“Do not assist me, Mrs. Craster. I am perfectly capable of expressing my displeasure without reinforcement.”
Madame Delacroix excused herself from the fitting rooms and crossed through the curtains to the outer salon.
Elizabeth caught Allegra’s eye.
“Lady Matlock,” Allegra murmured, helping Elizabeth smooth her skirts. “And Mrs. Craster—her son is one of the Arthurs. The weeping one, I believe.”
“Weeps at sunsets or weeps in chapels?” Elizabeth asked, leaning in closer.
“Sunsets. The chapel weeper is Greaves.” Allegra was already reaching for Elizabeth’s morning dress, held ready on its hook. “You cannot go out there in your stays, Elizabeth. Let me help you.”
Allegra’s fingers worked quickly, and Elizabeth was soon back in her own clothes, feeling oddly smaller, as if she had stepped out of her future self and into something less remarkable.
They emerged into the outer salon to find Lady Matlock installed in the shop’s best chair with the settled authority of a woman who had commandeered better chairs than this one, while Mrs. Craster hovered beside her. Madame Delacroix was presenting fabric swatches with the steady composure of a woman who had survived campaigns far worse than those of a displeased countess.
“Ah.” Lady Matlock’s gaze swept Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet. How delightful. I did not expect to find you here.”
“Lady Matlock. What a pleasant surprise.” She curtsied with the deference due a countess who was also Fitzwilliam Darcy’s aunt.
“You know, Mrs. Craster, I think? Her son Arthur has been most attentive in his calls.”
“I have had the pleasure of receiving Mr. Craster’s card,” Elizabeth said.
“Arthur is of a most sensitive disposition,” Mrs. Craster offered, her face bright with maternal zeal. “He has composed the most beautiful verses this week. He has quite a gift for expressing the tender emotions.”
“How charming,” Elizabeth said. “I understand many young men find poetry a comfort.”
“A comfort and a talent. He has been so moved by his recent acquaintances in London that the verses have quite flowed from him. Four sonnets since Tuesday.”
“Four sonnets are a considerable output. One hopes the muse is kind.”
Lady Matlock, who had been exercising considerable restraint while lesser players performed, intervened, angling her body to block the fawning Mrs. Craster entirely from view.
“My son Lord Coke has also been most complimentary about his recent acquaintance with you, Miss Bennet. He tells me you possess a wit that is not commonly found among the young ladies of the Season.” She smiled with the archness of a woman whose compliments carried terms and conditions. “He dances beautifully, you know. His father insisted on a proper dancing master. Not all families attend to the finer accomplishments with equal care.”
“Lord Coke is most agreeable,” Elizabeth said, a bare and polite acknowledgment.
“And my nephew Fitzwilliam has been most diligent in his duties as Lady Sophia’s proxy, I understand. Such adevoted family connection.” Lady Matlock’s tone was all smooth approval, yet beneath it ran something sharper, like a cold current under still water. “He tells me he has settled the matter of the supper dance for Saturday. A very proper arrangement. It is a relief to know he executes his family obligations with his usual efficiency.”
Elizabeth felt a sudden, sharp prick of alarm beneath her stays, but her countenance remained perfectly still. She chose her words with the care of a soldier crossing a frozen pond. “Mr. Darcy has been exceptionally thorough, Lady Matlock. However, he informed me that the dance card is not yet completely settled. He is still vetting several late applications.”
Lady Matlock’s smile did not vanish, but it froze. Her eyes narrowed by a fraction. “Vetting? My son’s application was delivered last week, Miss Bennet. There is nothing left to vet. If Fitzwilliam is delaying the formal placement of his own cousin for the most significant set of the evening, he is being intentionally obstinate.”
“I am certain he only wishes to ensure the strictest propriety on Lady Sophia’s behalf,” Elizabeth offered softly.
“Propriety does not require a man to insult his own blood,” the Countess said, her voice dropping into a low, indignant register. “I shall have words with my nephew before the sun sets today. He has a great many virtues, but he must be reminded that a proxy guardian does not dictate terms to an earl’s house.”
A chill ran through Elizabeth. If Lady Matlock stormed Grosvenor Street, would Darcy fold? He was built for duty, trained to obey, and if his aunt demanded the supper dance for Lord Coke, he might hand it over without a fight. Their fragile understanding would be flattened by Mayfair’s machinery before it had a chance to breathe.
Lady Matlock turned back to the counter, the brief skirmish concluded, but the threat hanging heavily in the air.“My younger son, Colonel Fitzwilliam, speaks very warmly of meeting you in Kent this past February,” she continued, pivoting back to her social script with terrifying ease. “He wrote that you brought a most refreshing liveliness to the parsonage at Hunsford. Quite enlivened the entire dull month of February, he said.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam was most kind during my visit to my friend Mrs. Collins,” Elizabeth said, her voice sounding thin. “He and Mr. Darcy were both attentive guests at Rosings.”
“Yes, Darcy is always attentive at Rosings. My sister Catherine rather depends upon it.” Lady Matlock turned to the fabric swatches as though the conversation had run its natural course. “The gold trim, Madame Delacroix. A half-shade cooler. I have a standard to maintain.”
Elizabeth retreated to the fitting rooms at a dignified pace, which was only slightly undermined by the relief flooding her chest. Jane and Mary, of course, had been eavesdropping through the curtain gap.
“She does not hide her meanings behind polite lace,” Mary said quietly, her dark eyes wide with an unvarnished observation. “She tells you exactly how she intends to rule you, should you become her daughter.”
