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There were titters all around. Elizabeth decided she might like Lady Fleur. But she would wait to know all the ladies better before calling any of them friends. She had learned her lesson with Mr. Darcy.
Aunt Matlock waited until everyone was settled before asking Elizabeth to begin.
Elizabeth took a moment to meet each woman’s eye before she began to speak, telling the story as she had before. “The first time I ever saw Mr. Darcy was at a dance where he flatly refused to stand up with me.”
The women gasped, and Aunt Matlock sent a smile in Elizabeth’s direction.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said sternly. “Can you imagine? The cheek of the man!” She warmed to her story, and the ladies made a satisfyingly rapt audience. She repeated the tale she had told Miss Darcy, adding a few details here and there for dramatic effect. They tittered when she told them of her refusal to dance with him at Lucas Lodge.
“As well you should!” declared Mrs. Egerton.
They waggled their brows when she suggested that their courtship had taken flight when she arrived at Netherfield to care for her sister.
“He simply could not deny it any longer,” Lady Montagu declared triumphantly as the other women nodded sagely and nibbled at the cakes that had somehow appeared before them. “What sort of feathers did Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst wear?”
“Ostrich,” Elizabeth said. Lady Montagu seemed inordinately pleased to hear it, for she lifted her eyebrows knowingly and pulled her head in like a turtle.
Unlike the description she had given her friends in Meryton, Elizabeth did not paint Mr. Darcy as an ogre. Rather, he was a man caught between two worlds, who had ultimately decided to act with his heart.
Elizabeth knew William would not appreciate being cast in the role of a romantic hero, bravely denying his family’s expectations by falling madly in love with a genteel but penniless woman and fleeing to London in the middle of the night to prevent being bound to another. He would, after all, be teased by the men in his circle for the characterization she had created while she would be lauded as the fortunate woman who had turned his head. But there was little else to be done. Mr. Darcy disliked scenes, and while there would always be jealous women of Miss Bingley’s ilk to contend with, they would be less likely to confront her directly if the women in the room today were charmed. Elizabeth knew that one thing she could do, when required, was charm. And if a situation ever called for it, it was this one. She would simply have to explain her reasons and endure her betrothed’s grumbling.
By the time Aunt Matlock’s visiting hour had passed, Elizabeth was both invigorated and exhausted. The ladies had all remained long beyond the usual visit and were chatting excitedly among themselves as they stood to leave.
“I will see our guests out, Elizabeth,” Aunt Matlock said aloud, and then whispered near Elizabeth’s ear, “You have woven a brilliant tale, my dear. I believe you have made quite a conquest.”
“Conquest?” Elizabeth asked, but Aunt Matlock had walked out with her friends. Elizabeth sighed. She had barely escaped disaster with Lady Montagu and had not learned anything about Miss Howard or the rumors.
“There is only one thing left, Mr. Darcy,” Gunderson said as he organized the sheafs of paper on his desk. “You neglected to send me the young lady’s name and her particulars so that I might include it in the contract. And of course, her father or nearest male relation shall have to sign it before the wedding.”
“My cousin is a highly prized commodity on the marriage market, Mr. Gunderson,” Henry said with a false air of solemnity. “To prevent undue speculation and unwanted attention should his note fall into the wrong hands, he chose to inform you of his betrothed’s name in person rather than commit it to the post.”
Gunderson nodded as though this explanation was entirely reasonable. Henry’s lips lifted on one side, a signal that he was about to invent some unbelievable farce of a tale. As Darcy was sure it would be about Elizabeth and himself, he cut Henry off.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he informed his man. The attorney bent his head to write Elizabeth’s name and that of her father into the contract. Henry shook his head sadly.
“You are a terrible bore, Darcy,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
Darcy did not reply. When their business was finished, he gathered up the relevant papers and led Henry back out to the carriage.
“Now,” Henry said, clasping his hands together as Darcy put the contracts into a leather portfolio and stored them in a box secured under his seat. “I allowed you to take precedence with the solicitor.”
“Because he is paid by me and would not take orders from you,” Darcy replied.
Henry ignored him. “When we arrive at the club, you must follow my lead.”
“Why is that?” Darcy inquired. Despite himself, he truly wished to know.
“Because, you dunderhead,” Henry said, waggling his eyebrows, “nobody likes you there. But they love me.”
Darcy laughed aloud. “You are right, though I cannot fathom why. You cheat at cards and chess, you propose outlandish wagers, encourage others to stake their fortunes while you risk nothing, and apparently challenge every third man you meet to a duel.”
“Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor,” Henry replied insouciantly.
“Do not quote poetry at me,” Darcy responded.
“I wager you half a crown that you do not know the poem that line is from.” Henry leaned forward.
“The poem is Cowper’s ‘The Task,’” Darcy said and held out his hand.
