Page 54 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

So rude, speaking of Mr. Darcy’s late wife at his table.

“Oh, not at all, Mrs. Wainwright. Mrs. Abernathy was only an under-cook at the time, but she recalls quite clearly that Lady Anne was involved in all aspects of choosing menus so each course could be served hot from the ovens, and not allowed to cool or curdle waiting on the sideboard. She herself supervised the installation of a Rumford hearth and modern bake ovens.” Mrs. Bennet had caught the attention of the whole table, but more particularly Mr. Darcy. “Her care and attention to running the household is echoed in Miss Darcy,” she added. “Not only with her mother’s grace and charm, but also her proficiency as mistress of the estate.”

“Hear, hear,” cried Mr. Wainwright, perhaps a trifle disguised. “I raise my glass to Lady Anne!”

A toast between courses was highly irregular; nevertheless, we took up our glasses. Mr. Darcy sipped his wine, accepting murmured condolences, but his eyes never left Mrs. Bennet. They shone with pride, with admiration, and genuine respect.

Georgiana looked from one to the other, then caught my eye. “Truly?” she whispered across the table. I smiled in return. “Truly, dearest, I believe we are both to become real sisters.”

The soup was removed and fish, lightly steeped in melted butter and paired with fresh fennel and mint, was served. Mr. Crawley, true to his word, took a small portion and carefully disentangled any bones—with just the one good hand, I found such a delicate operation exceedingly difficult.

“You are too good,” I said, as he placed the mackerel on my plate—the fish had been freshly sent up from the coast, packed in the last of the season’s ice.

“Certainly not, it is the least I can do for such a fair lady.”

“Fair? Have you mistaken me for my mother, Mrs. Bennet? She, like Miss Darcy, is uncommonly fair-haired.”

“Mrs. Bennet? Certainly she is an attractive lady.” Once again, he looked confused. “I was referring to your skin, Miss Bennet; you have such a light, pleasing complexion.”

Oh dear, he was certainly not the sharpest pencil in the box; but neither, I supposed, was he as dumb as a bag of hammers! I heard Mary give a reproachful sigh.

Mr. Crawley was merely a young man, of no exceptional ability, having the fortune to be born into a gentleman’s house. In Derbyshire, with its isolation from London society, he was ill accustomed to speaking with ladies of impertinent wit and, dare I say it, lively temper. I had grown accustomed to banter with Darcy, who possessed such a dry sense of humour that he could desiccate herbs with just one turn of phrase.

I turned the conversation, endeavouring to discover Mr. Crawley’s interests. Naturally, he was fond of shooting—which gentleman wasn’t?—but held no interest in horseflesh. That much we had in common. This was of little help, being exceedingly difficult to make conversation about a shared disinterest.

“I believe there is a fine garden at your estate. Do you grow roses?” We had canvassed fencing, boxing, fox-hunting, and even outdoor games such as cricket to no avail.

“Roses? Not at all. But you have missed our tulips—the peak month for colour was in April.” His eyes lit up, a topic worthy of pursuing.

“Do you breed your own plants, sir? I understand some varieties are exceedingly sought after.”

Tulips, bless their petals and stamens, managed to carry the conversation through the boiled tongue, the roasted game birds, to the puddings. I was rescued when Mr. Wainwright, sitting on my other side, was freed from his wife and Mr. Darcy’s conversation and turned to make some comment on our trip to the Lakes. Wordsworth was a great favourite, and he was disappointed we had missed the poet at Grasmere. Thus the meal ended. The sweet tarts and jellies, followed by fresh fruit, nuts, and cheeses, were a welcome finale.

Mrs. Bennet rose, and the ladies followed her to the drawing-room. I leant on her arm—my ankle and foot had begun to throb something dreadful. It was with relief that I sank into a well-sprung settee and could place my leg on a cushion.

* * *

I had forgotten the assault by Mrs. Augustus and her daughter on Fortress Darcy when we first met at the Salutation Hotel in Ambleside. After Miss Eustacia and Mr. Lowther had formed an attachment, as we discovered at the inn at Buttermere, it was impolite to remember it. Yet once again I saw the drawbridge of Fortress Darcy being raised when the gentlemen joined us in the drawing room.

The company had dispersed—Georgiana to the piano-forte, assisted by Mr. Crawley turning the pages, and the others to cards. Miss Crawley, naturally enough, came to sit near the fire; hardly necessary given the warmth of the evening, yet casting a welcome glow over the room with its flickering yellow and red flames. Darcy, as usual, was standing by the mantel.

“Mr. Darcy, you are quite determined not to join the whist table tonight?”

“As you can see, Miss Crawley, your brother is occupied, and Miss Elizabeth is confined to the settee. Cards seldom engage my interest, unless there is spirited conversation in addition to playing tricks. Truth be told, I am a poor whist player unless my partner is particularly skilled.” Darcy cast me a glance. I smirked—we had discovered that I was the better player. The Colonel had partnered with Darcy, losing to Georgiana and myself at every hand. Darcy was quite disgruntled, for he had thought himself skilful enough to compensate for Richard’s poor play.

Miss Crawley laughed, tilting her head so the firelight caught the gold in her curls. “I do not believe it! I am sure you would never allow yourself to be bested at anything.”

“I assure you, I am quite capable of defeat, and frequently so.”

Had she forgotten I was present? She stepped a little closer to Darcy, who raised his drawbridge a notch higher in response. “I am said to play a tolerable hand at piquet,” she said. “We have just the perfect number of players.”

Indeed, I had become invisible, for piquet required only two to play.

“Nevertheless, I prefer conversation, when conducted with humour and intelligence, over that of cards. Certainly two, also three, can participate in a stimulating discourse.”

Was Darcy attempting to remind Miss Crawley that I also existed?

“Surely, sir, you are not so desperate for conversation that you would eschew cards? Particularly this evening?”