A Private Performance (6 page)

“You had that in common with him?”

“I did. Among my intimate friends, only Bingley married where he chose.”

“Are the Foxwells happy, do you think?”

“After their own fashion, yes, I think so. You liked Foxwell?”

“Yes, although I am somewhat mystified.”

“By what?” The darkness gave his voice a teasing quality.

“Mr. Foxwell appears a little … unorthodox. How came you to have such a close friendship with him?”

“I have known him since my first day at school, a few weeks after my mother's death. He was the only person that made that first term bearable.”

He took her hand and continued, “Foxwell may seem somewhat ‘eccentric', if he would excuse the word. However, I am so accustomed to his style of address that I believe I respond to his intention rather than his words. Even as a child, he was capable of the greatest kindness.”

Her hands were warming in his. In the darkness, she heard him say: “Elizabeth, you are the only person I have ever known, since childhood, to whom my heart has gone out, unsought and unbidden, in love or friendship.”

What could she say in reply? There was nothing to say.

 

After the last of the guests had left, the Foxwells sat for a few minutes in the drawing room.

“Mrs. Darcy is very charming, clever and pretty, too,” said Foxwell.

“They generally are in such cases, Foxwell. You did not expect her to be a fright, I daresay.”

“I rather thought you liked her, my dear.”

“I liked her very much. She will be an interesting addition to our circle.”

Foxwell smirked in his wife's direction.

“I remember when you were charming to me,” he said.

“Such nonsense you speak, Foxwell. I was never charming.”

Surprised that her father-in-law did not throw in his own caustic comment, she looked at him. He was pale, and his brow creased with worry.

“Are you well, Father?”

“My dears, something has occurred that has troubled me greatly.” He told them of his conversation with Lady Catherine.

“I never heard of such an outrage!” cried his son. “She cannot do this. All the world knows she has promised that living to Reginald.”

His father nodded. “I should have thought that this action would seem too dishonourable for her ladyship to contemplate it.”

“Are there no legal means of opposing her in this, Father?” said Mrs. Foxwell.

He shook his head. “I shall look through my correspondence tomorrow, but I am almost certain she has never put her name to the offer in writing.”

“Her ladyship's impertinence beggars belief, Father!” burst out his son. “How can she imagine I am to look away as I pass my friend on stairs; to see him in the street and return his friendly greetings with coldness?”

“How else is your brother to find his way in the world, without
patronage in the church? What is left to him but the army? He is such a fool that he will chase after heiresses for three months, before running off with a governess.”

“He is not such a fool as that, Father.”

The old man stared back at him.

“Well,” said the son, “he is a little impetuous, certainly.”

His father snorted. “I will send for him tomorrow and see if anything can be done. He may yet have some sway with his patroness.”

There was a silence.

He looked long and sadly at his son.

The young man flushed. “I hope you do not ask me to deny Darcy, sir.”

“D
EAR
D
ARCY
,” murmured Lady Reerdon, as the Darcys moved away towards the ballroom, “such a romantic gesture.”

Lord Reerdon's pallid eyes followed the pair, his expression one of dreamy indulgence.

“How happy he must be, Mother.”

“You will not follow his example, Frederick,” she said quietly, and turned towards the next guests. He grimaced. What chance was there of his marrying a penniless girl, for love, with his affairs in such a muddle and his dear Mama so extravagant?

Darcy and Elizabeth paused at the top of the steps that swept down into the ballroom. He gave her a half-smile of reassurance, which she met with a flash of mischief. She turned her head to survey the room. There was the buzz of many conversations, bursts of laughter, and the background lilt of music.

How happy she was to look so well, when she saw the finery of the women. In the past, her annual dress allowance would scarce have paid for her gown. Emeralds sparkled on her neck, wrists, and in her hair. They descended into the glittering light and noise of the ballroom.

Two men standing at the foot of the stairs briefly caught Elizabeth's eye, and she could hardly forbear to laugh. An aging Bacchus addressed himself to an Apollo (both in brocade waistcoats).

“So this is the lady whose name is on everyone's lips, Whittaker?” His sneer was a wonderful source of amusement to the younger man, who said:

“I rather like the look of her, Sir Graham.”

“Pretty enough, I daresay, but hardly a beauty.”

“Saw you that look she gave him? She will be laughing at us all tomorrow.”

“Weeping, more like, when she has learnt that Darcy's money ain't enough to buy her friends in this company.”

Whittaker shrugged elegantly.

“Lord, if that ain't Foxwell!” cried the baronet. “He has aged in looks by twice the number of years since I last saw him.”

“We have not all had the benefit of the American climate,” said Whittaker, with a laugh not quite pleasing to the other man.

“We meet again, Mr. Foxwell. Good evening to you, sir,” drawled Sir Graham.

“You are returned to England, Sir Graham.” Foxwell's coldness caused a lift of an elegant eyebrow from Whittaker and a lowering of that of the baronet. Almost snarling, he said: “Of all men, Darcy is the last I would have expected to be such a fool, Foxwell. Hmm?”

“I am vastly pleased with him, Sir Graham. Mr. Darcy has provided me with possibly the only avenue to meet a very charming lady.”

“Come now, Foxwell. You know him as well as any. Did you anticipate such a caper from Darcy, of all men?”

“You lacerate me, dear sir,” interrupted Whittaker, with a yawn. “Have you no poetry in your soul?”

Sir Graham snorted. “The Italians manage these things better. The arrangement of marrying is often best left to one's relations.” He allowed a pause, more uncomfortable for Foxwell than he could have known, before continuing: “I hear a whisper that one of Darcy's relations is somewhat public in her displeasure.”

Foxwell winced. ‘At this moment, Reginald has probably arrived home,' he thought. ‘Even now, he may be in conference with our father.'

Whittaker cut in on his thoughts. “You have met Mrs. Darcy, Mr. Foxwell? Won't you be so kind as to introduce me?” Foxwell bowed and even Sir Graham gave an agreeing shrug.

The three men crossed the upper end of the room towards the small group to whom Darcy was introducing Elizabeth. She turned with pleasure to greet Mr. Foxwell, who then gestured behind him.

“Mrs. Darcy, may I present Sir Graham Eston?” he said, but Eston had walked past them. Elizabeth's colour heightened slightly.

Foxwell added hastily, “This is Mr. Whittaker. Whittaker, Mrs. Darcy.”

She turned a charming smile upon her new acquaintance. Sir Graham Eston seemed forgotten with the flow of Foxwell's humour, as irrepressible as at their first meeting. Even Whittaker's foppishness was totally forgiven. Her wit sparkled, and as she laughed the gems in her hair sparkled with the bobbing of her curls. All the while she felt Darcy's presence as keenly as if they were touching. The baronet's rudeness she could laugh off for herself, but not for her Darcy. Had she looked at him, she would have seen he was white with anger.

The orchestra's change of melody signalled the beginning of the dance. She glanced up and Darcy bowed and put his hand out to her, just as Mr. Whittaker bowed and requested the same honour.

“Thank you, sir, but I am already engaged for this dance.”

“Then, madam, will you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”

“With pleasure.”

Elizabeth stood opposite Darcy in the set. As he straightened from his bow, he caught the flash of a question in her eyes before she smiled. As they circled each other, he said:

“You have encountered a man whom I despise. He is beneath your notice and thus lacks the capability to offend with his insults.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Exactly so,” he replied.

They drew more than one curious pair of eyes. In the autumn, rumours of Darcy's engagement to a girl of insignificant connections and no fortune had astounded his acquaintances. His fastidiousness was well-known and oft-lamented; yet how susceptible he had proved at last.

She smiled at the sight of a cluster of people hovering near a lady of middle years. Their facial expressions were calculated to express infinite boredom, but somehow the anxious hope of being noticed betrayed them.

“Who is that lady, Fitzwilliam?” He followed her glance.

“The Marchioness of Englebury, my love.”

“Truly? That is Lady Englebury?” One of England's most celebrated characters, a woman of immense intellect and incalculable influence at court, was embodied in a dumpy little form, indifferently adorned.

“A woman of such reputation! She looks so … commonplace.”

“Indeed, yet you picked her out from this crowd.”

“So I did! I shall tell Papa I saw her. He reads out her bon mots from the newspaper.”

They danced on. When they spoke, she felt, in the slight lean of his body, a shift of his whole being towards her in total attentiveness. She felt a lifting sensation in her spine, a sudden pride in this man, in his person, and in the exclusiveness of his accessibility. She was learning, too, that her very manner when passing behind him in the dance, in looking away and looking back at him he found immeasurably erotic.

When the dance ended, a young woman came to the marchioness's side.

“Dear Aunt, there is someone here I would wish you to know. I encountered her at the Foxwells on Tuesday. Will you meet her? She is wondrous witty.”

“Amelia, I am here for nought but to give countenance to your tedious cousin, Cecile. Mere mention of your Foxwells and those other dull friends of Mr. Courtney adds to my torments.” Amelia took her aunt's arm and pressed close to her side. Her green eyes looked laughingly into her aunt's face.

“Don't give me such looks, pray! Amelia, I would that you abandon these wheedling ways.”

“Will you not do me one small favour, Aunt, when I have always striven to please you?”

“Humph!”

“I will read that book you gave me. There!”

“Introduce her to me then, but be warned, I give her just two minutes of my time.”

Thus, after she had been in London but three days, Elizabeth met the formidable Marchioness of Englebury. Elizabeth, while fascinated
by this opportunity, had no more expectation from the exchange than the other lady. Yet something about the girl intrigued the marchioness, who saw that, despite her essential vitality, Elizabeth had a way of holding herself still that spoke of fearlessness. She liked the intelligence in the beautiful dark eyes and a promising piquancy around the mouth.

“I am to wish you joy, I believe,” declared the old lady.

“That is the convention in our present circumstances,” said Elizabeth.

“Then I wish you joy.” Her eyes moved on at last and she nodded up at Darcy. “I hope you will both be very happy.”

A change in the tempo of the music informed the crowd of the beginning of the next dance. Mr. Whittaker appeared at Elizabeth's side to claim her as his partner. With the extravagance of his bow, scent wafted out, and he said:

“My dear Marchioness,

Tho' to see you is my heart's delight,

I now whisk this lady from your sight.”

Lady Englebury snorted.

“Mrs. Darcy,” she said, “Mrs. Courtney may bring you to see me, one morning, when you find yourself at liberty from your wedding visits.”

“I thank you, ma'am.”

 

The news of Lady Englebury's invitation whirled around the room much faster than Mrs. Darcy whirled into the dance with her new partner. Elizabeth knew nothing of this. She was caught up by the music, her delight in the dance, and by the entertainment of analysing a new and beguiling acquaintance.

At five and twenty, Mr. Whittaker was a man of virtue. The virtues he possessed consisted of blond good looks and a pleasing financial competency. He provided Elizabeth with some interesting, if not altogether credible, information about their fellow dancers.

At one stage in the dance, a young lady floated past, the epitome of fashionable lethargy. Elizabeth thought she caught the glimmer of
a smile flashed to Mr. Whittaker, but it vanished, like a ripple on a still pond, leaving her lovely face as impassive as before.

“Who on earth was that?” asked Whittaker. “Most people wake up in the morning. She merely opens her eyes.”

Elizabeth laughed, irresistibly drawn in by his venom, and said:

“There is a line with the fineness of a razor's edge between the states of elegance and unconsciousness. I have not yet dared to tread it.”

She felt his laughing gaze stroke her face. “No,” he said. “I believe that is one fine line you never tread.”

At the end of the dance, he said: “May I have the honour of introducing my sister to you?”

He led her to the very same young lady whom he had affected not to know. Elizabeth gave him an accusatory look, in the face of which he smiled the smile of an innocent. Looking at them standing together, Elizabeth wondered that she had not spotted their relationship. They were both tall, with the same fair complexions and Grecian features. Even in their grey eyes, she detected a similarity of expression.

 

The evening was crowded with incident. Elizabeth despaired of remembering all the people she met. She danced every dance, and spent little time with her husband apart from a few minutes between dances, when he could find her. As she danced, Elizabeth caught glimpses of Darcy walking about, engaged in conversation, then standing alone. Finally he exerted himself to dance. This was just the behaviour she had found so supercilious in the early days of their acquaintance, and she smiled.

How easy she found it! Every person introduced to her seemed to have another friend longing for her acquaintance. Yet her Aunt Gardiner had warned her not to take it to heart if she found herself snubbed somewhat, at first, by the London Ton.

Lord Reerdon escorted her in to supper, having been her partner for that dance. They sat at the bottom of the second table, Darcy almost opposite her. Fortunately, the aromas of pheasant and
partridge soon competed with the odour of Lord Reerdon's perspiration and Elizabeth found herself to be hungry.

As supper ended, the Twelfth Night entertainments began. To the sound of flute and drum the ‘attendants' of the court ran in and assembled on the platform at the end of the room. The ‘Twelfth Cake' was carried in. The sides of this massive concoction were sculptured like desert dunes, and on the top rode a miniature procession of figures representing the three Magi and their camels. A drumming brought silence and a boy unrolled a scroll and read aloud:

The cake was carried around in procession, before returning to the dais to be cut.

“Have you ever been King?” Elizabeth asked Darcy.

“Fortunately not. Rumour has it that aspiring kings bribe Lord Misrule for a chance at the coin.”

“Who plays his part?”

“Except for the King and Queen, they are all actors.”

The herald went on:

Through the door by the dais, leapt Lord Misrule. From his noisy welcome, it was clear that not much was expected in the way of justice. A team of footmen served cake first to the ladies, then replenished their trays to serve the gentlemen. Elizabeth noted how many eyes at the table watched the gentlemen pick through their sweet, in hope, or fear, of finding the coin.

Lord Misrule paced fiercely about the room until a shout of “The King!” alerted everyone to the whereabouts of the coin. Three hundred heads turned in the direction of the shout. There was a long drum roll. Nobody claimed the throne, although smothered giggles were heard from the centre table. The drums continued to rattle, rattle, rattle. Elizabeth found she was caught between laughter and a pitch of excitement.

Then, taking his time, Mr. Whittaker raised his hand and clicked his fingers to summon a footman, who pulled back his chair and dusted his lap. He rose, to loud applause.

“Whittaker will give us the best theatre of them all,” said Darcy.

Lord Misrule ran about the room, banging the floor with his staff, drawing attention back to himself. By some trick, he transformed his staff into a banner, and Elizabeth found she was one of many who gasped. Only then did he lead Mr. Whittaker to the dais. Elizabeth laughed at the solemnity with which the ‘king' allowed the cloak to fall about his shoulders. He seemed almost to groan with the weight of the cardboard crown and braced his arm to receive the orb, made of gilded paste. Elizabeth could not but admire Whittaker's imperial transformation, as he responded to the salutes of his fellow guests with a flourish of pure arrogance.