A Private Performance (26 page)

T
HE CARRIAGE SWEPT AROUND A
bend in the drive and the house appeared in view. Ideally situated upon a small hill, Deepdene stood in exquisite Palladian symmetry.

“What perfection, Fitzwilliam!” cried Elizabeth.

He surveyed it moodily.

“That is Deepdene's reputation, Elizabeth,” he replied. “I had not known you approved of such artifice.”

“One must approve of perfection no matter how artful.”

“I cannot comprehend the temerity of a woman who pulls down an historic house that has served her husband's family for generations.”

She laughed. “One presumes the marquess did not vigorously object.” She paused before adding, “I admit it is very like Lady Englebury to have resculpted her home with such thoroughness.”

“Take care she does not resculpt you.”

“You will try to enjoy yourself a little, dearest?”

“What can you mean?”

“What a bear you are when you do not have your way.” She smiled teasingly, but he bent his saturnine gaze out of the window.

“He is our own and only bear, is he not, Georgiana? So we forgive him.”

The Darcys found the party would be smaller than they expected. Of the marchioness's literary protégés, only the novelist Miss Bearnley, and Mr. Glover had been invited to Deepdene. It was otherwise a family party, with the marchioness's cousin, Sir Beaumont Hunt, and Lady Hunt, the ubiquitous Whittakers, the Courtneys and Georgiana's friend, formerly Captain Westcombe, now Lord Bradford and the marquess's heir.

Of course, there was the elderly marquess, too. He came to London no more and was usually to be found wandering vaguely about Deepdene. Some pitied him, imagining he was searching for
the home of his youth. He was not suffering from senility, however it might appear. He had always been vague.

 

In the afternoon, the Darcys walked in the grounds with the Courtneys. Mr. Courtney, having little in common with the other men, was relieved to see Darcy and they dropped back in conversation, while the three ladies walked ahead, arm in arm. They all wandered down from the house towards the shrubbery.

Abruptly, Georgiana shivered, and paused. She looked around, wondering at the emptiness of the space around her and the smoothness of the grass.

“Where was the old house, Mrs. Courtney?” she asked.

“I find it quite wonderful that you should ask that question, Miss Darcy. You are standing at the bottom of the west tower, more or less.”

Elizabeth marvelled. Only thirty years before, a Tudor mansion had stood in this very place. Generations of family memories were reduced to velvety grass and perfectly placed shrubs.

“Where is the famous rose garden?” she asked. “I know it to be cunningly concealed.”

“We are almost upon it,” said Amelia. They walked between some thickly planted shrubs and Elizabeth started as she came upon a high ancient hedge.

“The squareness of the hedge was so offensive to the landscaper that it had to be concealed lest he destroy it,” said Amelia.

They followed the line of the towering green wall. At the corner of the square was a great archway. Looking back, they saw Darcy and Courtney stationary, apparently engrossed in discussing a serious point. Both were wearing the kind of dark colour that ends up looking grey-brown.

“What sensible husbands we have,” said Amelia, and they laughed together.

The white of their muslin gowns fluttering below the brilliant blues and greens of their short jackets, the three young women disappeared inside the arch. They stepped into a tunnel, a cascade of scent and colour.

“Art and nature most ingeniously wed,” said Elizabeth.

“I would have said that of Pemberley,” said Amelia.

“Pemberley is art employed to make nature look perfect.”

She began to run. Georgiana, arm in arm with her, had to run too. Laughing, they scampered through arches and around walls of blooms. Then the pool was before them, presided over by Erato the Lovely with her lyre. Elizabeth wanted to laugh or to weep. The patina of age and creeping mosses had disguised the hand of man, and for the past hundred years, pool and statue had looked as though they had always been there.

Georgiana sank at once onto the edge, took off a glove and dipped her hand in the water. Furtively, she raised her eyes to the sculpture. She felt inexplicably fearful and excited. Amelia jumped up on the ledge and began to trip across on the stone lily pads to the statue.

“Come, Elizabeth, and pay your respects to the muse.”

Elizabeth followed her and put her hand on Erato's arm.

“Amelia, she is so time-honoured, I could kiss her.”

Amelia smiled wickedly, and Elizabeth added softly: “Is this what young brides feel for their venerable old consorts?”

“I doubt that very much,” whispered Amelia. “Teddy says they all have young lovers.”

“How came he by this knowledge?”

Amelia giggled. “Come,” she said. “Let us return to the mainland.”

As Elizabeth stepped onto a stone leaf, they heard a voice declaim:

“Peregrine, what a horrible verse,” said Amelia. “How long have you been skulking there, torturing your brain for a rhyme?”

Whittaker stepped out from a mound of greenery behind the pool and bowed with gracious ceremony. Georgiana jumped up, crushing her glove in her hand.

“How are you, Mr. Whittaker?” Elizabeth nodded with as much condescension as a lady stepping across a pool might. The embroidered hem of her gown had dipped into the water. She raised it slightly with her right hand and took his proffered hand with the other. His blue eyes had none of their usual hard edge; she had never seen his expression so unaffected. A momentary warmth of feeling caused her to look away. Then at once, the absurdity of the scene flashed upon her.

As Darcy turned the corner, he saw Elizabeth stepping down from the edge, hand in hand with this man she claimed to despise. They both turned and looked at him like laughing children confronting a sensible guardian.

‘He does not like it,' thought Whittaker and, oddly, felt more saddened than amused. Elizabeth felt her husband disapproved of her wet hem and dropped it with an unaccountable feeling much like guilt. Whittaker turned to his cousin and offered her his hand. He helped her down. Then he said: “With gladdened eye, I greet thee, Mr. Darcy.”

 

The weather was too good to last. Grey clouds rolled in during the late afternoon. After dinner the ladies passed through the tall windows of the drawing room onto the terrace. They watched the changing patterns of light, as gold glistened around the edges of the looming dark masses and streams of light poured down, first on the distant hills, then over Deepdene itself. Gradually the brilliance faded. All but Elizabeth were wrapped in their shawls. The gentlemen, who had left their port, followed the ladies onto the terrace. Elizabeth shivered.

“Pray, allow me to fetch your shawl,” said Whittaker and turned back towards the door. Darcy was just coming out, having picked it up on his way through the room.

“Forestalled once again,” said Whittaker. Darcy shrugged.

“I knew Mrs. Darcy would feel the chill at nightfall,” he said. Elizabeth felt the caress of the cashmere around her shoulders.

“Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” she murmured.

They all turned back into the drawing room for coffee.

The conversation returned to a lively debate they had enjoyed at dinner. At first it was dominated by the marchioness and Whittaker. Elizabeth became more and more animated, and Darcy noticed how the others often turned to her for her response. Gradually he fell into a silence as total as Georgiana's. He was relieved when the party broke up.

 

He watched darkly as Elizabeth came to him and slipped into the bed.

“You excelled yourself this evening,” he said. “I apologise for my dullness.”

“You were very dull,” she replied.

He looked away.

“Have I offended you?” She dearly wanted to laugh. He shrugged and looked back at her coolly.

“You are being ridiculous,” he said.

“Shall we quarrel? Is that what you wish?” She was leaning on her elbow, looking down at him, curls falling forward. Exasperation flickered across his face.

“You do wish it!” she said, suppressing a laugh.

She bent her head and caught his upper lip between her own lips. She sank down beside him.

His hand was in her hair, his lips close to her ear.

“Elizabeth …”

He blew out the candle and buried his thoughts in passion.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Wilkins pulled back the curtains, and Elizabeth took in the gloom of the room.

“Oh, Wilkins, is it raining?”

“Yes, madam.”

Elizabeth jumped out of bed and ran to the window. From this side of the house, there was a lovely view over the park to the woods she had wanted to explore today. Sheets of rain poured down.

“Mr. Darcy will not have his fishing, Wilkins, and her ladyship did promise it him. It was very wrong of her.”

“I daresay the gentlemen will be disappointed.”

From her solemnity, one would never guess that Wilkins, when in a mood to condescend, had the upper servants at Pemberley in fits of laughter with tales of their mistress's jests.

“Your bath is ready, madam.”

They had a tour of the house in the morning. From Lady Englebury's perfunctory manner, it was hard to imagine her expending the massive amount of effort that it must have taken to supervise the rebuilding of Deepdene.

“Deepdene deserves its reputation,” said Darcy. “These proportions are ideal.”

“I thank you. No doubt they are,” she replied. “I never notice the place nowadays. Englebury knew not if he were on his head or his heels for seven years, poor fellow. I wonder why I did it? Come, I wish to show you the theatre.”

As they went, Lady Englebury said: “Sir Beaumont is an enthusiast for theatricals.” She turned to Elizabeth. “I imagine he will do his best to inveigle you into performing.”

“He considers me a natural choice for a tragic heroine, I daresay.”

The marchioness gave a bark of laughter.

“Mr. Glover has prepared the first act of a little drama for us.”

“A drama, indeed? I thank your Ladyship for the warning, without it I may have laughed.”

The marchioness barely smiled. “Sir Beau and I shall read it to you all after luncheon.”

Their hostess left them in the picture gallery. Her back to the others, Georgiana earnestly studied a landscape.

“Elizabeth, I trust you are not contemplating performing in these theatricals?” said Darcy. She turned to him and looked into the dark opaqueness of his eyes.

“I have scarce had time to decide,” she said coolly.

“I might have hoped you could anticipate my disinclination for seeing you make a spectacle of yourself.”

Two bright spots of pink appeared high on her cheeks. She turned and walked swiftly away.

Georgiana watched her brother furtively, as he paced furiously up to the end of the long room and back again.

“Left to herself, I imagine Elizabeth would not wish to join in the theatricals,” she offered.

“Really? So my conduct as her husband ought to be one of waiting to hear her intentions, in case her designs happen to coincide with my own?”

Secretly, Georgiana thought this course may have something to recommend it; but she did not feel up to promoting the idea. Her brother walked away.

They did not meet again until luncheon. Elizabeth appeared oblivious to Darcy's altitude, high upon his dignity. Mr. Whittaker was in a mood she had never seen before; the mocking edge of his wit had softened, and she warmed to him after her husband's coolness. Miss Arabella, however, had a brittleness in her brilliance and she devoted herself to the fruitless task of stroking Darcy's vanity.

After the meal, they went into the drawing room to hear the first act of Glover's play. The day was relentlessly dark and the windows opaque with rain. Within, the flames illuminated the faces of the audience grouped about the fire. The appreciative murmurs, which
punctuated the beginning of the reading, faded; even the rustling of a dress died away until the listeners scarcely breathed and barely moved their heads, but when they glanced sidelong at Mrs. Darcy. Darcy's face slowly whitened, but Elizabeth's expression remained enigmatic. The suspicions, aroused by the fragment she had read three months before, were confirmed. Mr. Glover, against her expressed wishes, had based his heroine upon her, even quoting words she had spoken in different situations and in a manner that few in the room could fail to recognise.

Darcy rose, turned his back to the room and stood gazing out of the window. The beauty of Deepdene's pleasure grounds was veiled with rain. Behind him fell a heavy cloak of silence. At last it was ripped by applause.

The marchioness put her hand out to Mr. Glover. He arose from his corner in the shadows away from the fire and came forward. He took her hand. He smiled only with his mouth, while anxiety continued to haunt his eyes.

“Good Lord, Glover, you have done it!” cried Whittaker. “Splendid work! I take back every discouraging word and beg your forgiveness for all my teasing.”

Glover looked at him, all confusion, clouded dark eyes meeting the clear blue.

“I was inspired, Mr. Glover,” cut in Courtney. “How does the play end? I fear our heroine will prove too exalted for a romantic denouement.” Amelia looked significantly at him, and he looked back at her, puzzled. The most literal of men, he had perceived nothing amiss.

“Despair not, Courtney,” said Whittaker. “For our hero to be rejected by such a goddess is as good as acceptance from ten standard females.”

The marchioness looked displeased.

‘I was mistaken,' thought Elizabeth. He is as spiteful as ever.

“Pray do not be so light, Perry,” said Arabella. “Mr. Glover has honoured us with this glimpse of his first serious work before it appears in public, before it is even complete.”

“I know not that it will appear in public,” muttered Glover.

There was a wash of disappointed murmurs, while the marchioness smiled benignly.

Elizabeth turned to reply to a quiet remark from Amelia, next to her on the sofa. Glover flinched at her tiny movement. Whittaker followed his gaze and said: “Mrs. Darcy, we do not hear from you. We scarce know how to form an opinion without hearing yours.”

“I do not imagine Mr. Glover is influenced by my views,” she said. There was a chill in the room; the gathering seemed numbed. Hunt pressed onward through this.

“We ought to present these fragments as a play,” he said.

“Really, Sir Beau,” said Lady Hunt. “Let us not have too much of a good thing. We go next to the Blythes and life there is constant play-acting.”

“Yes, my dear, but nothing so interesting as this,” he said, ignoring the warning in her mild eyes. Unlike Courtney, he detected all subtleties and adored them. “What say you, Glover?”

“It is unfinished and ill-prepared,” the author replied.

“Mr. Glover sought only the opinion of a few friends, for the work is quite different from anything he has attempted before,” said Lady Englebury.

“I understand your feeling very well, Mr. Glover,” said Miss Bearnly. “One scribbles away in private and two years can go by while one wonders whether the entire manuscript should be hurled upon the fire.”

“You wonder that, Miss Bearnly?” asked Amelia, laughing. “How many manuscripts would you say you have consigned to a fiery death?”

“Mathematics were ever my weakness,” replied the novelist.

“I am not so modest over my arithmetic; I hazard the answer to be nought.”

There was quiet laughter, but Amelia could not divert the conversation from its course.

“The few friends liked it very well, Glover,” said Sir Beau. “A little
performance among those friends will give you an idea of how it looks.”

All the time Elizabeth was aware of Darcy watching her from across the room. In the stillness that followed, Miss Whittaker's languid voice was heard. “I should like to hear Mrs. Darcy reading the title role.”

“Thank you, but I decline,” said Elizabeth.

“Will you not do us this favour, Mrs. Darcy?” persisted Arabella. Now it was she ignoring her brother's subtle gesture to desist.

Even without her anger towards Glover for having written the piece, Elizabeth would not have considered involving herself in this amusement. At the same time, her sense that Darcy was silently willing her to refuse angered her. She was not inclined to turn and look at him.

“I thank you for the compliment,” Elizabeth replied. “However, I have no talent for reproducing words that are not my own with conviction.”

She rose and, with a slight bow of her head to the marchioness, quitted the room.

Whittaker broke the silence. “Ah, Glover, it seems your little piece did not win universal approval! I am so sorry.”

Darcy curtly said, “Excuse me,” to the company as a whole and followed Elizabeth.

“Arabella! Why did you importune her in that way?” murmured her brother. She turned to him, eyebrows elegantly arched.

“What ails thee, brother? I notice you do not extend this sudden chivalry to our dear playwright.”

Darcy found Elizabeth pacing along the gallery. Wordlessly, he joined her. At the end of the gallery, she stopped and looked out of one of the long windows. She longed to walk out, even in this rainstorm, she thirsted so for trees.

With studied casualness, he said: “I am surprised that Mr. Glover appears to be on such a footing with you that he feels free to parade his infatuation before all these people.”

“I thought he appeared tortured with anxiety.”

“That is something I cannot judge. I am not so well-acquainted with him as you are.”

“How true.”

“Were you privy to the nature of the work?”

“I was not expecting it.” She might have told him that she had demanded the abandonment of the work, and thought she had been assured of it. She scorned to defend herself.

She turned back to the window. Bars of rain poured down the glass. Her husband stood unmoving beside her. His presence and his steady gaze upon her profile paralysed her with fury.

At that moment Mr. Glover burst upon them. In a flash he noted the anger in their stance; his immediate thought was that Darcy was bullying her. They turned to him as his expression changed from high-pitched anxiety to outrage.

“Can I help you in some way, Mr. Glover?” asked Darcy.

Glover flinched visibly under the cold politeness of his tone. He turned to Elizabeth, who gazed back with no trace of expression.

“Pray, give me the honour of a brief interview, Mrs. Darcy.”

“I am engaged at present.”

“When may I speak to you?”

Without reply, she turned back to the window. Glover turned on his heel and stalked away. They waited in silence as his footsteps receded.

“Elizabeth, I must ask you—”

“This place is too public.”

She turned and walked away down the gallery, and he followed. They walked two long corridors in silence until they came to her dressing room. As they went in, Wilkins, who was preparing Elizabeth's evening clothes, said: “Madam, the marchioness has sent a message that she would like to see you in her sitting room.”

Elizabeth turned to Darcy. Wilkins started. She had witnessed evidence of the odd quarrel, but this moment frightened her and she scurried out. Elizabeth was reminded of Darcy's expression many months before, when they hardly knew each other and she had
arrived at Netherfield Hall, with her petticoat muddied. He was judging her.

“You had something you wished to ask me?” she said coolly. In the proud carriage of her head, he read scorn.

“I believe I know all I want to know.” He bowed curtly.

“Excuse me.”

She went slowly along the corridor, composing herself for the interview to come.

 

She sat down, folded her hands in her lap and silently faced the marchioness, who began: “I see you are angry, my dear. Will you tell me the reason?”

“In April, your Ladyship assured me that Mr. Glover would not continue with his play. He has broken his word; and I know not how you can have invited me here, with my family, to have it thrust upon us without warning. You could hardly imagine I would be pleased.”

“I cannot understand your objection. It is a flattering portrait, and few will know the identity of the original.”

“All your friends will know and that is too many for me,” said Elizabeth.

The sharp blue gaze of the marchioness's eyes softened.

“I am fond of you, my dear, as I believe you know.”

“I have always been grateful for your Ladyship's kindness.”

“Tush, my dear. I do not care a fig for gratitude.” She paused. “My reward is in seeing the success of those whose talents I recognise and nurture.”

“I should have thought that Mr. Glover has reaped reward enough to preclude all need for him to promote himself at my expense.”

“I was not speaking of Glover's talent, but your own!” cried Lady Englebury. “Mr. Darcy would seek to keep you from all the world when you might, under my guidance, bring his family renown.”

Elizabeth jumped up. “What if we, neither of us, desire that renown? In regard to Mr. Glover's intrusion into my life and his
impertinent curiosity concerning my character, it is my own resentment you face. You will never conquer my opposition.”

The old lady looked up at the younger one. How splendid she looked in all the bloom and fire of youth, and with such a proud tilt to her chin!

“The theatre has been bereft of great playwrights for many years. Mr. Glover is one of few with any promise; and I believe that you will one day be celebrated as the inspiration for one of his greatest works.”

“I utterly refuse Mr. Glover my permission to ever refer to me, in any public way, no matter how indirectly he makes his reference. No one can persuade me otherwise.”

“No one, my dear Mrs. Darcy?

“Nobody, in all the world.”

“I am mentor to some of the greatest minds in England.”

“I have enjoyed enough of your Ladyship's society to have no doubt of your abilities and influence.”

The old lady looked at Elizabeth narrowly. Admiring the girl for her wits and confidence, she had not understood the depth of this pride. It was not vanity, nor pride of position. Though coming from the lowest rank of gentility, Elizabeth could scorn the assistance of a peeress equipped to advance her to its heights. She had unparalleled self-respect; and her ladyship was awed by her.