A Private Performance (11 page)

“Ah, there is my niece, just arrived.”

Lady Reerdon's mild gaze followed her friend's across the room to the door. Amelia's little gloved hands held both of Elizabeth's, while she leant forward confidentially. They both laughed, although Mrs. Courtney had but offered an apology for their tardiness, which she attempted to blame upon her husband, who stood, gravely correct, at her side.

The role of host brought out a quality of kindness not always seen in Darcy. He was welcoming, almost genial, and responded to Amelia's intimate smile with courtly kindness. ‘He enjoys looking after people,' thought the marchioness. ‘Amelia's little tricks are quite wasted.' Aloud, she said to the countess, “I daresay Mr. Darcy could not flirt if his life depended upon it.”

“I am sure you are correct. How very charming Mrs. Courtney is.”

The marchioness went into dinner on Darcy's arm and, for the duration of the first course, had the longest conversation she had ever had with him. She conceded to herself that his intelligence equalled his wife's. He had obviously taken the fullest advantage of his much superior education. He even showed a certain dry wit. Given the worldly advantages he had bestowed upon Elizabeth, she felt that he was perhaps worthy of his bride, but not, alas, of a great deal of interest to herself.

Her ladyship looked up the long table to where Elizabeth sat. She
was deep in conversation with Lord Reerdon. She laughed, and her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. ‘How has the girl managed to draw wit from Reerdon?' she thought.

His lordship had just recounted a joke told by a new acquaintance of his, one Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“I was most impressed with the colonel,” he said. “A very interesting and gentlemanlike man.”

“He is indeed!” said Elizabeth.

“You are acquainted with him?” cried his lordship. He winced at a sudden memory.

“Are you quite well, my lord?” said Elizabeth.

“Yes, indeed, I am. Thank you.” He had merely recalled his mother's instruction that he not mention his meeting with the colonel, but it was too late. He went on: “Of course you have made the colonel's acquaintance. We even talked about you.”

“Now you are frightening me, sir.”

Lord Reerdon laughed. “There is no need for fear. Our conversation was highly flattering to yourself. You met the colonel in Kent, I believe.”

“Yes, I did. The colonel was staying with his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, at her ladyship's estate, Rosings Park. I was staying with my cousin Mr. Collins, who is the vicar of that parish.”

“Did you happen to visit Rosings, by any chance?” he asked.

“Many times.”

“What is it like?” he asked, with forced casualness.

“I liked the grounds very much. There are some beautiful walks to be had.”

“And the house? How would you describe it?”

“The house at Rosings is modern and very pleasing, my lord.” Elizabeth would make him specify.

“Is it very … large?”

“Suffice it to say that Mr. Collins pointed out to me how very numerous are the windows.”

He laughed. “That is exactly what her ladyship said. She is very proud of her windows.”

She looked all puzzlement. “Can you mean Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“Yes,” he said. “I met her when I went to see Mr. Darcy's cousin. At least, he was there, at her ladyship's house.” He involuntarily glanced down the table towards his mother. “If I know you too long, you will learn all my secrets.”

She leant forward. He thought her utterly enchanting as she said softly: “I never tell.” He laughed again, and she laughed with him.

After dinner Elizabeth was prevailed upon to sing. The continued popularity of her singing, among the accomplished ladies in her new circle, surprised her. Certainly her performance was improving under the tutelage of an expert master, but it was still essentially the loveliness of her voice and the artlessness of her manner that charmed her audience.

The marchioness asked her to come one morning to sing for her nephew. Whittaker fancied himself a composer and would much like to hear her. Darcy looked quickly at Elizabeth, who smiled an unfathomable smile.

“Do say you will go, Mrs. Darcy,” said Mrs. Courtney. “I shall accompany you, if you like.”

Elizabeth continued to feel a disinclination for the society of the Whittakers, despite the brittle wit of their conversation. She had returned their visit with a brief call. She could not avoid them, as they were received almost everywhere and were firm favourites with their aunt. It seemed churlish to refuse.

 

For all Elizabeth's proud rejection of the notion of Lady Englebury's usefulness, she was gratified that it might lead to a healing of the breach with so important a relation as the Earl of Maddersfield.

As she slipped into bed that night, she said: “How right you were in your assessment of the power of Lady Englebury's notice. I give you warning, however, that being so often right is unpardonable in a husband.”

He cupped her face in his palms and let his fingers wander in her hair, as he said: “Almost from the very beginning of our
acquaintance, I informed you of how studiously I form my opinions. Did you not take warning from that?”

“Indeed, I did not.”

She slid down beneath the covers. “Now I am in your power.”

“Are you?” he said. In the wavering light of the candle, he watched the movement of her mouth as she said: “That is for you to discover.”

“How did you do it?” Darcy asked her. “I rode into the battlefield, sword drawn ready to defend you, and you slew the archenemy with a word and enslaved her followers with a look.”

“I hope you do not call the marchioness the archenemy. I cannot imagine you mean that I have conquered your aunt.”

“Mine is a metaphorical archenemy, the illiberality and cruelty of the Ton.”

“Did you truly feel that you may have to defend me?”

“When we were first in London, very much so.” He raised a long curl to his lips.

“Pray do not imagine that I doubted your reception among those I count as friends. However, I was aware of the prejudices of some among my acquaintances and prepared to cast off any who offended.”

“Really? At first, I felt a little nervousness, but not fear. Since childhood, I cannot recollect feeling real fear of another person.”

“Your courage was one of the first things I admired in you.”

She turned her face from the light of the candle.

“Although I never felt afraid …” she began.

He wrapped her in his arms. “Well?”

“Well, what?” she laughed.

“Although you never felt afraid—what follows?”

“It is well for you that my papa has enjoyed such good health.”

“This is a change of subject.”

“Is it? If my father had died before any of his daughters had married, we should never have met. I would be living in a pinched way in a cottage with Mama and all my sisters. Bingley's sisters might have heard of our plight and sent us some of their old gowns.”

“They would have enjoyed that, I should think,” he laughed.

“So they ought.” She raised herself onto one elbow. “Virtue should have earthly as well as heavenly rewards.” She blew out the candle.

“Is it your design to bestow upon me an earthly reward, madam?”

She laughed softly in the darkness.

L
ADY
C
ATHERINE MADE ARRANGEMENTS TO
receive various guests in the spring, and went home to Kent. Colonel Fitzwilliam returned to his regiment. Kitty Bennet languished in Hertfordshire, vainly importuning her papa, at every turn, for permission to return to London.

Their absence did nothing to dampen Elizabeth's pleasure in her first London season.

She took great delight in her opportunities to be with her sister Jane, now Mrs. Bingley. Bingley's friendship with Darcy ensured that there was pleasure for all in their frequent meetings. She also enjoyed the society of the Foxwells and their circle, albeit that it was diminished by the loss of Lady Catherine's notice.

By March, it became clear to all of fashionable London that Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy was firmly established in the esteem of the Marchioness of Englebury. If one or two of Darcy's former acquaintances had been somewhat cold when first introduced to Elizabeth, she knew nothing of it. Darcy suspected his aunt's influence and dismissed them from his thoughts. Elizabeth's success coincided with a change of attitude in some of those bigots. Their overtures were met with Darcy's well-known frigid politeness.

Elizabeth had learnt long ago to employ her wits to distance herself from the powerless position life thrust on her at birth. Ladies who had been prepared to be kind to the provincial girl to whom Darcy had so inexplicably lost his heart (and sense), found their condescension not required. She was sought after—not seeking others—initially for her success with the marchioness, but later equally for her charm and wit. Yet one could not say whether others would have valued these assets had she not been so fortunate as to gain the esteem of Lady Englebury.

Her ladyship's circle inevitably became a part of their lives. However, Elizabeth knew how little Darcy liked his house filled with strangers, and entertained them there only as frequently as
politeness required. Thus those friendships took on a degree of separateness.

 

Elizabeth went with Mrs. Courtney to visit Miss Whittaker, with the express purpose of singing to both brother and sister. Mr. Whittaker declared himself inspired by the experience of hearing her. His eyelids barely open, he gestured elegantly towards his sister.

“Beloved Bella, my spirits require support! I am overpowered by sensation.”

Arabella rang for tea.

Elizabeth said, with that sweetness that softened the edges of her barbs, “I shall, on future occasions, be more careful of the sensibilities of my audience,” she said.

Miss Whittaker smiled her slow, knowing smile and carried the conversation forward, without reference to her afflicted relative.

“I found your performance delightful, Mrs. Darcy. I do hope I shall have further opportunities to hear you.”

“You are very kind, Miss Whittaker. I do not deserve the kindness of my hearers, as I have so rarely taken the trouble of practising.”

“Pray do not become too perfect. The charm of your performance lies in your naturalness.”

They continued to talk of music, while the gentleman maintained an artistic silence. Elizabeth asked Miss Whittaker to play for her.

“No, Arabella!” cried her brother, falling back on the settee. “I hear a plaintive cry; my muse calls. You must not interrupt my suffering with the pleasure produced by your tinkling fingers.”

“You really are ghastly, Peregrine,” said his sister.

“Am I, Sister?” he asked, unperturbed. He turned to Elizabeth. “You shall be my muse. You recollect that poor Glover has written the words for two songs for his next comedy?”

“Why poor Glover? There can be few playwrights who enjoy such popularity as his, and at a young age.”

“I acknowledge that he can write a tolerable play, in the comic line, but he is totally devoid of musical talent. From you, madam, I have received the inspiration for a line of melody, enabling him to
turn his latest poems into song. I shall have to rework his lines a little to make them fit.”

“Mrs. Darcy can have no interest in your inspirations, Peregrine,” said Amelia.

“Amelia, dearest, you cut me to the quick,” he said, stifling a yawn. He leant back, eyes closed, one hand beating a slow rhythm in the air. Elizabeth could not but smile, and stored up her impressions for when she next wrote to her father.

 

In Elizabeth's mail, at breakfast one morning, came the result of Whittaker's inspiration: two songs, dedicated to her, and called ‘Songs of the Birds'.

“His impertinence is beyond belief,” she murmured. In glancing at the lyrics, her eyes fell on the phrase, ‘My wings are broke against these bars,' among others tending along the theme of the caged bird, and she whitened in anger.

“What is wrong, Elizabeth?” asked Darcy.

“Mr. Whittaker has sent me some songs, composed with help from Mr. Glover, and he is impertinent enough to dedicate them to me.”

“Is it your desire that I attend to this matter, my dear?”

She scarcely hesitated to say: “Pray do.” As she handed them to the footman to give to him, she added: “They really are not worth a glance, Fitzwilliam.”

“I shall rely upon your taste and not waste my time.”

She dismissed the matter from her mind.

That afternoon, Mr. Whittaker picked up the packet as he came into his house. He went to show it to his sister, who was lying on a settee in her sitting room.

“Look at this note, Bella, written in an ominously masculine hand. How horridly neatly the man writes. I don't believe he has a soul.”

“Perry, dear, not everyone can boast your poetical scrawl. The ability to produce a legible hand does not of necessity place one on the level of the beasts.”

“Hear it, Arabella, then speak,” replied her brother.

“What a charming little epistle. I believe he rather likes me.”

“I would differ from you on this occasion, Peregrine.”

Whittaker draped himself elegantly across the back of her settee. “Think you that she even saw my songs?” he asked.

“I imagine she did. This is one campaign I feel you must abandon, dear Brother.”

“I can hardly bear to give up such a challenge.”

She reached up and touched his face, and said:

“She is much too clever to flirt with you, dearest.”

“Come, Bella! I need her cleverness. It is only clever women who appreciate me!”

“Perhaps she is in love with her husband.”

“With Darcy?” Perfume wafted in the air as he waved his handkerchief. “What a disgusting notion!”

Arabella gave her brother a long cool look.

“Take care you do not fall in love with her, Perry.”

“If I but could, dear Bella, the endless tedium of existence would be in hiatus for a time.”

“Content yourself with gazing with longing upon her portrait, for which the lady is sitting, perhaps even as we speak. Our aunt has plans to see the likeness exhibited at the Academy and all London agog.”

“Arabella, you would not have your brother stand amongst all the world and his wife! Imagine my suffering. I must confine my adoring glances to the original.”

 

The portrait was, in fact, completed. The marchioness visited her favourite with the express purpose of viewing the painting. Her attention was arrested the moment she entered the hall at Brougham Place.

“This is just such a success as I predicted,” she said.

“Indeed, it is,” said Darcy. “I am very grateful to your Ladyship for your recommendation of an artist I had not considered. The painter has captured my wife's spirit.”

“Exactly. There is playful intelligence in the manner in which she looks over the edge of the book, with that smile.”

“I shall remember those words, Lady Englebury,” said Elizabeth. “How often should I look over the top of my book, think you? Is every five minutes excessive?”

“Ha! Ha! Once will serve for always, for this picture will make a decided impression at the Portrait Exhibition.”

Darcy was taken aback. “I had not thought to enter Mrs. Darcy's portrait in the exhibition,” he said. “It will leave London with us, and hang in the gallery at Pemberley.”

“Your lady will not be on display in person!” she replied. “It is my wish to promote both sitter and painter.”

“Madam,” he said, “I am most reluctant to deny you, after your kindness to Mrs. Darcy, but I feel an abhorrence of the very notion.”

“Mrs. Darcy, pray add your opinion,” said the marchioness.

“That yellow silk is my favourite, Lady Englebury. How shall I ever wear it again, if half of London gazes upon it?” she said, with a laugh.

 

When the Darcys attended the exhibition, Elizabeth felt her husband was vindicated. The walls of the long gallery were plastered from top to bottom with the latest portraits and the floor equally crammed with visitors. Small children and even a dog or two darted about beneath the elbows of the spectators, many of whom aimed their eyeglasses upon the crowd, seemingly more intent upon locating their friends than on looking at the pictures. Were it not for her urgent desire to see Jane's portrait hanging there, Elizabeth would have found the crowd too insufferable to be endured.

At last, greeting some acquaintances and avoiding others, they managed to move through the press of people to the far wall, where
they stood looking at the portrait of Jane, whose loveliness was a work of art in itself. Jane, pictured in an elegant white gown with green ornaments, radiated virtue as well as beauty. Elizabeth could have wept with pride in being her sister.

Then she caught a whispered comment on the sitter's figure, an appreciative comment, but spoken in such a tone that Jane may have been nothing more than a horse. She turned her head towards Darcy, but did not raise her eyes. He squeezed the hand lying on his arm, and they went away.

How glad she was the marchioness had not persuaded her husband to enter her portrait. Already she was finding that the marchioness's view of the world did not always quite coincide with her own. Despite her enjoyment of Lady Englebury's society and the value of her influence, Elizabeth was determined to employ her own judgment on matters concerning herself and her family.