The Matters at Mansfield: (Or, the Crawford Affair) (Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (2 page)

Two

There were more Dancers than the Room could conveniently hold, which is enough to constitute a good Ball at any time
.

—
Jane Austen, letter to her sister, Cassandra

M
iss de Bourgh has altered since we saw her in Bath last October.”

Mr. Darcy regarded his wife curiously, then followed her gaze across the ballroom. It required a full three minutes to spy his cousin amid the scores of guests milling about, but at last he caught sight of her. Anne de Bourgh stood with her mother and Mrs. Jenkinson, her ever-present attendant, at the side of the dance floor. The de Bourghs were engaged in conversation with an older gentleman he recognized as one of Riveton’s neighbors, the Viscount Sennex.

More accurately, Lady Catherine conversed. Anne listened silently, her attention straying to other parts of the busy room as her mother soliloquized unchecked. Wandering concentration, however, was endemic to participants in Lady Catherine’s conversations. It was how one survived them.

“Altered?” he asked. “How so?”

“She only half attends her mother’s discourse.”

“After nearly three decades of constant exposure to it, she has likely heard the main theme before.”

“But note how closely she observes the couples dancing. I believe she wants to join them.”

Darcy doubted his cousin harbored any such desire. In fact, so restricted had been Miss de Bourgh’s upbringing—her mother had forbidden even pianoforte lessons as unduly taxing on her health—that he was not entirely confident Anne so much as knew a waltz from a reel. “I have never seen my cousin dance.”

“That is precisely my point. Do you not think it possible that she longs to engage in some of the same pursuits and pleasures as all the other young women of her acquaintance?”

Darcy looked at Anne again—truly looked at her, for perhaps the first time in twenty years. It is an easy thing to see one’s longest acquaintances without actually seeing them—for familiarity to breed, if not contempt, incognizance—and to view people as they were, or as memory constructs them, rather than as they are. To Darcy, his cousin was merely a vassal in Lady Catherine’s tightly controlled court. In all the years of their growing up, he had never thought of her as an independent being, and seldom thought of her at all. But now, forced by Elizabeth’s conjecture to study Anne, he detected an air of wistfulness about her. The dancers indeed held more of her attention than did her own party.

“Perhaps she does wish to dance,” he conceded.

Mrs. Jenkinson adjusted Anne’s shawl, bringing it up round her shoulders. The heavy lavender fabric was more appropriate for winter wear, and appeared out of place amid the short sleeves and light wraps exhibited by all the other ladies of the assembly. The heat of the room rendered the garment entirely unnecessary—indeed, probably uncomfortable—but Mrs. Jenkinson persisted.

As soon as the attendant turned her head, Anne slipped it to her lower back.

Darcy approved the small display of spirit. He had never expended much thought on Miss de Bourgh’s state of happiness as a permanent inmate of Lady Catherine’s domestic circle. He had seen her only as the prim, emotionless person into which life under her mother’s domination had formed her, and assumed that she had been content in that role. As babes yet in their cradles, Darcy and Anne had been the objects of an informal matchmaking scheme. Whensoever a boy and a girl of compatible age and station belong to families who share an acquaintance, the circumstance invites speculation from their mothers, if not the whole neighborhood, as to the possibility of a future wedding. The Fitzwilliam sisters had not been immune to this propensity, and had once indulged in an afternoon’s fanciful supposition that perhaps one day the cousins would wed. Darcy’s mother had died before he reached marriageable age, but in Lady Catherine’s mind the idle “what-if” became an expectation—one that he had never intended to fulfill. He could by no means tolerate such a domineering woman as his mother-in-law, nor could he imagine her daughter capable of warming any man’s bed, let alone heart. It would have been a marriage of misery, and from early adulthood he had tried to discourage all hope on the part of both his aunt and his cousin of its ever occurring.

Whether Miss de Bourgh had wished the match, he knew not, nor whether she harbored any other desires or dreams. If she did, he doubted Lady Catherine ever gave her opportunity to voice them. What a dreary existence his cousin must lead.

“This set will end soon,” Elizabeth said. “Invite her to dance.”

Darcy nodded, his eyes still on Anne.

“What is this I hear?” The familiar male voice behind him prompted Darcy to turn round and meet the cheerful countenance of Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Not two summers wed, and already your wife encourages you to stand up with other women rather than endure your dancing herself?”

Two years older than Darcy, the colonel was his favorite relation, his friend as well as his cousin, and one of the few people from whom Darcy accepted jesting.

“I am afraid so,” Darcy responded. “Are you now disillusioned about the longevity of nuptial bliss?”

“Not in the least. Rather, I am convinced that only true devotion could have blinded Mrs. Darcy this long to your rigid deportment on the ballroom floor.” The colonel bowed to Elizabeth, who answered with a broad smile.

“Fortunately, Colonel, should you ever decide to enter the marital state yourself, your bride will have no such deficiency to overlook,” she said. “You and Georgiana acquitted yourselves quite well earlier.”

“A compliment more deserved by my partner than by me. Miss Darcy inherited all her mother’s grace, leaving her brother bankrupt in that asset.”

“You unjustly disparage your own talent along with my husband’s. I grant you leave to exercise all the modesty you like, but if you continue to tease Darcy so, he will never again dance with anybody, let alone with Miss de Bourgh.”

His eyebrows rose. “Our cousin is the lady in question?”

“Someone ought to invite her. Whether she accepts or not, a woman likes to be asked.” She cast an arch glance at Darcy. “Though I have heard that my husband is not in the habit of giving consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

The gently delivered rebuke echoed in Darcy’s mind, pricking his conscience. “You are correct—Miss de Bourgh should at least receive the compliment of an invitation, though she is certain to decline. It would displease Lady Catherine if she exerted herself unnecessarily.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled. “All the more reason to ask, I should think. It does our aunt good to have her will subverted on occasion.”

“And as I have already earned her ladyship’s censure for choosing my own wife, I might as well compound it?”

“Nay, you have proven your valor sufficiently. As a younger son, I have not nearly as many opportunities to demonstrate independence. Therefore, allow me to be the one who invites our cousin to dance.”

“Very well. We will abet you by distracting Lady Catherine. During our aunt’s visit to Pemberley this past winter, Mrs. Darcy developed quite an aptitude for it.”

They joined Anne and her mother just as Lady Catherine paused for breath in the monologue she had been delivering. Lord Sennex nodded.

“Quite right, quite right.” The white-haired sexagenarian leaned heavily on his cane, his own thin frame not much more substantial than the walking device. His clothes hung loose upon him, a contrast to the more close-fitting garments worn by all the other men in the room. “You are a sensible woman, Lady Catherine. I trust your daughter inherited that trait.” He looked at Miss de Bourgh, but Anne was oblivious to the viscount’s praise. The music had paused, and her attention was focused on the top of the room, where couples lined up to form a new set.

Colonel Fitzwilliam greeted the ladies and their companion. “Lord Sennex, have you met Mrs. Darcy?”

“Mrs. Darcy?” He regarded Elizabeth blankly. “I cannot say I have the pleasure of acquaintance with the lady, or her husband.”

The denial took Darcy aback. He had dined with Lord Sennex during previous visits to Riveton Hall, occasionally at the viscount’s own home.

“Your lordship surely remembers Mr. Darcy,” Lady Catherine said. “He is my nephew—my late sister’s son.”

Lord Sennex stared at Darcy, wrinkling his brow as he struggled for recollection. “Oh, yes,” he finally said. “Of course.” Though he nodded heartily, his eyes revealed no spark of recognition. “Pray, forgive my error.”

It was a shame to see that the viscount had deteriorated so since Darcy last met him. He had always been a vigorous man, full of potency and fire. A second son, he had served as a major in His Majesty’s army during the American Rebellion before inheriting the viscountcy upon the death of his elder brother. Though he had sold his military commission, he had never relinquished his commitment to the principles of honor and courage he had served. He was even rumored to have fought a duel or two in defense of them, and was their advocate in the House of Lords when debating with his peers. His had been a life of dignity and vitality.

And now he could not even recognize Darcy’s face as he stooped over his cane.

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord. It has been several years since I last had the pleasure of seeing you.”

“I suppose it has. Do you know Neville, as well, then?”

Ten years Darcy’s senior, the Honorable Neville Sennex was the viscount’s only son and heir. “Indeed. He included me in one of his hunting parties the last time I was in the neighborhood.”

At the word “hunting,” his lordship nodded enthusiastically. “Neville runs his pack five or six times a week during the season. This warm weather makes him restless as a treed fox—autumn can hardly come soon enough. I presume you caught your quarry that day?”

“The creature eluded us with a ticklish scent for two days, but the third morning we managed to capture it.”

“Neville won the brush, no doubt. He is a passionate sportsman.”

“So I recall.” Too passionate, in Darcy’s estimation. Neville Sennex kept a large, well-trained pack, but was himself a noisy hunter whose excessive shouts and tendency to override his hounds impeded their chase. Insensible of his own contribution to their failure, Mr. Sennex had been so angry after the second blank day that he had beaten not just the dogs but also one of his whippers-in. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had shifted uncomfortably in their saddles during the ungentlemanly display, and returned for the third day of the foxhunt only to avoid offending their neighbor.

Darcy glanced at his cousin to determine whether he, too, remembered the incident, but Fitzwilliam had engaged Miss de Bourgh in muted conversation. Just beyond Lady Catherine’s peripheral vision, Anne nodded and took the colonel’s proffered arm.

Elizabeth, standing opposite the couple, also noted the exchange. “Is your son here this evening?” she asked the viscount. Her query drew Lady Catherine’s attention toward herself and thus even further away from Anne.

“He is in the card room. Neville does not care for dancing.”

“Nor does my daughter,” Lady Catherine declared. “If Anne chose to dance, she possesses so much natural poise that she would make a lovely figure. Indeed, she would be a credit to any partner. But Miss de Bourgh is a level-headed young woman who sympathizes with your son’s disdain for frivolity. Is that not so, Anne?”

Anne, however, had escaped auditory range of her mother and was heading away with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Somehow, the couple had also managed to shed themselves of Mrs. Jenkinson, who remained behind.

“Wherever is she going?” Lady Catherine asked Mrs. Jenkinson.

“I am not certain, my lady. Miss de Bourgh merely said I was not needed.”

“The room is rather warm,” Elizabeth said. “No doubt Colonel Fitzwilliam escorts her to refreshment.”

“The air is indeed close,” her ladyship said. “I wonder that my nephew did not invite me as well. I could do with some lemonade. Riveton always serves excellent lemonade—not that tepid water they try to pass off as lemonade at Almack’s. A good lemonade requires the proper proportion of tart and sweet to adequately stimulate the palate. You must sample Riveton’s lemonade, my lord. Let us join Miss de Bourgh and the colonel.”

“Actually, Aunt,” Darcy interjected, “I was about to invite you to accompany me to the card room. Your lordship as well, if you are inclined. Perhaps we can find a game of whist.” Darcy had no interest in cards this evening, let alone becoming trapped at a table with Lady Catherine for a period of time, but he hoped the temptation of a game would provide sufficient distraction to grant Anne a set or two on the dance floor.

“Quadrille,” his aunt declared. “You know I favor quadrille.”

“I believe Neville plays quadrille,” said Lord Sennex. “Or is cassino his game of choice? No, no—I think it is quadrille. Yes, I am almost certain of it. Well, no matter. Whatever he plays, there may be an opening at his table. That would provide you an opportunity to renew your acquaintance with him, Mr. Darcy.”

“I would be pleased to play cards with Mr. Sennex.” In truth, Darcy had little desire to court the friendship of a man given to fits of temper, but he would tolerate his company if necessary to occupy his aunt. “However, should insufficient openings exist at his table, we can form our own.”

“If your lordship plays, we would then require a fourth.” Lady Catherine regarded Elizabeth appraisingly but without enthusiasm.

“Perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson could complete your table?” Elizabeth suggested. “She is the more experienced quadrille player.”

As Anne’s paid companion, Mrs. Jenkinson’s primary responsibility was attending Miss de Bourgh. Her secondary duty was serving Lady Catherine’s convenience, an obligation that commanded as much if not more time and exertion. Among other functions, Mrs. Jenkinson spent many an evening at Rosings rounding out her ladyship’s card tables.

“Mrs. Jenkinson should see to Miss de Bourgh.”