Gas lamps stretched from Pall Mall to Mayfair. On a night with little moonlight, Elizabeth spied the now shuttered shops they had visited that day. She also beheld the location of her disaster. Clicking her tongue in disapproval, she wished her first night driving through London with Fitzwilliam was to an event that excited them both, such as a play or the opera. But his sour mood affected hers, and so she could not even take a proper appreciation in the romantic glow of Winsor's invention.
“Have you dined often with the Stewarts?” Proud of herself, Elizabeth made an effort to engage her husband in conversation on the way to the Stewarts' town home that lay in Saint James' Square.
“Castlereaghs,” he corrected.
Elizabeth stiffened her posture while he explained.
“My aunt referred to them as the Stewarts because she is superior in rank. We are not; they are Lord and Lady Castlereagh.”
Elizabeth sniffed. “I am aware of proper etiquette. But alone here in our carriage . . .” she trailed off.
Her husband cleared his throat.
“I only meant to prepare you,” he explained.
“As you prepared me for London?” Elizabeth asked, immediately regretting her impertinence. She had no sooner resolved herself to repairing the breach with her husband that she was instigating further discord!
“I believe there was a time when I suggested perhaps--”
The carriage came to an abrupt halt and the horses braying outside did not allow Mr. Darcy to finish his thought. As Elizabeth lurched forward, his strong arm shot out to block her momentum. The gesture knocked the breath out of her, and she gasped to refill her lungs.
“MORGAN!” Darcy bellowed the name of the driver. His shouting frightened his wife even more.
“Perhaps he could not have avoided . . .” she struggled to say, almost in a whisper.
“This is unacceptable!” Mr. Darcy allowed his fear for his wife's safety to rest squarely on his driver's shoulders. “I should dismiss him.”
Elizabeth smoothed her skirts. “Surely one mistake wouldn't cost the man his livelihood.”
Mr. Darcy turned to his wife and squinted to make out her face in the low light. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper as the vehicle began to move again. “Driving our family is an enormous responsibility. One mistake could cause an accident of irreparable harm. Should I wait until his negligence harms you or Georgiana?”
Elizabeth shrunk back into the bench and gazed out the window as the lamp lights turned into blurs as her eyes watered. Her husband was clearly still angry at what happened that afternoon, the women leaving the carriage. She assumed he likely blamed the driver for her decision, as well.
“I despise feeling as I do,” she stated. She waited for her husband to inquire further, but he did not. The carriage rolled to another stop and the door opened.
Mr. Darcy slid off the bench, grasped the leather strap looped and bolted into the ceiling to lower himself to the ground. He perfunctorily reached back to assist his wife down the step, as there was no elaborate set of stairs brought for their ease.
Footmen, dressed nothing like the Darcy staff working a few blocks away, lined the path to the door. In the Darcys’ neighborhood of Mayfair, the rigid pageantry of the English court had long since relaxed. But in St. James’ Square, full powdered wigs and heavy liveries with gold and silver thread embellishments ruled the day and night.
Complete stoicism amongst the men standing in the name of their employer further unnerved Elizabeth. By the time they reached the door and their names were announced, Elizabeth's knees began to feel weak. She wished with all of her might that Jane was here to face London society with her. However, the Bingleys would never receive an invitation to an evening such as this; the Darcys were only included as a favor to Lady Matlock.
Couples of all ages mingled in the front parlor and the hallway to the point of nearly a crush. Somewhere, the sound of a violinist deep inside the home could be made out in the cacophony of conversations congesting the air.
“Is this a ball?” Elizabeth asked quietly of her husband, suddenly fearful she was wrongly attired.
“No,” and before he could say more, a hush fell over the entryway and in unison, the dozen or so couples standing nearby craned their necks to catch a good view of the new Mrs. Darcy.
“Darcy, my you're looking rather piqued, let me fetch your poor wife a glass of wine,” the barely familiar face of Lord Daniel Ravensdale poked out through the line of onlookers and addressed the couple first.
“Ravensdale,” Mr. Darcy uttered, and then cleared his throat. “I shall see to my wife's comfort, thank you,” he said, with more force to his words.
Suddenly, Elizabeth felt her elbow tugged by her husband, and she smiled and nodded at those making eye contact with her. Deeper into the town home they braved, with more natural conversation and interactions around them as they abandoned those who watched the doorway for prominent entrances.
“So I said to Lord Seymour, why doesn't he throw a ball and invite the Prince Regent? We can't very well have a royal philharmonic society without his approval, can we?” Lady Castlereagh shared her anecdote with a circle of listeners as the Darcys stood politely behind her to pay their respects.
Lady Matlock, who had remained close to her friend for the evening, raised her eyebrows to signal their arrival, and Amelia Stewart turned around to assess the young woman she had heard much about.
“Ah, the formidable Mrs. Darcy! I've heard you gave quite the set down to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Tell me, does all of the aristocracy enrage you, or merely the ones who warn you of an imprudent match?” Lady Castlereagh jumped directly to the gossip that had already circulated through the house, courtesy of both Lady Matlock and Lady Jersey, a dear friend of the former Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam. Amelia Stewart preferred to hold court for both of their thoughts on the young upstart.
“Neither, my lady. I believe you will find me guilty of heroism,” Elizabeth said boldly as her husband beside her cringed with dread. Still, his hand on the small of her back signaled that he was with her, and it was all the courage she needed to win over the social mavens in her way.
“Heroism? Heroism!” Lady Castlereagh repeated Elizabeth's claim loudly, both in disbelief and delight in such an absurd answer. Her antics served to attract greater notice to their exchange, so that even the violinist did not start up a second piece as his patroness held up a jeweled finger for his patience.
“Indeed, poor Mr. Darcy was in danger of being forced into a loveless match, with a cousin who equally dreaded any trip down the church aisle. Seeing as no one would champion his cause, not his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, nor his closest friend, Mr. Bingley, I had no choice but to brave the worst of the attack myself. He need not have married me,” she said, with a charming smile and turned to catch her husband's eye who now joined her in the jest.
“I was free to marry whomever, thanks to this gracious lady. But I believe one should not owe such a debt,” Mr. Darcy said gallantly, lifting Elizabeth's hand to kiss it, to the chuckles and good cheer of many around them.
For a moment, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam silently forgave each other for the evening, and while Lady Castelreagh was satisfied, she was intrigued, putting Elizabeth in even more danger.
“Come, come, you shall stay close to me this evening,” Lady Castlereagh broke up the newlywed couple to whisk Elizabeth away with her and Lady Matlock's group of friends. “I should say I would have believed you rehearsed that if I didn't know your husband better to know that Mr. Darcy hates arts and dramas of any kind.”
What a shame, Elizabeth thought, he regularly performs admirably for me. Feeling the separation keenly, Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to see if Fitzwilliam was following, but he was nowhere to be seen. The crush closed the opening behind them and all she could spy was a bunch of unfamiliar faces.
At first, they made the rounds and Lady Castlereagh introduced Elizabeth to every lady and lord within eyesight. In between announcing names and locations of estates, she peppered Elizabeth with questions so that the whole exercise became mentally taxing.
“Yes, Lady Strutt keeps a small estate in Essex, do you have a favorite composer, dear?” Lady Castlereagh asked, scarcely giving Elizabeth time to answer before spotting another friend arriving and offering to introduce Elizabeth, “I must introduce you to Countess de Lieven, she has just arrived. Her husband is the ambassador to Russia. You must be political to have set your sights on Mr. Darcy,” she added.
Elizabeth swallowed hard, and tried to push out the swirling conversations and debauchery around her. One man poured wine on a woman’s chest and cheered on by those close by, lapped up the liquid with his tongue, to the laughter of many around them! The whole household appeared to be in their cups.
“Beware the punch,” a nameless woman startled Elizabeth with the cryptic warning as Lady Castlereagh dragged her off.
“She is right, my husband’s punch is famous for intoxication of fabled proportions,” Lady Castlereagh agreed. “Mind your petticoat, this time, Margaret!” she called after the woman, but the now named woman had already disappeared.
Elizabeth tried to catch her breath. She had anticipated a very different personality for her ladyship, being a patroness of Almack's. Lady Matlock must have had much sway in securing the favor, and Elizabeth did not wish to disappoint her new aunt by marriage. Eagerly, she tried to answer the questions from before the distractions as best she could.
“I love many composers and have often listened to my sister, Mary, perform them passionately at home on the pianoforte. As Mary prefers Beethoven, I'm afraid I am most familiar with his works.”
Lady Castlereagh stopped abruptly in her warm waving to the Countess de Lieven, and slowly, her smile faded. “Do you mean to say you do not play?” she asked, incredulously.
“I play, Ma'am. Just not very well.”
“Oh, of course, your talents must lie elsewhere. Watercolors? Writing? Embroidery?”
Elizabeth laughed, recalling a similar exchange with the aforementioned Lady Catherine and disappointing that woman most severely.
“I am known as a great walker,” she offered the grand lady, expecting a full reproach on claiming something so ridiculous as a talent.
“Then you must come and see my menagerie. At Woollet Hall. Have you ever seen a kangaroo?” Lady Castlereagh continued her conversation with Mrs. Darcy as she led her further into the town home and waved or acknowledged the other guests nodding their heads in her direction.
The etiquette of deference fascinated Elizabeth, as she had never seen such a social ballet in Hertfordshire. Her home hamlet never boasted such celebrity in her lifetime, though she thought if her husband had been more gregarious, he might have elicited such a reaction beyond merely his wealth.
“I have not. Are they not beasts from Australia?” Elizabeth asked, recalling vaguely an illustration in one of her father's books that appeared to be something like a deer's head with a round belly, standing upright and a long tail.
“Ah! You are also well-informed!” she laughed and then lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Though I don't blame you for not boasting that.” Lady Castlereagh laughed again as their promenade had come to what appeared to be a dead end back by the front door again.
Elizabeth suddenly understood now the idea of “march the rounds,” she had read about in a book on playing hostess, which had always confused her because Longbourn did not lay with rooms in a circle, but in the older-style of rooms off a common hall.
Lord Ravensdale approached them with two glasses of punch. He offered one first to Lady Castlereagh and then the other to Mrs. Darcy.
“You must be weary though of my aunt's tiger, he is always in a foul mood,” Lord Ravensdale said, with a wink.
“Dear Daniel, how you are so attentive,” his aunt complimented him, and then she made the jest most did in regards to her tiger. “Of course he is in a foul mood, what caged tiger wouldn't be? And on that note, you will forgive me, Mrs. Darcy, but I must see to my other guests. I shall send a note for you to come to Woollett Hall, though, as soon as I can manage to get away.”
“I'm afraid my husband and I plan to quit London soon after Twelfth Night,” she said, but Lady Castlereagh argued with her.
“Nonsense, no one goes to their country house until summer. I shall speak to Mathilde, she will handle your husband.” Lady Castlereagh left the area with a small wave and disappeared into the crowds.
“If I had a wife as gorgeous as you, I would wish to hide her away in the country,” Lord Ravensdale said softly, close to Elizabeth's ear.
Elizabeth sputtered in her cup, knowing the man had spoken far beyond the bounds of propriety. But as a married woman, she was unsure how to handle the compliment.
“Don't be falsely modest, Mrs. Darcy. A woman of your confidence need never pretend to be something she is not,” Ravensdale commented, turning away and grinning like a cat with a canary to another nearby couple.
Elizabeth stepped a pace away, but Ravensdale met her stride. She stepped again, and once more the lithe lord joined her in the strange dance she had begun.
Pausing, she looked around for a familiar face, but she knew no one in the party nearest to her. Despite the quantity of people around her, Elizabeth felt suddenly very alone and vulnerable. And that was when his cold fingertips dared to touch her exposed neck. He lingered and then finished the unwanted intimacy by brushing a tendril of hair that had fallen from the pins back behind her shoulder.
“Sir,” she spat at him, turning around and stepping back to get away, jostling the man behind her. “I am not in the market for a new lady's maid and would kindly ask that you leave my hair alone,” she said, hearing gasps around her at the set down.
“Mrs. Darcy, you are overexcited, I believe you need some air,” Lord Ravensdale smirked at the lady's scolding, but looped his arm into hers and led her away, appearing to graciously repair the social faux pas to the bystanders who did not witness his whispers and earlier touches.
Elizabeth began to wrench her elbow away, rather panicked that the man took no notice of her unwillingness to be on his arm. The room began to spin as the pungent stench of body odor and too many people laughing, belching, and moving in the small front parlor overcame her senses. She experienced the threat of fainting, but refused to succumb to such an indignity.
“I should like my husband,” she asked fervently to the couples she passed as Lord Ravensdale began to lead her away. “Have you seen him? Mr. Darcy? Mr. Darcy?!?” she said the last one louder, but her small voice was easily swallowed by the impossible racket, and the damned violinist began to play again.
“That's who I am taking you to, Madam. Your husband must be just around here,” Lord Ravensdale opened a door Elizabeth had not noticed in her first circuit of the home, and behind it was a darkened, quiet hallway.
“No, my husband cannot be back there,” she said, pulling away from him. He held fast, but Elizabeth dug her heels in, and when at last she worried she was about to lose the battle, she used the only weapon still in her hands: her punch glass. After a slight hesitation where she feared he would drag her willingly or unwillingly into the servants' hall, she splashed the contents of the glass into Lord Ravensdale’s face. The liquid assaulted his nasal passages and came as such a surprise, he let go.
Elizabeth fell backwards and the crowd roared with laughter. Two footmen rushed forward, one to aid Mrs. Darcy, and the other to help Lord Ravensdale.
“I need my husband, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, standing with little assistance from the footman. “Mr. Darcy!” she shouted.
And the crowd behind her parted as a very angry, tall man weaved his way through.
“We are leaving,” he announced, taking his wife's arm.
“Fine by me!” she said, and suddenly felt vindicated that her husband censured Lord Ravensdale's behavior.
The crowds ignored the small skirmish and returned to their revelry, though a few discussed what a disaster Mrs. Darcy was to throw a glass of punch in poor Lord Ravensdale's face! And as the Darcys left, and Ravensdale remained behind, the gossip continued in a way that harmed the unformed reputation of Mrs. Darcy, and wrongly buttressed Lord Ravensdale's.
Mr. Darcy's arm held Elizabeth tightly to his side as they waited for their carriage to be brought around. His eyes were glazed over and refused to meet hers. The shouts and party behind them continued on, and every few moments the stoic couple was jostled one way or the other, causing Elizabeth to flinch. Her husband tightened his hold each time, struggling to keep them upright.
Such effort ought to have comforted Mrs. Darcy, but as she closed her eyes she felt only shame, embarrassment, and dreaded the carriage ride home. If her husband had blamed her for Georgiana's boot breaking on their walk to the shop, she could only imagine his disappointment in her for the evening.