Page 12 of A November to Remember

“Robert, you are rushing.” Darcy planted his foot firmly, refusing to yield his dignity for Miss Bingley’s convenience.

“You are crawling, Fitzwilliam.” Robert tugged his arm. “There is a woman wearing poultry on her head. I intend to ask her why she felt the need to bring livestock to a soirée. We must hurry before she takes flight.”

“Mr Darcy—Lord Keathley—” Miss Bingley wheezed, her arms extended beyond the reach God intended. She leaned at a perilous angle, her feet skidding across the polished floor, resembling a highly decorated torture victim on the rack.

Richard strolled past them. He already held a plate laden with sliced ham and a wedge of cheese. “Excellent form, Miss Bingley. A most remarkable display of flexibility. Do try not to tear your gown; I hear silk is expensive.”

Miss Bingley released Darcy’s arm to save her shoulder socket from dislocation. She stumbled forward, colliding with Robert’s side, gasping for air and clutching her chest.

Darcy adjusted his cuff and smoothed the fabric of his sleeve, restoring his impeccable appearance. “I believe Miss Bingley wishes to inspect the headwear with you, Robert. I shall find a quiet corner.”

He abandoned them both, going to stand by the window. The evening had barely commenced, and Darcy wished to be elsewhere. Anywhere else.

Robert dragged Miss Bingley towards the poultry contraption. He would have abandoned her, but she gripped his sleeve so tightly that he feared she might lose her balance if he attempted to free his arm.

He saw Bingley speaking to a gentleman and led Miss Bingley nearer.

“Ah, Viscount Keathley.” Bingley turned eagerly to Robert. “May I introduce our host, Sir William Lucas?”

“Certainly, Bingley. It is a...” Robert could not finish his sentence, because the burly man opposite him began spluttering.

“My lord, what an exquisite honour! What a capital evening, to be in the vicinity of such a man!”

“Yes, I am sure it is,” Robert answered, but before he could offer another civility to the jovial knight, a hand grabbed his arm with a force which caused him to stagger momentarily.

“Lord Keathley, I presume.”

“I am, madam. And you?”

Sir William puffed his chest and made the introduction. “May I present Mrs Bennet of Longbourn, one of the pillars of our little society, my lord.”

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mrs Bennet.” Robert inclined his head, prepared to be thoroughly entertained, judging by the amount of lace adorning her gown of green silk. He leaned closer, dropping his voice into a confidential register. “Tell me, madam, as a pillar of society, can you explain the phenomenon over there? The lady sporting the deceased pheasant on her head. Is she participating in a pagan ritual?”

Mrs Bennet’s eyes widened. “That is Mrs Long. She has not a shred of elegance, my lord. She purchased that monstrous creation in Meryton, believing it elevates her consequence. I assure you, it merely makes her resemble a scarecrow.”

“It is a millinery disaster,” Robert agreed solemnly, charmed by the woman’s viciousness. “One expects it to either take flight or peck at the carpet.”

“Exactly my sentiment!” Mrs Bennet clapped her hands together. “I told Mr Bennet only yesterday that she lacks all imagination. Just as people who wear Brussels lace. I noticed your cravat, my lord. What a beautiful knot! Is it the Mathematical? My brother in Cheapside wears his in a similar fashion, though naturally he does not possess your height. Are you fond of Valenciennes lace?”

Robert considered delivering a freezing remark to halt the personal inquiries, but the woman was far too amusing.

“Madam, I am a connoisseur of Valenciennes lace.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “I find it superior to Brussels lace in every conceivable way. It has character.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Mrs Bennet said, vindicated. “Have you ever ridden in a gig pulled by a three-legged horse, my lord?”

“I confess I have not had the pleasure.” Robert shook his head regretfully. “Does the missing leg improve the velocity, or merely the element of surprise?”

“Oh, the surprise is monumental.” Mrs Bennet lowered her voice, treating Robert as a trusted confidant. “It has four legs, technically, but one is useless. It leans to the left whenever it sees a duck. We ended up in the Millers’ duck pond last week. My best bonnet was ruined.”

“A tragedy of the highest order.” Robert pressed a hand to his chest. “I shall write to my tailor in London. We must organise a relief effort for your millinery.”

“You are a true gentleman.” Mrs Bennet beamed. “My youngest, Lydia, laughed until she choked on a mint. Have you met my Lydia?”

Caroline Bingley, who was still latched to Robert’s arm, let a sound escape her, something between a whimper and a cry for divine intervention.

Charles Bingley reappeared with a laughing young woman at his side.

Miss Bingley finally dropped Robert’s arm, smoothing her silk skirts, arranging her features into politeness, and executing a shallow curtsy.