“We have stayed longer than the usual time for calls. Please forgive us.” Winslow’s pretty words made Lady Hertford chuckle.
“The inducement is explanation enough,” she quipped, glancing at her charge.
Several of the Miss Bennet’s admirers departed, too, leaving just Darcy and Bramley in the room. The narrowing of the company felt like opportunity at last—and yet it slipped from his grasp almost at once.
Lady Hertford began volleying questions at Darcy, then, leaving no opportunity for him to speak with Elizabeth. He had the vague impression that she was interrogating him—his intentions, his family, his habits, his seriousness—each inquiry delivered with elegant ease and unmistakable precision. Elizabeth remained silent throughout, her expression unreadable, offering him no aid, no reprieve.
Before he knew it, the time came to depart. Darcy had not spoken a single unguarded word to her. The frustration of it sat heavily on his tongue, bitter and unresolved. Bramley stood with him as they bid the ladies farewell. Lady Hertford kindly invited them to call again, her smile suggesting that nothing she did was accidental.
Bramley whistled a merry tune as they exited the house. “Miss Bennet is the one, Darcy, mark my words.”
He made a noncommittal noise, still irritated that he had not had the chance to speak with Elizabeth. Next time, he promised himself. Next time, he would insist—on a word, on an explanation, on the truth of her feelings.
And yet, as the door closed behind them and the warmth of Hertford House faded into the chill of the street, Darcy could not escape the uneasy sense that time—once so obliging—was no longer his ally.
“Well, Miss Bennet, I must say Viscount Bramley is well and truly caught. Though nothing is certain until after the marriage articles are signed, I will say I have never seen him so attentive to a lady. It is a very smart match for you.”
Lady Hertford smiled, clearly pleased.
“But do you like him, Jane?” Elizabeth pressed.
Jane blushed. “I do, Lizzy. He is everything a gentleman ought to be…but I said that about Mr. Bingley, too.” Her cousin’s uncertainty was written clearly on her face.
“This Bingley sounds like an inexperienced man who does not yet know what he wants.” They had told Lady Hertford about Jane’s experience with love and loss in an effort to curb some of her enthusiasm in marrying off her charges. “Bramley is two-and-thirty. He has been among the ladies of thetonfor long enough to know what he wants. And if you are not ready for a proposal, a courtship is the next best thing.”
Lady Hertford turned her discerning eye on Elizabeth. “What do you think of your suitors, Elizabeth?”
“I have hardly had the opportunity to know any of them better,” she replied immediately. “A matter of weeks is not enough time.”
“You have known Mr. Darcy for months.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Surely, you do not think he means to court me?” She did not like hearing her own suspicions voiced aloud.
“He can barely take his eyes off you when we are in his company. He followed you around, staring, at Lady Sefton’s ball, and when he saw your flock of admirers, he looked ill. You may try to deny it, but he has an interest in you.”
“His Royal Highness did not include Darcy on his list of acceptable choices,” she murmured. It was a weak excuse, and she knew it.
“Leave the prince to me. I have his ear, as you well know. Unless you have some strong objection to Mr. Darcy, that is?” Lady Hertford looked at Elizabeth expectantly.
“While he was…not his best in Hertfordshire, I suppose he is no different from the other gentlemen on ‘the list’. I suppose if he wishes to throw in his lot, I can only give him a fair chance.”
Later, she considered her words. Did she wish to give Mr. Darcy a fair chance? She did not have an answer yet.
Chapter Thirty-One
Elizabeth was tired, and it was only March. The realization unsettled her more than she wished to admit. The Season had scarcely reached its height, yet she already felt the steady drain of vigilance—the constant awareness of eyes upon her, of expectations unspoken but ever-present. Each evening required composure, discernment, and an unflagging attention to nuance; each morning demanded that she rise and do it all again, as though it cost her nothing.
She had been informed that Queen Charlotte had ordered her presence at tea and would send an invitation by and by. This was not so unexpected. She was staying at Carlton House and had a lifelong connection to the royal family, and such an omission would have been remarked upon far more loudly than an invitation. Still, the formality of it weighed on her. Elizabeth wrote to Princess Caroline about her trepidation on meeting the queen—she had not been in such august company since her childhood, when such encounters were buffered by innocence and ignorance. Aunt Caroline had been quick to reassure her, boosting her confidence and calming her nerves, reminding hergently that she had already navigated far more treacherous waters with grace.
Oh, how Elizabeth missed her aunt! The ache of it caught her unawares at odd moments—when she passed a familiar corner of Carlton House, or when she folded a letter and realized there was no one but Jane in Town with whom she could speak freely. The Gardiners were unacceptable—Lady Hertford had refused her the moment she asked, and she did not wish to convey her feelings in a letter. She now dared not ask Lady Hertford if she could call upon the princess’s household.. The request would surely reach the Prince Regent, who would likely punish Elizabeth—or Princess Caroline—in some way. Her aunt assured her that she understood the situation, that she did not feel slighted, but it did not lessen Elizabeth’s longing or the quiet guilt that followed it. There was something deeply unnatural in being so close and yet so deliberately apart.
Jane’s spirits, at least, had improved markedly. It had been six weeks since she joined Elizabeth in Town, and little less since she made the acquaintance of Viscount Bramley. The change in her cousin was unmistakable—not merely the return of color to her cheeks, but a softening of her manner, a renewed steadiness that spoke of hope carefully tended rather than naïvely embraced. The viscount was very attentive, and Jane expressed her pleasure at knowing the attentions of a steady man.
“He is very like Mr. Bingley in manner, though there is a maturity about him that my former suitor lacked,” Jane confided in Elizabeth late one night after a particularly wonderful evening on the viscount’s arm. The fire had burned low, the house quiet but for the distant footfalls of servants. “And when we speak privately…Oh, Lizzy, he speaks to me as one intelligent person to another. Though he admires my beauty, he also admires my mind and respects my thoughts.”
“That is everything I hoped for you.” Elizabeth meant it with her whole heart. It was perfect—if Elizabeth married someone in the first circles, then Jane would not be out of reach if she married the viscount.If. No, it is when.Elizabeth would not allow herself to hedge her hopes where Jane was concerned. The viscount’s conduct bore the stamp of sincerity; he did not dazzle, but he endured.
Viscount Winslow, by contrast, was an amiable man, but Elizabeth thought he lacked something fundamental—a depth of curiosity, perhaps, or the capacity to challenge her in return. Of all her suitors, he appealed to her the most. That is, he did until Mr. Darcy began calling in earnest. He had come to call at Hertford House four times in the last two weeks, each visit marked by careful courtesy and unmistakable intent. And he made a point to come to her side at every gathering they both attended. He was often with Lady Matlock and Viscount Bramley. Last time, the Earl of Matlock had been in attendance, too. He met and danced with Jane, and Elizabeth had no doubt he was there to evaluate the lady his son wished to make his viscountess.
