B006O3T9DG EBOK (5 page)

It was proof that he was much vexed by country, and county political doings, that she had been above three months gone with child and he had not known of it.

Although her coming child had plagued her with morning sickness, she was now in high flutter at the notion of taking the first dance in her husband’s arms. It harkened back to the earliest days of their marriage. Her romantic notions notwithstanding, there were far greater reasons not to abandon the ball.

Most important amongst them was that the invitations had already been posted. Nothing short of a death would be cause to withdraw them. As it was, their family had become a veritable fount of gossip. It mattered not that Bingley had weathered his financial crises with his usual good humour. Bankruptcy was only cause for ostracism if one’s family did not stand behind the bankrupt party. The ball was imperative to show family solidarity.

Moreover, it was out of season to be in the country. Hence, their guest list would consist of more true friends rather than members of the ton. Amongst others, it would be a welcome opportunity to see her friend, Charlotte Collins. Still, she held out little hope Charlotte would come. It was quite a distance to Hunsford and she had never been a good traveller.

Gazing upon her own fulsome figure in the looking glass, Elizabeth recalled how fragile Charlotte had been when last she saw her. The passage of time disposed every figure to some particular evil, be it thickened waist, drooping bosom, or stooped shoulders. The only form to escape the rages of revolving seasons was her husband. Paunch would never trouble his midsection. Each year he stood a little straighter, forestalling maturity through will alone. He remained as impeccably fit as the first evening they met. Just the thought of dancing with him again made her heart leap.

“Is this to your liking, Ma’am?” inquired the seamstress. “If I do say so myself, the colour flatters you.”

She held out her new bisque-coloured gown, seams basted and ready for the final fitting. It was very pretty, if a bit subdued. Elizabeth could hear ladies tittering behind their fans even then of how Mrs. Darcy had lost her bloom. “Vanity, thy name is Elizabeth,” she silently reminded herself.

It was imperative that she cease fretting. If she did not, she knew that she would be beside herself with nerves by the time she stepped onto the ballroom floor.

As was her husband’s wish, she meant to crown her ensemble by donning the pearls he had bestowed her just prior to their wedding. They were a family piece—a double strand with a diamond and sapphire clasp. The Darcy jewels would improve general opinion of any gown she wore.

This was not a spiteful conclusion; it was fact. The crass were always well-represented at any affair.

Whereas the ball was meant to honour the Bingleys, the guest list had to include Charles’s sisters, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst. Mr. Hurst was tolerable in that he over-imbibed and was customarily semi-comatose soon after dinner. Louisa and Caroline were not at all agreeable. They were alternately fawning, demeaning, and outright abusive—particularly to Jane. After Darcy apprised her of their refusal to reduce their own indulgences during Bingley’s retrenchment, Elizabeth’s dislike was sharpened into outright abhorrence. Indeed, she had not a good thought for either of them. The only consolation was that Bingley no longer harboured any misconceptions concerning his sisters’ integrity.

As Miss Bingley was invited, so would be Sir Winton Beecher. Their engagement had been formed the previous year, although they seemed in no hurry to marry. Elizabeth had supposed that as a well-established husband-hunter of unparalleled determination, Caroline was happier to parade a fiancé around the monde of London and Bath rather than a husband. Once they wed, the couple would slide into the semi-obscurity of a married couple.

Jane was apprehensive of the match. Word had it that Beecher was in no way but name a gentleman. Jane (who was in no way a gossip) feared for her sister-in-law’s reputation. Fingers clutching his elbow, Caroline followed Beecher into gambling halls of every sort. Darcy had been quite appalled by the man and took the exceptional step of informing Bingley that he considered Beecher little above a fortune-hunter. Bingley shrugged his shoulders. Caroline had her twenty thousand pounds and could essentially marry whom she pleased. He could disapprove of it, but she held the emotional whip-hand over her younger brother.

In allying herself with Beecher so hastily after Lady Anne’s death, Caroline had incurred Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s keenly-expressed disapproval. Upon any other occasion, such censure would have sent poor Caroline into paroxysms of fear and despair. Teetering on the brink of spinsterhood, it appeared she would brook castigation long before she would forego a marriageable man.

It was another matter whether Beecher might sacrifice his love for his dear Caroline to the Gods of Credit.

Although it was not her place to make a conjecture about another’s pecuniary situation, Elizabeth was quite certain that Beecher was financially bound to Lady Catherine. If the mood struck her, her ladyship could cut him off without a cent. As to why she had not done so was a puzzlement to some. Every step that lady took was a manoeuvre; every decision she made, a scheme. What Elizabeth suspected was that by having Beecher join the Bingley family fold, her ladyship had another foothold within the Darcy family as well.

These were machinations worthy of Shakespeare.

Another invitation was extended with even less cordiality than to Bingley’s sisters. It was fraught with implications quite of another sort altogether.

By virtue of his former ownership of the manor the Bingleys had purchased, decorum dictated that they invite Sir Henry Howgrave and his wife. It was an honour Elizabeth would have thought nothing of except

for one small bother.

Darcy and Howgrave’s wife had once been lovers.

Chapter 8

For Better or for Worse

It is said that time is a creeping thief.

Juliette delicately patted her plump, honey-coloured locks. Turning her head first one way then the other, she appraised herself in her looking-glass. She was inordinately happy with what she saw. Her nightly ablutions (potions, pomades, rouges, tinctures, rose powder, eye lotion, lemon ointment, and gillyflower water) had kept her in the bloom of youth. Most women her age would need to augment their coiffure with hair pieces. Her hair was still luxuriant—a sure sign of youth. She had a check-book with a formidable balance and a fine footman to follow her.

Her once dwindling finances now replenished through marriage, her life was once again one of opulence and admiration.

———

For all of her years in England, Juliette Clisson had only lately been in want of status. She was, after all, a daughter of a French Viscount. She would have been there yet had not politics of a
dégoûtant
nature interfered with their exquisite existence, usurping their land and chattels. Her mother died of shame and her father turned to drink. When they died of their weaknesses, they were mourned as victims of the revolution as surely as if they had been beheaded with Louis himself.

Juliette had been left to fend for herself as best she could. Convent raised, she was chaste, but not naïve. Cast out into lesser society, she landed on her feet with all the facility of a brindled cat. As her golden hair and creamy skin were highly desirable, in no time she found a well-fed Marquis to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed. Indeed, he put her in an elegant house around the corner from his wife. Unfortunately, the political winds soon shifted against all nobility and her temporary
inamorato
was arrested. A trial was only a formality and it came to pass that she stood next to him in the tumbrel as they were carted off for a hasty execution. She escaped by a hairsbreadth, but it was a nasty business all-round. The episode influenced her to betake her charms to a less volatile climate.

When she first observed the pasty-faced Englishmen traipsing up to St. James Palace, she deduced that her fellow Parisians had been quite correct. London was a backwater hamlet full of self-satisfied shopkeepers. Her opinion of London and its tiresome citizens was much improved by reason of one spectacular point. In London it was very unlikely that she would hear the singularly disturbing words, “Off with her head!”

Indeed, the good people of England looked evermore lively as they came to honour her noble status and admire her voluptuous figure. Her patrician beauty brought her the proper patronage a fortnight of her arrival. Ere long she was the toast of the ton, universally admired as London’s most accomplished courtesan.

It pleased her no end to have the ladies of the court looking upon her with a confusion of loathing and envy. Their husbands (oblivious or uncaring of their wives particular dislike) crowded about her, begging for her attention. Pressing their cards into her hand, they gazed upon her lasciviously whilst whispering indecent suggestions in her ear. It was uproarious fun!

She despised them all of course. Had she not, she still would have never allowed an emotional entanglement. They were superfluous and untidy.

She wanted for nothing. She kept a
tres elegante
house in Mayfair, had gowns beyond counting, and bijouterie to rival that of any mere duchess. Her celebrity was limitless. She travelled in the first circles and often dined at Carlton House. True respectability, however, escaped her. That was part of her cachet. When she was young and vaunted, that hardly mattered. Of all the many things she owned, her most prized possession had been her independence. Self-determination, however, was expensive. In time, she lost her most lucrative clients through the attrition of old age and bad health. Rarely was she remembered in their wills—an indelicacy which left her finances in shambles. The new young bucks were
déclassé
. They desired nothing but young, fresh flesh.

Much could be hidden behind a fan, but the lack of elasticity in one’s gluteal furrow was uncompromising.

Indeed, time was not only a thief, it was outright cruel. Her living was her face, her figure, and her charm. With more than a nodding acquaintance with the second half of her fourth decade, only her charm defied earth’s gravitational pull. When she took uncompromising appraisal, she admitted that her jaw line had begun to soften and a few crow’s feet worried the corners of her eyes. Her waist was still waspish as a seventeen-year-olds’. Her bosom had begun its inevitable droop, but she could counter that through proper stays. As for her complexion, it had not yet failed her.

She did not take to the street in the daylight, but if she did, she held her chin just a little higher. In bed, she made certain she lay on her back. Granted, morning callers would find her drapes lowered. Eventually, she would see no one until half past four. Time was at hand for her to engage in an enduring association—one that assured her financial security. She did not delude herself in this regard. It was probable that she would have to settle for a man wanting in one capacity or another. Good manners, handsome bearing, and ready capital were rarely united. Of the three, wealth was the one necessity.

When she cast out her trawling net, her spirits were not particularly high.

As expected, proposals were offered from an assortment of gentlemen (some of them were even sober). As it was necessary to narrow the field to a manageable number, she pondered three of the most lucrative proposals. Each had their own merit.

One was from an elderly widower who owned an estate in Somerset, a house in town and had no relatives.

The second struck a fine figure, but he had a fondness for buggering his footmen. She did not object on moral grounds, but was loath to weather the tittering.

The third suitor was an unctuous little man of questionable ancestry. His wealth was recently acquired, but substantial. His valour during the protracted hostilities with Napoleon earned him a knighthood. In a bid not singular to him, he hoped to parlay his heroics into a seat in Parliament. A handsome wife would be an asset to him. When introduced, she found nothing notable about him save one small thing.