***
Kitty and Lydia whispered together in their room at Longbourn. “I think I could learn to behave better,” Kitty murmured.
“I think we both should,” Lydia agreed. “Because someday Georgiana will invite us both to London, and we will have to know how to act.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matlock House
The Countess of Matlock was entertaining very elegant visitors in her very elegant drawing room. The visitors were, in fact, the epitome of high society, the arbiters of all that was good and right in the world; in short, the most important patronesses of Almack’s: Countess de Lieven, Countess Cowper, Viscountess Castlereagh, and Countess Esterházy.
There was only one reason for this show of force in the Matlock drawing room, and Ellen Fitzwilliam knew exactly what it was. She waited patiently through enquiries as to health, family members, opinions on the latest antics of the Prince Regent, and so on, knowing that they would come to the point sooner or later.
Until that moment, the conversation required little of her attention, so her mind wandered to the letter she had received from Catherine about, of all things, the supposed betrothal between Darcy and Anne de Bourgh. If there was one good thing to come out of this, it would be that Darcy would finally be free of Lady Catherine’s delusion. Doubtless it was foolish to expect much in the way of silver linings in this whole affair, but this was certainly one.
Her attention snapped back to the room when Lady Emily, the Countess Cowper, began the real conversation, the true reason these ladies had come to call today. “Tell me, Ellen, how are things in your family.”
“Oh, quite well,” Lady Ellen, the Countess of Matlock, said brightly.
“But the recent gossip…?” the Countess Cowper asked, delicately.
“Gossip? Oh, you mean that bit in the paper? Nonsense, of course, as any discerning person would know.” Lady Ellen did her best to pull off an air of nonchalance.
“But it seems odd that such a thing would be published,” Amelia Stewart, the Viscountess Castlereagh added, putting her teacup down on the table and leaning forward.
“Does it?” Lady Ellen asked, managing to sound amazed at such a question. “She is not known in Society yet, being just fifteen, and so she is an easy target. We know who planted the article, of course.”
“Do you?” Countess Esterházy asked.
“Certainly; there is a man named George Wickham, who was the son of the late Mr. Darcy’s steward. He formed an attachment to Georgiana Darcy when they were children and actually came toPemberley to try to see her. Mr. Darcy would not allow him near her, of course, and he came to London to spread this vicious tale as revenge.” It was near enough to the truth that it was easily said, with appropriate outrage on the Countess’ part.
The ladies exchanged glances.
Lady Ellen followed it up with, “Anyone who knows Fitzwilliam Darcy knows that he is a most attentive brother and would never let any harm come to her. That is why he refused to let this George Wickham anywhere near her.”
“Perhaps,” the Countess de Lieven said, setting her cup down carefully. “Perhaps that is the case. But were she to come to Town just now, we would not be able to give her a voucher, you know.”
“I would consider that a grave insult to my family, Dorothea,” Lady Ellen said, staring directly at the Countess de Lieven.
The Countess de Lieven could not meet Lady Ellen’s hard stare, so she looked at Amelia Steward, Viscountess Castlereagh, for support.
“We would reconsider if more evidence was brought to light,” Viscountess Castlereagh said. “Ellen, we would not wish to hurt your family for all the world, but the reputation of Almack’s must be our first priority. You must understand that.”
“I understand your position, of course,” Lady Ellen replied. “But I insist that you be willing to reconsider when the time comes.”
***
“Has Richard come home yet?” the Earl demanded of his wife.
“If I am not mistaken, he is coming in just now,” the Countess replied.
Indeed, the clumping of boots could not be mistaken, and a dirty, weary Richard Fitzwilliam, dressed in workman’s clothes strode into the drawing room. Seeing his parents, he began to sit, but his mother stopped him at once.
“Do not even consider sitting on that Sheraton chair,” she ordered him. “Not until you have bathed and changed into clean clothing.”
Richard grunted, but could hardly argue the point. The chair in question was upholstered in cream with gold embroidery, and it would hardly have survived the assault of his garments. He turned to go upstairs, but was halted in his tracks by his father’s voice.
“Richard, this has to stop.”
