. Radcliffe's works. “I daresay even the evil Signor Montoni would have little tolerance for the society of one who laughed at his foibles,” he said. “He would not have kept you prisoner long enough to give Darcy the chance of rescuing you.”

They all laughed.

“You would have been hurled from the top of the tower by the end of twenty pages,” exclaimed Foxwell.

“No, sir!” cried Elizabeth. “My threats to laugh at him from the grave would have turned his complexion pale with fear. He would have let me loose, to ride free, with his curses ringing in my ears.”

“The mountains would echo with your mocking laughter, while he paced the ramparts, gnashing his teeth,” added Darcy. Elizabeth looked at him; his expression was open in his enjoyment of the moment, his manner even lively in his own way. Only certain people saw him thus. How glad she was that she had come!

They all laughed happily, comfortable in their friendship. Georgiana, though she rarely spoke, contributed a joyful countenance to the conversation. The sound of Mrs. Foxwell's somewhat masculine chortles and the sight of Jane daintily dabbing at her eyes threatened to set Elizabeth off into gales of laughter.

Foxwell was the first to see the young man standing a few feet from their table. Elizabeth looked up too, and her laughter was extinguished. She bowed her head before turning back to her friends. He stepped forward.

“Good evening, Mr. Glover,” said Elizabeth with cool politeness, barely turning her head. Darcy turned sharply in his chair, and everyone looked up, laughter turning to curiosity to see the famous playwright.

“Good evening, Mrs. Darcy.” He shook back a lock of black hair that had flopped across his eyes. She was turning away again, when he said: “I thought to have seen you earlier. You were much missed at Lady Englebury's.”

“I believe you exaggerate, Mr. Glover.” He was biting his thumbnail and frowning moodily. She turned pointedly away, and said to Mr. Foxwell:

“You cannot imagine what an impostor I feel among Lady Englebury's literati.”

“I cannot believe that you mean that!” cried Glover, with a shade of frustration in his voice.

“You will not address my wife in that manner, sir!” Darcy had risen, and Glover turned to him with a look of bewilderment. He looked back, aghast, at Elizabeth, who said mildly: “I speak as I please, Mr. Glover, and you may interpret me as you please.”

He stared at her wildly for a second, and mumbled an apology. She gave the slightest of shrugs and turned away from him. He left them.

“Is this a sample of the elevated conversation to be had in Park Lane?” asked Foxwell. “He seems to be some species of gipsy.”

“The marchioness would have soon nipped his ankles, had she been with us,” replied Elizabeth.

“I rather like your Mr. Glover,” said Foxwell. “I should be diverted to meet him at your next party.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed his wife. “When seen from close at hand, he is so gaunt and tortured-looking. I quite adore him,” sounding for all the world like Arabella Whittaker.

“Do you?” asked Georgiana, in surprise.

Elizabeth laughed and squeezed her hand.

“That is the great thing about owning artistic sensibilities, you know,” said Foxwell. “The ruder you are, the more interesting people find you, especially the ladies. Perhaps I should cultivate a little abrasiveness.”

“You are spiteful enough as it is, Foxwell,” said his wife. “I will thank you to continue to deliver your venom in a gentlemanlike manner.”

“And pray continue to reserve your wit for those other than ourselves,” said Elizabeth.

They all laughed again. Elizabeth looked at Darcy. He glowered moodily at nothing.

 

The carriages were ordered. Seeing their footman had arrived, Darcy rose.

“Are you ready to go, my dear? The carriage is waiting.”

They said their goodbyes. As they walked to the door, Darcy drew Elizabeth's arm through his. She leant towards him and whispered something. He smiled and touched the hand that lay on his arm. Across the room Glover saw this and felt a despair he knew to be out of all proportion to the act. Whittaker followed his gaze and said: “Ah, there is our lovely truant with her lord, adored and adoring! What an affecting moment. Who among us will use it? I'd give it to you, Glover, except that you'd turn it into burlesque.”

“I write comedies because they sell, Whittaker.”

“You are touchy tonight, my friend. You should follow my lead, and treat your muse with less veneration.”

“You need not make your living by your work, Whittaker. My true work is barely begun.”

“We hoped to hear a small part of your new work tonight, dear sir,” said another.

“I had not the inclination when the time came,” Glover mumbled.

“Did the absence of our sweet lady put you off?” said Whittaker, stabbing in the dark. “Good God, it did! Do not spare her too much of your thoughts, Glover, for I daresay she never thinks of you.”

“Why should I not value her opinion?” muttered the playwright. “Lady Engelbury says Mrs. Darcy is one of the most original women she has ever met, both for her wit and high principles.”

“Meanwhile some of us value her sweet teasing ways and her lovely eyes.”

“You can laugh, Whittaker, a man of your proclivities. I admire the way she thinks.”

“She don't give away her thoughts, my deluded friend. No matter, for what she says is amusing enough.”

Glover looked feverishly around at the table. Most of these men were decent enough to deplore this game, but the vultures of envy and spite hovered behind their shoulders. He thrust back his black hair.

“We are not all such cynics as you, praise be.” He had risen, so quickly that his chair fell to the floor.

Whittaker looked up at him, an insinuating expression in his eyes, and said quietly: “If you hope to put horns on her husband, I should give up the idea. She is a deal too clever for that.”

The dark eyes sparked with such abhorrence that Whittaker almost winced.

“You disgust me!” said Glover and, throwing some coins on the table, he strode off.

“Mr. Whittaker, you ought not to have used the lady's name in such a manner.” Whittaker raised his eyebrows at the speaker, and then looked around at the other men, enjoying their censure.

He smiled lazily. “Hypocrites,” he said.

 

The chamber was lit by the dying fire. She lay beside him and he pushed back the curls from her face.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes?”

“Would you have loved me had I been poor?”

“Not the least little bit.”

“Truly.”

“I speak truly. If you had been poor, you would have been delighted to dance with me, when you first saw me at the Meryton Assembly. Instead, you declared that I was not handsome enough to tempt you and I was very cross. I believe crossness to be an infallible precursor to love.”

“Pray be serious for a moment.”

“How can I answer such a question seriously? I do not know. Your position in the world has, in part, made you what you are.”

“It is as though I had everything for a rich life but life itself.”

“How fortunate you are to have found me.” She softly laughed, pressing herself against him, and kissed him again.

“Dearest Elizabeth, never cease to love me.”

“You think too much.” He felt the soft warmth of her lips on his forehead, and on his mouth.

 

In the morning Elizabeth was delighted with an early visitor to her dressing room.

“Amelia!” cried Elizabeth. “How very clever you are to come just as I am thinking of you.”

“Dear Elizabeth, of course I am clever.” She picked up a length of gold-embroidered silk. “This is lovely. Lady Northby is sick with envy at the way you find these things.”

“Her ladyship is unfortunate in having no relations in trade. This is the border of an Indian court sari and quite unavailable through usual means.”