Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (48 page)

He held but a single reluctance upon coming to London with Elizabeth. Nevertheless, it was not insignificant. For their life at Pemberley was unconnected from the indiscretions of his past. However, London was an entirely different matter. No doubt, their paths would cross former…acquaintances of his. Thus, he accepted the inevitable, vowing he would take each occasion as it came, each encounter as presented. If Elizabeth asked, he would answer. If she did not, he would not offer.

And notwithstanding Elizabeth was the centre of that particular dilemma, she was wholly unwitting of it.

Hence, his bygone paramours were not what came to mind when Elizabeth first set her eyes upon Darcy, dressed in full panoply, ready to escort Georgiana and herself to their court presentation. Hanging from his waist was a sword that swung down his thigh in a graceful arc. Court protocol demanded such regalia (he but rarely wore seals and chains), but Elizabeth had yet to see him thus. Unschooled in weaponry, she nonetheless raised her eyebrow in admiration. (Whether it was the sabre or the sabre bearer who most incited this regard, one can but conjecture.) The hilt was French. The gilded relief covering handle, knuckle guard, and quillions were worn smooth from centuries of use. Had she asked, he would have explained that the blade was not true to its hilt, for this had been replaced after some long past, bloody battle.

Tentatively, she reached out and touched it, letting her hand slide down the cold enamelled sheath. Suddenly, the double
entendre
of that particular gesture occurred to her and she dropped her hand free. But the sense of lewdness was not easy to shake.

Hastily, she took his arm and whispered to him, “Mr. Darcy, I hope your wife is not about, for I find myself quite at the mercy of your figure.”

As they marched out the door, Elizabeth was quite impressed with herself (howbeit mightily she endeavoured not to be). Had it not been her misfortune that the same strict code of dress that demanded her husband wear his sword, required of her a three-foot feathered train, she should not have thought herself ridiculous at all.

The gallery of St. James’s Court made even Pemberley seem small. The Darcys took their place in line upon the stairs as each personage was summoned to the king in the Presence Chamber. When she entered, Elizabeth released the heavy train folded over her arm. Its weight yanked her back, thus demanding she effect an awkward, hips forward, gait. From this position, she could not help but gaze at the huge columns that supported the cavernous room and follow their arched path overhead. It was so high and her train so heavy, when they were bid step forward, Elizabeth was certain the first glimpse King George would see of her was the underside of her chin.

Or possibly not. It was one of the last public appearances of the increasingly demented king, and one might opine that not all of his dogs were barking. Having heard the rumours, she half-expected poor George to be a drooling lunatic. His loss of reason this day, however, manifested itself merely in a vacant expression and the occasional queer remark. (He had asked Elizabeth how she favoured her shoes.)

Even Prinny attended, evidently an unusual occurrence. Gossip had it that he did not often venture onto the same stage as his father. Nevertheless, stand he did behind the king and queen. At his elbow was his own entourage.

This sycophantic contingent consisted of dandyish men and pretty (if heavily rouged) ladies, all posed in various postures of boredom.

When she first saw the prince, Elizabeth thought that in being described as handsome, it was not the outrageous violation of truth that description usually construed. But upon introduction, a closer inspection saw him less handsome than pretty and quite easily as amply rouged as his consort. (It appeared the mole upon his cheek was pencilled as well. Elizabeth thought that affectation had died with the last century.)

So enthralled was she by the prince’s maquillage, she was quite unwitting that his notoriously roving eye alit upon her. Such notice, however, did not escape her husband. Because of that, he kept a tight hand upon her elbow as she departed her presentation. So firm was his grip, she presumed him concerned for her nerves.

“Upon the contrary,” he later told her, “my solicitation was in defence of your honour rather than your knees. I believed myself to recognise from the prince a more than patriarchal interest in your person.”

It had long been whispered that the king’s lunacy was a result of the unlikely faithfulness of the monarch to his queen, rampant infidelity normally the most reliable trait amongst royalty. Marriage, however, did not dampen his son’s libido. His reputation announced he clearly intended to regain promiscuity in the name of the monarchy. Not only did he take advantage of his own position, but devoured what was unused of his father’s. A daily diet of compliance did nothing to discourage the increasingly corpulent Regent from propositioning ladies of the court with brash liberality.

However injudicious to his person were his vices, he could act upon a whim. For it was no secret that most ladies at court would happily be debauched if it was upon a
royal mattress. That did not occur without their ambitious husbands’ approval.

Therefore, forthwith of the commencement of the ball, a request did come for the Darcys to join the prince’s party in his salon. Darcy dared to tell the courier they were unavailable, thinking it wisest to keep Elizabeth from beneath Prinny’s gaze, lest the man solicit her company. It would be impolitic to call out the King’s son. Elizabeth was taken aback and said so.

Darcy answered her qualms quite bluntly, “I do not choose to dine with a man who has spoken of consigning his father to Bedlam and appears to offer nothing more to the enrichment of England than the introduction of sea bathing.”

That remark reminded Elizabeth, howbeit he was an untitled member of the landed gentry, when it came to rank the Darcys held lineage consanguineous to the crown. Hence, as one of the most illustrious men in England, his deference to those titled was more a matter of ritual politesse than subordination.

Elizabeth was grateful to know herself the wife of one of the few members of the elite circle who had no reason to inflate his importance (for to what could one of such eminence aspire?). The level of self-important pomposity amongst that group was staggering. The lavishness of St. James’s Palace was bedazzling; Elizabeth, nevertheless, believed that the lifestyle she witnessed there was not endured without substantial cost to one’s character. Position was not the only thing. It was everything.

Character and goodness had no weight, no merit. Position alone held realty. Of this, she did not speak to her husband. For she knew, although not by reason of measured contempt, but birthright, it was a point upon which he held no perspective.

They attended and were hosts to many suppers, teas, private concerts, and amateur theatricals whilst in London. They did not venture, however, to another court ball until near the end of their stay. By then, Elizabeth was quite weary of the constant whirl of socialising. Nevertheless, she could not find disfavour that final night, for it had not been totally without merit. There were far more couples than could comfortably be contained in the ballroom. Hence, she could steal more dances with her husband than propriety allowed.

After one particularly enthusiastic romp across the dance floor (this not with Darcy, for he never romped), she repaired to catch her breath in the gallery. She was amazed (howbeit in retrospect, perhaps she should not have been) to find her cousin, Mr. Collins, and Charlotte with Charlotte’s father, Sir William Lucas, lurking there. Sir Lucas had finally managed to insinuate himself again at court, albeit in a lesser ballroom. They had strayed from thence to eye the first circles, a reluctant Charlotte in tow. It was a happy treat to see her friend, even mitigated, as it was, by the presence of her husband. Elizabeth wanted to have a moment to talk to Charlotte who, since her marriage (understandably), usually seemed to have a pained expression upon her face. However, Mr. Collins heard of Elizabeth’s royal presentation and could not contain his enthusiasm for being a cousin to someone so close to the royal throne.

“And could Mr. Darcy possibly use his influence to submit a lowly clergy to the honour of an upper salon?” he inquired. “I flatter myself that I am a gentleman of some repute. With the correct patronage ’tis done, is it not?”

“I think not,” Elizabeth said, desperately trying to remember the rules. “I think it done singularly for the peerage, cardinals and bishops.”

“But I thought a man of Mr. Darcy’s influence…”

She insisted, “Surely, you would not want to risk offending your archbishop, Mr. Collins.”

Mr. Collins silently (and mercifully) weighed that transgression against the elevation in status of private presentation. All the while, Sir Lucas stood observing this encounter with pompous condescension (Sir Lucas often looked pompous, but in this instance it was more pronounced than usual). His own knighthood was by reason of a handsome fortune in trade, a distinction that had perhaps impressed himself more keenly than it did his acquaintances.

Charlotte’s marriage to Mr. Collins was, Sir Lucas believed, a step down. But with Charlotte plain and seven years older than twenty, there was a paucity of prospects.

Mr. Collins’s proposal had therefore been provident and welcome. Indeed, he and Mr. Collins were of the same mind upon the most important matters. One, that Charlotte could do no better than Mr. Collins as a husband, and second, that every person of station was worthy of the greatest possible sycophantism. In the light of these understandings, when Mr. Collins’s toadying deserted him for Mrs. Darcy, it was hardly an offence to Sir Lucas. On the contrary, he marvelled at his son-in-law’s determination. The failure of his entreaty to Elizabeth was almost as disappointing to Sir Lucas as it was mortifying to Charlotte.

Charlotte’s own countenance had not duplicated her father’s, for she looked upon all events as a seasoned observer. All things fell into simple categories. Elizabeth was her friend, not a social opportunity. Charlotte was uninterested in servility to anyone and hated being at court as much as it delighted her father and husband.

Charlotte was a simple woman, caring but for her hearth and home. Only great interrogation might uncover (Elizabeth had never dared to bring it up) that Charlotte would just as soon her husband did not attend either.

With Mr. Collins ruminating yet, Elizabeth made her apologies in order to escape. When she kissed Charlotte’s cheek
adieu,
she recognised that strange little detached smile first evident at Pemberley. It gave Elizabeth a slight shiver down her back as she bid a hasty retreat. Her eyes searched for the reassurance of her husband as she wended her way through the throng.

Her survey of the room took in Georgiana, who was wedged tightly amongst the dancers. Rarely did Georgiana favour a caper across a ballroom. A quadrille was a test of endurance for her. Unfortunately, Miss Darcy beckoned only the most ambitious of young men (this, by reason of Miss Darcy’s fortune), and of all young men, ambitious ones were those Georgiana cared for least. Therein lay the vexation. The company Georgiana was most likely to enjoy was the very one whose meekness kept him from her. Hitherto, whenever Elizabeth caught sight of her circling the dance floor, her partner’s face would reflect fawning insincerity. Georgiana would merely look pained.

However, with Colonel Fitzwilliam in town, her dance card was full, her partners discerning. The colonel had taken her about the floor at least twice and Elizabeth saw he had a hand in her current partner. He was a fellow officer, one assigned to the royal family. It could be argued that if Fitzwilliam selected him to dance with Georgiana,
she was safe from mendacity. Thus assured her sister-in-law was temporarily in good hands, Elizabeth again pushed her way through the press of bodies looking for Darcy, happy to share that information.

Thither she went and so intent was she upon searching for her husband, she was almost sent reeling a step backwards from coming so precipitously under the glare of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. (She should have known Mr. Collins would not stray far from her side.)