Page 85 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

“That will be pleasant,” said his mother.

He folded the paper. “Mother, what are you about?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You have been at me for months to choose a bride.”

“And what has that accomplished, my dear?”

“Very little, as I told you it would.”

“Yes.” She regarded him steadily. “There are a great many young men and women in London who would like to be matched by me, Fitzwilliam. I have been so entirely wrapped up in helping you that I have neglected them.” She addressed her letter in her quick, strong hand. “You have asked me to stop, and so I have. I thought you would be pleased.”

He would be, if he believed that it was true.

Upstairs the sonata broke off, then began again. She was practicing for Miss Elizabeth, who had been invited here tomorrow.

He had been unusually eager to perform his mother’s errand, for he had been able to go alone. He had long wished to apologise to Miss Elizabeth properly, and that could not be done in a crowd. Mrs. Gardiner appeared to understand, for she had graciously given him the privacy he required.

It had eased his conscience considerably, and Miss Elizabeth had even laughed with him about it.

Darcy finished his paper and went to the library, where he answered his steward’s letter. He was distracted and could not recall precisely what he had written. He hoped he had not ordered the tenants’ cottages to be dipped and the sheep to be thatched.

Once he had finished, he sat back and considered that his mother, who was such a shrewd judge of matches, had not yet turned her eye towards Miss Elizabeth for him. The only reason he could devise for this rare blindness on her part was that he had botched things so badly in Hertfordshire. She had simply crossed Miss Elizabeth off her list once he had admitted to his behaviour and had never thought to revisit that decision. It was a blessing, for he would need to proceed carefully with Miss Elizabeth, and his mother’s interference would be no help at all.

The Finches came at three. Darcy was surprised that his mother was to entertain them in her private parlour, but he did not inquire why.

Lady Finch entered already halfway through a sentence. “—for I told Sir Humphrey myself, no constitution could be expected to survive such crowded rooms. Shockingly hot. Shockingly. Arabella stood it better than most, of course.”

She took the chair nearest the tea tray without waiting to discover whether it had been meant for her. By the time the cups came round, Darcy knew not only that Lady Sefton’s rooms had been heated beyond endurance, but that the Beaumonts’ ball had dwindled to no more than fourteen couples and was in danger of being cancelled, and the Grantley girl was very near an understanding with Mr. Fulford, though Lady Finch did not credit the gossip.

His mother only smiled and sipped her tea.

“Arabella was much admired at Lady Sefton’s,” Lady Finch added.

Miss Finch sat upright, holding her teacup without drinking it, eyes on the fire screen as her mother extolled her successes. Darcy thought she appeared a woman whose patience was nearly exhausted.

He knew the feeling.

Miss Finch set her cup down. “Lady Anne, I adored the camellias on display at your party.”

“They were a gift from my brother. Matlock House is building its own camellia house. Would you like to see them?” his mother said. “Georgiana would take you through, but she is chained to her instrument today.”

Darcy did not sigh, although he wished to. “Then I am at your service.”

Lady Finch rose too. “I have always adored⁠—”

“Mamma, the heat of a conservatory gives you the headache within five minutes. You know it does.” Miss Finch was already at the door, and Darcy observed that if he did not rise to join her, the lady would escape without him.

Darcy caught his mother looking at them. Very briefly, without reacting. Then she turned to Lady Finch and asked after her husband Sir Humphrey’s gout, a subject good for at least half an hour.

Miss Finch sighed happily when she entered. “The scents are exquisite, Mr. Darcy.” She inspected the camellias without hurry, giving each plant the same frank attention she gave people.

Darcy recalled that Miss Elizabeth had also mentioned the scent. He wondered whether she would like to walk here during the day, for the conservatory appeared quite a different place in the sunlight.

“The white is very fine,” she said at last. “But the one with more than one colour simply appears like a sloppy painting to me.” She lifted her eyebrows as she said, “You may tell whoever praises it that I said so.”

“I praise it.” They were his favourites.