"To say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies every thing amiable."
Whatever pressure Fanny Dashwood may have exerted on her son to bestow his addresses on a wealthier woman, Harry Dashwood remained steadfast in his attention to Kitty. He visited the townhouse daily, securing Kitty’s affections even more firmly and rising in Elizabeth’s esteem if only for possessing the good taste to adore her sister. Georgiana made herself scarce during his visits, not because anyone suspected Mr. Dashwood vulnerable to fickleness, but to spare Kitty any pain from recollecting his mother’s incivility. An obligatory return call in Harley Street had proven as enchanting as their first visit with Mrs. John Dashwood, and everyone seemed much happier forgetting the existence of Harry’s mother altogether.
Darcy’s opinion of Mr. Dashwood rose, as well, particularly when he encountered the younger man at Angelo’s fencing school and heard of his application for membership in one of the more intellectual gentlemen’s clubs.
"Mr. Dashwood seems to be genuinely striving to improve himself and find more worthwhile ways to spend his time,"
Darcy remarked to Elizabeth one rainy afternoon. She had wandered into the library in search of a novel, but, upon finding him there, had abandoned her errand for the superior diversion of conversation with her husband.
"You sound surprised."
"I did not anticipate such a rapid transformation, nor one so sincere."
"Mr. Dashwood is apparently capable of great change when he sets his mind to something," she said. "His regard for Kitty may be his primary inspiration, but I think your encouragement has also contributed. He respects you."
"Perhaps he will make a suitable husband for Kitty, after all."
"Why, Darcy! I believe you are starting to like him."
He shrugged. "Perhaps I feel a sort of kinship with him. It does not seem like very long ago that my own father died."
"You both lost your fathers at a relatively young age. He, even earlier than you."
"Though his father’s death was recent, the more I talk with Mr. Dashwood, the more I form the impression that he has lacked paternal guidance for a long time. John Dashwood seems to have acquiesced to his wife in most matters, and she seems to have expended more effort in trying to dominate her son than teach him. It is small wonder he spent so little time at Norland."
"So now you have taken the fatherless young man under your wing, offering the direction that John Dashwood did not."
"You are too generous. I am not yet thirty myself; I have not the wisdom to be a surrogate father to him."
"And you are too modest — a trait of which I cannot often accuse you. Very well, then. You can be an elder brother to Mr. Dashwood. Georgiana can vouch for your qualifications in that role."
Darcy contemplated that for a moment. "I should like to regard Mr. Dashwood as my brother."
"I am glad to hear it," she said. "For if he marries my sister, you will have no choice in the connection."
It was with light hearts that they all set out for Sussex — all except Georgiana, who remained in London to attend the performance of a noted Italian harpist with her friend Miss Sedgewick. She would stay with Miss Sedgewick’s family while Elizabeth and Darcy were away, an arrangement that provided both a proper chaperone for Georgiana in her brother’s absence and an opportunity for her to spend more time with her friend.
When Kitty and the Darcys arrived at Norland, the young master himself met their carriage. Mr. Dashwood helped Kitty alight, studying her face the whole while for her first impressions of his home.
"It is beautiful, Mr. Dashwood!" she exclaimed. "The most perfect house I ever saw."
Her delight clearly pleased him. He regarded the house with quiet pride. "I am glad you think so, Miss Bennet," he said softly. "Most glad."
Though Pemberley would always remain foremost in Elizabeth’s affections, Norland was indeed a magnificent house. It was prettily situated in a wooded parkland, surrounded by seas of daffodils still in bloom. As they neared, she saw that equally abundant waves of tulips prepared to overtake the daffodils when their reign was exhausted.
Their party was the first to arrive; Fanny Dashwood and other relations were expected later that day and the majority of guests on the morrow. Mr. Dashwood proposed taking a walk about the grounds once they’d refreshed themselves, to which they readily assented. While they changed out of their traveling clothes, however, the sky darkened, and by the time they regrouped in the drawing room, a steady rain fell.
The shower failed to dampen Kitty’s pleasure at being in Mr. Dashwood’s home, or his eagerness to show it to her. He suggested instead a tour of the house and led them through its rooms. He soon discovered that he made a poor docent, as his years of absence and lack of interest had left him unfamiliar with many of the house’s characteristics. He also possessed but few memories to share with them.
The housekeeper, however, was pressed into service as a guide. She had been at Norland since the days of Harry’s great-great-uncle and knew each panel and newel post as if she had fashioned them herself. As she led them through the great hall, music room, morning room, dining room, drawing rooms, and so on, her narrative formed at once a history of the house and a history of the Dash wood family. The original house, they learned, had been built during the reign of Henry the Fifth, and had been altered and expanded several times. Most of the present house had been built during the Tudor monarchy, with another wing added during George the First’s time. Care had been taken, however, to blend the different architectural styles as well as possible, so that the variations added interest without detracting from the structures overall grandeur.
Under John Dashwood’s tenure, the house had seen modifications both inside and out. He had annexed surrounding land and enclosed the common; to please Fanny, a grove of old walnut trees had given way to a greenhouse and flower garden. Fanny, too, had selected all the china, plate, and linen in use.
As they moved through the dining room, Kitty, in a whisper, asked Elizabeth her opinion of the place settings.
"Rather too pretentious for my own taste," she whispered back.
"I thought so, too."
Noting a small alcove on one end of the dining room, Elizabeth enquired as to its purpose.
"The dining room used to be a bedchamber in the original house, and a servant slept in that alcove," the housekeeper replied. "When the chamber was converted into the dining room, a table was put in the center of the alcove. At one time, breakfast was set out there instead of on the sideboard during large parties. But the present Mrs. Dashwood prefers the sideboard, so the nook generally goes unused now, except as a place to set flowers to help ornament the dining room."
They moved on to other rooms, where they learned that the settle had been a wedding gift to Sir Stephen and Lady Dash-wood in the sixteenth century, that the tapestries in the blue bedchamber had come with another long-ago bride, and that the pianoforte had last been played regularly by Harry’s aunt Marianne Dashwood, now Mrs. Brandon, when she lived in the house as a girl. The genealogy lessons continued in the long gallery, where generations of Dashwoods lined the walls.
"That’s Sir Stephen, there," said the housekeeper, gesturing toward a full-length portrait of a man in a ruff collar, "the last knight in the family. His lady wife is beside him. They say the two of them were inseparable. Over there is Mr. Albert Dashwood, my first master at Norland. A fine-looking man in his youth, though I don’t remember him that way, as he was old when I came here. At least, he seemed old to me as a girl. Perhaps Mr. Dashwood remembers him?"
Harry shook his head. "I couldn’t have been more than five when he died."
"Four, I believe, sir. But you certainly made an impression on him when you visited with your parents." She smiled in recollection. "You near about talked his ears off with your little voice, telling him about your latest discoveries and using only half the right words. That’s when he decided to entail the estate to you."
"Instead of leaving it to his own children?" Elizabeth asked. The anxiety such an arrangement had caused her own family through the years left her perpetually puzzled by the logic of men who settled their affairs so unjustly.
"He never married," the housekeeper said. "His nephew, Henry Dashwood — grandfather of young Mr. Dashwood here — lived with Albert in his later days. By then Henry’s son, John, was grown. Henry lived here with his second wife and their daughters, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret. That was a happy time. The girls adored their uncle Albert, and I do believe he lived longer for the pleasure of their companionship."
"Where are they now?" Kitty asked.
"Henry died just one year after Albert. According to the terms of Albert’s will, Henry could not divide Norland among multiple heirs. Upon Henry’s death, therefore, everything went entirely to John, so that the estate could eventually pass whole to his son, Harry. When Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood took possession of the house, Mrs. Henry Dashwood and the girls moved to a cottage in Devonshire owned by a cousin of hers."
"Sir John Middleton," Harry said. "You have met him."
It did not surprise Elizabeth that the widowed Mrs. Henry Dashwood had chosen to live near the genial Sir John rather than continue at Norland with Fanny Dashwood as its new mistress. She somehow suspected that Fanny, having just come into ownership of the great house, had not been a particularly gracious hostess toward her predecessor.
"The girls are all grown now, correct?" Elizabeth asked.
"Yes, and comfortably settled with husbands of their own," the housekeeper replied.
"I invited them all to Norland this week," said Harry. "But I believe only my aunt Elinor and uncle Edward Ferrars will join us. Margaret is in confinement, with Marianne and their mother attending her and the infant."
Another new baby. It seemed all the world had entered an uncommon state of fecundity.
Kitty strolled farther along the gallery, studying various portraits in their turn. She stopped before a full-length painting of a young, dark-haired man with an almost tangible air of self-possession. "Is this a likeness of your father, Mr. Dash-wood? His resemblance to you is striking."
In that, Elizabeth concurred. The subject had been captured at about the same age as Harry Dashwood and bore many of the same physical characteristics. But for the clothing that clearly marked him as an inhabitant of the previous century, he and Harry could pass for twins. His eyes, however, seemed to mock the viewer with secret knowledge, and Elizabeth found his sardonic smile unsettling.
"No, my father’s portrait hangs over there. This is Sir Francis Dashwood, probably our most notorious ancestor."
"What is he notorious for?" Kitty asked.
Darcy cleared his throat. "If Sir Francis had an estate in Buckinghamshire, as you told me, how did his portrait come to be here?"
"Perhaps it arrived on the same coach as did the looking glass I showed you." Harry shrugged. "I discovered the two items together in the attic when I was last here, and thought it highly amusing that Sir Francis and I looked so much alike. So I had the portrait brought down and hung. As for why it may have been brought here, your conjecture is as good as my own. I understand there are numerous paintings of Sir Francis at West Wycombe — perhaps his heirs didn’t think they needed quite so many remembrances of the fellow. If I remember aright, the estate went to a half brother. Maybe the new owner wanted to clean house and live down the old chap’s reputation."
"What reputation?" Kitty asked again. "What did he do?"
"Where did you say your father’s portrait is?" Darcy attempted to usher them farther along the gallery.
Elizabeth resisted his shepherding and instead regarded her husband closely. Had his color risen?
"Darcy, that marks the second time you have diverted attention from Kitty’s question. What, exactly, is Sir Francis notorious for?"
He hesitated. "Ungentlemanlike conduct."
"A great many men are guilty of that."
"Not to this degree."
"Which degree?"
"Suffice it to say that he engaged in behavior unbecoming to himself and his associates."
The vexing man spoke in circles. "What does history accuse him of?"
"Things unfit for a lady’s ears."
Darcy’s prevarication only fueled her curiosity, but his tone brooked no appeal. She resolved to renew the subject later. Perhaps he would reveal more about the mysterious Sir Francis Dash wood when they were alone.
She looked to Mr. Dashwood. "Well, then. Let us see the portrait of your father."
John Dashwood’s likeness hung very nearly in the center of the gallery, flanked on one side by a painting of Fanny in her youth and on the other by a pair of portraits depicting young boys of about six and twelve. The children’s portraits reminded Elizabeth of several others she had seen in the house.
"Who are the boys?" Kitty asked.
"Me. Both of them." Mr. Dashwood looked sheepish. "My mother has a fixation with having my likeness drawn. She insisted I sit for another last month. I have not yet seen the final painting, though the artist seemed pleased as he worked."
"Your mother is clearly very fond of you." Elizabeth spoke in what she hoped was a convincing tone, though in truth she suspected Fanny of being more interested in the image of her son than in the person himself. Mrs. John Dashwood had packed her boy off to boarding school the moment he was old enough to go, apparently preferring still pictures of him to the boisterous company of a real child. Though children of the gentry commonly attended public school, Harry’s parents, like Darcy’s, could have afforded a private tutor if they had wanted one.
Now that Harry had reached adulthood, his mother’s behavior toward Kitty, the chosen object of his affections, indicated that she still valued his appearance — his advancement in society — more than his happiness. Fanny Dash wood was at once indulgent and indifferent, showering her son with all the accoutrements of his class without troubling herself to actually become acquainted with him.
As they left the gallery and returned downstairs, Fanny Dash-wood’s carriage pulled up to the door. They met her in the foyer, where her rain-soaked afternoon of travel and the news of Geor-giana’s absence combined to render her mood as black as the sky.
"Harry, I thought all our guests were arriving tomorrow," she said through a frozen smile that did not reach her eyes. She reminded Elizabeth of a ventriloquist, but Harry resisted being manipulated like a doll.
"Because Miss Bennet and the Darcys come as my special guests, I invited them to arrive a day early."
She drew him aside. "But this evening was to be reserved for family," she whispered harshly, continuing to display her forced smile for the Darcys’ benefit.
"Yes, it is." Harry removed her hand from his arm and stepped away. Mrs. Dash wood glared after him as he addressed Kitty and the Darcys. "My mother has just reminded me that my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ferrars, will be joining us for dinner with their daughter."
"Will we also have the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars tonight?" Kitty asked.
"They are expected," Fanny Dashwood responded. The ice in her voice made Kitty look to Elizabeth with trepidation.
"Dinner is at half past five." Without another word to her son or anyone else, Mrs. Dashwood turned and rigidly climbed the stairs. Harry offered Kitty his arm and suggested that a pot of tea might warm the damp reception Norland had given them thus far.
Elizabeth and Darcy stayed behind a moment as the younger couple walked away. "Mr. Dashwood does refer to the weather?" she asked.
"I believe so. One would use other words to describe the atmosphere indoors"
"And we are to stay in Sussex for a full week." She released a sigh. "Happy thought, indeed."
"The weather might clear." A mighty thunderclap shook the house, and rain pelted furiously against the windows. "Eventually."
"Let us hope so." She took Darcy’s arm and they followed their host. "For if the air within the house remains this chilly, we might be forced to flee to Brighton after all."
Elizabeth chose her dinner attire carefully, though not, she guessed, with as much nervous deliberation as her sister. She ultimately selected an olive-green sarsenet gown with a short train and instructed her maid to dress her hair simply in order to spend more time on Kitty’s. As she finished her preparations alone, Darcy entered.
"You are already dressed," she noted. He wore his dark blue coat, a favorite of hers.
He watched her clasp her necklace, his gaze lingering on her neck long after her hands had dropped to her sides. "I want only your company to complete my ensemble," he said.
"So that I can deflect Mrs. Dashwood’s aura of ill will? You would do better to don the suit of armor in the library."
"Too heavy. Though I do regret having left my fencing mask in London."
She retrieved her slippers and sat near the fireplace to put them on. "One wonders how Mr. Dashwood turned out as amiable as he has, with such a parent to influence him."
"From the sound of it, she did not maintain enough proximity during his youth to influence his disposition much at all." He took the slippers from her hands and knelt to slide them on her feet himself.
"Fanny Dashwood does represent a good argument for the benefits of boarding school." She studied her husband’s face as he grasped her left ankle and slid on one shoe. "Would you have wanted to attend one at such a tender age, though?"
He stopped what he was doing to consider a moment. "No. I believe the early education I received from my tutor and father superior to any I could have obtained at a public school, and had I gone away at five or six, I would hardly have known my mother at all before her death. Besides, the older boys at school are often very cruel to the younger ones, and it is hard enough for a lad twice that age to defend himself."
"How awful! I had no idea."
"You have no brothers." He slipped her other shoe over her heel but remained kneeling at her feet. "I do not want to send our sons away so early."
"Nor do I," she said.
His words tugged at her heart. They had not spoken much about children. Though they had a tacit understanding that children were desired, she did not know whether he wished for a large family or small, whether he harbored partiality for boys or girls, how soon he hoped they would come. That he already had given thought to how they should be raised occasioned only mild surprise. Of course Darcy would afford something so important as the upbringing of their children the same careful deliberation he gave all decisions.
That he believed children a certainty touched a different response within her. They were over four months into their marriage, with no sign of increasing their family any time soon. Four months, she knew, was not cause for alarm, not long enough to fear that they might remain childless forever. Truth be told, she was rather enjoying the extended honeymoon. She and Darcy were still getting used to each other. But with reports of babies circulating on all fronts, the tiniest seed of doubt had entered her mind. It had not yet germinated, but it was there, buried in the back of her thoughts. She wondered if he felt it, too.
"Darcy, do you ever worry that — " She stopped. He waited patiently as she chose her words. "We have not talked a great deal about children," she began again.
He smiled. "I am in favor of them."
"I — well, I am, too, of course. But we have not yet — that is, it seems like everyone else we know has very quickly — " She let out her breath. "Four months is not such a very long time, is it?"
His gaze met hers in understanding. He leaned forward and took both her hands in his. "No, Elizabeth. Four months is not very long at all."
"I did not think so."
He smoothed the crease from her brow. "Then why the concern?"
"It is not concern, so much. Just something that has been on my mind since Jane wrote with her news."
"I did not realize we were in a race."
"We are not. Not at all! But it is not only Jane who influences my thoughts. When even Charlotte and Mr. Collins have a child so early in their marriage — "
"I hope you do not compare me to Mr. Collins?" It was not a serious question, but one delivered with a conspiratorial smile meant to lighten her mood. "Or, at least, I hope I do not suffer by the comparison?"
"Though the bliss of producing a miniature Mr. Collins could have been mine, I shall never regret turning down his proposal," she said. Indeed, the thought of marriage to the obsequious clergyman still made her cringe. "And I compare you to no one, for in my eyes you have no equal."
He yet held her hands, and leaned forward to meet her lips.
They lingered over the kiss, wishing they were anywhere but at Norland, expected down to dinner momentarily. But obligation parted them. As he released her, she cast him a saucy look.
"If four months stretch to forty, however, perhaps you should seek Mr. Collins’s advice on the matter."
An assortment of new persons awaited Elizabeth’s observation when she and Darcy joined the party gathered in the drawing room before dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars had just arrived, their journey having been slowed by the rain, and had scarcely had time to change out of their traveling clothes. They seemed in good humor, though, despite the damp ride.
Edward expressed genuine pleasure at meeting Kitty and the Darcys. He greeted them warmly upon Harry’s introduction. His wife, Elinor, said she was also very pleased to make their acquaintance, and the kindness of her manner lent the words the sincerity they all too commonly lacked when uttered in polite society.
"When did you arrive at Norland?" she asked. "Have you had an opportunity 10 see much of it?"
"Mr. Dashwood and his housekeeper showed us the house this afternoon," Elizabeth said. "It is lovely."
"Indeed, it is. I have many happy memories of this place." Elinor glanced about the drawing room, her expression growing wistful.
"I understand you grew up at Norland?"
"Yes, from eight to nineteen. My mother, sisters, and I moved to Barton after my father died. This is the first time I’ve returned."
The admission startled Elizabeth. "You never visited your brother here?" she blurted out before considering a less bald way to couch the query.
Elinor met her gaze, and each woman quickly assessed the other. Though Elinor was a good fifteen years older than she, Elizabeth read in her a common understanding and intelligence that instantly identified her as a kindred spirit. Elinor seemed to sense the same.
"We occasionally saw my brother and his wife in London." What she left unsaid, but that Elizabeth heard perfectly, was that the brief London visits had constituted enough family togetherness for all parties.
"Does Norland remain as you remember it?" Elizabeth asked.
Elinor studied a large portrait of Fanny hanging above the mantel. "In many ways, yes," she said. "But in others, it almost feels as if I never lived here at all."
Elizabeth suspected that was Fanny’s entire object.
Fanny Dashwood’s other brother was also present with his family. Robert, with his bold striped waistcoat and elaborate silver snuffbox, she soon dismissed as an aging fop. Elizabeth had seen Lucy and Regina Ferrars at the Middle tons’ soiree, but had not gotten close enough to form an impression beyond noting a strong resemblance between mother and daughter. Both enjoyed passable looks, Lucy’s a somewhat faded version of Regina’s full bloom. They shared narrow eyes and dark, arched brows. Lucy reminded one of a cat, her bearing exhibiting a decidedly predatory aspect. Regina, in contrast, carried herself with bovine grace. She was considerably plumper than her mother, with a figure that even her high-waisted gown could not flatter. Lucy’s thin frame looked almost skeletal in contrast, as if since Regina’s birth it had been daughter, not mother, eating for them both.
An evening of Lucy and Regina’s company proved that in postponing the opportunity to become acquainted with them, Elizabeth had not deferred any pleasure. Lucy was agreeable enough, far more so than her sister-in-law Fanny, and Elizabeth had initially struggled to pinpoint exactly what she disliked about the woman. But as the night wore on, she realized that it was precisely Lucy’s ingratiating manner — echoed to mind-numbing effect by Regina — that made her almost nostalgic for the company of Darcy’s domineering aunt, Lady Catherine. Lucy complimented Elizabeths dress, Kitty’s hair, the cut of Darcy’s coat. The flowers in the small alcove were lovely — were they from Norland’s greenhouse? Indeed, everything about Norland was splendid, and their host was up to the nines.
"Harry, I declare this is the best rabbit I’ve ever tasted."
Elizabeth wondered that Lucy had much basis for comment on the rabbit or any other dish, as her steady stream of flattery prevented her from actually bringing much of the food to her mouth. Regina, in contrast, had managed to clear her plate between accolades.
When Harry denied any right to the praise, Lucy offered it instead to the superior environment of Norland Park. "Truly, nothing in London can compare, and even Norfolk don’t have rabbit this plump. Isn’t that right, Robert?"
Her husband, whom Elizabeth could have sworn was admiring his reflection in the bowl of his spoon, admitted uncertainty as to the relative plumpness of the rabbits raised on their estate.
Once the subject of rabbits had been discussed beyond endurance, conversation turned to the china. Regina pronounced the dense floral motif exquisite as she obscured it from view with a second helping of duck. "Where did you find it, Aunt Dashwood? I want the same pattern for my own hope chest."
Fanny roused herself from the sullen silence into which she’d sunk. "It’s a Royal Worcester service. I don’t know if the company still produces it." She cast a pointed glance at Kitty then pulled back her lips to form what might have been a sweet smile on another person. On Fanny, it was intimidating. "Perhaps, my dear niece, this very set will find its way into your possession."
Elizabeth didn’t know how to interpret the comment. Did Harry’s mother mean to give away the set before a new mistress arrived at Norland? Or, relinquishing her aspirations of an alliance with Georgiana’s thirty thousand pounds, did she now harbor a wish that Regina might secure Harry’s hand? Nothing in Harry’s manner indicated that the latter possibility had ever entered his own head.
By the time dessert concluded, Fanny had managed to subtly insult Kitty three more times, Lucy had performed an aria on the smoothness of the syllabub, and Regina had consumed as many maids of honor as had waited upon Henry the Eighth’s six queens together. Miss Ferrars’s conversation between mouthfuls demonstrated a simplicity of both manner and mind.
After dinner, the ladies withdrew to continue the torment.
"I suppose it would be improper for me to remain here with the gentlemen?" Elizabeth whispered to Darcy on her way out.
"You wish to smoke and drink port?"
"I wish to engage in conversation more stimulating than what Lucy and Regina Ferrars are likely to provide."
A flash of something metallic catching the candlelight drew their attention. Robert Ferrars was gazing at himself in the lid of his toothpick case.
"I do not think you will find it here," Darcy told her.
The women settled into the drawing room. Elinor, suffering from a lingering chill following her damp ride, sat down near the fire. Lucy took the seat opposite and immediately commenced an ode to the perfection of the fire screen. It was exquisite. Had Fanny embroidered it? She had such talent. Had she embroidered the one in Lucy’s room, as well? How could one possibly choose which to admire more?
Lucy’s attentions to her other sister-in-law were less inspired and even more transparent. "Elinor, I understand your sister Margaret was safely delivered of a boy this month," she said.
"A girl," Elinor corrected.
"Her first, yes?"
"Her third."
"How redundant," Fanny declared. "One daughter is a gift to her mother." She cast her gaze toward Regina, who, now that the meal was ended, appeared to be chewing her cud. "A second is a comfort — she might care for her mother in old age. But more than that merely taxes a family’s ability to provide for them all, especially if they become spinsters."
"It is fortunate, then, that you weren’t so burdened," said Elinor.
"No, but I also was not blessed," said Fanny. "I look forward, therefore, to gaining a daughter when Harry weds. A genteel, accomplished young lady will make a wonderful addition to our family. Perhaps someone like Miss Everett. Do you know of her, Elinor? She and her brother are among the guests arriving tomorrow."
Elinor confessed a lack of familiarity with either Miss Everett or her superior accomplishments.
Lucy, however, trumpeted her knowledge. "Miss Everett? Surely you don’t mean Miss Maria Everett?"
"Why, yes." Fanny said.
"Gracious, Fanny! Have you not heard? But no — you mustn’t have. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I believe she is engaged to Mr. Montrose. Or nearly so. Almost officially. Anyway, she could not possibly accept Harry’s addresses."
Or his mother’s.
"Well!" Fanny’s disappointment was evident, but fleeting. "That is no matter. I invited several other accomplished young ladies. Lady Harriet Stenbridge, for instance."
Lucy shook her head sadly.
"What?" asked Fanny. "What do you know of her?"
Lucy leaned forward. "It’s only a rumor, mind you — " She spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "So I oughtn’t repeat it at all. But I understand she was found in a compromising situation with a certain heir to a dukedom who’s managed to hush it up."
"If he hushed it up," Elizabeth said, "how do you know of it?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "People just tell me things, I suppose."
Elizabeth resolved not to be among them.
Kitty attempted to initiate a discussion with Regina about favorite shops in London. They discovered a common partiality for Layton and Shears before Regina became nearly paralyzed with indecision over whether she preferred the ices or cakes at Gunter’s. She ended the crisis by resolving to visit Number 7 Berkeley Square directly she returned to London so as to test each again. She did not invite Kitty to join her in this excursion, nor, Elizabeth mused, could the shop likely produce enough sweets to serve another customer in addition to Regina.
Tea arrived, and soon after it, the gentlemen. Harry headed toward Kitty but was ambushed by Fanny and Lucy en route, and so wound up sitting beside Regina instead. Or rather, he perched on the small bit of sofa that remained beside Regina. Edward Ferrars seemed to be trying to continue a discussion with his brother as they entered, but Robert was examining the room through his quizzing glass as if he had not just been in it a couple of hours ago.
Darcy trailed in last. His gaze immediately sought out Elizabeth and warmed at the sight of her.
"I missed you," he said softly.
She handed him a cup of tea. "Was your gentlemen’s time as bad as all that?"
"Actually, no. Robert Ferrars so occupied himself with the mechanics of opening his new snuffbox one-handed that the rest of us were able to talk intelligently."
"I envy you. Our discourse in here was not intelligent, merely educational."
She sipped tea from her own cup and surveyed the room. Harry had risen from the sofa and was subtly backing toward Kitty under the assault of Lucy’s chatter. Fanny had commandeered Edward’s and Elinor’s attention and presently expressed outrage on some matter. Robert now used his quizzing glass to study the tea service pattern, an inspection Regina aided by clearing a plate of tea cakes three at a time.
"How long will it be," Elizabeth asked, "before everybody decides that we have endured enough of one another’s society for the evening?"
"I suspect that once one person makes good his escape, the rest will soon scatter."
"We all spent a good part of the day traveling. Do you suppose you and I could leave now with propriety?"
He consulted his watch. "Unfortunately, it is early yet."
"But I am ready to retire."
He regarded her with concern. "Are you fatigued from the journey?"
"I believe I am." She coyly broke their gaze and scanned the room once more. "At least… hypothetically."