The staff at the Darcys’ London house was not much accustomed to commotion. Miss Georgiana was frequently in town with her companion, Mrs. Annesley, but as she was quiet and made few requests whilst she dwelt there, little disruption bechanced. Before he married, Mr. Darcy had been in town but seldom, often for but fortnights at a time. Howbeit much sought after as a guest of others, he was host to just a few entertainments himself. All of which had made for an unruffled, yet prestigious service.

The season after Mr. Darcy’s marriage implemented a great deal of upheaval and resultant tumult amongst the servants. Some were not altogether happy about the extra work this hubbub instigated, but most were in excited anticipation. Most particularly vexed, however, was the house steward, Cyril Smeads.

Smeads, the family called him. Mr. Smeads to his underlings. General opinion of under-servants in the Darcy service gave grudging respect to crusty old Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley. (That woman had outlived three husbands and four children, and sheer perseverance is always a highly admired virtue.) Smeads was Mrs. Reynolds’ son and single living issue (nepotism a dearly held tradition in all walks of life). Nevertheless, dislike of him was earnest and universal. So ill was he regarded, wagging tongues rendered it unto lore that Smeads had beat his siblings to death in their cribs.

Most believed Mr. Darcy would have put Cyril Smeads out upon the street was it not for his mother. Most, if not all, hoped when old Mrs. Reynolds died, he would finally do it. Some said that was wishful thinking, but they all looked forward to the possibility.

Indeed, Mr. Smeads was not much beloved by those who toiled for him. It was undeniable, had someone chosen to defend his character, that he was prone to little snits of temper and laughable that he could not pass a looking-glass without at least a preening glance. Was all that not test enough upon their forebearance, at every turn he endeavoured to weave foul designs upon the women in his service. This, of course, was well-practised in many houses, but such schemes were, still and all, inexcusable.

Of all the man’s many sins, why he hired that vile footman, Tom Reed, was the most inexplicable. Such a beast was that knave that even Smeads would not allow him to serve the table. When he took him on, Cyril Smeads did not question Reed’s character, just that he had height and a good leg. For nothing mattered more to Cyril Smeads than appearances.

Within days of Reed’s being taken into service was the momentous occasion of Mr. Darcy’s wedding. In preparation, the great man had relegated very specific instructions upon what he wanted done when he brought his wife to the London house for his connubial consummation. Under usual circumstances, he consigned the menu to Smeads discretion (who found absolution in good taste, if condemnation in scruples). Upon that occasion, however, Mr. Darcy chose not to do so. His specifications for every one of the twelve courses were detailed to the point of the temperature of the soup and the choices of mustard. Additionally, a silver brush and hand glass set was to be laid upon a silk cloth in Mrs. Darcy’s dressing room. In Mr. Darcy’s was to be a silver bowl, filled with rose petals (deep pink). These petals were to be plucked from flowers in the hotbeds of Pemberley’s conservatory and brought in fresh that afternoon. The balcony doors would be cracked one inch. A single five-stem girandole (six-inch candles) must stand next to the bed.

Hence, the house hung heavy in expectation of that visit. However, the couple had departed nearly as precipitously as they had arrived. Nevertheless, the two maids that were charged with stoking the fireplaces in the interim burst forth quite a bit of prattle upon their return downstairs. Speculation was rampant upon what the honeymooning couple did or did not wear beneath their conjugal covers. Of course, those bedclothes came into scrutiny when the soiled laundry was brought from the honeymoon chambers.

The wedding-night sheet told that the mattress quadrille was danced a half-dozen times, and the chambermaids tittered about it innocently enough with the washwomen.

The big footman Mr. Smeads had hired who spent far too much time slouched in the kitchen had grabbed it and laughed rather lasciviously. It would have been reported to Smeads that the man he hired to ride upon Mr. Darcy’s coach for no better reason than he was the right size had pilfered it from the laundry, but no one dared. Reason why they did not was equally divided betwixt their disdain of Mr. Smeads and outright fear of the footman.

Tom Reed had earned a great deal of ill-will in that kitchen. There was no doubt he could not keep his hands off the scullery-maids’ bottoms and a general belief he pinched the silverware as well. Therefore, no one could even enjoy a little bawdy talk about the newlyweds in the light of Reed’s leering. Dislike of him was so unlimited, any pleasure of his cast sudden dissatisfaction upon their own.

There was a tremendous heave of relief when he and his brother, Frank, rode the coach back to Pemberley (even if the sheet was in Tom Reed’s haversack).

Upon their return to London, Smeads was called immediately to stand before Mr. Darcy in his library. The servants saw nothing unusual in that, but when Smeads left their conference, several bechanced to see his countenance. And his expression led them to believe, not unhappily (perchance even gleefully), that Smeads had been upbraided in some manner. If it was because of the destination of the pilfered bed-cloth, and that Mr. Darcy had seen it in some vile country tavern as gossip had reported, there was no clear conclusion. Regardless which of his many misdeeds found him retribution, those who worked under Mr. Smeads’s petulant command found the gratification exquisite.

Word that the Pemberley stables were set afire had preceded the Darcys to London. But it was not learnt until the arrival of their retinue the additional news that Tom Reed had actually been beaten from service. And that none other than Mr. Darcy himself inflicted those lashes. That disclosure was repeated until it passed through every room in the house. Once the news had made the rounds, it was pronounced by all who heard it as the plum in the pudding of their day.

Within two days, and with no undue reluctance, Darcy met with his solicitor to make arrangements for Georgiana’s first publishing. Elizabeth and Georgiana, thick as two inkle-weavers, spent this same time in giddy decision of her pen name (a necessity by reason of her station). Georgiana favoured something French. Elizabeth looked to something droll. The decision in favour of “A Derbyshire Lady” came quite honestly from Georgiana with no influence from her sister-in-law. If Darcy was not convinced that she did not suggest it, Elizabeth thought that frightfully unfortunate.

Coincident to the pursuit of the finer arts was a venture unto the coarser, that in the manner of the eagerly anticipated, if wrangled, trip to the sparring ring. It ended, however, all too badly. That was most unfortunate, but to Darcy not without merit, for it terminated Bingley’s induction into the spurious arena of boxing compleatly and unequivocally.

Indeed, Jack Lewis took out Savage Sam Cribb not a minute into the first round. This bastinadoing debacle might have occurred regardless of the half a horseshoe Lewis had hidden in his left glove. But the expulsion of Cribb’s teeth would not have been quite so…expeditiously catapulted onto the onlookers had he not. This tir de barrage of Cribb’s incisors fell mostly upon his benefactor, Bingley, who stood ringside along with Darcy and the ever-cupshotten Mr. Hurst.

Because the wagering was heavy upon this particular match, a few of the more cynical in attendance suspected possible pugilistic malfeasance. They beset Jack Lewis and gainsaid his win by tossing him through the front window of the boxing establishment. This defenestration of Lewis was unseen by Bingley, for he had swooned at the eruption of Savage Sam’s mouth.

Had Bingley himself not reversed his admiration for the sport of his own volition, his wife most certainly would have persuaded it. For as it happened, a bicuspid persevered through swoon and carriage, nestled in his hatband. But when he doffed his hat at home, it spun off the brim and came to rest, most unfortunately, in the cleavage of Bingley’s lovely wife Jane. As one might surmise, what happened next was unpretty. Therefore, it shall not be dwelt upon.

Cribb did get off rather well, for a contrite Bingley settled a sizeable annuity upon him. It was only because his affront did not cause Jane to miscarry (although she leapt quite enough to have kindled one) that Bingley was eventually forgiven by anyone.

Not so horrified as Jane (and initially even a little intrigued), Elizabeth little liked her husband’s person being in so close a company with violence. As for Mr. Darcy, he needed not his wife’s urging to tell Bingley he would sooner purchase a ticket to Vauxhall than share another escapade anywhere near the vicinity of Covent Garden.

London was not foreign to Elizabeth, for she had visited upon a number of occasions. When in town, she had always stayed with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in their quite handsome townhouse. Cheapside, however, was not the West End. Moreover, their home was a positive hovel compared to the size and tasteful elegance of Darcy’s Park Lane residence.

Elizabeth’s single glimpse of the place having been upon her wedding night (and architecture, at least of a metropolitan nature, not being her keenest interest), she had but caught a glance of the red brick and white columns as they departed.

Contrary to many of London’s wealthier citizens, Darcy eschewed Greek and Egyptian exotica (exotica considered the most fashionable of statements to be made) in favour of an ambience of understated, if undeniably opulent, dignity.

Pemberley had been the Darcy family residence for centuries, but he had bought his London house himself. Therefore, Pemberley may have influenced Darcy, but his London home stood testament to his own particular taste and French ancestry.

If she did not appreciate exotica, the diversions of London excited Elizabeth more than she should have liked to confess. Having attended but one opera and nothing more, she hardly considered herself a patroness of the arts. Her sensibility found diversion more happily in the exhilaration of a horse race. She did suggest they attend a play featuring a particularly popular tragedienne. However, her husband demurred, commenting neither upon the play nor the playwright. He merely suggested a performance by a new composer in its stead. Although the Theatre Royal symphony hall was, as often as not, less a spot to see than to be seen, Darcy did enjoy actually listening (and, unbeknownst to his wife, he was happy to have reason to attend a concert and not a drama featuring a woman he had once found lacking).

He held but a single reluctance upon coming to London with Elizabeth. Nevertheless, it was not insignificant. For their life at Pemberley was unconnected from the indiscretions of his past. However, London was an entirely different matter. No doubt, their paths would cross former…acquaintances of his. Thus, he accepted the inevitable, vowing he would take each occasion as it came, each encounter as presented. If Elizabeth asked, he would answer. If she did not, he would not offer.

And notwithstanding Elizabeth was the centre of that particular dilemma, she was wholly unwitting of it.

Hence, his bygone paramours were not what came to mind when Elizabeth first set her eyes upon Darcy, dressed in full panoply, ready to escort Georgiana and herself to their court presentation. Hanging from his waist was a sword that swung down his thigh in a graceful arc. Court protocol demanded such regalia (he but rarely wore seals and chains), but Elizabeth had yet to see him thus. Unschooled in weaponry, she nonetheless raised her eyebrow in admiration. (Whether it was the sabre or the sabre bearer who most incited this regard, one can but conjecture.) The hilt was French. The gilded relief covering handle, knuckle guard, and quillions were worn smooth from centuries of use. Had she asked, he would have explained that the blade was not true to its hilt, for this had been replaced after some long past, bloody battle.

Tentatively, she reached out and touched it, letting her hand slide down the cold enamelled sheath. Suddenly, the double entendre of that particular gesture occurred to her and she dropped her hand free. But the sense of lewdness was not easy to shake.

Hastily, she took his arm and whispered to him, “Mr. Darcy, I hope your wife is not about, for I find myself quite at the mercy of your figure.”

As they marched out the door, Elizabeth was quite impressed with herself (howbeit mightily she endeavoured not to be). Had it not been her misfortune that the same strict code of dress that demanded her husband wear his sword, required of her a three-foot feathered train, she should not have thought herself ridiculous at all.

The gallery of St. James’s Court made even Pemberley seem small. The Darcys took their place in line upon the stairs as each personage was summoned to the king in the Presence Chamber. When she entered, Elizabeth released the heavy train folded over her arm. Its weight yanked her back, thus demanding she effect an awkward, hips forward, gait. From this position, she could not help but gaze at the huge columns that supported the cavernous room and follow their arched path overhead. It was so high and her train so heavy, when they were bid step forward, Elizabeth was certain the first glimpse King George would see of her was the underside of her chin.

Or possibly not. It was one of the last public appearances of the increasingly demented king, and one might opine that not all of his dogs were barking. Having heard the rumours, she half-expected poor George to be a drooling lunatic. His loss of reason this day, however, manifested itself merely in a vacant expression and the occasional queer remark. (He had asked Elizabeth how she favoured her shoes.)

Even Prinny attended, evidently an unusual occurrence. Gossip had it that he did not often venture onto the same stage as his father. Nevertheless, stand he did behind the king and queen. At his elbow was his own entourage.

This sycophantic contingent consisted of dandyish men and pretty (if heavily rouged) ladies, all posed in various postures of boredom.

When she first saw the prince, Elizabeth thought that in being described as handsome, it was not the outrageous violation of truth that description usually construed. But upon introduction, a closer inspection saw him less handsome than pretty and quite easily as amply rouged as his consort. (It appeared the mole upon his cheek was pencilled as well. Elizabeth thought that affectation had died with the last century.)

So enthralled was she by the prince’s maquillage, she was quite unwitting that his notoriously roving eye alit upon her. Such notice, however, did not escape her husband. Because of that, he kept a tight hand upon her elbow as she departed her presentation. So firm was his grip, she presumed him concerned for her nerves.

“Upon the contrary,” he later told her, “my solicitation was in defence of your honour rather than your knees. I believed myself to recognise from the prince a more than patriarchal interest in your person.”

It had long been whispered that the king’s lunacy was a result of the unlikely faithfulness of the monarch to his queen, rampant infidelity normally the most reliable trait amongst royalty. Marriage, however, did not dampen his son’s libido. His reputation announced he clearly intended to regain promiscuity in the name of the monarchy. Not only did he take advantage of his own position, but devoured what was unused of his father’s. A daily diet of compliance did nothing to discourage the increasingly corpulent Regent from propositioning ladies of the court with brash liberality.

However injudicious to his person were his vices, he could act upon a whim. For it was no secret that most ladies at court would happily be debauched if it was upon a royal mattress. That did not occur without their ambitious husbands’ approval.

Therefore, forthwith of the commencement of the ball, a request did come for the Darcys to join the prince’s party in his salon. Darcy dared to tell the courier they were unavailable, thinking it wisest to keep Elizabeth from beneath Prinny’s gaze, lest the man solicit her company. It would be impolitic to call out the King’s son. Elizabeth was taken aback and said so.

Darcy answered her qualms quite bluntly, “I do not choose to dine with a man who has spoken of consigning his father to Bedlam and appears to offer nothing more to the enrichment of England than the introduction of sea bathing.”

That remark reminded Elizabeth, howbeit he was an untitled member of the landed gentry, when it came to rank the Darcys held lineage consanguineous to the crown. Hence, as one of the most illustrious men in England, his deference to those titled was more a matter of ritual politesse than subordination.

Elizabeth was grateful to know herself the wife of one of the few members of the elite circle who had no reason to inflate his importance (for to what could one of such eminence aspire?). The level of self-important pomposity amongst that group was staggering. The lavishness of St. James’s Palace was bedazzling; Elizabeth, nevertheless, believed that the lifestyle she witnessed there was not endured without substantial cost to one’s character. Position was not the only thing. It was everything.

Character and goodness had no weight, no merit. Position alone held realty. Of this, she did not speak to her husband. For she knew, although not by reason of measured contempt, but birthright, it was a point upon which he held no perspective.

They attended and were hosts to many suppers, teas, private concerts, and amateur theatricals whilst in London. They did not venture, however, to another court ball until near the end of their stay. By then, Elizabeth was quite weary of the constant whirl of socialising. Nevertheless, she could not find disfavour that final night, for it had not been totally without merit. There were far more couples than could comfortably be contained in the ballroom. Hence, she could steal more dances with her husband than propriety allowed.

After one particularly enthusiastic romp across the dance floor (this not with Darcy, for he never romped), she repaired to catch her breath in the gallery. She was amazed (howbeit in retrospect, perhaps she should not have been) to find her cousin, Mr. Collins, and Charlotte with Charlotte’s father, Sir William Lucas, lurking there. Sir Lucas had finally managed to insinuate himself again at court, albeit in a lesser ballroom. They had strayed from thence to eye the first circles, a reluctant Charlotte in tow. It was a happy treat to see her friend, even mitigated, as it was, by the presence of her husband. Elizabeth wanted to have a moment to talk to Charlotte who, since her marriage (understandably), usually seemed to have a pained expression upon her face. However, Mr. Collins heard of Elizabeth’s royal presentation and could not contain his enthusiasm for being a cousin to someone so close to the royal throne.

“And could Mr. Darcy possibly use his influence to submit a lowly clergy to the honour of an upper salon?” he inquired. “I flatter myself that I am a gentleman of some repute. With the correct patronage ’tis done, is it not?”

“I think not,” Elizabeth said, desperately trying to remember the rules. “I think it done singularly for the peerage, cardinals and bishops.”

“But I thought a man of Mr. Darcy’s influence…”

She insisted, “Surely, you would not want to risk offending your archbishop, Mr. Collins.”

Mr. Collins silently (and mercifully) weighed that transgression against the elevation in status of private presentation. All the while, Sir Lucas stood observing this encounter with pompous condescension (Sir Lucas often looked pompous, but in this instance it was more pronounced than usual). His own knighthood was by reason of a handsome fortune in trade, a distinction that had perhaps impressed himself more keenly than it did his acquaintances.

Charlotte’s marriage to Mr. Collins was, Sir Lucas believed, a step down. But with Charlotte plain and seven years older than twenty, there was a paucity of prospects.

Mr. Collins’s proposal had therefore been provident and welcome. Indeed, he and Mr. Collins were of the same mind upon the most important matters. One, that Charlotte could do no better than Mr. Collins as a husband, and second, that every person of station was worthy of the greatest possible sycophantism. In the light of these understandings, when Mr. Collins’s toadying deserted him for Mrs. Darcy, it was hardly an offence to Sir Lucas. On the contrary, he marvelled at his son-in-law’s determination. The failure of his entreaty to Elizabeth was almost as disappointing to Sir Lucas as it was mortifying to Charlotte.

Charlotte’s own countenance had not duplicated her father’s, for she looked upon all events as a seasoned observer. All things fell into simple categories. Elizabeth was her friend, not a social opportunity. Charlotte was uninterested in servility to anyone and hated being at court as much as it delighted her father and husband.

Charlotte was a simple woman, caring but for her hearth and home. Only great interrogation might uncover (Elizabeth had never dared to bring it up) that Charlotte would just as soon her husband did not attend either.

With Mr. Collins ruminating yet, Elizabeth made her apologies in order to escape. When she kissed Charlotte’s cheek adieu, she recognised that strange little detached smile first evident at Pemberley. It gave Elizabeth a slight shiver down her back as she bid a hasty retreat. Her eyes searched for the reassurance of her husband as she wended her way through the throng.

Her survey of the room took in Georgiana, who was wedged tightly amongst the dancers. Rarely did Georgiana favour a caper across a ballroom. A quadrille was a test of endurance for her. Unfortunately, Miss Darcy beckoned only the most ambitious of young men (this, by reason of Miss Darcy’s fortune), and of all young men, ambitious ones were those Georgiana cared for least. Therein lay the vexation. The company Georgiana was most likely to enjoy was the very one whose meekness kept him from her. Hitherto, whenever Elizabeth caught sight of her circling the dance floor, her partner’s face would reflect fawning insincerity. Georgiana would merely look pained.

However, with Colonel Fitzwilliam in town, her dance card was full, her partners discerning. The colonel had taken her about the floor at least twice and Elizabeth saw he had a hand in her current partner. He was a fellow officer, one assigned to the royal family. It could be argued that if Fitzwilliam selected him to dance with Georgiana, she was safe from mendacity. Thus assured her sister-in-law was temporarily in good hands, Elizabeth again pushed her way through the press of bodies looking for Darcy, happy to share that information.

Thither she went and so intent was she upon searching for her husband, she was almost sent reeling a step backwards from coming so precipitously under the glare of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. (She should have known Mr. Collins would not stray far from her side.)

Her daughter, Lady Anne, suffered poor digestion, poor chest, and poor feet, and hence ventured not unto St. James. Accompanying Lady Catherine that evening was none other than the inimitably steatopygic Mrs. Dalrymple. That lady harboured the same fat back, diamond tiara, white shoes, and pink nephew that she had presented at Pemberley. Her Ladyship’s always imposing figure, however, was dressed cap-à-pied in the black of mourning. An immense diamond choker circled her so tightly from larynx to shoulder blades it may have required the woman choose soup rather than veal for supper. Her face, however, bore an expression of such decided distaste that Elizabeth was almost moved to laugh. Fortunately, her better judgement overcame her diversion because she was not compleatly unsure the provocation might have moved Lady Catherine to violence. Lady Dalrymple swept her monocle to her eye.

Elizabeth was frightfully cognisant that the meeting to which she was a party hung heavily in the curiosity of the surrounding guests. Lady Catherine was known to have been exceedingly vocal in all quarters in disparaging her nephew’s marriage. Such attention from the floor proved what Elizabeth had always suspected, that people of rank enjoyed holding witness to social drama just as dearly as their kitchen help. She overcame her stupefaction enough to nod politely to Lady Catherine, who stared at her and thereupon snorted in obvious disgust and turned her back.

Of this, Elizabeth took no unexpected affront. Nothing more would have come from the passing incident had not Lady Catherine, in her rude haste, turned about directly to her nephew, Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth could see her husband’s face over Lady Catherine’s shoulder, and found great relief that it was not she upon whom his gaze lit. For so very unamused was it, Lady Catherine was rendered silent and motionless. If it were not for the roaring in her ears, Elizabeth would have realised that everyone surrounding them had ceased their discourse, and all attention was bent to Darcy and his aunt. It was Darcy who spoke, breaking the stalemate. His voice was quite unremarkable.

“Lady Catherine. I see you did not recognise your niece, Mrs. Darcy, there behind you.”

Gracefully, he gestured in Elizabeth’s direction. Lady Catherine turned about. Her countenance was not merely grim. It had blanched.

Darcy said, “Elizabeth, you remember my aunt?”

Mrs. Dalrymple’s mouth was not exactly agape, but she had dropped her monocle. Her brain had not yet transmitted that information to her hand, for it was yet upraised.

Ignoring the bestupified Mrs. Dalrymple, Elizabeth replied, “Why, yes, I have had the honour of visiting her home. It is quite good to see you again, Lady Catherine.”

She curtsied as deeply as her trembling knees would allow. By then the thunder had quieted in her ears, but the silence about them was several decibels higher than deafening. All ears were awaiting Lady Catherine’s response. After an uncomfortably long moment of strained study of her niece, Lady Catherine glanced again at Darcy’s imperturbable aspect.

“Yes, Mrs. Darcy,” she finally said, looking yet at her nephew whilst addressing Elizabeth, “How good to see you. I hope you and my nephew are well.”

Thereupon, Darcy took Elizabeth’s elbow and quitted Lady Catherine. Conversations and activity resumed.

Elizabeth could feel the heat of Lady Catherine’s glare upon her as they moved away. Instinctively, she drew back her shoulders and straightened her spine. Her stomach might wamble and her knees give a bit, but she refused to expose any overt sign of impuissance to Darcy’s wretched aunt. Elizabeth, indeed, felt weak. However, it was not Lady Catherine who had discombobulated her. It was her husband. He had willed Lady Catherine to be civil, and she had acquiesced. A feat of substantial magnitude. Witnessing it—well, frankly, it gave her the twitters.

Initially, and with considerable self-satisfaction, Elizabeth believed the entire confrontation with Lady Catherine fell to Darcy’s supreme devotion to herself. A fleeting rumination upon the matter bade her reassess with a measure of indignation. Before they had crossed the room, a greater truth came to her. However devoted Darcy was, that drama was not strictly in defence of his wife, but for the benefit of society at large. Fitzwilliam Darcy was the head of the Darcy family; it was he, not Lady Catherine, who held the reins of power.

Darcy advised Elizabeth, who was yet in a bit of a pother, that she appeared pale. Forthwith, he set out to find her some refreshment. Abandoned, atwittered, and aggrieved in the throng of bon vivants, she stood first upon one foot then the other, trying to not look peeved. Her singular petulance lasted but a moment, for the crowd was thick with a gallimaufry of Darcy family friends, colleagues, and cohorts.

One of whom (Elizabeth had not quite ascertained the distinction) previously introduced as Lady Twisnodde, descried her alone and called out.

“TooRoo! Elizabeth! TooRoo!”

Although she bade Elizabeth join them, their group more or less engulfed her. Their party included her daughters. And notwithstanding one was introduced as a married woman, they were identically costumed. The indistinguishable sisters had a tight grip upon the arms of an elderly gentleman whom Elizabeth at first assumed was Lord Twisnodde. Upon his introduction, it became evident that the duo’s clamp upon the old man was not necessarily in familial fear for his decrepitude.

Half-blind and mostly deaf, he was not their father. He was, however, an earl. As a titled man of considerable age and no heirs, he excited all the attention one might expect, regardless that his conversation consisted but of the interrogative, “Eh?”

Miss Twisnodde’s diligent attention to removing lint from his jacket and smoothing his lapels was exceeded only by her married sister’s. Apparently, they believed two heads better than one (or four hands better than two) in obtaining a match for the unmarried sister (who bore an expression of prognathous determination, not unlike Caroline Bingley’s). Their ample display of arts and allurements was temporarily arrested upon introduction to Mrs. Darcy. After a polite curtsey to Elizabeth, both looked at each other, then spontaneously and synchronously giggled.

In light of having no clue why either of the ladies was incited to such merriment by her introduction, Elizabeth took mental inventory of any possible indiscretion of her costume. All accoutrements seemed in order. Hence, she prepared an insincere apology to excuse herself from such discourteous company. Thenceforward, her annoyance over her husband forsaking her to the mercy of a couple of coarse fisgigs escalated precariously. She would have instituted her departure quite promptly had not her attention been otherwise appropriated. For before Elizabeth could disengage herself, it fell apparent that the ill-manners she witnessed from the sisters may have been inflicted upon herself, but she was not the grounds, merely the whatever. Her husband was the wherefore.

She espied him heading in her direction. He carried two cups of negus high in defence of the jostling crowd. Raising her hand, she caught his eye. As his hands were full, hence he could but lift his eyebrows to indicate he saw her. Elizabeth realised the imminent addition of Mr. Darcy to their group had caused the sisters to abandon the poor, palsied earl. They nudged each other excitedly, and one commenced a high-pitched squeal.

In the near distance, Darcy stopped quite abruptly. His eyes narrowed. Even halfway across the room, Elizabeth could see his mouth tighten into a grimace and his nostrils flare (very nearly quivering). Obviously, he had seen something distasteful. So decided was his expression, Elizabeth made a quick look over her shoulder to see if she was about to have Lady Catherine beset her again. When she turned back about, Darcy had compleatly vanished. The flirtatious young women were twisting and straining upon tiptoes, obviously as curious as she about her husband’s sudden disappearance. She caught sight of the crown of his head as it moved into the midst of the crowd.

Excusing herself, she went to overtake him, intending to remark upon her new acquaintances’ unusual matching ensembles and common manners. But by the time she reached him, he was deep in conversation with Fitzwilliam, still holding the punch cups delicately by the handles. The dedication of this discourse fortunately outlasted Elizabeth’s interest in her previous company and the Twisnoddes were eventually forgotten.

The carriage ride home was endured with wearied congeniality. Both Elizabeth and Darcy were far too tired by their own perplexities for gossip. This quiet allowed them to bear witness to Georgiana’s unlikely enthusiasm of the occasion. Darcy listened to her societal rhapsody with particular pleasure. Upon most occasions, if he were to converse with his sister, it was his duty to initiate a topic. That was a chore few others could induce him to weather.

As Georgiana chattered on, Elizabeth listened to her in all good humour. But as she did, her mind wandered to Lady Catherine and the nagging feeling that her cunning would not allow her to rest at being so publicly chastened. Although Darcy had not seemed at all discomfited by that confrontation, Elizabeth knew his powerful aunt was as formidable an enemy as might be encountered.

Twitters aside, she hoped for no heinous repercussions.