Miss Bingley’s parasol twirled between her gloved fingers as she approached them, her sister at her side.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bingley,” Jane replied, inclining her head with composed courtesy. “We are here with our aunt, choosing dresses and hats.”
“Would that be your esteemed aunt inCheapside?” Caroline asked, her cold eyes darting dismissively towards their aunt’s modest but well-tailored gown.
“Near Cheapside, in Gracechurch Street, and I am pleasedyou remembered my mentioning her,” Jane answered, turning slightly towards Mrs. Gardiner, who stood dignified and observant. “Aunt, may I present these ladies?”
“Why on earth would you ask a tradesman’s wife to accept our acquaintance?” Miss Bingley demanded, her lips curling into a decided sneer.
“My aunt is, like my sister and myself, the daughter of a gentleman,” Jane returned calmly. Elizabeth could not help but feel a strong measure of pride in her normally unassertive sister.
“Caroline, do be reasonable,” Mrs. Hurst interposed, laying a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. “I would very much like to know Miss Bennet’s aunt.”
Jane’s warm smile accompanied her graceful gesture towards Mrs. Gardiner. “Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, I am pleased to present Mrs. Madeline Gardiner of London,néeMiss Madeline Cavendish of Derbyshire.”
Upon hearing the name Cavendish, all colour leached from the faces of the two sisters, and Elizabeth struggled to suppress a triumphant smile. The haughty women who had dismissed her family as country nobodies had made a grievous mistake. There were three families bearing the name Cavendish within the confines of Derbyshire, each branch of this particular family tree mingled among the county’s most affluent and well-connected, with estates rivalling even Pemberley in grandeur.
Jane continued the introductions with the serenity of still water, her voice melodious and measured. “Aunt, I present Mrs. Louisa Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley, sisters of Mr. Bingley. Though he now makes his home in London, he maintains his tenancy of Netherfield Park in Hertfordshire.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Hurst said with a constrained curtsey, her hand never leaving her sister’sarm. As Miss Bingley’s lips parted to speak, she hastily added, “We must beg your forgiveness, another appointment calls us away.”
Her intervention to prevent Miss Bingley’s potential impropriety was transparent to all. After exchanging the briefest of pleasantries in the crowded street, Jane and Elizabeth followed their aunt into Madame Étienne’s exclusive establishment, where they soon immersed themselves in the tactile pleasures of silks in every hue imaginable, stylish Parisian design, and exquisitely embroidered trimmings that represented the pinnacle of the season’s most coveted ensembles.
Elizabeth’s patience wore thin as the dressmaker and her assistants poked, prodded, and measured every inch of her person. Meanwhile, Jane endured the same treatment with her usual serenity, and Aunt Madeline bustled about with obvious delight, presenting fabric swatches for their consideration.
“My dear aunt, I daresay you find more pleasure in this exercise than I do,” Elizabeth said with a laugh as her aunt held a rich emerald silk against her cheek.
“I have a few more years before I can indulge myself in dressing my daughters,” Aunt Madeline replied, smoothing the luxurious fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “Until then, you and Jane will be my willing subjects.”
“Speaking of willing subjects, you will have Mamma to contend with next Tuesday. The whole of Meryton must have heard her exclamations when Papa announced they would arrive a fortnight early to prepare her wardrobe and commission her court dress.”
“With five daughters, your mother is quite the expert in such matters,” Aunt Madeline said, holding up a delicate cream-coloured lace with an intricate pattern of roses, while givingElizabeth a cheeky grin, knowing her discomfort with the subject of her mother.
“Particularly where lace is concerned,” Elizabeth said with a sigh, eyeing the elaborate trim with trepidation. “I confess I am relieved she is not here to insist upon more accoutrements than I desire on every inch of neckline, sleeve, or hem.”
Aunt Madeline gave a knowing smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling with affection for her nieces’ well-established preference for tasteful simplicity and elegance over excessive ornamentation. As their appointment drew to its conclusion, the brass bell above the shop door announced new patrons with a melodious chime, which prompted Madame Étienne to excuse herself with a graceful curtsey. Jane retreated behind one of the ornately carved rosewood screens to change, while Elizabeth’s nimble fingers worked at the sturdy buttons of her favourite pelisse. She paused when Madame’s lilting French accent uttered a name, one she had not expected to ever hear again.
“MademoiselleDarcy, your gown is ready. Shall you take it today, or would you prefer delivery to your residence?”
A response followed, though so faintly uttered that Elizabeth could not distinguish the words. Could this be the same Miss Darcy whose accomplishments on the piano had been extolledad nauseamby Miss Bingley during her forced captivity while nursing Jane at Netherfield? Hastening to complete her toilette, Elizabeth emerged just in time to glimpse an elegant matron accompanying a young lady through the shop door and into the bustling London street.
“The young lady who just departed. Was she Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth enquired of Madame Étienne, watching their graceful silhouettes disappear through the shop’s bevelled glass door.
“Mais oui, Lady Elizabeth, as well as her aunt, Lady Matlock.”The diminutive proprietress cocked her head to one side and asked, “Are you acquainted withMademoiselleDarcy?”
“Only by reputation through her brother, who speaks of her with great affection. I should have welcomed an introduction.”
Elizabeth absently traced the delicate embroidery on a nearby silk shawl, surprised by her own sentiment. There had been a time when, poisoned by Mr. Wickham’s honeyed falsehoods and Miss Bingley’s excessive flattery, she had imagined Miss Darcy as being insufferably proud. Now, having discovered Mr. Wickham’s duplicity and Miss Bingley’s ulterior motives regarding the Darcy family, Elizabeth suspected the young lady was merely reserved and gentle, precisely the opposite of their characterizations.
By then, Aunt Madeline and Jane had joined her, their arms laden with parcels wrapped in crisp brown paper, which her aunt’s footman ably delivered to their waiting carriage. After arranging their final fittings, the three ladies repaired to a charming tea shop near Bond Street, where the scent of freshly baked scones enveloped them as they planned their upcoming diversions, beginning with tomorrow’s performance of King Henry IV at Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
Darcy straightened his shoulderswithout realising it as he stepped from the gleaming black carriage onto the cobblestones before the theatre. The crisp evening air carried the mingled scents of perfume, horse, and London’s perpetual coal smoke. The clamour of London’s fashionable society, the rustle of silk gowns, and the cacophony of affected laughter, assaulted his senses. He detested such crowds with their prying eyes andinsincere smiles, and had only agreed to this evening’s performance of King Henry IV to chaperone Georgiana. Since last summer’s calamity at Ramsgate, his sister, barely sixteen, hesitated to venture beyond the family circle, her once bright eyes now shadowed with wariness. That she was willing to attend a public event, indicated a burgeoning desire to finally emerge from her self-imposed social sabbatical, thanks in large measure to Mrs. Annesley, the capable widow of their late rector at Kympton.
It struck him as bitterly ironic that the woman now serving as his sister’s companion, had obtained her position through the very scoundrel who had once presumed the Kympton living would be his.
Darcy paused to offer his sister his arm, noting how her gloved fingers trembled slightly as they rested on his sleeve, and guided her towards the entrance with its gleaming brass fixtures and liveried footmen. Knowing she shared his unease among strangers, he had insisted on arriving early, planning a discreet ascent to their private box. His carefully constructed scheme unravelled, however, when Miss Bingley, adorned in an ostentatious gown that clashed with her auburn hair, stood at the foot of the staircase that led to his private box, flanked by her family and an unfamiliar lady with honey-blonde curls.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley called as they reluctantly drew near.
