An Assembly Such as This (15 page)

As it was, the conversation was consumed with the ball that Bingley had promised. Since the others were well aware of his aversion to the scheme, Darcy’s opinions were not solicited, even by Miss Bingley, and he was left to his silent contemplation. Relieved that he would not have to take part in a conversation fraught with traps that would militate against his plan, Darcy breathed in the tangy scents of earth and vegetation. Suddenly there swept over him an acute longing.
Pemberley!
For a few moments he forgot all around him, his mind’s eye roving hungrily over the geography of his beloved home.

The conservatory had been a favorite place of his when he was a child and youth. There, until her death, his mother had reigned as a benevolent tyrant, taking personal care of her roses and coaxing the exotic slips imported for her by her husband to thrive and blossom. Among the family and household, it had never been “the Conservatory,” for early in his marriage his father had one day gaily dubbed his wife’s efforts there “an Eden.” And Eden it had remained. As his own death approached, his father had insisted upon being carried down to Eden each day for a few hours of the companionship and solace of his late wife’s flowers. Often Darcy would join him there after a harrowing day wrestling with the responsibilities his sire’s weakening health had thrust upon him. Sometimes they would talk of the past, sometimes of the difficult days ahead, but more commonly they would sit in a shared silence deeper than words. For three years following his father’s passing, during which all his energy and thought had centered on Pemberley and the completion of his father’s designs for it, Eden had been a painful reminder of his loss, and he had rarely set foot into it until Georgiana one day expressed a desire for “a little garden.” Together they had chosen a space in Eden to be cleared for her use, and he had become a regular visitor there again, now to praise his sister’s efforts.

Darcy reached out and fingered the blossom of an unknown vine, then gently tucked its drooping head back into the greenery, that its interior glories might better be seen. The sound of a soft step behind him caused him to drop his hand quickly and turn, blocking his handiwork from view. Elizabeth approached him slowly, a look of puzzlement on her face, and then, rather than stopping, she moved past him to examine his rearrangement of the flower.

“A lovely flower, Mr. Darcy, and now displayed to advantage. But do you not think that the admiration it will attract will be detrimental to its character?”

Darcy looked down into her teasing eyes but would not be drawn into battle. “Do you garden, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Since girlhood. A little plot, but it gives me pleasure. And do you, sir, garden?”

“An ardent admirer only.”

“So I see.” She nodded toward the flower, then stopped and cast up at him a searching glance. Caught by the question in her eyes, he could not look away. He bit at his lower lip. Could another meaning for his words have occurred to her?

“Or rather, a perfectionist in this, as in all things?” she dared him. Darcy merely smiled and offered her a bow, experiencing an indecent gratification with the dissatisfaction his reticence had caused to be mirrored in her face. Leaving her to puzzle through his meaning, he moved past her to remind Bingley of their engagement in the billiards room.

After he and Bingley had exhausted the lure of the billiard table, Darcy kept himself employed in one activity or another for the rest of the day. He read; he played several rubbers of whist with Bingley’s sisters and Hurst. At dinner he spoke only to Bingley and Hurst on the subject of a day of shooting. Afterward, he wrote letters to any relation or friend he could think of who might reasonably be expecting communication from him. Finally, the evening drew to a close and he could in good conscience retreat to his rooms. Closing the door, he rang for Fletcher and congratulated himself on keeping to his purpose, but on wearily slumping down into a chair, he found that the effort had fatigued him all out of proportion to its intended effect.

Do not think about it,
he adjured himself, closing his eyes and yawning.
You are much too tired to parse it all out.
He stretched his legs and settled back into the chair to await the arrival of his valet.

“Ahem.

“Mr. Darcy, sir.

“Ahem!”

Darcy’s eyes opened slowly, but upon resting them on Fletcher, he sat up with a jolt. “Fletcher! I must have fallen asleep!”

“Yes, sir. You were quite caught in Hypnos’s thrall. Do you require anything more than the usual tonight, sir?”

“No, no.” Darcy shook his head and yawned. “I just wish to continue what I started here in this chair and as soon as it may be possible.”

“Certainly, sir. May I inquire as to which coat and waistcoat you wish readied for Services tomorrow?” Fletcher asked as he swiftly divested his master of coat and cravat. Darcy sighed; the energy needed to wrap his mind around his valet’s question seemed unavailable to him.

“Perhaps the green, sir, with the gold and gray striped waistcoat?”

Darcy managed a wry grin as he looked down at Fletcher. “Yes, I suppose. Rather grand for a little country church, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Grand, sir? Memorable, certainly, sir, but grand? No sir,” Fletcher assured him as he set about preparing his master’s nightclothes.

Darcy peered narrowly at his valet. “Memorable, eh? And why should I want to style myself in a ‘memorable’ fashion tomorrow?”

The regard Fletcher turned to him at his question was a portrait of professionalism piqued. “Mr. Darcy, sir! I have a reputation to maintain!”

“In Hertfordshire?”

“In whatevershire you happen to be, sir. It is my duty, sir, to see you turned out in a manner in keeping with your station and the occasion.” Fletcher continued with his preparations, investing them with an increased dignity.

“And services at a country church require a ‘memorable’ turnout?” Darcy probed, his suspicions aroused by Fletcher’s protestations.

“Pardon me, sir, but I was under the apprehension that the Lord was equally present at a ‘country church’ as he is in London at Saint ——— ’s.”

“Humph,” Darcy snorted. “I am not entirely convinced that your sincerity in this is as good as your theology, but I am too fatigued to discuss it further. The green it shall be.”

“And the gold and gray waistcoat, sir?”

“The gold and gray,” Darcy acquiesced. “Although why I should appear ‘memorable’ tomorrow I still do not fathom.”

“Very good, sir. Good night, Mr. Darcy.” The smile on Fletcher’s face as he left gave Darcy pause, but the previous night’s lack of sleep, the morning’s brutal ride, and the joyless struggle with his attraction to Elizabeth Bennet had taken their toll. In a matter of moments, he was deep in a dreamless slumber.

D
arcy adjusted his neckcloth to a less constricting degree of tightness than his valet had deemed necessary and glanced at himself in the mirror as Fletcher gave a last flick of his brush across the shoulders of his green coat.

“There now, sir.” Fletcher circled him with a critical eye. He stopped at the waistcoat and, with a sure thumb, pressed anew the crease of the lapel, then nodded his head in satisfaction.

“I have your approval, then?” Darcy queried in some exasperation with the inordinate amount of attention Fletcher was giving to preparations for a simple morning’s services at Meryton Church.

“You will do, sir.”

“Do! Fletcher, you have not gone totty-headed on me, I trust? I warned you when I engaged your services that I was not desirous of playing the coxcomb.”

“Certainly not, sir!” Fletcher drew up in pained effrontery. “Nor would I allow it were anyone to convince you to make the attempt. It is
not
your style, sir.”

“On that, at least, we are agreed!” Darcy reached for his gloves as Fletcher opened the chamber door, his master’s hat in hand.

“A pleasant Lord’s Day morning to you, sir.” He bowed and handed Darcy his beaver and prayer book. Darcy’s nod as he left was of that slow, thoughtful sort designed to remind Fletcher who was the master. In no confusion as to its meaning, the valet cast his eyes downward with an appropriate degree of servility and swiftly closed the door with a firm click.

Shaking his head in bemusement at his valet’s inexplicable behavior, Darcy descended the stairs to the main hall. Seeing no one yet gathered for what should have been an imminent departure, he withdrew his pocket watch to see if he had mistaken the time. His own timepiece matched the one adorning his chamber and the clock in the hall. Frowning, he replaced it and started toward the breakfast room, only to be recalled by the sound of voices from the hall above. Turning on his heel, he retraced his steps, rounded the corner newel post of the staircase, and looked up, prepared to deliver a sharp request for haste.

“Elizabeth!” Her name escaped his lips as only a whisper, but she seemed to have heard, for her eyes rose from watching her footing as she descended the stairs to meet and return his appreciative stare. She was dressed charmingly in a cream-colored gown picked out with delicate white embroidery, over which she wore a curry-hued spencer trimmed in green. The colors suited her admirably, Darcy noted, and suffused her complexion with a warm glow. She appeared hesitant, looking at him with a curiously wide-eyed expression. Without considering, Darcy took one step toward her, then another and, when he came aside her, stopped and looked down into her confused countenance.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, and bowed, careful of the narrow stair. “Permit me?” He offered her his arm and indicated the remaining steps.

“Mr. Darcy…thank you, sir.” Her voice wavered as she took his arm and hastily looked about the hall. “My sister is just behind me…The others are coming.”

“I hope that is so, or we shall be very late,” Darcy managed in a low, steady voice despite the inner tremors he was experiencing at the slight pressure her hand exerted on his arm. It looked so well there; the soft cream and curry seemed to melt right into his coat sleeve. Almost as if…

No, no, Fletcher couldn’t have known!
His suspicion reawakened, Darcy looked up from his arm to the profile of the woman at his side and then back up the stairs behind them, half-expecting to see his valet lurking in the shadows of the upper hall. Instead, he beheld the rest of their party about to join them.

Resplendent in a violet gown and purple pelisse with a matching bonnet trimmed with sweeping gray feathers, Miss Bingley began her descent. “Mr. Darcy! Louisa and Hurst are just now coming, but Charles and Miss Bennet are here, as you see…” Her voice trailed off as she drew closer, and a look of puzzlement wrinkled her brow as she beheld Darcy.

“Miss Bingley?” he prompted at her loss of words. Seemingly confounded into silence, she let her eyes travel from himself to Elizabeth as the others joined them in the hall.

“Miss Elizabeth.” Bingley approached them, smiling. “You must allow me to say how in looks you are this morning, both you and Darcy, actually. You could not be more complementary if it had been planned.”

Darcy flushed uncomfortably, although whether the greater part was caused by Bingley’s ingenuous observation or the suspicion of his valet’s connivance, he was not sure.

“An interesting coincidence merely, Charles.” Miss Bingley’s voice came bitingly to life. “But not so great as to cause further remark.”

“Coincidence!” Bingley hooted as he escorted Miss Jane Bennet to the door. “I’d lay good odds that —” The thunderous frown Darcy turned on him almost caused him to swallow his tongue. “Lay good odds that it is, as you say, all the merest chance. Is everyone here? Right! We must not be late for church,” he finished hurriedly, and, putting on his hat, ushered the ladies out the door.

Darcy chose to ride with the Hursts and leave the entertaining of the unattached ladies in Bingley’s capable hands. He was certainly in too great an ill humor to receive Miss Bingley’s speculations or countenance her incivility to Elizabeth. The somnolent atmosphere Hurts so ably projected was just what he needed to gather his wits and emotions together under tight rein. To further discourage his traveling companions from entering into pointless chatter, Darcy opened his prayer book at random and bent his mind to preparing for the morning.

Rejoice in beauty.
Darcy looked unseeing out the carriage window, the countryside obscured by a pair of fine eyes and a beguiling smile that warmed him considerably in the silent and chill autumn morning.
To rejoice in her beauty…Would I wish that intimate right?
He sighed to himself and addressed the text again.
Inspire us…
He sank back then into the cushions under the troubling conviction that he was suffering from a surfeit of inspiration rather than its lack. How strange that, after having spent the last two years reacquainting himself with the pleasures of London Society and surrounded by the most handsome, refined, and eligible young women in England, he should find the beauty and inspiration that set his pulse racing and disordered his composure in an obscure corner of Hertfordshire.

Darcy gently closed the book.
True…pure…lovely.
In all honesty, what better prerequisites were there for the woman one spent one’s life with? His memory harkened back to Miss Bingley’s long list of talents for the truly accomplished woman and his added requirement that she be well read. Would the embodiment of that list offer a better surety of his future happiness than a woman who was true, pure, and lovely?

The carriage slowed as the driver turned the team in to the churchyard and then brought them to a stop at the walk to the main door. Darcy waited for Hurst to descend and hand down his wife before he moved to the door himself. He grimly noted that Miss Bingley lingered behind the others in hopes, no doubt, of sitting by him in the pew. Duty bound, he offered her his arm, which she accepted with a proprietary air that was directed at Elizabeth primarily but included all of Meryton in general. As Darcy escorted her to the church door, he discovered a theretofore unrealized artistic sensibility that was quite pained by the clash of Miss Bingley’s purple with his own green, and the question flashed through his mind whether Fletcher had had, in some devious way, a hand in this as well.

About to follow Miss Bingley through the door, Darcy stopped short as Elizabeth met him going out, a wry smile of apology on her lips. As he sat down on the end of the pew, he leaned forward and turned a questioning brow down the line at Bingley, who mouthed back “shawl” and shrugged his shoulders. The choirmaster then rose and signaled his boys to begin the processional. The dozen-member choir began their solemn pace up the aisle, followed by the vicar and his young assistant. A few heartbeats after they passed him, Darcy felt a swoosh of warm air and looked down to find Elizabeth standing beside him, a heavy woolen shawl in her arms.

“Please, sir, if you would be so kind? Pass this to Jane,” she whispered breathlessly. Darcy took the shawl and passed it on to Miss Bingley, discreetly observing Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye as she watched it make its way down the pew. He knew the exact moment Miss Bennet received her shawl by the tender smile that illuminated her sister’s face and felt his own begin to answer it when the choir ended its hymn and the vicar called them to prayer.

The familiar words of the invocation flowed over Darcy, their currents witnessing to him of a higher order of majesty that rarely failed to compel his attention, although Miss Bingley’s whispered complaints of the cold and the length of the prayer were formidable obstacles. The “Amen” was sounded, echoed thankfully by several in their party, and the first hymn announced. It was one not known to Darcy, so he elected to listen rather than pick his way through it. That his tutor would be the lady whose song had so enchanted him the week previous was further inducement to hold his peace. He was not disappointed; Elizabeth’s voice swelled in sure tones, with feeling and a grace that moved him deeply. At the last verse he joined his baritone to her soprano much to the giggling delight of a pair of very young ladies in front of them. As they resumed their seats, Darcy suffered their backward glances only once before treating them to a brow lifted in freezing censure, which served only to send them again into paroxysms of silliness. To his further indignation, Elizabeth seemed unable to resist joining, quickly clasping a gloved hand over her mouth and peeping up mischievously at him. Darcy petulantly ignored her and sternly directed his attention to the vicar.

Sunday’s confession was assigned. Darcy murmured the lines from memory without undue contemplation, the phrases concerning disobedience and ingratitude being, he believed, of little application. When the sin of pride was added to the catalog, Elizabeth stirred beside him and delicately but distinctly cleared her throat, giving him, he was persuaded, perfect justification for laying emphasis on the following transgression, of
willfulness,
in a manner she could not mistake.

When the second hymn was announced, they were at
point non-plus,
and Darcy steeled himself against the effects of her voice on his clearly traitorous senses. This one he knew quite well. Turning slightly in Miss Bingley’s direction, he succeeded in avoiding Elizabeth’s amused eyes, but with the unfortunate effect of giving the other lady renewed claim on his attention. It was a poor scheme withal. As Elizabeth’s voice still filled up his senses, he now had Miss Bingley’s comments and compliments to deal with as well.

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,” the Reverend Mr. Stanley grandly intoned the Scripture. “Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.” Darcy drew out his prayer book and swiftly turned the pages to those passages.

“Tch!” Darcy looked down at the sound into Elizabeth’s rueful countenance as she bit her lower lip in consternation at her empty hands. Hesitating only a moment, he gallantly nudged the left side of his prayer book into her hand and bent his head to accommodate her view of it.

“Almighty God, give us grace…,” they read together. Bent as he was over the passage, Darcy’s every breath set the curls at Elizabeth’s ears and temple to dancing, distracting him mightily from the page they shared. “…that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light…” With great effort of will, he set himself to concentrate on the text and was able to finish without his mind wandering into perilous byways. Beside him, Elizabeth settled back into the hard pew, unconsciously searching for a comfortable position from which to apprehend the Reverend Mr. Stanley’s sermon. Darcy’s attempt to do likewise was a dismal failure. Neatly sandwiched as he was between two ladies, he dared not let any part of his person rest too near theirs, so he was reduced to sitting absolutely erect in a manner horribly reminiscent of the schoolroom. There was nothing for it, so resigned to his lot, he crossed his arms closely over his chest and trained his gaze on the vicar’s face.

Providentially, Mr. Stanley was a vigorous sermonizer, catching Darcy’s interest well enough to allow him to disregard, for the most part, the discomfort of his constricted limbs and his tense awareness of the maddening female on his left. However, when the service concluded and the last hymn was sung, he was more than ready to rise and seek in the outdoors an opportunity to work the stiffness out of his back and the lady out of his mind. “Mr. Darcy” came two voices, one from either side of him.

“Miss Bingley, Miss Elizabeth?” He waited, curious to see who would defer to whom for his attention.

“Please, Miss Bingley, you were before me.” Elizabeth curtsied and moved away to link her arm with that of Squire Justin, assuring him as she did so of her sister’s full recovery to health. Unreasonably disappointed, Darcy turned to Miss Bingley and asked how he could be of service. Smiling triumphantly, she took his arm, giving Darcy no choice but to escort her down the crowded aisle.

“No foot warmers, Mr. Darcy, in
this
weather! It is not to be believed! Next week, I promise you, I shall order the bricks from the carriage to be brought in, warmers or no.”

“As you will, Miss Bingley,” he replied, distracted by a flurry of movement in the section of pews reserved for servants.