Darcy’s face twitched into that almost-smile she’d glimpsed at the musicale—closer to a grin than he ever allowed in public. They managed three blissful steps of silence before the next wave of acquaintances breached the seawall.
“Miss Bennet! Have you received Lady Harewood’s invitation?” Mrs. Rolleston drifted into their orbit. “After the musicale, she was most eager to secure the Bennet sisters. Such refinement, such grace—I believe that is what she said.”
“We have indeed,” Elizabeth replied, offering a smile that was practiced and perfectly hollow. “Though for the particulars, you must excuse me. I have surrendered the management of my calendar to Mr. Darcy. He is currently weighing the merits of the Harewood ball against my other engagements.”
Mrs. Rolleston blinked, her fan faltering in mid-air. “How singular. Though I suppose, quite sensible. My Nathaniel is a great enthusiast for the supper dance. He is quite the connoisseur and, I am told, an excellent lead to the supper table. Aren’t you, Nathaniel?”
“Yes, Mamma. My opinion of the soup course is quite lyrical,” Nathaniel said, with the weary patience of a man whose mother had attributed a great many opinions to him during meals he could not recall.
“Lizzy.” Jane had dropped back, slightly flushed. “That woman by the oak just asked Mr. Bingley whether his intentions toward me had been formalized. In those words. In his hearing.”
“What did Bingley say?”
“He turned the color of a radish and said he was honored by my acquaintance. Which satisfied no one.”
“Jane, you must?—”
“I know.” Jane’s composure held, but her fingers pressed against her reticule. “I know, Lizzy.”
Bingley’s enthusiasm was a gift and a danger, because thetonremembered what thetonhad witnessed last winter: a tradesman’s son paying court at Netherfield, disappearing without explanation, his sisters calling nowhere near Gracechurch Street despite Jane’s visit, and now this same man reappearing at Jane’s elbow once Elizabeth had been elevated. The whispers were not kind. They were all about keeping score.
By the time the party reached the elms along the Serpentine, Nettle had discovered a swan and was barking with the enthusiasm of a creature who had never heard of decorum. The promenaders glared, as if dogs and fashionable walks were mutually exclusive.
Mrs. Craster and her Arthur approached, with the son looking even more like he was headed for the gallows.
“Miss Bennet! How soon we meet again,” Mrs. Craster trumpeted. “Did you know my Arthur paints watercolors?”
“How lovely,” Elizabeth replied with a flick of her fan.
“He painted the most exquisite view of the Thames last Sunday. Arthur, describe the painting to Miss Bennet.”
“It was a painting of the Thames, Mother.”
“But the light, Arthur. Tell her about the light. And how you wept at the sunset.”
“The sunset was most affecting.”
“Arthur, you are not selling yourself. Miss Bennet, Arthur’s sensibility is extraordinary. He also weeps at rivers, very large and broad rivers of sentimental tears.”
“Mrs. Craster,” Elizabeth said, “I am sure Mr. Craster’s watercolors are everything they ought to be, and I commend his sensibility, though I confess I prefer oil paints rather than watering with tears. A less damp mode of appreciation, you will agree.”
Allegra deployed a warm smile at Mrs. Craster. “I do believe my aunt requires us for refreshment.”
She spun Elizabeth about and steered them down a new path, retreat executed like a governess redirecting her charge.
“You are magnificent,” Elizabeth told her.
“I have been doing this since I was eighteen. By my third season, invasion becomes instinctive, like breathing or evading one’s great-aunt’s inquiries about marriage prospects.”
“Does your great-aunt enquire often?”
“She has accepted that I am an eccentric spinster by choice and restricts her campaign to biannual sighs.” Allegra’s arm tightened on Elizabeth’s. “You are doing beautifully. Smile at the woman in blue. No, the other blue. The darker one. She is Lady Jersey, and her opinion circulates through three drawing rooms by teatime.”
Elizabeth flashed a smile at Lady Jersey, earning the sort of nod reserved for those granted a temporary loan of social capital. Behind her, Darcy hovered like a particularly loyal raincloud, while Nettle paraded with her leather ball.
“Mr. Darcy.” Another woman, another son, another elaborate preamble. “Lady Greaves. You know my Arthur, who has recently returned from his grand tour and has the most wonderful things to say about Rome.”
“The Colosseum is very large,” Arthur Greaves offered.
