Page 56 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

Abruptly Darcy stood. “When you are recovered, Elizabeth, we will ride out together. Tomorrow evening, we shall read Menaechmi.”

I looked at him in confusion. Certainly I could read Menaechmi, perhaps the most well-known of Plautus’s comedies. I had read it to Papa on several occasions—but whatever was Fitzwilliam about?

‘I think, Lizzy,’ whispered Kitty, ‘that he wishes you to entertain him. Certainly, you can ride, and your Latin is excellent.’

‘No, it is not that,’ Lydia giggled. ‘Perhaps, Lizzy, he wishes to please you.’

‘By riding, by reading Latin?’

‘Have you thought, dearest,’ said Mary, ‘that Darcy has little experience of women, that he likely assumes you and he share the same amusements?’

* * *

Chapter 23

Pemberley

I could well imagine Georgiana not wishing to leave Pemberley, for who would willingly give up a brother like Fitzwilliam for a husband whom one might have known no longer than a twelvemonth? Charlotte Lucas maintains that happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance; if the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always contrive to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation. If this were so, then I would gladly forgo connubial bliss in exchange for the pleasure of an attentive brother.

The weather had turned to rain; coincidentally, Mr. Pettigrew declared my foot nearly healed, so I was allowed to exercise without it being bandaged like an Egyptian mummy at the British Museum. I had hoped to walk out to see the rose garden that Mama and Mr. Darcy had spent so many days restoring, but I was confined to indoor pursuits once again.

After finding a First Folio edition of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing in the library, I persuaded Fitzwilliam and Georgiana that we should act out several scenes. Fitzwilliam wished to demur, saying there were tenant leases to be reviewed, but Georgiana and I prevailed—more precisely, I pleaded, grovelled, and finally agreed to sing Handel’s Lascia ch’io pianga that evening, even though, to my ear, my soprano could scarcely do the aria justice.

Thus, we assembled in the drawing room after a light nuncheon. Of course, I was to play Beatrice, Georgiana was Hero, and Fitzwilliam was Benedicke and Claudio, and any other such part as required.

“Lizzy, whatever does it mean?” asked Georgiana.

Beatrice had just recited the lines: ‘for heare me Hero, wooing, wedding, & repenting, is as a Scotch ijgge, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suite is hot and hasty like a Scotch ijgge (and full as fantasticall) the wedding manerly modest, (as a measure) full of state & aunchentry, and then comes repentance, and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sinkes into his graue.’

“Beatrice likens love and marriage to being predictable, then exhausting, and ultimately leading to regret,” I explained. “The wooing is like a Scotch jig—fast, energetic, and unpredictable; a measure was a formal court dance—the wedding ceremony—dignified, decorous, and steeped in tradition; afterwards, reality sets in—a cinque-pace was a physically demanding dance, and regret starts moving faster and faster, until, crippled by misery, it finishes in exhaustion.”

“I cannot believe, sweet Beatrice, that you believe it.” Darcy was not reading the script.

“Truly, Benedicke, I have not thought long on marriage,” I replied. That was for the future. Yet, Beatrice’s views coincided so closely with Charlotte’s. Could there be some truth to their assertions?

“Oh, you are impossible, cannot you keep to the lines!” cried Georgiana.

Fitzwilliam smirked. “If I must be Benedicke, let me at least have the chance to defend matrimony. ‘For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.’”

“You are quoting the end!” I protested. “We’ve not yet begun the sparring.”

He bowed with mock gravity. “Then I await your wit, Beatrice, for I am armed and ready.”

Georgiana clapped her hands. “Please, Lizzy, do not let him triumph so soon.”

But my triumph was destined to wait, for we were interrupted by the sound of a carriage, and perceived a chaise and four pulling up at the portico.

“By God!” muttered Darcy. “Lady Catherine! Whatever is she doing at Pemberley?”

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“Indeed, Elizabeth, she is my aunt, sister to Lady Anne. Have you heard of her?”

“A coincidence, indeed. She is the patroness of my cousin, Mr. Collins, who inherits Longbourn under the entail. He holds the living of Hunsford.”

We arranged ourselves in the room with some care. Georgiana and I took up our embroidery and sat by the window, where the light was best notwithstanding the rain and gloomy sky. Darcy went to his station by the mantel.

The door was thrown open, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh entered.