Page 24 of A November to Remember

“My lord, you are a visionary,” Mrs Bennet sighed.

“I am merely a man who appreciates proper tailoring, madam. Speaking of which...” He glanced at the door, spoke in a vault-sealing whisper, and went for the kill. “You must promise me your utmost secrecy, but I simply must unburden myself of a tragedy from the last London season.”

The three ladies leaned in so far that a collision of foreheads became a genuine mathematical probability.

“The Duchess of Q—” he began, wielding the title like a loaded pistol, “decided to host a masquerade, and demanded that a live peacock be integrated into her headdress. The bird, however, was not consulted.”

Mrs Philips’s hand flew to her mouth. “Did it peck her?”

“Worse. It panicked during the cotillion. It attempted flight, became entangled in the chandelier, and proceeded to—how shall I put this delicately—rain its disapproval down on the Portuguese ambassador.”

Mrs Bennet shrieked and buried her face in her hands. Mrs Philips howled. Even Mrs Long’s composure cracked into a thin, hoarse wheeze, which Robert suspected was the woman’s first honest sound in a decade.

“Grave error,” Mrs Long said, still wheezing. “One must always be certain the bird is deceased.”

And then, with the ladies softened, warmed, and thoroughly convinced they were fleecing him rather than the reverse, Robert went to work.

It took forty-five minutes, and it was the most productive interrogation of his career, disguised—thinly—as gossip. He learned that the Gouldings of Haye Park had a son at sea and a daughter with unfortunate teeth. He learned that Sir William Lucas mentioned St James’s an average of four times per social engagement, and that his lady wife could price a bolt of lace at twenty paces. He learned that the militia had brought precisely eleven eligible officers and one married colonel, a census the window gargoyles corrected twice without turning around. He learned that a cousin—a clergyman, one Mr Collins, heir to the Longbourn entail—was expected in the neighbourhood soon. He had sent a letter of staggering pomposity, from which Mrs Philips quoted what she deemed the juiciest paragraphs while Mrs Bennet nodded. Robert committed the phrase “the offered olive branch” to memory for later enjoyment.

Above all, he learned the true history of the word tolerable.

“Twelve hours, my lord.” Mrs Long held up one finger. “From the assembly rooms to the last farm on the Meryton road in twelve hours. By the second day he had also insulted Mrs Bennet’s gown, the punch, and the memory of Sir William’s late mother.”

“Had he indeed?” Robert set down his cup. “Remarkable. He managed all that whilst standing silently in a corner?”

“Great men are capable of great things,” Mrs Long murmured.

“Mm. In fairness to my cousin, ladies, his manners are rather like his estate—magnificent, extensive, and closed to the public for most of the year.” He turned the conversation with the smoothness of a coachman taking a familiar corner. “Though I confess the county’s response fascinates me far more than the offence. I was there when the lady in question returned fire at Lucas Lodge and left scorched earth. Miss Elizabeth—your daughter, Mrs Bennet—met me squarely over Plutarch yesterday morning and I have not yet recovered.”

The effect on Mrs Bennet was instantaneous and, from Robert’s professional standpoint, magnificent.

“Oh, Lizzy.” The fan resumed at double tempo. “You must not judge the family by Lizzy, my lord. She is a good girl, I suppose, but headstrong—so headstrong! She walks, my lord. Everywhere. Miles at a time, in all weathers, and comes home covered in mud, and she is pleased about it. She reads her father’s books—the ones without pictures. She says clever things to gentlemen, which everyone knows is fatal, and when I secured her a perfectly respectable dance partner at the Michaelmas assembly last year—a young man with nine hundred a year and excellent teeth—she declared she would rather discuss the sermon with the vicar. Now Jane—Jane never says clever things to anyone—though she said something clever to you, I think—my dear girl. Jane is biddable. But Lizzy will die an old maid in a hedgerow with a book, and she will have no one to blame but her own wit.”

Robert nodded along with an expression of the deepest matronly sympathy, and inwardly listed the testimony where it belonged: as the most glowing character reference he had ever heard delivered. Headstrong. Walks in all weathers. Reads the books without pictures. Says clever things to gentlemen and cannot be purchased with nine hundred a year and excellent teeth. Somewhere beneath Mrs Bennet’s despair lay the portrait of the only woman in England who might survive marriage to Fitzwilliam Darcy, and her own mother had painted it, signed it, and handed it over free of charge. Also, Miss Bennet was biddable and he was the only one to whom she had said something clever.

One question remained, and it was not a question one could ask. It was a question one tested.

“Of course,” Robert began, “we all have our small embarrassments. Miss Bingley suffers her own. I should never repeat the incident with the Duchess of Barwick.”

Three ladies froze like three hounds at the first note of the horn.

“Naturally not,” Mrs Philips breathed.

“It was only that she mistook Her Grace for the housekeeper. Handed her a shawl and asked for more coal.” He sighed with bottomless compassion. “The poor creature. One aches for her. You will forget I spoke.”

“Entirely forgotten,” Mrs Long vowed, eyes shining. Robert watched it happen—it was glorious—the cataloguing and the appending of embellishments. By Thursday the shawl would be a chamber pot and the coal would be a demand to black the grates. The machinery was in such perfect working order, he wanted to applaud.

Mrs Long rose within the minute, citing an urgent errand concerning ribbon. Through the window, Robert watched her cross the street at a pace that had nothing whatsoever to do with haberdashery, and disappear into the house of another matron. He raised his teacup a discreet inch in salute. Delivery confirmed.

Throughout the preceding forty-five minutes of rigorous interrogation, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Mary Bennet had remained silent, the three-tiered stand of iced cakes positioned between them. Richard had devoted himself to observation and consumption, while Miss Mary engaged in an efficient system of supply. The moment Richard finished a cake, Miss Mary silently transferred the next one from the stand to his porcelain dish.

It was a partnership of profound understanding.

As Mrs Long disappeared down the street, Miss Mary spoke.

“I do not agree with gossip,” she announced to the room at large, her voice clear and severe. “It is the province of those who are idle.”

Richard nodded. “I do not care for gossip either, Miss Mary. However, one must admit it has its advantages.”