Into Kent (9 page)

Darcy left his friend directly and went in search of his old mentor. He found him ensconced in a corner of the game-room with a small circle of Darcy’s contemporaries gathered around him. As always, it gave Darcy a mild surprise to see Pender out of academical dress; he looked so ordinary in this setting, with his simple attire and spectacles, yet he was anything but simple and ordinary—his was one of the finest minds at Oxford. He had tutored Darcy to a First in Philosophy, but Darcy always had the feeling that in all their convoluted debates and discussions, the older man had been merely strolling along, while he, Darcy, had been sprinting for all he was worth and panting to keep up. Darcy also appreciated his wry humour and sardonic view of the world. Darcy’s uncle, having met Pender once at a reception, summed him up thus: “If that man had no sense of humour, he would be the youngest Chancellor in Oxford’s history; but I fear the post wants him more than he wants the post.”

The two men exchanged warm greetings, and the circle expanded to admit Darcy in a place of prominence. They were discussing, of all things imaginable, the rôle of the Hessians in the loss of the American colonies. Pender was defending the position that the augmentation of the British forces had been necessary, given the situation in Europe; then, when the consensus began to turn in his direction, he laughed and began arguing the other side, that the involvement of foreigners in what was an essentially British dispute had so outraged the colonists that it had tipped the balance in their favour. Darcy, as often before, shook his head over Pender’s intellectual antics. “Great Heavens, Pender: is nothing either true or false to you?”

That gentleman laughed again, replying “Not in history, my boy—especially not in recent history. The real truths in history are very simple, very old, and very well concealed. What historians argue over are the little issues, and their arguments are driven entirely by whether theirs was the winning side, or the losing.”

“And are not all of us here on the losing side in this case, Sir?” Darcy placed the gambit casually before his mentor.

“Mind your treasonous tongue, you young upstart! The Crown has not lost—it is cleverly biding its time until the moment is right to strike.” He fixed Darcy with a hard, but comical stare. “Ha! Try to catch
me
out, would you? Allow me to remind you, Sir, that scholars have no side; and if you have forgotten that, then best you come back to Oxford and stay out of London until you are old enough to keep your mind on what matters!”

Darcy grinned at him: his attempt to force the other into an untenable position, an old debater’s trick, had not worked. But, graceful in defeat, he supplied the question he knew was expected: “And what is that, Sir?”

“Women—and beer!” Pender declared, taking a long quaff from his glass. Then he lowered his eyes and scratched the back of his head. “Or was it beer, and women? I think my age is beginning to tell on me—they do say the mind goes second.”

Darcy knew this one and forbore to respond, but it was not long before one of the younger men supplied the wanted question: “What goes first, Sir?”

“I…well, I cannot seem to recall.” The older man’s bright eye appeared above the rim of his glass, and he drained it with a laugh.

Darcy staid with Pender for three-quarters of an hour, then, with mutual assurances of early correspondence, went back to the ball-room in search of Bingley. His friend was dancing, which gratified Darcy; his sister Caroline appeared at Darcy’s side only moments after he entered the room.

“And may I ask where you have been, Sir?” she began with an arch expression. “It was most unkind in you to abandon me.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Bingley,” Darcy replied, pointing vaguely back towards the game-room. “I was called away to see a good friend whom I had not heard from in some time.”

“I forgive you,” said she, resting her hand on his sleeve. “In any event,” with a glance over her shoulder to an exceedingly animated crowd at the other end of the ball-room, “your cousin has only just now released me.”

“Really? As you once asked me, when am I to wish you joy?” Miss Bingley laughed and daintily slapped his arm with her fan. Darcy, remembering his sister’s advice from her letter, recovered himself and said more distantly, “And have you seen any one else of our acquaintance?”

“Oh yes; Mr. Hurst’s older brother, Sir Walter, is here, and the Edgertons, and the Armsteads, and oh!—Miss Lavinia Hartsbury was asking after you.” At just that moment Darcy heard a familiar feminine chuckle from behind them; turning, he saw the young woman from earlier standing quite near, with her back to them, talking to a small gathering of men. There was nothing in her demeanour to indicate it, but he had the distinct impression that she had laughed on hearing Miss Bingley mention Miss Hartsbury’s name.

“Miss Bingley,” said Darcy in a low voice, turning back to his companion, “Do you know that young woman?”

Miss Bingley looked over his shoulder and sniffed disdainfully when she saw to whom Darcy was referring. “That,” she replied in a whisper, “is Miss Susan Chesterton; as unaccomplished a woman as any you will find in all of London. She has nothing but looks to recommend her, and, in my opinion, they are fading fast: in five years she will be nothing but a haggard shell.” Darcy saw Miss Chesterton turn her head to stare through Miss Bingley for a single, brief moment, then turn back to her own companions. Shortly thereafter the gentlemen surrounding her gave forth gales of laughter, looking pointedly away from Miss Bingley and Darcy; Miss Bingley took Darcy’s arm and moved determinedly away to another part of the room.

Chapter Ten

Some while later Darcy was again by himself in a relatively quiet room off the main ball-room, Miss Bingley having been taken for a dance by a gentleman unknown to him. St. Stephens appeared just then at the door and looked about until he spied Darcy; turning, he briefly beckoned to some one out of sight, then entered with Miss Susan Chesterton on his arm.

“Darcy!” George cried boisterously, although not without a slight muddling of his speech. “There you are! Been searching the whole house for you. I ought to have known you’d be hiding in some corner or other. Come, I promised you I’d introduce you to some one—come make the acquaintance of Miss Susan Chesterton; as charming and delicious a woman as any man could ever care to meet!” Darcy, irked and embarrassed as always by his cousin’s manners, was somewhat relieved to see the young lady turn her smile from him to look at his cousin in shock, then cast her eyes down modestly. Here, at least, Darcy thought, was an acquaintance of St. Stephens’ with a sense of propriety. St. Stephens whispered tipsily, and perfectly audibly, in his ear, “Never say I’ve done you no favours.”

Drawing apart from his cousin, Darcy bowed to Miss Chesterton, saying, “Rather than challenge my cousin’s courtesy any farther by waiting for him actually to make the introduction, Miss Chesterton, allow me to express my pleasure at making your acquaintance.”

With just a hint of an amused smile playing around her lips, the lady made him a deep curtsey and favoured him with a flash of her intelligent eyes.

“You are most kind, Sir,” said she. St. Stephens let out a guffaw, and, clapping Darcy on the back, said, “
Such a proper lady! Well, there you are, Darcy; I’ll leave you to it.” So saying he left the room, with only a slight encounter with a disobliging door-frame to impede his progress.

“How is it you know my cousin?” Darcy enquired, staring thoughtfully at the door through which he had quit the room.

The lady replied: “Actually, we met here, it must be—two years ago. I have known the Delacroix family some time.”

“I see. I wonder at my cousin’s never having mentioned you before.”

“If I may say, Sir, I have never heard Lord St. Stephens mention any one who was not of superior rank or position—which certainly is not true in my case.”

Darcy inclined his head with a smile. “I see you do know His Lordship well.”

After a moment’s pause, during which Darcy rather expected her to bring up Miss Bingley’s name, the lady instead commented: “I do not believe I have noticed you dancing this evening, Mr. Darcy; do you not care for it?”

“Ah; there Miss Chesterton, you have me at a loss. If I say I do not, you will think me churlish and unschooled—but if I say I do, it would be an untruth.”

She looked into his eyes with an amused smile, then said, “And if I were to say to you, Sir, what very great pleasure it would give me to be on the dance floor this moment, with a rather tall, handsome gentleman, of unexceptional fashion and bearing, what should you say?”

This question, clever in being so very forward yet strictly proper at the same time, and an arch, acute glance which was softened by a sweet smile, rather reminded Darcy of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and prompted him to offer an unwonted response: “I would have to say that no man could be so churlish as to deny such a lovely lady such a simple pleasure.”

“Prettily said, Sir,” said she with a pleased smile, stepping to his side and looking expectantly at him until he offered her his arm. As they made their way to the dance floor she asked, “But do you really find dancing to be ‘simple’?”

Darcy paused, considering. “Yes, rather; I dare say some steps are more complex than others, but on the whole…in what way do you see it otherwise?”

“Why, to me, Sir, it is a metaphor for life.”

“‘Metaphor for life’? —Truly? How so?”

They took their place in the set just forming, and Miss Chesterton gestured to indicate their two selves. “Two people meet; formalities and compliments are exchanged,” here the couple bowed to each other to start the dance, “and their acquaintance begins. During the time they know each other, they spend time together, then apart.” They moved down the dance, their actions framing her words. “They meet others, change partners; the dance of time twirls on…” here they separated, then, on
coming together again, she continued: “…bringing them together again and again, and each time their steps get a little closer, a little surer, until…” here they separated and rejoined again, “…at a particular moment, it is decided—neither one knowing who decided, or exactly why—but it is decided, and for ever, that either it is over between them, or that they will dance on and on, ever closer, ever surer.” She finished speaking as the two of them, moving in perfect harmony, reached the end of a pass. Darcy looked down at his partner; her eyes shone happily and a delicate flush suffused her features, giving her the countenance of a young girl in her very first Season, rather than the two-and-twenty Darcy took her for.

Darcy, who had never once given a serious thought to the subject, was struck by her exposition, but more so by her insight and intelligence as she expressed herself: no mean feat to match one’s words to the cadence of a dance so exactly. Remembering Miss Bingley’s slight on her accomplishments, he realised that this was nothing more than her jealousy at work again, just as it had been with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Indeed, Miss Chesterton struck him as being altogether so much like
Elizabeth that Darcy felt that they had known each other rather longer than was the case.

“An elegant argument, Miss Chesterton,” said he with some admiration. “I confess it had never occurred to me to think of it that way; and, may I say, it is a very romantic way of looking at it.”

Miss Chesterton demurred: “Nay, Sir, I assure you: I am no romantic. But I own I do adore a dance with a worthy partner.” Here she looked at him fully and smiled warmly, bringing an uncharacteristically open smile to Darcy’s face.

The two of them finished the set, but sat out the next. Darcy found her company engaging and her conversation stimulating; he found in her opinions an intriguingly refreshing view of the world. In comparing her with another lady whose wit he recently had had occasion to admire, Miss Chesterton had not
Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s informed mind, perhaps, on learned matters, but her understanding of London, particularly its most notable citizens and their characters, foibles, and motivations, was far more complete even than his own. She had an intimate knowledge of every one in the first circles, and could relate anecdotes illustrative of their characters with amusing insight. At one point Darcy had asked her, with some perplexity, about her willing acceptance of St. Stephens’ society: “Might I ask, Miss Chesterton, why a woman of such sensibility as yourself would vex herself with my cousin’s acquaintance?”

Miss Chesterton laughed at the question. “But he is only a duckling! One cannot be offended.”

“‘A duckling’?” asked Darcy in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh—I
do
apologise! I ought not to say such things, and to his own family!” she covered her face with her fan and turned away from him.

“No, no—please, I insist: in what way is Viscount St. Stephens a duckling?”

“Why, the way he follows along behind Mr. Fox: is not he just like a little duckling, all puffed up and waddling along, chasing with all his fellows after their leader?”

Darcy laughed heartily at this image of his cousin.

“You see?” said Miss Chesterton with a smile. “It is rather endearing, actually—as long as one never takes him too seriously.”

Darcy laughed again and wondered if he might share this with his uncle; he must share it with Edmund, certainly. But George, a duckling—that was he, to the very life: an exact image. Suddenly his cousin did not seem so offensive; just a bumbling, fuzzy little creature, pursuing its own obscure goals with little or no intention of either good or ill.

Darcy said with appreciation, “Miss Chesterton, you are a wonder; in seven-and-twenty years I have never been able to see my cousin so clearly as I do right now.”

Miss Chesterton smiled her pleasure at him. “And now, Sir, it is your turn: how is it you are acquainted with Miss Bingley?”

“Ah…her brother is my close friend; my closest friend, in fact.”

“I see. I thought perhaps…there seemed…forgive my mentioning it…but it did seem as though there might be a slight degree of interest…on her side at least—when she was speaking with you.”

“I can, of course, have no knowledge of Miss Bingley’s motives or intentions.”

“No, of course not—I see,” said Miss Chesterton, giving him a sidelong glance. “And yet, so eligible a gentleman as yourself, surely you cannot be entirely unattached, Sir.”

“I am, most assuredly, Miss Chesterton,” he confessed. While nine years’ of Seasons had left Darcy somewhat inured to the fact that a woman might exhibit an interest in him, Darcy could not but be gratified by
this
lady’s notice: her ease, her elevated conversation, and her fine person, placed her personal claims high among the women of Darcy’s acquaintance, and her presence at the Delacroix’s spoke for her character.

“What a surprise, Mr. Darcy,” the lady replied, “and a shame. How sad that such a charming gentleman should have to pass through life alone.” The lady patted his arm sympathetically and sat back deeper into her chair. She did not press Darcy further on the subject, but instead led their conversation off into an anecdote on some entertaining exchanges between St. Stephens’s friend, Mr. Fox, and one of his adversaries on the floor of Parliament.

Throughout their time together he found Miss Chesterton’s conversation, views, and information all to his liking: she seemed to know instinctively the right thing to say on every occasion. In addition, his turn on the dance-floor with Elizabeth at Netherfield had awakened in him an appreciation of the benefits of the exercise, when paired with the right woman. On the whole, he was enjoying himself this evening far more than he had had any idea of before the event.

A little while later in the evening he was at a refreshment table securing glasses for Miss Chesterton and himself; they had danced again, at Darcy’s instigation, and the room was warm. When dancing with Miss Chesterton he could only compare it with one other dance; this time, however, there were no unwanted references to other persons, no accusations, no interruptions. And while Miss Chesterton did not have
Elizabeth’s playful intellect, she had about her a more composed charm; altogether Darcy was well pleased by her company.

As he turned from the table with glasses in hand he encountered Miss Lavinia Hartsbury, whom he had not seen since the prior spring. She met him with her usual open enthusiasm, saying with all her accustomed rapidity of speech, “Mr. Darcy! What a pleasure! I had no idea of your being back in Town! You are well, I trust—and your sister? Where have you been? You have passed the autumn pleasantly, I hope? I was with Mamma in Bath, but this year I found it rather dull.”

Darcy smiled into her blinking face; he had found during the last Season that her manner of speech and constant blinking did not disgust; instead, it engendered a sympathy which quite surprised him: in his estimation, though, her obvious sincerity and good will mitigated strongly against her personal shortcomings. After giving her his compliments he told her, “Yes, Miss Darcy and I are both well, I thank you. I was with my friend, Mr. Bingley, at his new manor in Hertfordshire after Michaelmas, and this is the first time I have ventured into company outside my own house since returning to Town; we have had friends staying with us this last fortnight.”

“Well then, Sir, we must count ourselves fortunate to have you among us this evening,” Miss Hartsbury enthused, her whole person seeming to radiate pleasure. Then, noting that he held two glasses, she said, “Oh—are you here with some one?”

“No, not really. I have been dancing, and I just came to get us something cooling to drink.”

“You, Mr. Darcy? Dancing?”

At that moment they were joined by Miss Chesterton. “Mr. Darcy,” said she, “I was beginning to wonder if you might have need of help carrying.” Turning to face Miss Hartsbury, she said, “But I see that it is our dear Lavinia who has detained you. How are you, Dear?”

Darcy was looking at Miss Hartsbury when she turned to see Miss Chesterton; to his surprise, she coloured deeply—and her blinking stopped entirely. Said she in confusion, “Miss Ches…I…Mr. Darcy, I…I must go. Forgive me, please.” She turned and hurried away. Darcy stared after her in mild shock until he felt a glass being taken from his hand. Miss Chesterton, he found, was frowning after the retreating back of Miss Hartsbury. “Dear, strange, little creature,” she murmured. “What can have come over her?” Darcy could only shake his head in wonder.

Shortly thereafter Miss Chesterton had been forced to excuse herself, pleading a prior commitment, and had left the ball; Darcy finished the evening drifting from room to room, stopping occasionally to exchange comments with some one of his acquaintance. Miss Bingley found him again and spent some time spelling for information about his time with Miss Chesterton; failing in that, she began alluding to the dance-floor, but Darcy refused to take the hint. She had eventually been approached by a gentleman Darcy knew by name only, asking her to dance, which released Darcy to his own devices once more.