Pamela Aidan - An Assembly Such as This

“The Roquet! Aha, just wait till I tell Vasingstoke. ‘Strike ’im out of the game,’ is it? Well, no small wonder Brummell was in such high dudgeon! But a hint only, my good fellow, is all I ask. No wish to compete, mind you; just tweak Brummell’s nose a bit.”

Darcy reached behind him and grabbed a book from the shelf. “Please accept my apologies and assurances that I cannot satisfy your request, Byng. I was paying no attention when Fletcher tied it and cannot begin to hint you upon the proper course. You must excuse me and will understand that I cannot keep my cattle waiting outside any longer in this weather and must take this” — he brought forward the volume — “to Hatchard.” He nodded him a bow, stepped around the dog, who followed his movements with a growl, and walked quickly to the counter.

“Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?” Hatchard’s eyebrows then went up in surprise as Darcy laid his subterfuge atop the other books he had chosen. “The new edition of Practical View! I was not aware you had interests in that area!”

“What? Oh…just wrap it with the rest, if you please, and ring for Harry.”

In seconds Harry was at the counter and accepting the package Hatchard had carefully wrapped. Darcy followed him out the door, unwilling to wait inside until the carriage was brought and risk further importunities from Byng and his canine confidante.

Down the street, near St. James’s, Darcy popped in at Hoby’s to be measured for a new pair of boots. There he was forced to fend off more Roquet admirers. He then directed his driver to Leicester Square and Madame LaCoure’s Silkwares Shoppe. With the modiste’s guidance, he chose three lengths of silk and two of muslin, promising to return with his sister to select the appropriate laces and ribbons. Then, it was on to DeWachter’s in Clerken-well, the jeweler patronized by the Darcys for several generations, where he chose a modest but perfectly matched pearl choker and bracelet and accepted Mr. DeWachter’s congratulations on his “triumph” with as much grace as he could. His last stop was the printing establishment from which Georgiana ordered her music. Sweeping up whatever new offerings there were of composers they both admired, Darcy allowed himself and his final packages to be tucked into the carriage.

“Mr. Darcy, sir?” Harry queried as he arranged the parcels and shook out the carriage robe.

“Yes, Harry?”

“What be this ’ere Roquet, sir?”

Darcy sighed heavily. “Fletcher’s new way of tying a neckcloth. Why do you ask, Harry?”

“Oh, sir, I’ve ’ad two gentlemen offer me a golden boy each if I was to smuggle ’em into yer dressing room to see it.” Harry shook his head. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but the Quality be a strange lot sometimes.”

Darcy closed his eyes. “Truer words were never spoken. Let’s go home, Harry.”

Upon his return from his shopping expedition, Darcy was met by Hinchcliffe with several piles of lately delivered cards and invitations entreating his attendance at a staggering number of routs, breakfasts, pugilistic exhibitions, discreet clubs, political meetings, and theatrical performances. Darcy eyed them with dismay and then threw the lot on his desk.

“Shall I send replies in the usual fashion, sir?” Hinchcliffe leaned over and neatly scooped them onto a silver tray.

“Yes. Regrets to any unknown to you beneath a baronet, sincere regrets to any above, and send the rest in to me. As it is, even should you begin immediately, I fear you will be up most of the night.” Hinchcliffe inclined his head in silent agreement and departed for his office.

At the click of the door, a sudden restlessness seized Darcy, propelling him aimlessly about his library. It lacked an hour or more until supper, and although he had planned to dine alone that evening, a perverse wish for some easy companionship gripped him. After the New Year, when he returned to Town with Georgiana, evenings such as this could be pleasantly occupied with the sharing of books and music with his sister. But even as he contemplated these future pleasures, he discovered, to his chagrin, that the prospect did not entirely answer. A gaping, unnamed discontent whose existence he had never suspected arose before him and now threatened to rob him of his satisfaction and complacency.

His pacing brought him to a bookshelf, and with hopes that the discipline involved in following the course of a battle would restore his thoughts to order, he plucked Fuentes de Oñoro from its place and dropped into a chair by the fire. Stretching out his legs to the hearth, he slid his finger along the pages and opened the book to the place held for him by the embroidery threads. As he bent to read, the words blurred in his vision, cast into incomprehensibility by the glint of the firelight on the knotted strands of silk that lay across his page. Elizabeth! How he had resisted every thought of her! His breath quickened as a flood of memories overpowered his mind: Elizabeth at the door of Netherfield, hesitant but determined; on the stair, tired but faithful in the care of her sister; in the drawing room, with arched brow challenging his character; at the pianoforte, unconscious of the grace she brought to her song; at the ball, Milton’s Eve, sparkling of eye, suffused with Edenic loveliness.

She would have laughed at Brummell’s pompous distress over a mere cravat. She would not, he was certain, have been overawed by Lady Melbourne or fainted at Lady Caroline’s scandalous display. He could almost see her in the next chair, smiling at him with that expression which, he had begun to learn, portended something delightful. His vague discontent sharpened at the thought. Uncertainty, delight, longing — they all had crept into his experience unaware, and alone in his home, he suddenly felt their effects most acutely. His fingers closed around the threads. What had Dy cautioned him? To know his ground, yes, but the other? To be doubly sure of the nature of his interest in Bingley’s affairs. How much of his interest was directed solely toward Bingley’s good? Was it nearer to the truth that separating Charles from Miss Jane Bennet was his surest defense against the confliction raised by his own heedless attraction to her sister?

Darcy sat forward, his elbows on his knees, the strands cradled in his palm, and stared hard into the glowing embers. He wished his friend the greatest felicity in marriage, to be sure. At least as great as was reasonable to expect in unions of like fortune and class. His own future married state he barely thought upon except in terms of avoidance. His estates and businesses were well managed and prosperous, making a marriage of interest unnecessary and giving him the freedom to pick when and where he chose in hope of some degree of happiness. There were often times in the night that he wished for the comforts of marriage, and occasionally a face and figure had tugged at his vitals. But the reality of spending his life with and entrusting his people to one of the frail minds and hardened natures behind the pretty faces that recommended themselves to him in those dark, silent hours had always succeeded in convincing him of the folly of trading his happiness for his comfort. He knew that both were possible; he had seen it in the lives of his parents before his mother’s death and in the faraway smile that would sometimes steal across his father’s face after. But now…?

He held up the strands to the firelight, allowing the currents of air from the hearth to lift and stir the gossamer threads, weaving, then unweaving them in twists of color. Like your thought of her, he admitted to himself, weaving and unweaving. You busily unweave your connections to her by dissuading Bingley and yet reweave them when alone with your undisciplined thoughts and stolen tokens.

A knock at the door caused Darcy to start. Quickly he laid the threads once more in the book and snapped it shut. “Enter.”

Hinchcliffe took a step inside. “Mr. Darcy, there is a note here without direction and in a hand I do not know. It is addressed in a rather cryptic fashion. I though you would wish to see it immediately.” So saying, he advanced and held out a cream-colored missive with no decoration or hint as to its sender.

“Thank you, Hinchcliffe.” Darcy took the note and, nodding his dismissal, waited until his secretary had departed before opening the sheet to the lamplight.

Sir,

Your instructions are received and will be followed precisely. I have sent to B, who, as you can guess, was quite surprised at my arrival and received word he will quit his rooms tomorrow for Aldford Street. I rely on you, sir, for his deliverance, knowing how well that reliance is placed.

C.

Darcy crumpled the note and threw it into the fire. “The answer to all your ambitions,” he jeered aloud at himself. “To be Caroline Bingley’s ‘reliance’ and her brother’s ‘deliverer’! Good God, man, what office shall be next? Archbishop, surely!” He slumped back into his chair, only to be brought up again by a second knock at the door.

“Yes, what is it!” he shouted.

The door opened by the hand of a very young servant girl, who with wide blue eyes and a small voice, announced, “You…Your d-dinner, s-s-sir.” She bobbed a wobbly curtsy, her blond curls dancing, and then fled.

Darcy stared in dismay through the open doorway framing the retreating figure. “You are becoming a regular Bluebeard, frightening servant girls…”

“Is there aught amiss, Mr. Darcy?” It took but a moment for Witcher to appear at the door.

“No, Witcher” — he sighed — “nothing is amiss but my humor.”

“Maddie did nothing untoward then, sir?”

“Maddie?”

“My granddaughter, Mr. Darcy. She came to announce dinner, sir. First time abovestairs, sir.” Witcher puffed a little with grandfatherly pride. Darcy’s spirits sank another notch.

“Your granddaughter!” He went over to his desk and, opening a drawer, fished out a shilling. “Here, for your granddaughter, to celebrate the success of her first day abovestairs.” Beaming, Witcher accepted the largesse with a promise to bestow it upon the girl later that evening.

“Your dinner is ready, Mr. Darcy. Jules has prepared a lovely repast of your favorites that awaits your attention. Shall I have it served?”

“Yes, please. I will be there directly.” When Witcher had left him, Darcy retrieved his book and placed it carefully back on the shelf, stroking the ends of the silken tangle as he did so. For a moment he paused and allowed her face to arise before him. Shaking his head gently at the vision, he let his hand fall to his side. “No, you must leave,” he whispered, “for I am his deliverer.” With heavy deliberation, he turned his back to her and, crossing the library and entering the hall, closed the library door quietly behind him.

Many expressions of gratitude are due to a great number of people who have encouraged me along the way to publication of this book. The first go to my friends and fellow writers at Crown Hill Writers’ Guild, Susan Kaye Blackwell and Laura Louise Lyons, whose support, advice, and “bracing admonitions” broke more than one instance of writer’s block. The next goes to my husband, Michael, my “Sword-brother” in the battle to write Darcy’s story in a manner faithful to both Austen and the man we both knew Darcy to be. Third, a great debt of gratitude goes to Margaret Coleman, whose beautiful covers on the Wytherngate Press edition of the series had no small part in their success. Many, many thanks are due to Lloyd Jassin for his excellent representation and promotion. Last, warm and grateful thanks to all those readers at Austenesque, the Republic of Pemberley, the Derbyshire Writer’s Guild, and Firthness for their constant encouragement and enthusiasm for this project.