Page 52 of Sweet on Mr Darcy

“It is your money he is after, not mine.”

“It is astonishing how many people consider themselves concerned with your prospects and my fortune, but we shall keep you safe until you decide upon your own future. Pray do not tarry about it too long.”

The butler returned.

“Now what?” Lady Barry very nearly roared in irritation.

“Mr and Miss Darcy are outside in their carriage, if Miss Bennet is ready to depart, madam. Peter has packed his bag and is ready to go with her.”

“Very well. Just the lad I wish to speak with. Chambers, prepare my second carriage, arm a groom and a stable boy, and send them to the Bennet cottage for Miss Bennet’s particular use,” Lady Barry instructed. “Then send for Mr Bennet, Sir Dudley and Lady Nibsby, Mrs Osbourne, and Lady Arlington. I wish to speak with them here today, without delay.”

“Lady Barry, if you show this much protection and preference to me, everyone will assume that the rumours about me being your heiress have merit.” Elizabeth was concerned.

“Never you mind, Lizzy-girl, you may leave me. Send that Darcy boy in, I require a moment of his time.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The Ramsgate Assembly Rooms had rarely contained so much collaborative obstinacy masquerading as polite society. News traveled in the visiting society faster and more proficiently than an epidemic of plague. Lady Barry, despite accepting fewer visitors than a hermit, was endowed with social influence that could make an entire garrison town and sea resort evaluate its convictions out of pure self-interest. No one knew, precisely, why they did not wish to displease her, only that none of them wished to sabotage their own positions in the attempt.

Her edict had been straightforward and explicit. Sir Rupert Barry and Miss Barry were not to be encouraged. They were not to be introduced, nor welcomed, nor invited. Nor, if it could be helped, accepted as gentry, or even as people. Fishwives on the docks were to be treated with more respect and dignity.

As a result of this new intelligence, when Sir Rupert entered the assembly rooms with his sister on his arm, they were met by what might best be illustrated as nearly perfect collective isolation. Elizabeth, observing their lack of reception from beside Charlotte, nearly pitied him. Nearly.

As a baronet, he ought to have been titled and wealthy enough to attract notice instantly. Even as a severe man, his polished reserve had a bearing that many ladies considered refined and attractive. Elizabeth was not one of them. Nor did she find herself drawn to men almost old enough to be her father.

Tonight, Sir Rupert and Miss Barry might as well have arrived covered in smallpox pustules.

A noticeable hush fell over the assembly room as he entered. Ladies lifted their fans and inclined their heads together in hushed whispers. People looked them over in curiosity. Then, in artistic unison, they turned away in a collective display of disinclination.

Miss Barry blanched in dismay, then glared at Elizabeth. Sir Rupert realized the state of affairs immediately, and–perceptive enough to see clearly when he was being skillfully excluded–glared at Lady Barry.

Lady Barry, who never attended assemblies or social events, was installed in a chair in the back. She was surrounded by local matrons who had attempted to gain her friendship for years, and society ladies visiting from London. Like a malevolent patron saint of social destruction, she watched the scene with profound satisfaction.

“I adore the efficient power of society.”

Elizabeth, seated beside her for the moment, turned and smiled. “You have weaponised the gentry and the nobility all at once, Lady Barry.”

“I shall not pretend to be ashamed,” Lady Barry gloated. “A lady must use every respectable resource at her disposal. And perhaps those which are not respectable as well.”

The Master of Ceremonies, Sir Walter Saunders, a brave but anxious gentleman, performed his obligation time and again, without a single triumph.

He approached Mrs Osborne.

“May I present Sir Rupert Barry–”

Mrs Osborne recoiled and turned away.

“Oh! How unfortunate, I do beg your pardon, Sir Rupert.”

The Master of Ceremonies turned and tried again with Mrs Hatton.

She looked at Sir Rupert with less sympathy than she might extend to a street urchin.

“No, thank you, Sir Walter.”

Miss Barry’s countenance froze into one of such mortification and disapproval that Elizabeth thought that she might chide Mrs Hatton publicly.

“This is preposterous,” Miss Barry whispered to Sir Rupert. “Who do these people think they are?”