Page 42 of Honor Requires

“Here is your room, Miss Bennet. And Miss Elizabeth’s is next door. There is a door adjoining them.” Lady Margaret opened one door, then gestured to the next, ensuring they understood the arrangement before stepping aside.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth murmured as she entered a large bedchamber. It was decorated in pale green, cream, and rose pink. The effect was soothing, and she liked it very well. The furnishings were elegant without being excessive, the bed neatly made with crisp linens, a small writing desk positioned near the window, and a comfortable chair drawn close to the fire. The warmth of the room, combined with its gentle colors, created an atmosphere that invited rest rather than display.

Jane’s voice drifted faintly from the adjoining room, speaking with Lady Margaret in tones of polite appreciation, while Elizabeth remained where she was, taking in her surroundings with detachment. This was to be her world for the coming weeks—a world of expectation, of introductions and appearances, of superfluous conversations and careful impressions.

With instructions to rest until dinner, Elizabeth settled herself into a comfortable chair near the fire and tried to resign herself to being paraded before the ton. The flames flickered before her, their movement steady and contained, a small, controlled brightness that stood in sober contrast to the unsettled thoughts within her mind.

She folded her hands in her lap, her posture composed, her expression calm. Even here, in a room so carefully arranged for comfort, her thoughts returned—inevitably, persistently—to him, to what had been, and to what would never be again. Though she sat in warmth and light, there remained within her a stillness that no fire could reach.

Lady Margaret lost no time in fulfilling her self-appointed role, and within two days of their arrival, Elizabeth and Jane found themselves carried through the bustling elegance of Bond Street in a whirlwind of appointments, fittings, and selections that left little room for hesitation or fatigue. From one fashionable establishment to the next, they were ushered into rooms lined with silks and satins, gauzes and muslins, each more delicate and artfully arranged than the last. Madame Dubois herself presided over their wardrobe with an air of confident authority, assessing each sister with a practiced eye and issuing instructions to her seamstresses with such speed and precision that Elizabeth scarcely had time to consider one gown before another was being draped across her shoulders.

Jane bore the experience with her usual gentle composure, expressing gratitude for every kindness, while Elizabeth found herself both amused and faintly overwhelmed by the sheer excess of it all. She had never owned so many gowns in her life, nor had she ever imagined she might require them. There were walking dresses of blue and pale lavender, evening gowns in richer hues, delicate slippers to match each ensemble, and gloves so fine they seemed scarcely to exist at all. Lady Margaret insisted upon every detail being attended to, her satisfaction evident as each piece was approved and set aside.

Elizabeth, for her part, could not deny pleasure in the result. The fabrics were lovely, the workmanship exquisite, and when she caught sight of herself in the tall mirrors provided for the purpose, she could not help but acknowledge that she appeared…well. More polished than she had ever been, more suited, perhaps, to the world she was now expected to inhabit.

But, even in that moment, her thoughts turned—as they so often did—to him.

What would Mr. Darcy have thought of her in such a gown? Would he have approved of the color, the cut, the elegance of it? Would his gaze have lingered, as it had once done, not in boldness but in appreciation?

She could almost hear his voice, warm and sincere, offering some understated compliment that would nevertheless carry all the substance of his regard.

Her hand rose unconsciously to the necklace at her throat. The shell rested there always now, suspended upon its slender chain, hidden at times beneath the folds of her gown, never forgotten. It had become a part of her, a small and constant reminder of what she had known—and lost. She touched it lightly, her fingers brushing over its smooth surface, drawing from it a steadiness she could find nowhere else.

Thus adorned, and with wardrobes more extensive than she could reasonably justify, the sisters returned to Grosvenor Square, their preparations complete.

Lady Matlock’s Twelfth Night ball arrived with all the brilliance and anticipation that such an event demanded.

The house was illuminated from top to bottom, every window aglow with candlelight that spilled out into the square beyond. Carriages lined the street in orderly succession, their occupants alighting in a constant stream of silks and jewels, laughter and expectation. Within, the rooms had been transformed into a spectacle of elegance, the polished floors reflecting the light of countless chandeliers, the air filled with the hum of conversation and the distant strains of music.

Elizabeth entered with Jane at her side, her composure steady though her senses were keenly aware of every detail. The press of society was unlike anything she had experienced before, each face new, each voice unfamiliar, and the structure of it—the ritual of introduction, of observation, of interaction—was as orderly as any she had known.

They were soon presented. Lord and Lady Matlock received them with gracious civility, their manners refined yet not unkind, and Elizabeth noted with some interest the authority that seemed to accompany Lady Matlock in particular. There was strength in her bearing, a dignity that did not require display.

Their sons stood beside them.

Viscount Bramley greeted them warmly, his manner easy and agreeable, his attentions soon directed toward Jane with evident interest.

His brother, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam stood nearby, his posture erect, his expression warm, though there was something in his countenance that spoke of recent strain. A black band encircled his arm, stark against the dark fabric of his coat, and Elizabeth observed it with a moment’s curiosity before recalling Sir Walter’s earlier remark regarding the family’s recent mourning. It was a detail easily accounted for, and she thought no more of it.

Introductions were made, courtesies exchanged, and within moments the gentlemen began to claim their partners.

Viscount Bramley bowed over Jane’s hand, requesting the first set, which she accepted with a gentle inclination of her head, while Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, offering his arm. “May I have the honor?”

She accepted, placing her hand lightly upon his sleeve, and allowed herself to be led to the floor.

The dance began with the measured grace expected of such an assembly, each step familiar, each movement dictated by the music and the company. Elizabeth found herself grateful for the structure of it, for the necessity of attention that left little room for wandering thought.

Colonel Fitzwilliam proved an agreeable partner, his manner open and his conversation easy without being overly familiar. There was intelligence in his remarks, and a warmth that suggested a man accustomed to society yet not wholly governed by it.

“You have but recently come to Town, I think?” he said as they moved through the figures.

“Only a short time ago,” Elizabeth replied. “We are fortunate to be under the patronage of Sir Walter and Lady Margaret Barton.” They had accompanied the ladies that night while Mr. Bennet stayed behind to read in the Barton’s library.

“A fortunate connection, indeed,” he returned. “They are well regarded.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, then, after a brief hesitation, spoke again.