Upon every occasion when Mary Bennet might have stood up and made her way to the pianoforte, my sister and her friend prevented her from doing so by means of some smothering attention or urgent question. By this I concluded Elizabeth must have confided to Georgiana her horror at the prospect of poor Mary’s artless playing. Perhaps even Miss Bennet had also been recruited to this cause, since upon the last opportunity for a performance, she found the resolution to speak up regardless of how overborne she must have been, and begged my sister to perform.
We were then treated to artistry and such excellence as quelled a most unruly audience into pin-drop silence. Even Lydia Bennet had ceased her giggling from the other side of the room. My heart swelled almost to breaking to witness Georgiana’s hard-earned confidence tested so publicly, and at one point, I was forced to look to the ground in submission to the weight of my overwhelming gratitude.
“She is exceptional,” came a quiet murmur at my elbow.
I offered only a faint smile as reply, and together, Elizabeth and I stood side-by-side as we listened to the last notes so poignantly played that the company then burst into a chorus of compliments and murmurs of appreciation. Georgiana was still herself to some degree, however, and such lavish praise caused her cheeks to redden as she curtseyed and ended in her seeking refuge beside me and Elizabeth.
Eventually, the company began to disperse. Fitzwilliam was immediately on hand to escort Miss Bennet and her family to their waiting coach, and shortly after, I excused myself and went exhausted to bed.
CHAPTER 37
This pattern repeated itself on several more occasions. Though a ball was soon ruled out because the full moon would not occur before Mr Johnson’s business required he leave the country, we went to Longbourn for tea and Lucas Lodge for cards. Fitzwilliam made himself useful to Jane Bennet by never failing to stand beside her whenever she was at risk of finding herself in conversation with Bingley, and as promised, Georgiana bestowed her attention upon those she had marked out as most deserving of it. With pearls around her neck and in her hair, dressed in such sumptuous, well-draped gowns as she had accumulated for a Season in London, she doted upon her newly met friend, Miss Bennet. She spared no less attention for Elizabeth, and what slices remained of the pie of her condescension were then thinly divided between Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst, Miss Johnson, and her relations.
I stood there as useful to this cause as a tree branch in a parlour.
Unable to suppress a faint smile at my present usefulness, which was none, I was reminded of the many times I had stood invisible next to a mule while Carsten and Donaldson quarrelled about the making of camp. This led me to recall a conversationmonths ago in London when Georgiana had explained to Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner how much she counted on our cousin to support her in her presentation, before blushingly remembering she had a brother.
Aside from having no cause for action during these gatherings except to fade into invisibility whenever Miss Bingley threatened to engage me in conversation, I tried and sometimes succeeded in finding something to laugh at. But I was never truly at ease, for I felt certain we were due for some sort of shock I was helpless to prevent.
The legitimacy of this unending vigilance ultimately came one night at a dinner party at Netherfield Park. While the first such reception had been widely inclusive, this one had comprised only the Bennets and the Lucases, who were generally considered the highest society in the neighbourhood. Regardless of those not invited, we were still a large party and filled every seat at Bingley’s table.
I sat in expectation that Lydia Bennet would mortify us, or Mrs Bennet would begin to spout broad hints and winks at my cousin that her dear Jane was ripe for an offer of marriage. Instead, it was Miss Bingley who fired a shot off the bow. Apparently, she had not been as occupied with her other guests or as oblivious to the paltriness of my sister’s attention to her as I had thought.
“My dear Georgiana,” she said with false affection, “I did not know you were so well acquainted with Eliza Bennet.”
“Oh? We met in London before my presentation,” my sister replied.
“In London? How did you happen upon one anotherthere?”
“I was introduced to her and her London relations,” she said, looking warmly down the table at her friend, “and we exchanged visits.”
“Visits? In Cheapside?” Miss Bingley exclaimed with a rueful little laugh. And then completely forgetting herself, she said, “I did not know you mixed with people in trade. How very modern of you!”
This acid remark had fallen rather unfortunately at a moment when there had been a general pause in the conversation as sometimes happens, and the entire table heard it.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Elizabeth reach across Mr Lucas to grasp her mother’s arm as if demanding her to be silent. Mr Johnson, whose origins and fortune were directly tied to trade, cleared his throat. Miss Johnson looked down at her plate, and Mrs Johnson put her napkin to her lips. We endured a wretched moment of stunned silence before anyone spoke, and when conversation resumed, it was in private murmurs and upon such safe subjects as are usually engaged upon by dinner companions. Georgiana turned to Mr Johnson, who happened to be seated next to her, and asked if he had indeed been to China as she had heard. I asked Mrs Hurst if I might refill her glass of wine, and Fitzwilliam, seated next to Lady Lucas, asked what year her husband had been knighted. With exaggerated interest, those seated nearby then listened to Sir William’s further reflections on that day.
At the far end of the table, even Bingley, who might otherwise not have heard his sister’s remark were it not for that ill-fated lull, comprehended the insult to his betrothed. In a markedly compensatory manner, he added another tender cut of partridge to Miss Johnson’s plate and carefully adjusted her lace shawl, which had slipped behind her.
In effect, Miss Bingley sat in complete isolation for the remainder of the dinner. Even Mrs Hurst did not come to her rescue, and though we continued our meal pretending nothing untoward had gone on, the conviviality with which we had begunhad been lost. The next challenge after dinner was entirely within my sister’s domain. What passed in the salon while the gentlemen shook off their awkwardness by exchanging off-colour jokes over port, I could only guess.
After the interminable hour and a half that followed, the party broke apart. No one lingered in the drawing room for cards or entertainment, and thus, what I most despise about a house party—those undercurrents of grievance and polite snubs—began to develop.
Georgiana, who had grown up a great deal in a short span of time, had no experience of this phenomenon.
She came to my room the next morning, and after claiming she had hardly slept at all on account of her seething, and having no cause to mention names, she cried, “What a vile thing to say in such mixed company and in such a sneering manner!”
“Sit down,” I said gently.
“I do not want to sit!” she roared as she paced before me. “How am I to act? I cannot stand the sight of her!” And then, having caught a glimpse of me in the mirror, she whirled to face me. “I see you are dressed for riding. Might I come with you? I could be ready in ten minutes.”
With her face a mask of cold disdain, we trotted our horses away from Netherfield Park. Very soon afterwards, we were joined by a third rider.
“I thought you meant to hunt today,” I said to Fitzwilliam as he galloped up beside us.
“And instead, I am off to visit the nieces of a tradesman,” he said with a wink.
“May we go with you?” my sister begged.
